#also my own amusement for some of these with obscure letters

[lingeringscars]

spell out your url using characters you love from any media. then, tag as many people as there are letters in your url (or however many you'd like!) inspired by the song titles dashboard game.

L- laurel lance, arrow

I- inej ghafa, grishaverse / soc duology

N- nat scatorrcio, yellowjackets

G- gary mendez, a million little things

E- emma swan, once upon a time

R- raven reyes, the 100

I- iris west, the flash

N- nathan scott, one tree hill

G- ginny miller, ginny & georgia

E- eddie castile, vampire academy / bloodlines

R- ronan lynch, the raven cycle

I- isaac henderson, heartstopper

N- nancy drew, nancy drew her interactive games

G- gideon drake, the atlas six trilogy

S- sabrina spellman, sabrina the teenage witch

C- christian ozera, vampire academy

A- asher adams, all american

R- rachel reid, the wilds

S- scott mccall, teen wolf

tagged by: @terrifyingstories

tagging: @asuffocator @abenzstern @afterevers @arghent @burygods @bruiseeasily @cagedpotential @cratedig @cataclisymic @conamorde @darephi @deathruined @everdawn @fatalelity @feylived @forbaes @guiltye @galaxye @hopeforged @homebehind @junktrap @knucklesbruised @kirbyflown @ladyintree @literare @lindscys @lightningstruck @litearra @mckngjy @martyirize @onfear @parameddie @reputahtion @refabled @seaclaimed @softersinned @volchtsa @warpainte @waysteland

[littlemuoi]

Prince Philip: 'A capacity for unbridled kindness but intolerant of faff' - my memories of the duke by Alastair Bruce (April 12th 2021)

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The Duke of Edinburgh was a motivator, an impatient moderniser, but he could be abrupt.

Prince Philip had a directness of manner that seemed to alarm many people and even horrified some. But he was capable of unbridled kindness, with the capacity for huge affirmation, support and encouragement.

People of his generation who knew him well said his character was forged from the rather challenging circumstances of his upbringing. Yes, he was royal: a grandson of the King of the Hellenes but, in truth, not really Greek.

The duke's blond good looks came from his Danish ancestry

The throne of Greece was given to a Danish prince in 1863 and this accounted for his blonde Viking good looks. But Greece was never entirely at ease under its monarchy and this put many pressures on Prince Philip's family; added to which, his parents did not enjoy an easy marriage.

Whatever the circumstances of his childhood, Prince Philip was conditioned to be independent, capable, determined and pretty intolerant of faff.

Learning about his rather unconventional start in life, from the vantage of today's social understanding perhaps it's easy to grasp why.

But I want to underscore the frequent kindness he showed to me and invested in many people I know.

Letters about mallard ducks and sturgeon pie

In what has been a remarkable life, he occasionally found time to contact me, often out of the blue, to tell me about things he thought might be of interest.

For instance, in my constant quest to find out the provenance behind strange British customs, he would often share things he had discovered while travelling the country with the Queen. After all, most of his life had been spent living among, colliding with or regulated by the oddities of British life.

The Queen and the duke in July 1947 in Edinburgh, four months before they wed

One letter he wrote to me concerned mallard ducks with gilded beaks.

It had amused him when the Queen, as Duke of Normandy, was presented with two of them on arrival in the Channel Islands, in order to fulfil a feudal due.

Another told me about a pie that had arrived at Balmoral, cooked from a sturgeon, which tradition stipulates must be offered up to the monarch. Both are full of facts, a smattering of humour, but no reference to the weather, how I might be or any other tittle-tattle.

When Prince Philip became the Queen's consort, the change in his life was seismic

It is difficult to understand why he bothered to do this. But I think he was amused to find someone genuinely engrossed in surprising or esoteric interests.

In fact, he was like this with everyone. Or maybe it was his own fascination and passion to fully understand the obscure and how things worked that, seeing it in another, added to his avuncular intrigue.

"This is Alastair... Bungy's grandson"

Not everyone's life had Prince Philip in it. So, perhaps it's worth explaining how he came to overlap with mine.

In 1950, the Duke of Edinburgh took command of HMS Magpie in Malta GC.

For any officer in the Armed Forces, unit command is the tops! It is where your leadership qualities are fully tested and it's where the possibilities for the rest of your career can be broadly set.

Prince Philip (in sunglasses) relinquishes control of HMS Magpie in Malta in July 1951. Pic: AP

It just so happened that HMS Magpie was part of the Destroyer squadron in the Mediterranean Fleet, which was then commanded by my grandfather, Admiral Sir Peveril William-Powlett.

Grandpa was better known as "Bungy", because, as fly-half for the English rugby team in 1922, he had seemed entirely elastic. Every time he was tackled, while at full pelt towards the try line, he seemed to bounce straight up again and run on.

He was also a keen polo player and, here again, the Royal Navy polo team brought Admiral William-Powlett and Prince Philip together.

One of my favourite photographs of them both shows their exhaustion after a fiery chukka under the Mediterranean sun: the youthful and handsome prince beside his balding boss with cups in hand. Their faces convey the joy and satisfaction of a win - probably against the Army.

The Royal Navy polo team brought Philip and Admiral William-Powlett together

Maybe this professional bond between the spirited and able naval destroyer captain and his Admiral made the Duke of Edinburgh, a generation later, hold his avuncular eye out for me.

It certainly meant a great deal to me that, when the duke introduced me to people of his own naval generation, he would say: "This is Alastair... Bungy's grandson."

"Well, get on with it!" - One of the most influential retorts of my life

When I wrote a book about the United Kingdom's coronation ritual, aged 28, I mentioned to Prince Philip that one day I hoped to make a television documentary about the role of ceremony in national life.

In what possibly proved to be one of the most influential retorts of my life, in that it was probably the catalyst to my career heading where it has, he eyeballed me and said: "Well, get on with it!"

With this, he got up and went. And so did I. To do what he suggested.

The day of the coronation - the duke's words spurred Alastair to make his programme. Pic: AP

In fact, within a few months and a great deal of work, I found someone willing to produce the film and it was commissioned by ITV.

Hearing about this, Prince Philip called me into Buckingham Palace for dinner to hear how the project was going. He also invited the film producer, Lord Brabourne; they were cousins by marriage, through the prince's uncle, Lord Mountbatten.

They bookended me at a heavily polished table in a small dining room overlooking the central quadrangle and listened as I explained the litany of refusals and hesitations our production faced from organisations that viewed cameras as invasive, back in 1992.

One by one, they suggested ways that might help me out. But, make no mistake, it was for me to do the legwork, not them.

When one of the solutions these two champions had plotted for me went horribly wrong (I mean, horribly!) Prince Philip tenaciously engaged with the matter, until a solution was found.

The duke maintained close links with the military all his life. Pic: AP

During this spat, there was a big parade for my regiment, the Scots Guards, at Holyrood in Scotland.

The duke, who was for many years the Senior Colonel of the Household Division, attended this and, afterwards, he spotted me across the throng. Striding over, he delved straight into the precise details on what had happened.

His escorting officers, all of whom were much senior to me, listened while the prince and I forensically unpicked what might solve the problem.

The trick was to bite the cat back - respectfully

The duke also had the measure of my often unbridled tenacity too and, when I made an office call to discuss something or other, he greeted me with: "So who have you infuriated today?"

His staff often berated me, probably with good reason, but I never felt this was at the direction of the prince. Actually, I sensed he rather appreciated a "why not" attitude, wherever he found it.

In fact, he loved to hear about the conflicts I had with organisations, which deemed my requests for filming access inappropriate. Perhaps this was because it reminded him of the challenges he faced, as the young consort of a new monarch inheriting a world of fixed attitudes in 1952 set by his late father-in-law's courtiers.

But Prince Philip was no rabble-rouser and, if he judged the defeat I faced as justified, he freely added his reproach, or added criticism.

Prince Philip could be blunt in his criticism but admired a robust response

To get the best from Prince Philip it was vital you girded yourself for his directness of speech, some blunt criticism and refreshingly ruthless cross-examination.

For some, this cat-plays-with-mouse treatment was daunting. But I learnt quite fast that the trick was to bite the cat back, respectfully, of course. Prince Philip admired a robust response.

Occasionally, he would ask for an absolutely truthful view. You knew this moment in his eyes. When it came to this moment, I would like to think the prince knew I gave it straight. And, assuming you could prove a point that countered his, he accepted with implicit respect.

The duke's extraordinary 'Chamber of Horrors'

On one occasion, the prince took me into a room at Buckingham Palace that I think he called his "Chamber of Horrors".

Here he had gathered an extraordinary array of the presents he had been given during a lifetime of public service, openings and anniversaries.

"What do you think that is?", he asked, while handing me a rough lump of worn and rusted metal mounted on a wooden base. My fingers felt the dedication label and instinctively, I was moving it towards my eyes. "No, don't read the inscription - think! Guess?"

Well, my suggestion was way off the mark. "It's one of the teeth from the machine that dug out the Channel Tunnel," he revealed

It was clear he was interested in the object, what it had done, but I could see why it had not been put on display.

A forgotten meeting and remarkable patience

The duke was a masterful and timely letter writer, never wordy and always to the point. He typed most of them himself, adding his splendid, powerful but minimal signature "Philip" by hand.

While his staff used paper embossed with his heraldic badge in black, the prince himself had it printed in his chosen livery of green. If you sent him a letter, you could be certain that the postman would be back at your door within three days, with a special delivery reply. He dealt with everything with the discipline and efficiency of a wartime naval officer.

A painting of Prince Philip in 2017, the year he retired, by artist Ralph Heimans

On one occasion, I can't think why or how, I completely forgot an office call I had booked with Prince Philip at Buckingham Palace. But then, I am and have always been horrifyingly forgetful.

I remembered with a jolt when the prince's military equerry rang to ask where I was. I admitted that I was in Hampshire. In a voice that sounded barely muffled by a hand, I could hear: "He's in Hampshire, Sir."

There was a short pause, the sound of the telephone being grasped and then: "You're a bloody idiot!" from the prince. Then, with probably as much surprise that I had achieved this particular forgetfulness, he added by way of instant forgiveness: "You had better sort out a new time. I'm here a lot next week."

Indeed, the prince was remarkably tolerant of my inefficiency considering he was the personification of the efficient. One story fully bears this patience out - particularly, as I did not deserve it.

The duke (at Trooping the Colour in 2017) pulled some strings to secure a last-minute message. Pic: AP

I have already referred to the Duke of Edinburgh being Senior Colonel of the Household Division, which included my regiment. When I wrote a book with the photographer Julian Calder on the Queen's Birthday Parade, Trooping the Colour, we wanted a foreword from the senior colonel.

His private secretary asked when the book was to be published. Next week, I replied.

"Next week?!"

Sure enough, within seven days a message of eloquence was ours to print and it made all the difference.

"You're a bloody idiot! Nobody will be interested!"

Within the last few years, we were at someone's house for dinner and, afterwards, while coffee circulated, Prince Philip came and sat beside me on a sofa. He told me how he had been flicking through the TV channels, probably looking for a documentary on nature. "And there you were talking a lot of nonsense about me!"

Well, inevitably, he thought the programme was "jibberish" but, as if, in fact, affirming what I had been saying in the programme, he took up the points I had been making and explained precisely what had been his view of the situation.

Prince Philip broke a heart-shaped chocolate in half and gave it to Alastair's newly-engaged parents

In this way, Prince Philip was endlessly robust, consistently gave zero quarter but would readily square up and be open about facts he knew, if faced by genuine interest.

I think my favourite story about him is not even a memory of mine but one that my mother and father told me once.

The night they announced their engagement, in Malta in 1950, Prince Philip shared a taxi home with them to the road where the two families, my mother's and the Edinburghs', lived.

On the way, a box of chocolates was passed along the line and the prince picked the strawberry-flavoured heart, broke it and gave them each a half.

He came to their wedding, where everyone was in white because this was the naval uniform at the time. This adds a magic to the black and white photographs, some of which include the dashingly Viking chisel-cheeked duke enthralled in conversation.

I still have the clock on my mantelpiece that he and Princess Elizabeth gave as their present, complete with the message of goodwill inside, handwritten and signed by them both.

Within a year, she was our Queen and he her loyal, robust and supporting consort.

A clock presented to Alastair Bruce's family by the Queen and Prince Philip

This change in the duke's life was seismic.

He must always have known it was coming but the suddenness was stark, especially for a capable naval commander whose upwards career was now set by the annual reports he earned from my grandfather's judgement.

From even the small knowledge I have of this titan in British public life, who took such a generous interest from time to time in what I was up to, I can be fairly certain of what he would say to me, after reading this.

"You're a bloody idiot! What a lot of nonsense. Nobody will be interested in this!"

[flyoverkushtaka]

I thought I could get myself out of a sinus-induced rut by translating some more Calgon Calmar, for my own personal amusement mainly. The book is one I’ve tentatively decided to call Diary of a Willing Outcast in English, which turns out to be full of thorny little translation problems tied to Calmar’s particular usage of the French language combined with his polyglottism and densely layered allusions throughout all his texts.

For instance, in the chapter titled Une Forêt au bord de nulle parte (A Forest on the Edge of Nowhere), Calmar describes seeing un sanglier couvert de varech et en rut muet. A wild boar covered in kelp and in silent rut. The sight perturbs him, but as with many peculiar images in his Diary, no clear explanation is forthcoming. The end of the image contains both a forced rhyme and a linguistic paradox: Rut is derived from the Latin rugīre, to roar. This boar does not roar, however, but apparently manages to convey its lust in silence. Furthermore, Calmar ends the chapter with the following lines:

Le sanglier est mort. Il ne s’est pas noyé. Il ne sait pas se noyer. Moi, si, je sais bien noyer. Mais moi-même, non plus. Dépourvu de sang, il ne fait que lier.

No indication is given of how the boar died, whether it was already dead when the narrator discovered it (perhaps explaining why the boar is covered in kelp, but then how could it also be in rut?) or whether the narrator played an obscured part in the animal’s death (as maybe implied by the peculiar wordplay involving homophones and reflexive verbs: The boar doesn’t know how to drown itself, while the narrator knows how to drown, just not himself). The last sentence is of course a pun on the word sanglier itself, which makes its translation the trickiest of all: Deprived of blood, the boar can only bind. Any English approximation or substitution would I think only come across as ridiculous. One would have to rework the entire chapter just to get the right words into the right places by the end. Complicating matters further is that lier is a transitive verb; it must take an object to complete its thought. What is the dead boar binding? Are these ties physical or emotional? Why this apparent non-sequitur compared to the rest of the paragraph? Calmar’s writing style at times resembles less a prose text and more an exquisite corpse.

Written several years after the fall of the Paris Commune, it’s possible that many of the cryptic and unexplained phrases in the Diary are actually coded references to real people and events. Despite (most likely) fighting as a Communard, Calmar seems to somehow managed to escape capture, imprisonment, exile, or execution (or at least he never mentions it in any of his writings). Perhaps the dead boar is meant to represent a fallen ally (or someone even closer—the reference to drowning certainly evokes Calmar’s Elegy and its flooded isles and atmosphere of snowy despair). Unfortunately we can’t rely on contemporary corroborating texts for a clearer view, because there’s next to none. Calmar’s work was largely ignored by both critics and commercial audiences alike, perhaps because of its proto-symbolist and hermetic style, probably because Calmar seems to have made little effort to promote his writings. In a letter to a friend, Renée Vivien called the Diary a “beautiful nightmare,” which is probably the most effusive praise any of his work ever received in his lifetime. After that, she never mentioned him again. Autobiography is also off the table: The guy practically never gave a straight answer on anything he did or even thought, choosing instead to couch everything in metaphor and abstraction. I only came across him while reading an old JSTOR article about Rimbaud and the enigmatic Monsieur la Pieuvre he mentions a spare handful of times in his journal. A Rouennais woman on OK Cupid was kind enough to mail me her copies of his books that were printed by a press that’d been acquired by Gallimard in the ‘60s and immediately liquidated. She needed to free up some space on her bookshelves for her OULIPO research and was happy to know the texts wouldn’t go to waste.

Well anyway, the more I write about this, the more I feel like a bore. I suppose the answer to problem will, as usual, come to me one day while drunk on a boat, gazing back at an ambiguous shoreline.

[where-the-flash]

"The Henpecked Duck": A Morbidly Intensive Reflection (Part 1)

(image: vcrfromheck.tumblr.com)

What you see before you is a facsimile of a VHS tape my grandmother mysteriously owned in the early nineties. The tape was specifically for my older sister and myself in the hopes that it would pacify us if we got too rowdy. My grandmother eventually donated it once we were older....without asking my permission. We're not on speaking terms at the present moment.

The videotape was entitled "Cartoons R Fun", which is embossed on a rainbow you might see arched over Mount Ararat post-Deluge. Indeed, cartoons "r" fun, if you forgive the juvenile usage of a homophonic letter as a plural present tense of the verb "to be".

Daffy Duck, proudly standing on a tan blob with thin pencil lines to signify a nest (one that's peacefully floating on a violet overcast sky), is holding a freshly-hatched, over-sized duckling in his hand, as a quaint HOME SWEET HOME knick-knack looks on lovingly. Not an accurate depiction of the advertised short, but we'll cross that poorly-drawn bridge when we get to it. However, the tilted Dr. Caligari-esque shadow of a window in the background is indicative of the mood of the short in question.

(image: vcrfromheck.tumblr.com)

The tape was top-loaded with four chortle-filled public domain follies produced between 1937 and 1941. Those amusements being, The Henpecked Duck, I Wanna Be a Sailor (see?), Robinson Crusoe Jr., and A Coy Decoy, as the tape advertises in a tacky brush font, on a showbiz marquee being lugged about by two (presumably) unpaid simian laborers, "Henpecked Duck and MANY MORE..." ("Henpecked Duck", as you might have noted, is missing a definite article, adding to the lackadaisical charm of the proceedings).

These tapes were not the best quality. I know this because the last ten seconds of A Coy Decoy are cut out, missing the all-important punchline of Daffy procreating with a toy duck. (it took me fifteen years to discover this, thanks to the miracle of www.youtube). The tape was too short so it ended on a blue screen of death. The shorts were not in black-and-white, nor are they in color, as the box cover deceptively advertises with its omnipresent "all color" rainbow. Rather, it's presented in a dusty sepia-tone (the shorts fell into public domain so I can incorrectly presume that the sepia is an after-effect of neglected film preservation). This in itself is not a bad thing. I like my cartoons to look like the first act of The Wizard of Oz. They look pristine and well-preserved, like something perfectly bronzed to a fine sheen. If I were to flick my finger, the film would make an audible 'ding'.

Anyway, the cartoon that sticks out the most (obviously, it's the main feature) is The Henpecked Duck. Released on August 30th, 1941 (about three months before the United States entered World War II....this was back when the epidemic of housewives battering their husbands with frying pans was of more pressing concern than Hitler), it was directed by Bob Clampett (the insane bad boy of the Warner Bros. animation department) and written by Warren Foster. It concerns a married Daffy Duck getting into some hot water after accidentally misplacing their unborn child. It is an intense piece of marital melodrama framed through the irreverent filter of Looney Tunes.

I've always been drawn to it. Not in any sort of substantive way (I'm not a child of divorce or anything of the sort), but in the sense that it's a piece of media that I've consumed to such a inordinate degree that it gains a kind of vague meaningfulness. It's also an overlooked short that I feel should have a little light drawn towards it, as a way of saving it from the gaping maw of obscurity. And since every piece of media has been discussed to death on the internet, I thought I could annoy you and place my minuscule stakes on this 7-minute short from 1941. Hopefully, this will be the final, definitive word on the subject. My legacy depends on it.

Let's examine this short in embarrassing, navel-gazing detail, shall we?. Not just gazing, mind you, I mean gripping my hairy belly between my two mitts and, depending on how much bendable flexibility I still have stored in my rapidly fading youthful figure, blow into my umbilicus scar, until you hear an audible plop-plop-plop.

(note: I put a sepia filter on these black & white screencaps to simulate how I experienced The Henpecked Duck as a child.)

WAH WAH WAH WAH WAHHHHHHHHHH. Doodly-doo, doodly-doo, scattily woo woo woo woo doo, doodly-doo, doodly-doo, doo doo. (That was obviously Mendelssohn playing over those overlapping rolling pins.)

The short opens on darkness, a cacophony of plaintive whinging blooms on the soundtrack. People are demanding divorces left and right. The camera suddenly springs back from the darkness to reveal the shadowy entrance of what appears to be a ramshackle barn or chicken coop. It's hard to tell considering the entrance takes up the entire frame. The lack of a proper wide establishing shot and the numerous disembodied voices only adds to the feeling of anxious dislocation. A wooden plank leads forbiddingly into the darkness. A crudely written sign hangs over the entrance, "Court of Inhuman Relations."

(A small reservation I have is the sound mixing on the voices being too loud. You can almost hear Carl Stalling's score which, from the few strains that I'm able to eke out, carry an foreboding menace).

Transition to a close-up of Porky's gavel (Porky is presiding over this raucous kangaroo court) rapping on the judge's stand with an aggressiveness too intense for the viewer to even process in these first few seconds. The camera rapidly pulls back from the gavel, to a wider shot of Porky, to an extreme low-angle long shot of the aisle as the crowd quiets down. Already, we have two instances of the camera springing back rapidly from close-ups to establishing shots, as if the cameraman was suddenly dropped out of the sky and is quickly trying to adjust to the foreign scenario he has just encountered. Needless to say, it has a startling effect.

Porky Pig announces the first case of the day: Duck vs. Duck. He orders Mr. Daffy Duck to approach the stand. There is a shot from Porky's perspective where we can see the entire courtroom with Porky's gavel and water jug hugely prominent in the foreground (they take up almost half of the frame, symbolizing the firm grip that the rural judicial system has even over the lowliest waterfowl). The courtroom is a surreal scene indeed. It consists of barnyard animals, from a duck with an abnormally long neck, to a dopey-looking black mutt, to a fat hog sitting uncomfortably on one of the benches, and a snoring elderly hen (who provide a few visual gags near the end of the short).

Daffy Duck slowly shuffles up the aisle. His overbearingly grim disposition are not unlike a POW during the Bataan Death March, with his slouched posture and hangdog eyes. Stalling's score is just as slow and methodical; a prominent trombone emitting a onomatopoeic 'wah-wah'. He walks past the onlooking crowd, eerily still and blurred in the background. The few figures he walks past in the foreground are featureless and emit a dull glow like bronze statues. The stillness of the crowd make Daffy's isolation unbearable.

Daffy approaches the stand as Porky calls up Mrs. Daffy Duck. Before I move on, I must point out a glancing detail and a naggingly under discussed trope of old 30's-40's cartoons: glassy eyelids. Daffy blinks a few times as he looks up at Porky on the stand. His eyelids have a glassy, polished tint, as if run through a shoe buffer. It is an unsettling detail, adding to the surreality of the mise-en-scène.

Mrs. Duck, unlike Daffy, charges up the aisle with a straw boater cocked at an angle, in the manner of old-time gangsters, and a ridiculous poofy ball bouncing from it (what else could one call it but a 'poofy ball'?), giving off a unexpectedly violent energy. Unlike the pathetic trombone used on Daffy, Stalling utilizes blaring trumpets, giving her entrance a martial air. I must amusingly point out that Mrs. Duck is essentially Daffy with a hat and skirt (no pronounced Minnie Mouse eyelashes either).

Shot from an intense low angle close-up, Mrs. Duck, the perennial battle-ax stereotype, chants the four most iconic words of my salad years: "I WANT A DIVORCE! I WANT A DIVORCE!" It's amazing how a single moment can be so easily etched into such an impressionable young mind. The immediacy of it (no one in real life can shout banal declarations with such dramatic relish) and its startling bluntness struck me as unusual in a Looney Tunes short. It's so dramatically heightened when compared to the more relatively light-hearted tone of other Warner Bros shorts. Though as I've grown older, I can't help but see a bit of the parodic in it; melodrama bursting to the brink of burlesque. Not to mention the almost shrill string section that accompany these outbursts.

Mrs. Duck rains a flurry of invective on Daffy (with a couple of thwacks on the head from her vanity parasol). We get a closeup of Daffy, where we get some fine acting on his end. As she twaddles on, he winces and grimaces, being verbally battered into submission. At one point, she commands him to respond. In a subtle bit of comic acting, Daffy opens his beak in an air of sarcasm (noted by the over-exaggerated intake of breath), and just as he's about to speak, he automatically snaps his beak closed just as she tells him to shut up. Henpecked, indeed, if you are unironically tickled by the avian-adjacent pun of its title.

The Honorable Porky Pig orders Mrs. Duck to calm herself and explain the origins of this particular domestic strife. I must point out that as Porky speaks, we get a two-shot of Mr. and Mrs. Duck. It's almost a still shot, except for the poofy ball on her hat, which slowly bounces until it comes to a stop, like a toy soldier winding down. It's a minute detail that adds to her energetic characterization. Even when she's still, she's moving.

At this point we are launched into the dramatic thrust of the short. We are spirited backward into the past by way of flashback. This is where the real fun begins.

We arrive at the abode of the Ducks (we get no exterior establishing shot) where silhouettes (projected on a wall of two by fours, adding to the rural decrepitude) of the couple hover over a nest with a plump half-oval of an egg nestled on top. A framed embroidered artwork of the words "Home Sweet Home" adds a touch of ironic bonhomie (the music of "Home Sweet Home" is gently playing in the background). Mrs. Duck is lovingly instructing Daffy to manually incubate the egg while she goes to visit her mother. She walks past the camera and out of frame. She then violently (and comically) juts her face back into frame (her beak thrusting like a dagger) with an idle threat of strangulation (the music suddenly turns menacing).

Daffy sits obediently on the nest, replying to every matrimonial trumpet blast with the soft-spoken yet seethingly sarcastic, "Yes, m'love." Daffy's comic acting is brilliant here. The frozen smile, the disingenuously coy eye-blinking, the listless, non-committal head nodding. Not to mention Carl Stalling's expressive soundtrack, with Mrs. Duck's dialogue highlighted by stormy percussion and Daffy's highlighted by softer staccato variations on the "Home Sweet Home" theme. When Mrs. Duck leaves, Daffy gets up off the nest and vents out his frustration, mocking her with multiple "Yes, m'love's" (we also get a sense of the wide space of their sparsely furnished house, giving it the feeling of a stage). The omniscient Mrs. Duck suddenly bursts through the door screaming, "What's that?!" Daffy springs back to the nest (the music oddly spring-like itself), a eerie moment of silence before Daffy quietly, obediently says, "Yes, m'love." Mrs. Duck leaves.

After an indeterminate passage of time, Daffy is still sitting on the egg (his arms uselessly crossed as opposed to the demure limpness he expressed when the missus was about), looking bored and restless. Carl Stalling's score here is particularly striking, giving this little interlude a weird note of foreboding. Daffy decides to examine the egg, shake it, and balance it precariously on his digit. How I relate to Daffy's fascination! There is something miraculous about that ovoid vessel. Its perfect shape and dimensions. Its firm yet fragile shell, its smell reminiscent of sticking your hand out of a speeding car window, then smelling the palm once retracted. When you put a knife to a boiled egg, you see its uniform circularity with its white outer layer and its yellow yolk (sans zygote, of course).

Daffy, in a fit of pure sponteneum, lays to rest the age-old chicken-or-the-egg conundrum by rendering it moot. We get an extreme close-up of his hand fondling the egg then pressing the egg between his palms until it is squeezed out of existence. Even Harry Handcuffs couldn't pull off a feat of such trickery. Daffy, standing confidently on his nest like a master sleight-of-hand, chants some magical hoodoo ("Hocus pocus, flippety flam, razzmatazz, and alacazam!") and the egg reappears between his two fingers (with an amusing "boing", clearly a human's voice).

He is amazed by his newfound abilities and addresses the audience with cross-eyed relish. Notice that the borders of the frame move inward so there there is a thick black outline underneath and to the sides. We cut to a wide shot of Daffy stepping off his nest (making a hearty reference to Major Bowes, an old "Gong Show"-esque radio program) and then stepping forward and out of the frame, his feet planted on the black. It's meant to be a fourth-wall gag but it's awkwardly executed because you notice the frame retracting in preparation for the gag. Frankly, I'm not quite sure why they had to break the fourth wall at that particular moment.

Daffy makes the egg disappear again. I must point out Stalling's lovely rendition of Juventino Rosas' waltz, "Sobre las Olas" (Over the Waves), a calming Wurlitzer standard, but like its title, suggests that Daffy is heading into choppy waters. He repeats the magic words and, lo and behold, the egg does not reappear. Daffy's eyes bulge out of his head and looks at the audience, shrugging with uneasy reassurance. He tries again. Same result. The tempo of the scene steadily grows faster (along with the score) as Daffy desperately tries to make the egg reappear. Daffy is now hysterically banging the floor, imploring an indifferent deity to make his unborn child whole again. Of course, it wouldn't be Looney Tunes if they didn't make Daffy break the fourth wall ("Say, is there a magician in the house?"), then immediately falling back into character (now that felt like a more appropriate fourth-wall gag than the previous one). A clock ticks on unrepentantly.

(continued in Part 2...I hoped to fool you and claim it's Part 1 as a dramatic cliffhanger for this intense marital thriller...it's only because Tumblr allows 30 images per post so I had to break it up into two parts....I apologize if I have completely demystified this [allegedly] mature and thoughtful examination)

[pleasantanathema]

Sinful Hymns

Pairing: Erwin Smith x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: Hair pulling, some rough sex, sex on a desk, religious allusions, a dash of authority kink, no spoilers past early season 1

Word Count: 4k

A/N: In celebration of Season 4 of Attack on Titan airing today, here’s a fulfilled request for Commander Handsome 💕 Thank you so much to the anon who requested this, I had so much fun writing this!

           You couldn’t sleep. There was a nagging in your mind, shadowy visions of titans ascending mountains, climbing walls—the same nightmares that plagued you ever since you joined the scouts all those years ago. You found yourself in the showers, all alone scrubbing away your sins and torments. But even a cleansing couldn’t seem to quell your thoughts, so you roamed.

           The meandering halls of the old scout regiment headquarters were cold, musty, unwelcoming even with Levi’s cleaning. Glimmering lamp light under a cracked door caught your attention, the only light you’d seen while on your stroll.

           The Commander was still awake.

           You weren’t sure what compelled you to stop, to bring your knuckles to rap against the wood of the door. You’d once been quite close with Erwin, back when you were both cadets and working your way up the ranks, but he’d become quite elusive since becoming the Commander. You’d always been interested in him, found your gaze lingering on him a little too long when was around. There was some kind of irresistible, seductive pull towards him, like if you got close enough, he might let you explore the man under the armor. You wondered if he felt it, too, or if your lust was one-sided.

          You were just too curious about what would keep him awake at night. Maybe he struggled with the same miseries you did when the nights felt too dark.

          Tentatively, you slid past the open door.

          Blue eyes caught your movement, his handsome face tilting towards you from where it was seated in his palm.

          He whispered your name, smile tugging at his cheeks.

          “Commander Smith,” you acknowledged, “you’re up quite late.”

          “Seems I’m not the only one.” There was an amusement in his voice that you couldn’t quite place.

          He leaned back in his chair as you stayed in your place, a sudden rise of bashfulness making you bite at the inside of your lip. You were sure you were pestering him; you should’ve just wandered back to your room. Your feet were ready to move, heels pressed against the floor to turn and leave at his behest.

          “Is there something I can help you with?”

          “I—no, I just couldn’t sleep. Apologies, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

          “No, you’re no bother. Rather, you’re quite a pleasant distraction at the moment,” he gestured to his desk, littered with paperwork and books opened to forgotten pages, “come in, shut the door behind you.”

           You did as you were so kindly told, clicking the door into place behind you before moving in closer. His office was warm, bathed in dim candlelight from the lamp on his desk, shadows being cast from the bookshelves that lined the walls. You noticed he was in only a white button-down and trousers, his ODM gear placed neatly on a chest behind where he sat.

          Your hands came to rest on the chair that was placed in front of his desk for his visitors. You remained standing, not quite ready to be so familiar as to just sit and talk with him. There was humor in his eyes as they scanned your figure, undoubtedly surprised to see you dressed so casually as well, simple pants and shirt being all you brought to wear after taking your late-night shower.

          “Tell me, what keeps you awake?”

           There were many answers to his question, but you erred on the side of simplicity.

           “Nightmares. What about you? What’s kept you awake tonight?”

            Erwin sighed, deep and heavy from his chest. You observed how his long fingers gripped at the armrest of his seat, knuckles white.

           “Letters. Demands from the Military Police to hand over the boy who turns into a titan, demands from royalty to execute him. But also my own curiosities. I’ve been reading to see if there are any records of anyone else like him.”

           “I see,” your tongue clicked behind your lips as you recognized the heaviness bound within his broad shoulders, “anything I can help you with?”

           He smiled fully then, white teeth curving against his pretty lips.

          “Like I said, you’re a welcome distraction. How have you been?”

           Again, there were too many ways to answer his question. But you couldn’t bring yourself to bring your burdens to him, not when he was already carrying the weight of the world upon his back.

          “Life isn’t as simple as it used to be,” not that living in this world had ever been easy.

          “No, I’m afraid it isn’t.”

           You caught an etching of the walls on his desk, details of Sina and Maria partially obscured by a leather-bound book, penciled in lines and notes scribbled around the paper’s edges. Something about it drew you in, had you moving to perch on the edge of his desk, one thigh crinkling pages of ink as your fingers deftly plucked at the drawing.

           He watched you with curiosity, eyebrows lifted as he brought a hand to his chin.

          Your nail traced against the charcoal lines, gaze scanning the comprehensive sketch of the rounded walls and the cities held within them.

         “My father used to think there was some kind of power within the walls; believed there was some unseen magic lingering within the stones to keep us safe…” you trailed off, the rest of your thoughts caught within your throat, “...I’m glad he wasn’t alive when the walls were breached, would’ve ruined the mystery for him.”

         “Was he a believer in the Church of the Walls?”

         “No,” you hummed softly, “just someone who thought there was more to the story.”

          Quite like yourself, you wanted to say, but left the words unspoken. You set the yellowing paper back on his desk, arms crossing.

          He rolled his shoulders in a quiet stretch, running a tired hand through his blonde undercut as he looked up at you. You’d always found him overwhelmingly handsome, the kind of man who changed the atmosphere of a room when he walked in. But there was always a warmth to him, like there was always something brewing, churning inside that enticing mind of his.

          “I never could understand how people could worship the walls,” he mused, shifting his weight forward, getting a little closer to where you were perched, “not when there are other, more...beautiful things to praise.”

          Heat crept up the back of your neck, your too-close proximity to him becoming all too apparent. But he kept getting closer.

          His hand found your knee, fingers trailing over the tight threads of your pants.

          The act seemed endearing, harmless, but the simple touch had your desire rearing its sordid head again. You felt emboldened, confidence swelling in your chest.

         “Then what would you worship, Erwin?”

         “I’m a man of too many sins, I doubt there’s any kind of faith that could bring me absolution.”

          Your fingers ached to touch him, your hand reaching toward his face before your mind could stop the movement. His cheek was warm, skin soft under the brush of your thumb.

          “I don’t believe that. There has to be something beautiful for you to admire…” you felt his fingers tighten against your leg, drifting higher up your thigh, pulling you in, bringing you closer.

          “I could start with you.”

          The tension snapped, splitting like a tightly strung cord between you. You heeded the call to be nearer, moving your hand to rest against his shoulder for balance as you took the initiative to settle yourself in his lap. For a moment, you worried that you pushed too far, that you’d invaded his personal space and made him uncomfortable. But those fears were battered quickly when eager hands took hold of your waist, palms spread wide as they trailed up your back.

          “I’ve always admired you from afar,” he was hushed, breath fanning over your neck, “but you’re much easier to worship up close.”

          You kissed him without a second thought. Years of attraction, of adoration, fueled your lips, your hands grasping at his jawline as he met your passion. His mouth slanted against yours ardently, impatient hands slipping under your shirt.

          You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose at the feel of his warm fingers ghosting up your skin, now suddenly very aware you hadn’t bothered to wear anything below your clothes—you thought you’d be returning to your room, not wandering into your Commander’s lap. You moaned into his mouth, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to taste you. You were overcome with too much, all your senses now flooding with Erwin, his scent, his touch, his entire being smothering you with all the attentions you had ever craved from him.

          His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, a groan leaving his chest when you settled lower into his lap, your thighs draped over his own and your core pressed against his hardening cock.

          This wasn’t real—this couldn’t be real, surely you were caught up in one of your dreams again, but his lips against yours felt real, felt hungry, his large hands now cupping and holding the weight of your breasts within his hands. Your fingers carded through his hair, nails delicately raking through the roots to remind yourself that it was him, that this was real.

          “You taste like sin,” he praised, peppering kisses down the column of your throat.

          Any thought you had of replying disappeared when strong fingers pinched at your nipples, causing a heavy moan to fall out of your mouth as your head tilted back, allowing him more access to your neck. He plucked tenderly at your sensitive flesh, a noticeable smirk growing upon his lips as each tug and roll of your breasts had you gasping, whining. He quite liked that, it seemed, to be able to play you so easily.

          You mumbled curses into the air, eyes fluttering closed. You experimentally rolled your hips in his lap, an attempt to get a similar rise from him. He bared his teeth against your throat, canines nipping into your skin before pressing his lips down more forcefully, sucking and lapping at your neck. Heat bloomed from where his mouth met your body, a telling sign that you would have a mark there to remember him by. He was careful, choosing a supple spot below where the collar of your uniform would cover you tomorrow.

           Erwin’s hands released your aching breasts, moving down to grasp at the hem of your shirt.

          “Take this off,” he demanded, a string of saliva still connecting his lips to your neck.

           You dropped your hands from his hair, trailing down his broad chest before meeting his hands and pulling your shirt up over your head. It fell to the floor carelessly, the chill of the room making your skin pebble with gooseflesh.

           You took note of how his cheeks were flushed pink, blush faint across his elegant aquiline nose.

           His intimidating, icy eyes flickered up to you, making your own flush spread across your body. You felt like he was looking through you, reading your thoughts, hearing your internal screams for more. Then, his gaze fell back to your heaving breasts, hands greedily taking them again, lips wrapping around one of your nipples and making you whimper.

           You could feel his cock pressing against you now, harder and thicker than before, the ridge of it nestled against your throbbing cunt. You rolled yourself against it, delighted sounds leaving both of your mouths at the contact. His tongue swirled around your puckered nipple, teeth just barely daring to drag against your flesh. You buried your fingers into his shoulders, feeling his muscles tighten and then relax at your touch.

          “Oh-oh fuck, I—,”

          “You’re dripping,” he interrupted, one of his hands unclasping from your breast and drifting down your belly to rub at the damp spot between your legs, “I can feel you against me.”

           You shivered at the wanton touch, thighs clenching against his legs.

          “Did you come here tonight to seduce me?”

           He mumbled the words against your breast, tongue flattening against your nipple with a few long, heavy licks as his eyes flashed up to you, waiting for your response.

           “No, sir, I promise that wasn’t my,” you moaned as a thick finger slid against your clit through your clothes, “that wasn’t my intention.”

           His wet lips left your breast, coy smirk painting his face.

          “Shame, that was my plan the moment you stepped into my office.”

           You always did fall for his tricks; if only you’d known his hand against your thigh earlier wasn’t so harmless after all.

          “And how did this plan of yours end, Commander?”

           It still felt strange to call him by that title after so many years of calling him by his name, but there was something sensual about it, something alluring about his newfound authority.

           His hands were pushing at your hips, fingers crushing into your skin as he lifted you to move back.

          “With you bent over my desk.”

           It didn’t take him long to wrangle you into the position he so desired. His hands were unhurried, purposeful as he pushed you to stand, peeling your pants down your legs before pressing your face into the pile of papers on his desk. You felt so exposed, what with him being able to see your pussy on display from behind you while all you could focus on was his touch and the way the flame at the edge of his desk flickered.

           Erwin’s fingers spread the folds of your cunt, an appreciative hum sounding from his throat. You mewled at the touch, thighs shaking in your anticipation. The button to his pants popped softly, then you finally felt him, felt his hard, thick cock nudging at your entrance.

           Your hands crumpled a few pages as you searched for something to cling to. Your heart was pounding in your ears, suddenly all too aware that the Commander was still fully clothed, while you were laid out across his desk like a naked whore. One of his hands pulled at your hip, the other trailing down the expanse of your back.

           There was a boldness coming to life inside you at the realization that he’d wanted you the moment you appeared within his room.

           “Worth worshipping, Erwin?”

            You ate your words as he shoved himself inside you, stretching you to your limits as your body burned to accommodate his size. You cried out against the mass of papers, eyes blurring as pleasure burst across all of your nerve endings.

            He groaned at the feeling himself, both hands now digging into the meat of your hips.

            “Fuck,” you heard him breath in deep as he slid is cock out of you before slamming in again, “oh absolutely, darling.”

            You hadn’t heard Erwin curse before.

            But you didn’t have time to dwell on your thoughts, not with him now moving ruthlessly inside you, hips snapping against your ass with every sharp, deep thrust. Little sounds left your lips with every plunge, blissful tingles stemming from where your bodies were conjoined. You loved how you could feel the head of his fat cock dragging along your walls, thick veins throbbing under silken skin.

             You were far past believing this was a dream, now convinced you were actually in the sweet joys of a paradise beyond life.

             A coil of pleasure began to tighten within your lower stomach, hot and mean, like it was ready to tear and erupt with a rush of ecstasy. You moaned his name like a prayer, eyes closed tightly as you focused on the intensity of his cock thrusting inside you.

             You wouldn’t last long, not with the sinful hymns of his grunts and praises resounding behind you. His sounds were faint, but they were there, little rumbling of “so good, so tight,” kissing at your ears.

             God, you could die. You could die and live a happy, full life from this moment alone. You felt so whole with him inside you, felt coated with desire and praise like never before. There were bruises already forming from his grip, you could feel them, skin sore and burning beneath his massive hands.

             “You’re beautiful wrapped around my cock,” he voiced, tone deep and praising, brawny arm sweeping up your spine to fist in your hair. Your head jerked with his action, back arching as he pulled at you. You gasped at the discomfort, a dull ache forming from his too-tight grip. But the pain was overshadowed by the rivers of rapture running over your skin. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, your whole body rebounding like snapping elastic from his brutal behavior.

             The new angle had his cock slamming against that spot inside you that had your body going almost numb from the pleasure, white hot heat spreading over all your limbs, making your toes curl against the floor. You felt like you were fracturing, that thrilling tendril tightening in your belly to its breaking point. You could feel your walls sucking in his cock, your body pleading on its own.

             “Oh fuck, Commander—Erwin,” you were completely lost to the delirium, mind ruined.

            “I know,” he grunted, fingers stiffening in your hair, craning your neck back farther, “I feel you, you’re so—you’re so fucking tight.”

            You crashed down around him, your cunt clenching and pulsing in waves of euphoria, each crest making your lower muscles spasm. Your chin fell, your head only being held by the might of his hand, your brain so foggy with lust and release that you felt as if you had ascended the walls too quickly and fallen back down again. A fresh, euphoric jolt splintered down your body as he sheathed his cock fully into your depths, making your eyes flutter as your mouth opened in a glorious, blissed out state.

           Your body threatened to crumple against the desk, but he held you; the space between his palms and strong fingers was one of the safest places in the world, nothing could touch you if Erwin had you beneath his touch. The fierce tightening of your body sent him over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the captivating feeling of being completely filled by him, the Commander’s seed pooling within your pussy. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and leaving you gasping for breath and basking in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

           He gently let go of your hair, letting your spent body rest against the desk as he caught his breath. He smoothed his hands over your hips, a tinge of regret in his chest as he noticed the dark prints of his fingers etched into your skin. Erwin wasn’t used to letting go, to letting lust overtake him so mercilessly.

           You stirred after a few moments, straightening your back and finding your balance between your legs. Erwin enveloped you in his arms, hand against your cheek as he trailed his lips up your neck, capturing the side of your mouth with a fervent kiss.

          “Are you alright, darling?” Concern laced his tone, hand smoothing over your belly. You shuttered at the gentle touch, your skin cooling from sweat as you leaned back against his chest, cum sticky and crawling down your thighs.

           You still felt lost, like you were waking from the dark depths of slumber, his hands calling you to him. One palm wrapped around your neck, stroking at the column of your throat like he was helping you to find your breath.

          “Yes, yes I’m…,” you couldn’t think of the words to describe just how you felt. It was like you’d finally been cleansed, every grievous thought expunged from your mind, but also like you’d fallen back into the past, back into your daydreams of wishing Erwin would press you against the barracks wall and smothering his name from your mouth.

         “It is yes sir, to you, don’t forget I’m your superior now,” he teased between nips and kisses, a smile brushing against your skin.

         You turned in his arms, pressing your naked chest against his wrinkled shirt, the cotton soft against your breasts. You stood on your toes to try and match his height, molding your lips to his, stealing his grin and making it your own.

          “I could never forget, not with such a display of power,” you affirmed, seriousness apparent on your tongue. You knew he could take anything he wanted from you, and you were more than willing to lay yourself bare for him whenever he pleased.

          You expected there to be a stillness between you, a moment of reflection after such a callous coupling. But Erwin’s hands were greedy, selfish, cupping and kneading at the soft flesh of your ass, of the side of your breast. You were small in his shadow; a miniscule frame being devoured by a starved predator.

          “I want to see just how well you obey orders. Go to my quarters and wait for me, I’m not finished with you yet.”

           Your head nodded accordingly, your knees ready to kneel to the floor and gather your forgotten garments. But Erwin kept his fingers in your flesh, preventing you from moving from his hold when you tried.

           “Ah, I don’t think you need your clothing, not when you’ll just be shedding it again so soon.”

           There was a playful glint in his eyes, his eyebrows thoughtfully pressed together as he tried to gauge your response.

           “Erwin,” his hands cinched around your body, an acute reminder, “sir, I can’t...walk to your room naked.”

           He patted your backside before he sat back into the chair behind his desk, cock tucked neatly back into his pants. There was still a pretty blush tingeing his cheeks, his lips plump and dark pink from all their time spent sucking at your skin. You almost wanted to cover yourself under his scrutinizing gaze, icy irises roaming your body like a piece of art bought and hung on a wall for his viewing pleasure.

           “It’s late, there shouldn’t be anyone to find you,” he relaxed, arms crossing across his chest, “but, if you happen to be unfortunate, remind them that you are under your Commander’s orders.”

           Erwin took a sick delight in watching your eyes narrow at him, your lips pursing in slight irritation; but he knew you wouldn’t dare disobey him, you’d always been too good of a soldier for that, and now a promising plaything.

           He couldn’t help but survey your body as you walked towards the door, delicious curves and marks from his skin on an alluring display, his cum still flowing down your thighs. You’d be a blessed sight to anyone who got the privilege to see you on your journey to his sleeping quarters, a goddess floating down the corridors.

           You looked over your shoulder at him when you opened the door, catching his diligent gaze and matching it. He always thought you’d be amusing to toy with and you’d proven that with how easily you could match his intensity.

           “You shouldn’t be up so late, Commander Smith, nothing good happens after midnight.”

           He hid the smirk behind his hand as you left his office the same as you entered, only bare-skinned and with a new, more suitable destination.

[damonalbarn]

Hey I was wondering if you knew the article that Justine spoke about suzi in?!

It was in The Guardian in 2000. Here you go:

Sweet revenge

In the mid 90s, Justine Frischmann and Damon Albarn were the First Couple of Britpop. Then he used a Blur album to rake over their break-up, while she languished in obscurity amid rumours of heroin addiction. Now she's back with a new album, and it's her turn to exorcise her demons.

Caroline Sullivan

Friday March 24, 2000

As Alison Moyet once said, it's hard to write a decent song when you're happy. Rock bands thrive on romantic turmoil in their private lives, without which they would be reduced to padding out lyrics with football scores and the weather.

Thus it was for Blur's Damon Albarn in mid-1998 when he sat down to write what would become the 13 album. His eight-year relationship with Justine Frischmann of the chart-topping Elastica, whom he once described as **"the only person who's ever been completely necessary to me" **had just ended, at her instigation. Pained and humiliated, he decided to exact revenge by exposing their most intimate details to public scrutiny.

The outcome? Embarrassment for Frischmann, a number one album for Blur and a bit of a result for Albarn.

Break-up albums are by definition both embittered and yearning - in the case of Marvin Gaye's vindictive Here, My Dear, they're just plain nasty - but 13 got more up-close and personal than could be considered gentlemanly. Albarn portrayed his former partner as neurotic, even slipping apparent drug references into the single Tender: "Tender is the ghost, the ghost I love the most/Hiding from the sun, waiting for the night to come". Frischmann was the ghost, supposedly, who was on the verge of being consumed by what one music paper euphemistically called "the darkness at the heart of Elastica".

Frischmann's response can be found on a song called The Way I Like It, which appears on Elastica's first album in five years, The Menace (out next month): "Well, I'm living all right and I'm doing okay/Had a lover who was made of sand, and the wind blew him away".

This is unlikely to be her last word on the subject. As she ambivalently begins her first round of interviews since 1996, she's finding that everyone has the same three questions. Why did Elastica nearly sabotage a promising career by taking so long to follow up their million-selling debut? Had Frischmann taken leave of her senses when she walked out on Mr Britpop? And what about the drug rumours?

"One journalist said to me, 'Dahling, I heard you were on heroin - Mahvelous!' " she says with some amusement. "Drugs are around, but I'm not that interested and never have been, although there have been elements of party animal in my band. The rumours are a lot to do with rock'n'roll mythology, where people want to believe you're having a more exciting time than you are."

The only drugs on her person today, as she perches on the edge of an armchair in her publicist's north London living room, are Marlboro Lights. Her other indulgences are two cups of herbal tea and a Cadbury's Flake cupcake, which she nibbles with well-bred pleasure. Her dark eyes are clear, and her long, tanned body is a testament to the virtues of a daily swim in a pool near her Notting Hill home. Only Elastica know whether they really succumbed to heroin and hedonism after their self-titled debut made them more famous than they'd ever expected to be, but if they did, Frischmann, 30, seems little the worse for it.

Given the current predominance of damnable boy bands, the Britpop mid-90s are beginning to seem like a halcyon period for English music. It was a time when the underground went overground, and a self-described "little punk band" like Elastica could sell 80,000 albums in a week.

More than a few loser guitar groups saw Britpop as a licence to print money, but Elastica, led with cool elan by the androgynous Frischmann, were one of its gems. The Blur connection was a marketing godsend (Frischmann and Albarn met on the London indie circuit, she as guitarist in an early line-up of Suede and girlfriend of frontman Brett Anderson, he as a cherubic baggy hopeful), yet the spiky-haired Elastica LP embodied that euphoric time like nothing else.

Frischmann, guitarist Donna Matthews, drummer Justin Welch and bassist Annie Holland were unprepared for the album soaring to number one in its first week. When they signed their record deal, Frischmann, whose great-grandfather was a conductor of the Tsar's orchestra at the Summer Palace in Byelorussia, was five years into an architecture degree at London University. A liberal north London Jewish upbringing - her engineer father built the Oxford Street landmark Centrepoint - had instilled expectations of success, but the reality of being photographed in the supermarket and having her rubbish stolen was a shock. Fiercely independent, she also resented her unsought role as half of Britpop's First Couple.

There was more. Two of Frischmann's musical heroes, The Stranglers and Wire, decided that two Elastica songs were suspiciously similar to two of their own tracks, and won royalties. Meanwhile, there were malicious rumours that Albarn had done much of the work on the record. He hadn't, but he did find Justine's success in America, where she was substantially out-selling Blur, hard to endure.

"It was very hard for him to deal with and he's very confrontational," she says, with the flattering openness of someone who prefers interviews to be more like conversations. She admits she often says too much, but in an era of image control and spin, her honesty makes her a one-off. Not that she's likely to land herself in it too badly - she possesses the intellectual ammunition to look after herself, which must have been instrumental in attracting two of rock's more articulate stars, Albarn and Anderson.

She's been accused of being a professional rock girlfriend, though it was probably they who were lucky to get her. She spent the cab ride over reading the Sylvia Plath letters in Monday's Guardian, and muses on the irony of the poet's subjugating herself to Ted Hughes when she was the more gifted. (Her new boyfriend, by the way, is an unknown photographer, "though that'll probably change, because men seem to get famous when I go out with them".)

"I reacted the way a lot of women do, by being passive," she continues. "He put a lot of pressure on me to give up Elastica. He said, 'You don't want to be in a band, you want to settle down and have kids.' " In so many words? "In so many words. He kept putting on pressure till I started to believe him." She adds bemusedly: "I've met his new girlfriend, and one of the first things she said was that he wanted her to give up travelling with her work to stay home with the baby [Missy, born last autumn]. I'm surprised he's got away with being thought of as a nice person for so long."

After 18 months, during which they did seven American and three Japanese tours, Elastica came off the road to record company demands for an immediate second album. Annie Holland's response was to quit the group, while Donna Matthews became renowned for hard partying on the nocturnal west London scene. They lethargically recorded some demos, but their heart wasn't in it. By 1997, when a second album should have been ready to go, Frischmann and Matthews were barely speaking, and there was nothing useable down on tape.

Holland's replacement, Sheila Chipperfield (of the circus Chipperfields), was deemed not good enough and left by mutual consent. By 1998, their continued lack of productivity was being likened to the Stone Roses' lengthy and ultimately self-destructive holiday between their first and second LPs.

"I didn't think Elastica were going to continue at that point, and we did kinda split up," she says, absently stroking her publicist's cat. Frischmann is a cat person; she's owned a tabby called Benjamin since she was 10. "Unconditional love," she coos. The pet's place in her life is so assured that prospective boyfriends are subjected to his feline scrutiny before she'll go out with them.

On top of everything else, in early 1998 her relationship with Albarn was in trouble. Frischmann retains enough of the indie ethic to detest the phenomenon of celebrity couples, and was dismayed when they became one. "I really hated the tabloid interest, and I went out of my way not to be photographed with him. Only about three pictures of us together exist, I think. In many ways, I think the media interest broke us up, because it made me feel the relationship was quite ugly, and I had to get away from it. There were other factors, too, obviously, because we were together for eight years, and I finally felt it was better the devil you didn't know, really."

Albarn's ego seems to have been severely undermined by having a girlfriend who was nearly as successful as he was, and something of a sex symbol to boot. Despite adopting a resolutely boyish T-shirt-and-jeans uniform, she's thoroughly feminine, a mix that got her voted fifth most fanciable woman in a lesbian magazine.

"I'm completely heterosexual, so I didn't know how to take that. It scares the shit out of me, the idea of being with a girl. I'm glad I've narrowed it down to half the people in the world."

She seems to view Albarn with indulgent exasperation these days, simultaneously praising his intelligence ("The Gallaghers just couldn't compete") and ticking off his flaws. "Damon adores being in the press, and sees all press as good press. He orchestrated that rivalry thing with Oasis. He really wanted kids, and I didn't feel our relationship was stable enough. He was a naughty boy, and he wasn't the right person to have kids with. I had this cathartic moment..."

At which point they split up. Albarn wrote 13 and then met Suzi Winstanley, an artist. "She was pregnant within three months," Justine observes wickedly.

Of the acclaimed 13, she's tactful, describing several songs as "really lovely". She studies her cigarette for a while before adding, "but I'm cynical about selling a record on the back of our relationship". But you're doing the same now. "It's true, but at the time I had no right of reply."

Elastica finally pulled themselves together last year, just as the music industry was about to write them off (their American label had already "very kindly let us go", as she puts it). Holland rejoined, Matthews went to Wales to sort out her life and the band banged out an EP and played the Reading Festival. Things came together quickly after that. They spent the last £10,000 of the recording budget on re-recording a dozen tracks, finishing the album, after years of procrastinating, in six weeks. They've called it The Menace "because that's what it was like to make".

It's dark and resolutely uncommercial - all wrong for 2000's pop-oriented climate. It's unlikely to match the success of the first one, which is fine with them. Call it (though Justine doesn't) their White Album. Its 70s punk aesthetic brings to mind angry girls such as the Slits and the Au Pairs, although the defining mood isn't anger so much as catharsis. None of the songs is specifically about Albarn, she claims. "The dark feeling is due to the sense of isolation, tasting success and getting frightened by it. I was questioning whether I wanted to be in a band any more, and there was no one I could ask for advice. Getting success and everything you ever dreamed about is hard to handle, and makes you question everything."

She's better prepared for success, if it comes again, this time. Already the privacy-preserving barriers are in place. The next interview of the day is with Time Out magazine, which wants a list of her favourite restaurants. "I'm not telling them where I eat," she says reflexively. "I'm gonna lie."

[internalsealpanic]

Respectful Cannibalism

Summary:  Watching mystery movie with a bunch of detective was a bad idea

A/n: While this is part 3 to my Space Case series, you’re not required to read Art Gallery Smile or Cosmonauts to understand the context to this. The only note I do have is that Dick and Steph are friends with Reader much to Tim’s everlasting horror.  Special thanks to @littleredwing89 and @glorified-red for proof reading this mess.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff and a confusing amount of batkids in one scene.

Main Masterlist

Tim Drake Masterlist

Tim coughs, loud and ragged into the speaker. You find yourself wincing at the phone tucked against your ear. Tim sounds like he’s dying or, at the very least, he’s on his way there. 

“I’m so-”

“Fucking tired of saying sorry that you decided to go skinny dipping in Gotham Harbor? Yeah. Great, I’m sick of hearing it too. Glad, we’re on the same page, Space Cadet.” You exasperate, pulling on your jeans violently enough for Tim to hear the angry shuffling of fabric. 

“Skinny dipping?” Tim huffs, a fond smile playing on his lips as he drinks in the timber of your voice. Even when you were absolutely exasperated, your voice was still soothing or maybe he just misses your company. God, he’s such a sap. 

You shake your head in disbelief. That was his take away? “Yes, Timmy, Buck-ass skinny dipping,” you laugh, coming out derisive and sharp. Tim groans this time filled with guilt. The first few sounds of another ‘I’m sorry’ form in the back of his throat as he runs his hand through his bed head. For once, you’re thankful that you’re nowhere near Tim because you are one apology away from decking him and you’re pretty sure that that’s a terrible thing to do to a sick person, especially one with no brain cells to spare. 

“I- You were really looking forward to this (Y/n), don’t try to deny it.” You weren’t going to. He was right. You were looking forward to this date. You were impossibly, unreasonably giddy over the prospect of going to the planetarium with Tim this afternoon. WITH Tim. Sure, you’re pretty down about it but you were the tiniest bit more  concerned about the fact that your boyfriend had water in his lungs and almost died of hypothermia for a hot second. You pinch the bridge of your nose, hoping that worry and murder radiate off of you in equal measure.  “I was also looking forward to my letter from Hogwarts,” you sneer, pausing dramatically to look at your watch, “and it’s been roughly a decade.”  You hear Tim swallow and the hairs on your neck bristle in petty satisfaction. 

Tim chortles, a lively sound that startles you, then coughs but the sound comes out somehow sounding doubtful and teasing. Embarrassment flares up in you. “You were too!” you protest, hackles drawn to full height. A short breathy laugh leaves Tim and you feel the flush on your face ease into something softer and more rounded. All the sharpness in your veins dissipates as the flash of fondness for that stupid laugh takes over. You can imagine him warm under the covers smiling at the phone at your blunder. “Please, (y/n), my hopes were dashed when I was 4  and still not in the Jedi order.”

“Bullshit, you were never a child,”  you snort, sharpening the grin on your face into something vicious. “I refuse to believe you were ever a child! You probably sprang out of a textbook fully formed- Wait, I’m getting off-topic. ” Tim hums innocently and you narrow your eyes at the phone, hoping he can feel the ‘I am revoking your breathing privileges’ look.  “You always are.” Tim says before falling into a coughing fit. 

“Sorry, Cosmo, I just keep getting lost in your eyes,”  you whisper, pitching your voice rich and caramel smooth. There’s a sound on the other line. Tim is babbling you realize. You hear a shuffle of fabric and a body rising. Tim sucks in a breath, red-faced and caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He can practically see the cocky grin playing on your face, the light of the sun reflecting as golden flecks in your eyes.  “You can’t even see them!” Tim stammers, glowering at you through the phone. You cackle at him as if sensing the venomous look he’s giving you. “You can barely open them!” Tim rolls his, very much, open eyes, falling back into an unnecessarily large pile of pillows that Alfred insisted was necessary for bed rest with a loud ‘fwoof’. “Yes, I can,” Tim mumbles, sounding young for once. You do your level best to smother a grin on your face. “I’m just really drowsy from the chamomile tea Alfie gave me.” You stop dead in your tracks, one hand half in your coat the other on the doorknob. You blink. “You’re at the Manor?”

Tim pauses, making a frustrated noise. He shouldn’t have said that.  “Dick and B… insisted.” This draws another one of your sharp laughs. He says insisted as if it was ever negotiable. “Did they ‘insist’ before or after they blow-dried and hung you out to dry?” Tim squawks and you hear shuffling again. Tim tries to remember why he doesn’t hate you. “Tell me again how you found out about me getting sick? Steph? Cass?”

“Hmmmmmm, Dick.”

“THAT TRAITOR”

“Funny way to pronounce older brother,” you hum smug. You can feel Tim glaring daggers at you. “You-”

“There’s a home theater, yeah?” 

Tim pauses, this time longer. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Answer the question, Space Case.”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“Great! It’s a date then,” you say, mentally preparing a route to the Manor from the vague directions Steph told you once. You could just use the maps app- 

“NO!” You freeze. Tim flinches at the volume of his own voice. He  whispers an indiscernible  ‘I’m sorry’. You turn it over in your mind before speaking. “No?” You ask, trying your best to sound hurt instead of amused. Maybe you should have pitched your voice higher, more shaky. “Look, Tim, I-” Tim heaves a loud sigh. “-(Y/n), you’re fine-” Well, you aren’t, you think. You bite your tongue, physically to make sure you don’t say anything unnecessary. “-It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s- It’s just my siblings...” Tim knows that his siblings have been talking about you.  

“Timmy, I can take whatever shovel talk they can give me,” you say with the confidence of someone who has never been dangled over the edge of a roof top. Ok, to be fair, YOU had nothing to worry about. Tim, on the other hand, was going to get roasted alive. Maybe he can persuade you into not- Tim hears the tell tale sputtering of your bike’s engine and he feels his blood pressure spike. The engine genuinely sounds like a death rattle. 

“You’ll get sick.”

You swear and he hears another sputter of the engine. “You’ll get sick,” he croaks again, louder this time hopefully over the dying engine. Maybe if your engine dies right now, he’ll be spared from a slow agonizing death via siblings. “Relax Cosmo, I have the strongest ward against whatever you got,” you say, giving the engine a light kick. Tim hears a few metallic clunks then the engine stutters to life. Tim looks up past the ceiling trying to glare at whatever cosmic being resurrected your engine. 

“Which is...”

“Being broke. It does wonders for your health.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Tim says, shifting burying his head against the too soft pillows. The soft fabric makes his eyes feel heavy. He yawns. He hears the sputter or your laugh. It’s hard to tell from the sudden drowsiness making his head swim. 

“I promise I’ll explain to your typical rich kid ass when I get there, Tim.”

“That’s not how it works,” Tim slurs, face pressed into a pillow. 

You laugh, he’s sure this time. 

“I’m-” Tim’s mind unfocuses and the words you say garble together ”-Tim. ”

Tim blinks, mouth moving to ask you to repeat that but the last thing he hears is a soft click. 

On the bright side, it would just be him and Alfred at the manor.

_________________________________________________________

Batmanisfake: I heard (y/n)'s coming over😶

Nightwingingit:👀 How do you even know that?

Batmanisfake: What are you? A cop?

Nightwingingit: say that again but slowly 🙄

Batmanisfake: ...

Damian: He bugged Drake's phone. For blackmail purposes, of course. 

Nightwingingit: JASON

The Cool One: Shush Dick! He's onto something

Batmanisfake: Thank you 

The Adult: I for once had nothing to do with it😌

Theactualbatman: I'm assuming we're all coming home tonight?

The Cool One: I'll bring popcorn

Damian: Nonsense Pennyworth will likely have some prepared

The Cool One:😭 We really do not deserve that man

Nightwingingit: Definitely

thesaneone: We're recording Tim's face when he sees us, right? 

Batmanisfake: From all angles

The Adult: You're all horrible

Batmanisfake: Please like you're not hacking into the cameras as we speak, Babs

The Adult: You have no proof👀

_________________________________________________________

Tim’s head felt thick and gooey like one of Alfred’s custards. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s in a fish tank. There’s a sickly Chlorine smell clogging his nostrils; it smells powdery and sterile and reminds him vaguely of aspirin. Tim blinks. His eyes hurt; they feel puffy and sore and hot. His vision is further obscured by a thick layer of fleece blankets Alfred had piled high over him. He shuts his eyes still feeling too overwhelmed by the low light coming from the window.

Tim thinks he hears his window open with a soft click. Tim quiets his breathing. His hearing is too muddled to process anything beyond it.  There’s a soft thud of heavy boots in the room; it’s imperceptible and dreamlike the way it reaches his ears that it has him shifting under the covers trying his best to discern the sound. A dozen lighter footsteps follow it and he can sense 6 shapeless bodies hovering over him.

“Should we wake him up?” asks a voice that vaguely sounds like Cass. 

There’s a shuffling sound. Leather, he thinks. “Wait, lemme take a picture.”

“Red, why? It’s not like you can blackmail him with pictures of him sleeping.”

“Because, flashlight, I need proof that Timbo sleeps. ”

“Because?”

“Ok, how many times have you seen him asleep?” 

“Uh...”

“Exactly!”

Tim hears a laugh that distinctly sounds like Dick. “Does it count if Alfie drugged him?”

“Maybe?” Steph says, shrugging. 

“It doesn’t, Brown.”

“Damn it.”

“Does that mean B doesn’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

Maybe if Tim keeps sleeping, they’ll go away on their own. Tim wraps the sheets tightly around himself, hoping the large stack  of fleece would be enough to muffle his siblings. 

“I’m pretty sure I have dibs on waking him for opening the window for you shits.”

“Red, anyone could have opened that,” Duke laughs, stepping slightly behind Cass, who at the moment was paying more attention to the moving pile of fabric. Maybe if Tim stays really still she’ll turn her attention to something else. 

“Cass and Dickface would have just broken it.‘

“I would not!”

“Sorry, Cass, you would.”

“Steph, whose side are you on?”

“Why is no one defending me?” Dick sighs. 

“No one cares, Dickface. And Blondie’s clearly playing for the right team-” Steph cackles. “-none of you have any finesse.”

“Not all of us can be drama queens, Todd.”

“You’re like the third to the last person I wanna hear this from.”

“Third? You’re ranking us now? Who gave you the right?”

“Alfred,” Jason deadpans, “And yeah. Bruce and Dick are first and second.”

“Hey!”

“Can it Mr. Pretty Man Down.”

“That was one-”

“What rank am I?”

“uh … fifth.”

“Fifth?!”

“Sorry, Blondie, Cass has you beat with that ballet kick thingy.”

“Ok, yeah I can accept that. What about Babs?”

“What about Babs? The woman can kick my ass six ways to Sunday. ”

Tim’s head throbs all over. There are soft pin pricks pressing on the sole of his left foot; his leg jerks involuntarily. He wants to scream. Tim swears under his breath. A gloved hand pries the covers away from Tim’s face. Tim squints his eyes open only to be greeted by Dick’s kind, but still very punchable, face. Tim takes a long rasp, pinching his features in a mix of annoyance and despair. “Why are you-” Cough! “-here?”

There’s a slight quirk to Dick’s smile.“They wanted to meet (y/n),” Dick explains in a sweeping theatrical motion of his hand across the room directing Tim’s attention to the expressions on his sibling’s expressions which were all a variation of devious scheming. 

“How did-” cough. “- you even know-” cough. “-(y/n) was coming?” Tim asks, shooting up from his pile of pillows causing a couple of blankets to topple to the floor to the ground. Tim’s lightheaded.  He suddenly feels a shift in his balance, a feeling of vertigo.   He nearly topples to the ground, his blood not quite catching up to his movements, when feels hands wrap around his shoulders. “Woah there Baby Bird, slowdown.”

“Answer-” Cough!

“It was Todd.”

“You mutant sperm!”

“Jay, aren’t we all mutant sperm?” Steph laughs, slinging one arm over an irate Damian’s shoulders and another over a fuming Jason’s shoulders. Tim groans, sounding pained. “How much do I need to pay each of you to get all of you to go away?”

“A lifetime of IOUs,” Dick says, casually. 

“NO!”

“All of your share in W.E.,” Duke says, laughing. Steph elbows him lightly, also laughing. “You’re shooting prelow there, Slick,” Steph teases. Duke shrugs still grinning. “Gotta  keep it realistic, yanno?”  Steph and Duke keep bickering. 

“Drake, kindly, pay with your life.”

Tim scrunches his nose. “I’m already on my deathbed, you know, dying. What else do you want from me?”

“A more agonizing death.”

Jason grins, tilting his chin. “C’mon, Timbo, we can help with your little impromptu date.” Tim groans, placing his face in his hands. “Please just help me dig my own grave.”

“What would be the fun in that, Timbo?”

“For you or for me?”

“Come on, Tim, it’ll be fine,” Cass says,  clearly not believing the words herself. All seven of them dissolve into another round bickering. Damian, Jason, and Steph hellbent on giving Tim an aneurysm.  Duke and Cass playing at being neutral; Duke leaning on Tim’s side but laughing way too hard at Steph’s well placed jabs; Cass is only mildly siding with Tim to spite Jason. Why this time? Tim has no clue. 

The string of banter is broken up by the echoing the doorbell. Tim’s heart seizes as they all fall silent, enraptured by the odd sound of a doorbell filling the hallowed halls of Wayne Manor. The chiming of bells ends with the creaking of the large oak doors in the front of the manor. 

Before Tim’s sluggish brain could even formulate a thought, all of his siblings are all bounding towards the door, bouncing off the walls and flipping over obstacles. Tim scrambles, lagging, after the hoard of vigilantes barrelling towards you. Tim tries to shout after his siblings but his voice is drowned out by raucous laughter and bickering. 

You stand at the door, head haloed by the pale afternoon light as the sky catches fire, flecks of snow sparkling in your hair. You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear as you sheepishly thank Alfred as he takes your coat.  

Tim struggles to breathe an he genuinely doesn’t know if it’s because of his lungs, you, or the fact that of all his siblings, Babs was the one who got there first and Tim genuinely doesn’t know if Babs is there to hold off the gaggle of vigilantes or to scare you off. From the jovial grin wrinkling your features, Tim’s pretty sure Babs just gave you some blackmail material instead of putting you through the ringer- an equally scary outcome. For your part, you don’t look even slightly phased by the fact that Babs is in a wheelchair or even by the way she’s clearly sizing you up. All of this rolls off of you with an easy motion of your shoulders as you answer her questions in the most frustratingly oblique way based off of Babs’s expression. Tim can’t help the curve on his lip as you blatantly dodge another of Babs’s questions with a smile. You spot him, winking, and the tips of Tim’s ears flush. 

Your cocky demeanor fades when a gaggle of batbrats crowd you; nervousness creeps into your form, ironing out your posture into something unnatural and defensive. “Is this a bad time?” You ask through a tight lipped smile. Babs glares at them but doesn’t make any effort to hide the satisfaction at your shaken demeanor. “Don’t mind them, Sweetie,” Babs says, patting your back and guiding you away from the gaggle. You shuffle awkwardly, trying to coax your spine back into a more natural curve. 

“(Y/n)!” Tim manages between gasps for air. Making a person with non functioning lungs run has to be some sort of human rights violation. His voice is  louder than he anticipated. He realizes, but the apprehension in his body flits away when you beam at him-a  wide cheeky smile that has his body vibrating with delight. He made you smile like that, Tim thinks, heart swelling almost enough to soften the impact of the next few words. “Hey, Duckie!” you chirp tilting your face in a cute lopsided smile. 

“Duckie?” Jason sniggers. 

Duke’s face passess from confusion, realization, then amusement in a matter of three seconds.“Duckie? As in ‘quack quack’?” Duke asks, pretending to still be dumbstruck. 

“Yes, Duckie, Tommy Terrific,” you say, the lopsided smile curving into a playful grin. The dumb nicknames earn you a loud, surprisingly nonthreatening, approving laugh from Jason who then says “We’ll keep those nicknames in mind” which just drags pained looks from both Tim and Duke. Dick and Damian on the other hand look absolutely delighted. 

“(Y/n), tell them about the other nicknames,” Steph says, grinning savagely. Your eyes widen and you wrinkle your nose, mouth twitching from side to side, trying to pretend away the heat rising from your cheeks. “Not on your life, Stephie.”

“Aaaaaw! Not even for lil ol’ me?” Dick pouts, throwing his arms around you. The familiarity of the action has Tim bristling. “Pleeeeeaaase,” Dick whines; a smile hidden in your hair, “not even for Alfred’s cookies?” You make a noise caught between a laugh and a groan. “Hmmmm… maybe? Throw in some candy.”

“Deal.”

Tim blinks. “You’d betray me for sugar?” 

“Cus I ain’t getting any while you’re sick,” you cackle, grinning along with Dick who looks way too pleased with the outcome of the conversation.  Tim desperately wants to melt into the floor. Looking at all his siblings who are eagerly awaiting for the litany of nicknames, Tim cuts in. “Let’s just go watch that film.”

“What are we watching?” Cass asks, leaning to look over your shoulder, clearly shoving Dick out of the way. Dick does his best to not budge. 

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“We are under a communist regime, Timbo. We’re all watching it together,” Jason says, slinging Tim over his shoulder. 

“Have a heart, Drake. We only want to spend family time together,” Damian says, somehow still looking imperious even from where Tim is dangling. A dull ache starts spreading across Tim’s like his skull is being squeezed. 

“Hope you guys like Clue,” you say, fishing it out of your cornucopia of unhealthy junk food. “I figured you detectives would like a good mystery.” Dick snorts taking the disc from you and reading over the contents efficiently. “Bet you I can get the ending even before any of you.”

“No, you won’t,” Jason barks, setting off a long winded argument about who the best detective is. 

“Didn’t you say you would eat me if I spoiled another mystery movie for you? Are you planning to eat my entire family?” Tim croaks quietly. You scrunch your nose, twitching your mouth four times to the left and four and a half times to the right.  “Technically, what I said was ‘I’ll respectfully go back to juvie for cannibalism if you spoil another movie that night’,” you hiss low, trying not to draw attention to your conversation. Unfortunately for you, his siblings have good hearing.  

“And this is different how?” Tim asks, this time not bothering to control his volume. 

“You’ll never figure out the ending,” You say smiling innocently. Tim rolls his eyes and huffs a ‘we’ll see’. It doesn’t wipe the smile off of your face. 

As it turns out, the Wayne Manor theater is less of a theater and more of a bean bag storage closet with a large screen. Jason tosses Tim unceremoniously into one of the random bean bags in front of the couch before gracefully pirouetting into the couch. You chuckle and continue your search for something to put your Bluray in, just now realizing that you should have probably just asked for their Netflix password or something. Alfred appears out of nowhere handing Jason and Cass each a bowl of buttery popcorn and scolding Jason about manhandling his brother in front of  a guest. Jason looks unrepentant. No surprises there. With a swat on  the back of Jason’s head, Alfred turns to you, gloved hands extended out to you.  “I can take that."

“Oh… Uh thanks- Thank you,” you stammer. To your left, Tim snickers and your hand slip, somehow the blanket Babs handed you finds its way to Tim’s face. “Shut up, Ducktective. He’s practically your grandpa and I kinda wanna make a good impression,” you hiss, cheeks warming. Tim coughs, a little dumbfounded. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that you were nervous about this. 

Tim checks if his brain is on straight before speaking. “Relax, you haven’t physically assaulted me or any of my family yet so you’re immediately at the top of Alfie’s list.” You open your mouth to speak then curl it into a frown, looking appalled and concerned. Apparently, his brain wasn't on as straight as Tim thought. "Am I going to have to fight your exes? At some point?" 

"No!" 

"Yes!" Steph says, handing you a red bean bag. Tim scowls at Steph as he watches the color drain from your face. She just shrugs and goes off to annoy Dick. 

“Mr. Boddy?” Damian asks incredulously, reading the box summary again. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you laugh, setting your bean bag next to the one Jason dropped Tim in. Damian rolls his eyes. “This is a stupid movie. Do people really consume this drivel?”

You scrunch your nose but don’t put too much heart into glaring. Thankfully, color is now returning to your face. “The movie hasn’t even started yet!”

“Relax (y/n), the tiny mutant sperm is just playing elitist,” Steph says, plopping next to Jason and eyeing his bowlful of buttery popcorn. 

“As long as it isn’t as bad as the Happening-”

“Dude, you live in a city with Poison Ivy. That thing is pretty much a documentary,” Duke says hesitantly taking the spot between Steph and Cass. 

"Please, for the love of Alfie, please, talk about something else," Dick whines, plopping a bean bag next to Tim. Jason’s face twists in confusions before his eyes light up and untwists into an expression with amusement. "Is it because of the-" Dick hits him square in the face with a pillow, all the while screeching "Think of the children!"

"Where, Dickface?" Jason ask, prompting Dick to point(jazz hands)  at Damian who rolls his eyes. Jason does the same, looking younger than the toughened exterior suggested. "That's a gremlin, Dickface. Not a child." 

"He is-"

"SHUSH! The movie is starting!" 

You giggle, curling into Tim's side and placing your head in the crook of his neck where you usually like to put it. Tim's insides shiver from the contact and his hands automatically coil around you, pressing his nose into your hair. 

"Jeez, her melons are big," Babs says flatly taking another handful of Dick's popcorn from Damian. Cass snorts and Tim feels embarrassment creep into his skin. He flicks his eyes to you, only to find you smiling into his side. 

"They're almost as big as Dick's," you chuckle. 

"Nah, Jason is bigger," Cass pipes. 

You eye Jason openly which makes the large man cross his arms over his chest.  "Huh, you're right," you note with more confusion than anything. 

"Bruce has moobs too!" Jason protests, red-faced. 

"Son, why?"

The chatter falls silent when the figure at the edge of the room settles itself into the large leather recliner in one corner of the room. You squint your eyes to distinguish its features from the rest of the shadows in the room; only to be greeted by the solemn features of Bruce Wayne. Your breath catches and you feel your skin jump twenty feet in the air. Everyone else in the room seems to have about the same reaction even as he pulls a lever to raise the foot rest.  You all follow his movements with interest. 

“Is Bruce trying to relax?” Duke whispers to Cass who shrugs in response. Steph rolls her eyes, reaching over Duke to try and snatch some popcorn from Jason who just raises his bowl higher. “Shhhhh, Duke, let the B man try to play human,” she says, snatching at the popcorn til the bowl just falls on Jason’s head. 

“He’s trying I guess.” This draws a startled chuckle out of you that you try to press in Tim’s neck. The vibrations against his skin has him shivering. 

“B, are you ok?” Dick asks. This makes Bruce’s features move in a slightly concerned fashion which in Bruce speak is very concerned. “Yes, why?”

“Ooooh, no reason, old man.” He turns to Babs. “Yeah that’s not Bruce. Five bucks says it’s a robot.” Babs snickers, grabbing a ten from her purse. “Ten says it’s an alien.” You twist to look at them, taking out a twenty. “Twenty says it’s just Mr.Wayne.” Jason sneers at you, taking your money. “You clearly don’t know the old man.”

“Can we please just watch this film in peace?” Bruce groans, running a hand over his face, finally looking more like the long suffering single dad of eight kids that he should be.  Babs looks over her shoulder, slinging Bruce an absolutely disbelieving look. “Do you even know your children?”

“Yes, father, have you even watched us bond?” Damian asks, using his free hand to do air quotes for the word ‘bond’ while using the other to try and swipe some popcorn from Cass. It doesn’t work. 

“That definitely isn’t Bruce,” Dick hisses, trying to shield his own bowl of popcorn  from an irate Damian. 

“SHHHHHH! I can’t hear the movie!”

“It’s definitely the butler,” Dick declares.  Damian scowls, throwing a pillow at him which Dick catches with ease. “Grayson, the movie has barely started.”

“It’s definitely the butler. It’s gotta be. It’s always the butler.”

“That’s very offensive to Alfred, Dick,” Cass says, grinning. Alfred sniffs poshly in his own recliner. Dick recoils but Jason piles on. “Very classist of you, Dickiebird.”

Duke snorts. “Nah, I think he’s just saying it because Tim Curry was Pennywise the Clown.” 

“Why would you trust a clown?” 

“Oh my god, why are you guys comparing Alfred to a clown?”

“We are not!”

“This conversation is a trainwreck,” Tim groans into your hair. “Dunno, Tim, it sounds like a success,” you laugh, pressing closer. His eyes flick between you and his siblings. “You planned this.” You look up at him, failing to flatten a smile. “Nope.”

“I say it’s Ms. Scarlett,” Bruce says, rubbing his chin contemplatively. 

“You’re just saying that cus she reminds you of Selina,” Tim huff, grinning and you’re half tempted to pinch his cheeks. Bruce cuts him a scathing look that has you shrinking; the grin on Tim’s face just broadens which just makes the playful scowl on Bruce’s face deepen. “Need I remind you who pays for the internet?”

“Alfred?” Tim asks, innocently. 

“Careful Tim, B man might actually do it. Hell, he’ll probably do it if he finds out what you did last Thursday.”

“Do you mean the explosion on Fifth?” you ask, turning to Steph.  Steph gives you a firm nod; in the corner of your eye, you can see Bruce arching a brow. Tim gapes at you looking absolutely gutted. “What happened to snitches get stitches?” Tim protests. 

 You shrug, grinning. “Sorry, Duckie, I stand by my cookie dealer. Who do you think sneaks Duke and me cheetos in Western Civilization? I stand by my fellow barbarian.”

“You know Duke?”

“I pay him to-”

“Shhhhh!” 

“You guys are talking too!”

“At least, it’s movie related!” Damian hisses. 

You throw up your hands with an exaggerated flail. “Fine!”

“I say it’s the shifty looking lady,” Jason declares, reaching over Duke and Steph to try and snatch some popcorn from Cass. You wonder why Jason doesn’t just snatch some from Alfred since he’s closer. You try to ask Tim but he just shakes his head at you.  “Ms.Peacock?” Cass asks, shoving Jason’s face away with butter covered fingers.  Duke tries to snatch a few kernels in the confusion only to get his hand swatted. “I think he means Mrs. White,” he says, waving his hand.  “Yeah that one.”

“It’s the butler! It’s always butler!” Dick protests. 

“I will fucking riot if it’s the butler!” Steph shoots back.

“It can’t be the butler.”

“Why not, Dami? He has motive.”

Damian rolls his eyes.“Gordon, why are you siding with Grayson?-” Babs opens her mouth to answer but Damain continues before she can get another syllable out “-nevermind. He doesn’t have as much motive as the rest of them. Besides, does he really look competent enough to hold a gun left alone with a knife?”

Tim raises his chin from your head. “Demon Spawn, your standards for butlers is too high. Alfred is-”

“You say this like you have plenty of references.” 

“Oh, Tommy Terrific, Duckie here is a posh bastard,” Jason sneers ruffling Tim’s hair. From the way, some of his hairs stick up you could guess that he still had some butter in his hand. Tim makes a face of disgust; you try your best to help him with his hair. “Jay, you say that but you’re like Mr. I need the correct type of wood for my bookshelves,” Steph laughs.  “Just because I’m not a slob like the rest of you walking disasters doesn’t mean I’m posh.”

“Yes, it does. You lived here. Yanno with Alfie,” Dick says, pulling out another pack of snacks he’d managed to snag from your bag. You’re not gonna ask at this point. Tim gives you a look which roughly translates to ‘I am very sorry for my trainwreck of a family’. You snort at him before turning towards his sibling. “I mean look at Cass. She’s still feral.” If looks could kill, the look Cass give you would melt your bones. Thankfully, Damian opens his mouth. “They’re all feral.” You have a sense that you’ve also been insulted. You hear Babs to your right laugh derisively. “You say this like you’re any less feral than the rest of us.”

“I am-”

“Are any of you still watching the movie?” Bruce asks and for the second time that night, your body tries to divorce your soul. You had almost forgotten that yes, you are watching Clue with the fucking Batman. You shift in your seat suddenly feeling a twinge of nervousness. Before the discomfort could nestle in you, Jason speaks up. “No, Bruce, we’re just watching Cass vacuum the popcorn into her stomach. What do you think?”

“You guys didn’t ask,” Cass says through a mouthful of popcorn knowing full well that’s a lie. 

“How can any of you be watching it? All you’ve done is talk over the dialogue.” You almost laugh at how exasperated he sounds. Beside you, Tim just snickers and shakes his head. 

Damian just looks at his father from his bean bag next to Dick. “Father, we can talk and listen. ” Dick, like the mature adult that he is, slaps his knee laughing. “I don’t think B is capable of that.”

“PREACH” was followed by a chorus of AMENs. 

"Alfred, what have I done to turn my children against me?" Bruce asks, tiredly leaning back into his recliner. 

"Master Bruce, how would you like me to list it?" 

"Alfred not you too," Bruce groans, putting his hands in his eyes. 

"Yeah! Alfie's on our side!" Jason cheers. 

"Quite."

"Alfie is always the sensible one," Cass chuckles sensibly between bites. You hear varying noises of agreement and Bruce ages from suave debonair to extremely tired single dad. 

"I assume Alfred is actually the boss here."

"Yeah, Bruce is actually on the bottom of the food chain here," Tim says. You tilt your head in  contemplation. "Yanno that makes Batman so much less scary." 

"B-man's just a giant softie," Steph chirps, slinging her legs over Duke and Cass's laps narrowly missing the nearly empty bowl of popcorn. 

Dick turns to you winking. "Yeah, just give him the puppy eyes and he'll  get you anything you want in 2 seconds flat." 

"Dick…" 

"It's true!"

"Even a carnival?" 

"Can we please just watch the movie?" Bruce says, in an almost pleading voice. 

"I wouldn't hold my breath, old man," Jason chuckles, earning a glare from both Bruce and Damian. "It's not like you know how to shut up, Todd." 

"Sorry, I don’t speak gremlin."

"That's bull Jay!" 

"MOVIE IS STILL GOING ON! SHUT YOUR CAKE HOLES." 

“I TOLD YOU IT WAS THE BUTLER.”

“Yes, yes, it has been publiced and noted, Birdie,” you giggle into Tim’s side, shaking your head. He wraps his arm around you, pressing a kiss into your hair, winking at you. “Does it count?” Tim asks over his shoulder. A look passes between him and Cass. “I don’t think so,” she says grinning. 

“It so does! It’s one of the endings,” Dick protests vehemently. Jason’s mouth flattens then curls into a grin. “By that logic, the old man is right too.”

Dick thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“Why not?” Bruce protests. 

"I'm still sticking with the butler. I'm sorry this is the only logical conclusion." 

"He wasn't even an actual butler you butter brain!" Steph protests, throwing a pillow at Dick. 

"I'm sorry but can we address why you're all mounting a mutiny against me?" 

"Teenage rebellion!" Dick answers. 

"Chum, you're not even a teenager." 

"Father's right. At most, Grayson is five years old," Damian pipes from beside Dick seemingly unaffected by his brother's pout. 

"Alfred, you're going to have to check my blood pressure before patrol." 

"Quite, sir."

“They’re all so dramatic just like you said,” you whisper into Tim’s shoulder. 

“I AM NOT DRAMATIC”

“Ah, yes, because the pretty man pose is so pragmatic.” Damian deadpan.  

"That was one time, you assholes!" 

"Hey, what else did Timmy say?" 

"Well he- Oh wait!" You fish out your phone and Tim snacthes it away faster than you can blink. "No-" cough "-you don't." Cough. 

Jason snatches it from him, snickering at the photo of Tim kissing you on the cheek. You're pretty sure Tim has a matching photo with you kissing him on the cheek. "Nice lockscreen, (y/n)."

"Oh, you should see the homescreen!" 

"No. Please don't. You might need eye bleach." 

"Relax Space Cadet, it’s not that one." 

"Ohohoho, what didn't you want big daddy bats to see? Haaa, Timbo?" 

Tim turns every shade of red before settling on fire hydrant red. "None of your business!"

Bruce clears his throat, looking at a stupidly expensive watch. “It’s time.” Dick springs up, stretching and showing off.  “Is it really that time already?” Steph asks in almost a whine. Duke and Cass take the opportunity to shove her off and sadly, she lands with a loud thud and a mangled curse. You wince but laugh unsympathetically which simply earns you a face full of dust covered popcorn. You frown at her and she grins at you as Jason hauls her up by her hoodie. “C’mon Blondie. Let’s leave the love birds alone.”

“It’s not like they’re actually gonna be alone. Alfie’s here. So is Babs.”

“I’m going back to my place. You people give me a headache.” 

“You say that like you weren’t having fun,” Dick teases, walking after her. 

“I’ll be down in the cave if you need me,” Alfred says waving at both of you. “Will do, Alf,” Tim yawns, nuzzling into your hair. 

Cass pops her head back in. “Make sure Tim doesn’t do anything stupid,” She calls back. You grin, bright and wolfish. “Don’t worry! He can’t do me while he’s sick.” You hear Bruce choke in the hall and you just know that you’ll mentally kick yourself for that later. Luckily for you, Tim physically kicks you now. “What the hell?!” Cough. “Sorry, got caught in the moment.” You huff, trying to look a little sorry. Tim just glares more. “You’re not even close to sorry.”

“Ok. Yeah.”

“I have no idea why I love you sometimes.”

“My amazing personality?”

“Sure.”

“Love you too, Tim,” you chirp, kissing him. Tim’s lips feel hot after the quick peck and he pulls you closer. “I love you but I was pretty sure my family was gonna eat you alive.”

“They would have done it,” you hum, pausing before adding, “respectfully.”  

  Tag list: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell   @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

[inamindfarfaraway]

Ideas for the Tangled: The Series spinoff/sequel series Disney needs to make of Cassandra adventuring through the lands outside Corona, doing good, learning and healing from her past, making new friends and of course getting tangled up in some epic overarching plot.

Each episode is framed through letters of noteworthy events she writes to Rapunzel. First herself, but her first travelling companion soon sees that it’s difficult with only her crippled or non-dominant arm to use and convinces her to dictate to them. Eventually the letters became a group thing, with certain friends establishing correspondences with different inhabitants of Corona (e.g. a scientist with Varian to share knowledge and bounce ideas off each other) and them all leaving footnotes, scribbles and drawings around Cass’s text - with her permission of course. The opening starts with her saying, “Dear Rapunzel…” before singing and involves visuals of her letters coming to life.

The opening song is called “Find Myself”. A longer version may be sung in the premiere like “Wind in my Hair” was, or a fulfilled reprise in the finale. It refers to both the adventures she has wherever she “finds herself” geographically and how her aim is to find her own new identity.

The premiere begins with a young traveller who becomes Cassandra’s first companion, who’s just left home, being mugged by thieves. The woodland road is empty, no one to hear or help. Suddenly a figure in shining armour leaps out of the wilderness and effortlessly takes out the whole gang, face obscured by her short yet unruly hair, hard to get a good impression of between her swishing cloak and constant, fluid movements in and out of the shadows. She raises her sword and orders the thugs to leave. They scamper away. Her sword and armour glint in the sunlight that outlines her powerful silhouette. Huddled against a tree, the traveller looks on in awe at what seems to be a folk hero brought to life. “Are you a knight? A royal guard?” The woman turns to face her and the audience and shakes her head, slightly amused, nothing but genuine humility and pleasure in a job well done in her features. “No,” she says lightly, “just Cassandra.” Cue opening.

Cass calls Rapunzel her sister. No, that doesn’t mean she’s a princess. No, it isn’t legally binding. It’s complicated.

Cass definitely has some form of PTSD. She has recurring nightmares of and flashbacks to her Rapunzel withering her arm, fusing with the Moonstone, because that transformation really did look horrifying, and all the times she nearly killed her old friends. Except sometimes in the nightmares, she succeeds. Her habit after rousing from a nightmare or flashback is to look at her reflection or hands to ground herself in her black rock armour being gone. The long-term effects on her mental health of Zhan Tiri’s year of abuse and manipulation of her are examined too. She loathes abusers and manipulators who pretend to care about their victims. Her overwhelming remorse over her evil actions only worsens her residual issues: the guilt complex; thinking of herself as worthless and a burden; her need to please and make others comfortable at the cost of her feelings; considering her problems ten times less important than everyone else’s… wow, she has a lot of residual issues. Her communication skills and self-worth do get better, but it isn’t linear. She apologizes way too much and can unhelpfully selfless. She’s also extremely distrustful of and tense around magic, especially her interacting with it. Last time she used magic, she nearly destroyed her home and everyone in it. And her sister nearly died because of her own powers multiple times. A teammate could practice or study magic, or even be a magical species like a werewolf to force her to confront this. Buckle up, this is the Steven Universe: Future of the Tangled franchise.

Her arc in Season One is coming to terms with the full scope and depth of her harmful actions and assembling the basic mental health toolkit she should really already have. She’s trying really hard to atone for her mistakes and make the most of her clean slate, but that leads to her not telling anyone about her villainous phase or by association any of her issues resulting from it. She doesn’t trust herself not to hurt people around her at first, so she’s averse to the others joining her until she realizes a) they’re annoyingly, admirably determined and not going to let her stop them, b) it really is good for them, and c) she shouldn’t have to be alone and can do the relationship thing again after all. In that order.

One or more of Cass’s new friend circle is disabled, for example suffering from chronic pain. That way they’d already have pain meds to share with/replicate for her. She’s self-conscious about her disability and prefers to keep it private initially, so that solidarity is a great help. They teach Cass that she is not a burden. And actual physical therapy techniques instead of forcing her arm to work exactly as it did before right away. “Oh… that makes more sense.” They have regular sessions, slowly regaining the use of her fingers and working from there. The scientific friend (or a team effort) eventually makes her a cool pressurized mechanical brace that in conjunction with the meds gives her the most possible use of her arm for the least possible discomfort, symbolic of her growth and settling into her new life. If it’s a team effort, it would also represent the group’s bond. Knowing Cass, it’ll be specially designed to hold her weapons too. It’s continuously upgraded.

One of the main cast is a refugee - or given the age range at the start is mid-to-late twenties, maybe their parents were refugees - from the Dark Kingdom. Let’s call them D for convenience. Through them we see what the Dark Kingdom’s actual culture and society is like, or was like; how the neighbouring countries adapted to its collapse and mass evacuation; how its people adapted and where they found or made new homes.

By the Season One finale, King Edmund has restored the kingdom to the extent it’s ready for a reintroduction of its diaspora and of course the group stop by. They’re all excited to see the progress. It’s almost like the Moonstone never happened. D is ecstatic and highly sentimental, but the further in they go the more anxious Cass gets. Even without the black rocks, she keeps being reminded of the last time she was here. But she doesn’t want to ruin D’s special day and bottles the PTSD up into a Molotov cocktail. “There’s no Moonstone, there’s no magic… you know there’s no Moonstone. The only thing that could ruin it this time is you!” Until Edmund invites everyone into in the palace for a grand ‘welcome back’ banquet, with a side of ‘sorry I accidentally rendered our entire country uninhabitable because I got sick of my duty’. Hey, now that I think about this, he can talk to Cass about their respective kingdom-destroying Moonstone incidents and owning their guilt. It doesn’t do her much good at the time. The room is right there, where that infernal blue opal used to be, where she - she can feel the spikes stabbing through her skin - it’s right there and the entrance hallway still has a few cracks where the rocks, her rocks jutted out of the walls - and she can’t breathe. Her POV trembles and blurs, her skin turning to black rock armour again. Her friends drop everything in concern when she falls to the floor, hyperventilating and crying. She screams for Rapunzel and Eugene. After calming down enough to remember what’s going on but not enough that she flees the scene, the crew find her alone in the stables tending to Fidella. (Fidella is her comfort animal.) Cass finally explains the events from “Destinies Collide” to “Plus Est En Vous”. Remember that big disaster in Corona a year or so ago, with the black rocks? That was her. No, it was literally her. D asks why she didn’t tell them why she was so uncomfortable today. “Because this is your day! I didn’t want to ruin it, the way I ruined things before,” she says, hugging her chest. “You should be happy. This place means more to you than I’ll ever know.” A contemplative D nods and says gently, “True. But it also means more to you than I’ll ever know. Just because your emotions about being here are harder to deal with than mine, that doesn’t make them matter less.” They cry and hug and Cass promises to be more open. It ends with the voiceover of her letter describing the new, happy memories she and her friends have made in the Dark Kingdom, giving her hope she can reach a peace with her previous time there.

Her arc going forward (I’m assuming the show has three seasons to mirror Tangled: The Series) is in Season Two to strike a healthy balance. To accept the duality of her nature; the good and bad of her actions and intentions; when she is and was a victim, and when in the wrong. To embrace her present and stabilize her more recent friendships while maintaining her old ones. She needs to learn from her past, but now she’s realizing she shouldn’t let it, including indirectly through denial and rejection of it, consume her either. The group has to decide on their responses to their leader being a former dangerous menace to society and reshuffle their dynamics. They have individual personalities and backstories and arcs I can’t be bothered to think of that influence how forgiving they are, how much they choose to address it, etc.. In Season Three Cass’s priorities shift to figuring out what she wants in the long-term and how far she’ll go to get it. Will she ever return to Corona permanently? Where else would she live? Does she want a romantic relationship? In short, the seasons are past, present and future.

Found family. I will never get tired of this trope done well. All the main characters have Reasons they’re functionally homeless and free to chase the plot around the continent. The common thread is that they were unhappy where they were before. One, a foil to Cass, felt neglected and left to seek fame and glory. The magic one was already an outcast, used to having no stability or security. One had an abusive/dysfunctional family and no way to escape it until the others offered them a new support system. And so on. D was seriously considering staying in the Dark Kingdom in the Season One finale (the group may have been going there in the first place because that was D’s original goal), but supporting Cass made them realize that knowing it was safe and liveable was enough for now. Their real home is where their heart is. In Season Two Cass’s habit after nightmares and flashbacks becomes looking at her companions and their camp, or her arm brace, to ground herself in not being alone anymore. Near the end of the show (probably the finale) she says to the others, “You know, it’s funny. When I left Corona, I didn’t think I needed anyone except Fidella and Owl. Now I can’t imagine taking another step without you beside me.”

We visit each of the other kingdoms named in “Beginnings” at some point. I can’t decide whether Cass should be a giddy fangirl training with the Ingvarr Battalion, or be underwhelmed by them after her life experiences.

The show’s finale special would start with Cass getting a letter with Rapunzel and Eugene’s wedding poster attached, or written on the back of the poster. “Yes! Finally! I was afraid they’d never have a successful proposal.” Cass is the chief bridesmaid and the others are invited too. But then whatever the main threat is rears its head for the ultimate battle. They race to defeat it for many reasons, but a smaller, selfish one is to not miss the wedding. In the darkest hour Cass sends Owl to tell Rapunzel they don’t think they’ll make it and insists that since the whole kingdom is invested in this, to go ahead without them. Rapunzel reluctantly agrees. Cass omits the true stakes, so she doesn’t know that in the worst case scenario her former handmaiden might not make it in the grimmer sense. Hence Cass’s absence in Tangled Ever After. At the end we see the final scene of Tangled Ever After and Cass and co. suddenly slam open the church doors, breathless and bedraggled. “Sorry… sorry… we had a… thing, big thing,” Cass pants as the newlyweds rush to greet her and she spots their rings. “Don’t tell me I missed the vows!” She has a big reunion with her old friends and her father. After she and Eugene sincerely say how much they missed each other and she tells him he’s a better captain of the guard than she ever would have been, they resume their snarking like she was gone a few minutes. She’s bashfully hailed as the hero she always wanted to be. There’s lovely epilogue scene of Cass’s group team crew family getting along with various Coronans at the afterparty - e.g. Catalina and the magic character compare their respective powers. Finally, Raps and Cass discuss their personal plans for the future. They’re all happy. Everyone gets to just exist and be happy.

[five-rivers]

Goals

Hey!  @puns-are-great-and-so-is-danny!  Here is your gift fic!  It got a little out of hand, and it doesn’t have a super solid ending, but I hope you like it.  :)  

.

.

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Dear Albus,

I hope this letter finds you well.  I know these are trying and troubling times, both here and in Britain, and part of me hesitates to ask this of you for exactly that reason. But, as ever, circumstances leave us with few viable options.

News of what happened to Amity Park this Spring has spread far and wide at this point, so I won’t waste your time repeating what you already know.  What is not common knowledge, however, is that after the dust settled, the Aurors assigned to the case encountered several irregularities, not the least of which was a disturbingly high number of completely untrained young witches and wizards.  

Once news of them gets out, I have no doubt the official line will be that they simply fell through the cracks, that, unfortunately, our spells for finding young magically-gifted persons are imperfect, that the nature of Amity Park obscured them from view.  This, I fear, is a lie.  

I have no proof, but I believe they were deliberately removed from MACUSA files on account of their heritage.  Albus, they are descended from Scourers.  

Perhaps that should be obvious, perhaps you had already guessed, considering the so-called reasoning behind the attack on Amity Park, the ideals those murderers professed, but I want to make myself and my own reasoning clear.  Though it shames me deeply to say it, those children will not be safe at Ilvermorny, nor, I believe, will they be at any other school on this continent.  For all the time that has passed, the Barebones Incident and its repercussions are too fresh in the minds of the people.  

There are seven of them.  Well, seven that are of concern to me.  The others have found or are seeking alternate arrangements.  They have been staying at the school, for the time being.  My colleagues and I have been attempting to give them a good grounding in magical basics. They would not come to you without foundations.

Albus, I am begging you, accept these students into Hogwarts.  I know this is a poor time.  I have heard rumors, horrible, horrible rumors, about what is happening in Britain, about what happened at Hogwarts last year, but I fear for these children’s future, for their spirits, should they be forced into a place where they will be hated simply because of who their ancestors were.  

I know that even in Hogwarts they would be unable to escape that, but it would be less.  Britain does not have the same history with Scourers that we do.  More, for some of them, they would not be forced to walk in the same halls as the kin of their parents’ murderers.

I will understand if you refuse, but I am relying on your compassion.  

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Agilbert Fontaine

Headmaster of the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked down at the letter from his old friend and colleague and sighed, his heart heavy. Agilbert was not a member of the Order of the Phoenix.  Albus knew more about the situation in Amity Park than Agilbert assumed and likely was aware of things that Agilbert himself was not.  

For example, while the bulk of the group that had devastated and decimated Amity Park were indeed Magical Separatists and those looking for generations-late revenge on Scourers, their core leadership included American Death Eaters.  

He was also aware of the children Agilbert had mentioned.  Most of the truly astonishing number of magically inclined children and adults in Amity Park had chosen to find private tutors, go through correspondence or summer courses, or attend one of several small schools in North America that had quickly shuffled to make accommodations for them, on the condition that they hide their origins.  

The seven mentioned…  Well.  They didn’t really have those options.  Either their names were too infamous, or they had no one to stay with while they puzzled through correspondence courses.  Or both.

And the names.  Even here, some of them were well known.

Albus could understand why Agilbert had asked for his help.

But was it responsible to drag these children here while Voldemort was lurking in the shadows, building up his power base once again? To offer them safety he could not give?

For those students already attending Hogwarts, it was one thing, they were already involved, simply by virtue of where they were born and where they lived.  But those seven, in America, they would be—

Well.  Not safe, perhaps, not with their parents killed and their home ravaged by hostile magic. But… farther away from the direct line of fire.  

But would they be?  Beyond simply spreading fear and hate, was there another reason for the attack on Amity Park?

Albus heaved another sigh.  

At times he enjoyed making decisions like this.  Enjoyed power, knowledge, experience, those things people tended to mistake for wisdom, even though he had made more mistakes than anyone else he knew, and all the privileges and responsibilities that came with it, all the control over other peoples’ lives.  This was a failing, a flaw, he knew, and time and time again it had come back to bite him.  Karmic vengeance for being an old man who kept too many secrets.  

But times like these…  In times like these, he despised the choices he was forced to make.  

“What troubles you, Albus?  I can hear you sighing from the other room.”

Albus did not flinch or startle at the ghost’s approach and gently chiding tone.  He looked up and smiled thinly at his former and present colleague.  It seemed Cuthbert was having a good day.  It was a pity so few students saw him at his best, and regarded his lessons as utterly boring, but Albus could never find the heart to replace him.  Nor, sadly, the budget.  Damn the board of directors.

In answer, Albus turned the letter to face him.  Cuthbert Binns was not a member of the Order, either, but he, like every other member of the Hogwarts staff, had been informed of what had transpired at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.  He would understand Albus’s dilemma.  

“Amity Park?” murmured Cuthbert, tapping the second paragraph.  “That sounds… familiar.  That—” Cuthbert broke off.  

If Albus had not spent significant portions of his life surrounded by ghosts, he would not have caught the subtle change in Cuthbert’s silvery complexion.  

“Perhaps you heard about the tragedy that happened there recently.”  Which would be a first, even alive, Cuthbert had never really cared about anything that happened more recently than a hundred years ago, but not impossible.

“Tragedy?  No.” Cuthbert shook his head.  “Amity Park it’s—It is…”  He trailed off, looking down at the letter, disturbed.  “Albus, I have known you for many years.  You have been here for many years, with all us ghosts, and…  You know there are things the dead do not speak of to the living.”

Albus did know.  “Are you saying Amity Park is related to one of those things?”  Could this be another attempt on Voldemort’s part to defeat death? His suspicion regarding horcruxes was bad enough, what that could mean for Harry…  But if that man had yet another way to stave off death…

Cuthbert dithered, and Albus wished fiercely that he could trust him enough to tell him about the Order, about Voldemort’s plans, to impress upon him how important this was, how vital that Albus know.  

But he couldn’t.  It would just take one bad day, and one misplaced question from a student related to someone unfortunate, and everything would come tumbling down.  

No.  Albus could not push him.  

“I—I must go,” said Cuthbert, halfway through the wall. “I have to look into something. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He was not.

.

Albus had still not made a decision on Agilbert’s letter the next night.  He had consulted Minerva, Severus, and the other teachers who were also in the Order on the matter, and had distracted himself with other, arguably more important, matters.  

(The eyes on Number Four Privet Drive, the movements in and out of the Malfoy residence, the horribly dangerous games Severus was playing, the master schedule for the next school year, the still-empty Defense Against the Dark Arts post, extra protections on Hogwarts’ boundaries, how to keep the Order safe…)

But he shouldn’t put something like this off for much longer.

It would be much easier to deny Agilbert’s request.  As tragic as the seven students’ circumstances were, they weren’t his responsibility, and he had so many.  

Would you feel the same if the attackers had been Gellert’s people?

They’re children.  Like your students.  Like Adri—

Albus closed his eyes and forced the tiny and vicious voice away, out of his mind.

“Sir Nicholas wants to speak to you,” said one of the portraits.  

Surprised, Albus turned his head to face the image of his predecessor.  “Of course. Could you tell him he can come in?”

A few minutes later, the Gryffindor ghost floated through the wall.  “Hello, Albus,” he said, the outlines of his figure crisper than they usually were, and continued before Albus could greet him, “I am sorry to interrupt you like this, but is it true?  Seven students from Amity Park?”

“Cuthbert told you?”

“He told all of us,” said Sir Nicholas, shrugging in a way that made his head roll unsettlingly.  “You should accept them.”

Albus raised his eyebrows.  

“There is a certain element of risk involved,” the ghost’s voice was careful, “but if they come to Hogwarts, there is a possibility that you may gain a powerful ally, and that…”  Here, Sir Nicholas hesitated.  “Certain ancient wrongs might be righted.”

“I suppose it is that second the ghosts are interested in?” asked Albus, both curious and, despite himself, amused.  

Sir Nicholas gave him a gentle smile.  “Do not imagine that we are careless of your struggles, Albus, but many of us were long dead before you were born.  We care, but… sometimes the picture in front of our eyes is not the same as the one before yours.”

That was reasonable.  

However.

“Can you give me any more detail?” asked Albus, hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” said the ghost, drifting backwards.

.

The next letter from Agilbert was much thicker and contained the records of seven new Hogwarts students.  

.

The wand turning in his fingers was made of pear wood.  Not that Danny could tell, just by looking, but the wandmaker, who had accompanied her wares to Ilvermorny, had been very talkative, even when Danny had… not.  

Pear wood, cut from a tree that had grown up through a chain-link fence on the wandmaker’s property.  She had meant to cut it out, she said, but by the time she had gotten around to doing so, there had been bowtruckles in it, and she wasn’t about to cut down a good wand wood tree.

Danny still wasn’t entirely sure what bowtruckles were to be honest.  

The wood of the wand was normal.  The core, apparently, was not.  It was hair from a magical creature, which most wand cores were, but the wandmaker had cheerfully admitted to having no idea what the hair was from. It had shown up in her workshop one day, in a little box, black and white, in neat little bundles.  

Danny had suspicions about where it had come from.  

Suspicions that had been exacerbated by the fact that both Sam and Tucker had been ‘chosen’ by wands with the same core.  

Anyway, Danny had liked the wandmaker, even if he thought she was a bit weird, for using components that just showed up out of nowhere in her work.  

(She reminded him a bit of Mom.)

Danny wasn’t sure why he was thinking of her.  It had been months since then.  But he was feeling lonely, even though his friends were just in the next room, and Jazz was here, and maybe she was the closest he would let his mind get to…

To…

“If you keep doing that,” said Jazz, “you’re going to put your eye out.”  

Danny glanced over at her.  There was an east-facing window behind her, and the sun was shining through her shoulder, lighting her up like stained glass.  

“If they catch you in color, they’re going to have questions.”

Jazz rolled her golden eyes, but the color drained out of her, leaving her ‘properly’ silver and gray.  “If they actually listened, instead of dismissing everything weird in Amity as untrained magic acting up, then they wouldn’t need to have questions.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t, and I don’t think they’re going to. So, considering what we have to do…”

“We need all our advantages.  You don’t have to tell me again,” said Jazz.  She pulled a face.  “Well, you did, actually, I guess.  I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” muttered Danny.  “You only died a couple months ago.  It takes time to recalibrate.”

“Mm,” said Jazz, sticking her head through the windowpanes and looking down.  She pulled back.  “Your escort’s coming up.”

“Oh?  Yeah?”

“Or at least someone.  It’s hard to tell who, what with the hats and all…”

It was time to go, then.  Danny gathered his things and joined the others in the common area.

.

Hours later, as the sun was setting, nine Americans stepped out of a fireplace in the Ministry of Magic.  Seven were students.  One was a very haggard chaperon.  The last was a ghost whom aurors and representatives from the Department of Spectral Affairs hadn’t quite been able to dissuade from haunting her brother.  

Such was life.  Such was death.  

“Alright, kids,” said the chaperon, chivying them towards a central area.  “We just have to go through customs, and then we can find a place to relax until the representatives from Hogwarts get here.”

“I thought we already went through customs,” protested Dash.

“Yeah,” said Paulina.  “The American side.  To make sure we weren’t smuggling anything out.  Now we have to go through the British side, to make sure we aren’t smuggling anything in.”

“Smuggling isn’t really the main issue,” said the chaperon, “but, yes.  MACUSA knows you aren’t in the states anymore, and we have to make sure the Ministry over here knows you are, so you can comply with their laws and such.  Oh, and so you can get the Trace, but that isn’t important.”

“The Trace?” asked Sam, doubling her word count for the day. Ever since the attack, she had been rather taciturn.  

“It’s how they keep track of underage magic over here,” explained the chaperon.  “MACUSA phased it out a few years ago.  It isn’t very reliable, and besides, recent studies show that magical persons of any age can use magic accidentally, and there’s no good way to tell if there is a magical adult nearby, so…”  She gave herself a little shake.  “But it’s the law here, and it doesn’t matter.  You’ll be at Hogwarts the whole time, anyway.”

“You mean they’ll be tracking us?” asked Danny, trying to keep the alarm from his voice.  That could be… problematic.  Considering what he was really here for, and all.  

“Not you in particular,” said the chaperon, snagging Tucker by the back of his shirt before he could make a detour to investigate a guarded cart of ominously sparking electronics.  She pulled him back.  “It’s my understanding that every child with the trace on them shows up as a dot on a map, and the dot changes color if magic is performed near them.  Some of the more sophisticated versions can determine what kind of magic, but, well… it isn’t like they ever know which dot belongs to which person, so unless you’re living with all no-maj family members—They call them muggles, here, I think—in a particular house, it is very difficult for them to determine who did what.  I’d tell you more, but this isn’t my area of expertise.  Perhaps the customs agents will know more?  You should ask when we go through…”

Danny began to tune her out.  He caught Sam’s eye, then Tucker’s, and they all nodded at each other a little bit.  Not that they had a plan or anything, but sometimes it helped to know that other people also found a situation to be sucky.  

Where would the Minister of Magic be in all this mess, anyway? Danny let his eyes rove over the hall. There was no guarantee that he was even here today, and Danny wasn’t to the point where he wanted to reveal himself. He had been given lots of instructions, but one of them had been to keep himself safe.  Clockwork had even said it was a priority.  

Best to stick to letters, for now.  Even if none of them had been answered, yet.

They reached the long, winding line that was customs, had their luggage gone through yet again.  Tucker lost another PDA, and Danny had to wonder how many more he had hidden.  The American side of customs had done a pretty good job of finding them.  Sam got taken aside for questioning, because some of her goth paraphernalia had a passing resemblance to ‘Dark’ objects.  Star had to explain her medications.  Valerie set off some sort of magical metal detector, and the customs agents started arguing about what had caused it.  No one had found out about her suit yet.

Meanwhile, Danny was sent to another table, to fill out forms for Jazz.  Again. Because, for reasons Danny didn’t fully understand, even with everything Clockwork and the other Ancients told him, wizards thought they could control and regulate what ghosts did and where they went.  

Danny did not particularly care for wizards, as a group. The paperwork—The stupid, pointless paperwork, because Jazz was going to do what she wanted and no one would stop her, he’d make sure of it—made him angry.  A lot of things made him angry, lately, when they didn’t just make him depressed or sullen.  

“Breathe, Danny,” said Jazz, leaning down, next to his ear. “The language in this is stupid, but I don’t mind being called names.  We both know they’re wrong, and what they think isn’t important anyway, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Danny, forcing his muscles to relax.  He finished the paperwork.  

They passed through the last customs barrier together, and soon found themselves in a large atrium with a large, extremely gaudy, gold fountain in the center.  

Now, Danny had to admit, he had only the briefest of encounters with house elves and goblins, and none at all with centaurs, but he couldn’t imagine that the look of adoration on their faces was at all accurate. At least not for the species as a whole.

He tried to imagine the statue with a ghost in it, with a half-ghost in it, and he just—

Yeah.  No.

Wizards.  

Or, at least, these wizards.  Whatever.  

They found a bench off to one side, to wait for the Hogwarts representatives.  Danny had to wonder how they’d find them.  Would they hold signs?  Seemed probable.  Everything in the ‘wizarding world’ seemed to be stuck fifty years back in time, if not more.

Or, maybe, the chaperon knew who they were meeting and would wave at them.  Like she was doing now.  

Okay, so, Danny had to check himself to make sure he wasn’t coming up with random prejudices.  Ancients.  If his first encounter with the supernatural had been those people in cloaks showing up out of thin air and starting to kill people, he’d probably never be able to pull himself out of that mindset.  

Not all wizards were terrible.  Like the wandmaker.  She was okay.

He took the time to assess the two witches who had come to pick them up.  They were opposites of each other, at least in appearance.  One was tall, thin, and severe, almost sharp.  The other was short and round and sort of soft around the edges.  The only areas in which they demonstrated similarity were their age and apparent gender.

“Alright, kids.  This is Professor McGonagall,” she gestured to the taller woman, “and this is Professor Sprout.  They’re the heads of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, respectively.  Minerva, Pomona, these are Dash Baxter, Daniel Fenton, Tucker Foley, Valerie Grey, Samantha Manson, Paulina Sanchez, and Star Thunder.”

“And Jazz,” said Danny, annoyed that his sister had, once again, been left out.

“Hey,” said Jazz.  “Nice to meet you.”

Professor McGonagall nodded.  “We will be taking you to Diagon Alley to pick up school supplies for the year before we go to Hogwarts.”

“Yeah,” said Star, eyes tracking a flock of apparently animate paper airplanes, “we know.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t comment. “Do you want to come with us, Cerise?”

“No, I have a few other things to do on this side of the Atlantic.  That’s why they sent me.  Have a good time in Diagon Alley, kids, it’s a historic place!”

.

Danny had to wonder about goblins.  Did they just… really like banks, or were they forbidden from holding jobs elsewhere?  Or effectively forbidden by prejudice?  Because, thus far, he had only seen goblins when changing currency.  ‘No-maj’ money to the denominations used by American wizards, and now from that to the infinitely more confusing British ‘galleons.’

It would probably be rude to ask.  

Maybe he could find a book…

But were these people self-aware enough to write about stuff like that?  He shook his head.  Prejudice, prejudice…  He barely knew anything about any of these people, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions prematurely.  

Not that he didn’t already know several unsavory things about their system of governance, thanks to the Ancients.  And their not-so-little terrorist problem.  And the fact that they thought erasing people’s memories with a spell that could cause long-term brain damage was A-Okay.

Yeah.  But that didn’t mean all of them were bad.  Just that their government sucked.  Which was true for almost all governments, so it didn’t mean anything.

McGonagall and Sprout were very efficient as they went through the shops, giving the impression that they had done this, or something like this, many times before.  They did not allow detours, despite the many, many distracting things on display on the street and in the windows.  Professor Sprout, however, kept up a running commentary on what things were, so it wasn’t too frustrating.  

About halfway through the shopping trip, they stopped at the place that sold uniforms.  Sprout stayed with them, while McGonagall left to go get other supplies.  It was an experience.  Other than his jumpsuit, Danny had never had any clothing fitted specifically for him before.  

The fitting made him… nervous.  

The tape measures and needles flew close to his skin.  The seamstress who had been assigned to him also kept touching him, which was part of her job, and it wasn’t invasive or anything, but still.  Also, there were a lot of other teens, and even some preteen kids, in the store, getting their uniforms, and they were all staring.

What they were staring at wasn’t the same from person to person, Paulina and Jazz seemed to be the biggest targets for whatever reason, but it was still staring.  The parents waiting with their kids were staring as well, and Danny started to fidget. Which meant that he got stabbed by the needle a few times.  Which wasn’t fun.  

But eventually that was over, and they were on their way to Hogwarts.  

.

Considering that Agilbert had tried to compress years’ worth of magical education into the space of a few months for these students, the results were remarkable.  True, with one notable exception, none of them were on a fifth-year level in Transfiguration, but Minerva didn’t feel the need to put them all in first-year or remedial classes, either.  

She could only hope they did as well in their assessments in other subjects.  They would have a hard enough time figuring out schedules for these seven, without having to account for them bouncing across year levels.  

She picked up the written assessment from the one student she would be accepting into fifth-year Transfiguration.  His penmanship was shaky, none of them had quite mastered writing with quills, and his grasp of the theory behind the spells was incomplete, but it was better than some.  She tried not to roll her eyes as she thought of Crabbe and Goyle.  

As a teacher, she should be above that.  Alas.  

Mr. Fenton did have some insights in his essay questions that were truly extraordinary for a person who didn’t even know magic existed at the beginning of the year.  Perhaps they had another Hermione on their hands, although he didn’t give off the same air as she did.  Or he had spent the summer focusing only on Transfiguration.  Or Mr. Fenton had a singular talent in Transfiguration. Regardless, gifted and motivated students were always a pleasure to teach.  

Minerva gathered her papers and left to meet Filius, who had tested the students before her.  She was tempted to go look in on them now and see how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was handling her first teaching experience but suppressed the urge.  She would see them, and, sadly, Delores Umbridge, at lunch in only an hour.

Which was why she was so surprised to find the children in a hall so far away from Delores’ room.  

Then she reminded herself that, appearances aside, these were not fifth-year students.  They had no experience navigating the castle.  

“Are you lost?” she asked.

The students exchanged glances.  “Uh, sort of?” said Miss Sanchez, twirling a curl of hair around her fingers.  “We weren’t sure if we should try to find Mr. Snape, or if we should go to the lunch hall.”

“Professor Snape,” corrected Minerva, mildly.  “Did you already finish Professor Umbridge’s assessment?”

“She didn’t give us an assessment,” said Miss Manson, angrily.  

Minerva’s eyebrows went up.  “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Fenton.  “She basically said that she was doing the same curriculum for everyone, so she didn’t need to.  So, we were wondering if we should move on to, um, potions?  Potions.  Or if we should go to lunch, or just hang out, or what.”  

“Professor Snape is unlikely to be expecting you at this point,” said Minerva, feeling a headache growing behind her eyes.  What was Delores thinking?  The same curriculum for all years?  For eleven-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds?  There would be riots.  Or at least hexes.  “I can take you to the Great Hall.”

“Thanks, Ms. McGonagall,” said Mr. Foley.  And what was that he was hiding in his robes?  How many cursed muggle machines had he smuggled in?

Minerva sighed.  Honestly, it was probably harmless, though she possibly should speak to Charity about it.  “Professor McGonagall.”

“Sorry,” said Mr. Fenton.  “It’s just… hard to adjust.”  He rubbed the back of his neck.  

“I suppose it is,” she said.  “This way, children.”

.

Jazz floated through a wall, carefully avoiding the paintings.  Their inhabitants weren’t quite ghosts, from what she and Danny could tell, but they also weren’t not ghosts.  

It hadn’t taken her long last night to find the actual wizarding ghosts.  They’d been expecting her, in more ways than one.  But they had been weird.  Empty. They didn’t have any ectoplasm in them, and the intensity that was a part of every other ghost Jazz had ever met, Danny included, was absent.  

Clockwork and the Lady had warned them about that, before sending Danny, and by extension Jazz, Sam, and Tucker, off on his mission. Jazz just hadn’t quite believed it.  

Wizarding ghosts weren’t made of passion, need, want, duty, or even stubbornness.  They were made of fear.  Fear, by itself, didn’t hold ectoplasm well, especially not fear of death.  Wizarding ghosts might as well be mere imprints for all the power they had.

From the beginning, Jazz had been less than enthusiastic about pretending to be one of them.  Now, she was even less so.

It wasn’t their fault, though.  At least, it wasn’t entirely their fault.  None of the ghosts here were around back when the Ancients and the wizards of the day came together and put their names to the Tenebris Carta, and they were trying to make amends.  It sounded like they hoped the old treaty could be renegotiated, or that they hoped Danny and Jazz could get them an exception.  

Jazz didn’t hate them.  Didn’t dislike them or anything, and Danny would probably try to help them, so long as they didn’t turn evil or anything.  That was just the kind of person Danny was.  

She just needed more time to… adjust to them.  And the paintings.  Because wow.  

“Ah, Miss Fenton!”  

Jazz twisted herself over, mid-air.  “You can call me Jazz, if you want, Sir Nicholas.”

The silvery ghost smiled.  “If you insist.  We’re going down to the Great Hall, to introduce ourselves to your companions over lunch.  I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

“Sure,” said Jazz, descending to float by the other ghost. “But who do you mean by ‘we?’”

“All the castle ghosts,” said Sir Nicholas, “and possibly Peeves, though he won’t be invited.”

“Peeves?”

“The poltergeist.  He isn’t really a ghost.  At least…  he’s not a ghost like us.”

“Mhm,” said Jazz.  “Should I look forward to meeting him, or should I be very afraid?”

“Ah, neither, I suppose?  He tends to play pranks, but he never does anything terribly dangerous, and he couldn’t hurt you if he tried.”

“Well,” said Jazz, “as long as he doesn’t mess with my brother, we’ll probably get along just fine.”  She flexed her hands to disperse the pale green flames that had started to creep up her fingers.  “If he does, I’ll tear him apart.”

“Speaking of your brother, do you have any guesses as to which house he will be joining?”

“I wasn’t under the impression it was a choice,” said Jazz.

“It isn’t, exactly.  Students are sorted into the houses with, well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but houses are selected based on a student’s personality, aptitudes, and values.  Normally, if they came in as first-years, they would be sorted on the first, but given the circumstances, they’ll be sorted tonight.  I’m rather hoping to have a few new students for my house.”

Jazz grinned, detecting a note of competition.  “And what does your house look for?  Gryffindor, right?”

“Bravery,” said Sir Nicholas, proudly.  “Considering your brother’s accomplishments, I’m looking forward to seeing him join.”

“He is the bravest person I know,” said Jazz.  

.

Several dozen ghosts phasing through the walls didn’t just set off Danny’s fight-or-flight response.  Sam readied her wrist-lasers, while Tucker grabbed Danny’s wrist and started hunting for a place to hide Danny so his transformation wouldn’t be noticeable.  Dash and Star took cover under one of the tables.  Paulina pulled out her wand.  Valerie materialized a hand blaster.  

It wasn’t entirely clear what weapon went off first, but it didn’t really matter.  The end result was chaos.

“Oops,” said Jazz.  

.

“I am so, so, sorry,” said Jazz, hovering over Danny. Literally.  

“It’s fine,” said Danny.  “Really.”

“No, it isn’t.  I should have realized how everyone would react.  I should have told them to stop it, or something.”

“They were already on their way through the walls when you got there, weren’t you?” asked Tucker, swinging his legs back and forth as he sat on the end of the hospital bed.  

No one had been seriously injured, but a few tables had been exploded before the teachers had calmed everyone down and confiscated the ‘bizarre muggle weapons.’  On the other hand, everyone had a number of inconvenient scrapes and bruises that Madam Pomfrey insisted on taking a look at.

“Still,” said Jazz.  “I know all of you have PTSD from repeated ghost attacks and those people, I should have known what that would look like to you.”

“Er,” said Dash.  “It really is fine.”

“Yeah,” grunted Valerie, which was surprising.  

Outside of ‘Team Phantom,’ none of the others interacted with Jazz very much.  They didn’t seem to know how.  Valerie, however, outright avoided Jazz most of the time.  

Which, well.  Danny wasn’t about to call her behavior reasonable, but it was definitely in-character. This seemed like a good sign, though.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Madam Pomfrey.  “It isn’t your fault.  We adults should have said something before things got out of hand like that.”  She waved her wand back and forth over Star’s prominent black eye, and the bruise just… vanished.  Like Star had never been hurt.  

Danny inhaled slowly.  It wasn’t the first time he had seen magical healing—The aurors who had arrived a few hours after the attack on Amity Park had done a great deal—but if there was anything of magic that Danny wanted to learn, it was that.  And anything protective.  

“Is there a class for that?” he asked.  

“For what?”

“Healing.”

“Yes, it’s an elective,” said Madam Pomfrey.  “Though it does have a few required courses. Perhaps you will be able to take it next year?”

Danny swallowed down envy and nodded.  “Yeah, I guess we aren’t going to have time for electives, for the most part.”

“You may be surprised.  Now, I think you’re all set, unless you’re hiding something from me?”

The students shook their heads.  

“Good.  I believe Professor Snape is expecting you?”

.

“Did that seem… weirdly easy to you?” asked Sam.  

Danny thought about it for a second.  “Not the ‘what does this plant or animal part do’ questions,” he said, finally, “but the practical part of it?  Yeah.  It was just… cooking.  Really fiddly cooking, but still cooking.”

“Speaking of,” said Tucker, “how did you get by the parts where you had to use animal body parts.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” said Sam.  “I just skipped those.  I’m pretty sure I failed, judging by the look on Professor Snape’s face.  My end result was pretty nasty-looking.  It smelled bad, too.”

“You’re the reason we were stuck in an unventilated basement breathing in burnt hair fumes?” asked Paulina.

“Yeah.  I mean, it didn’t smell like burnt hair to me, but probably.”

Paulina sighed.  “I have to hand it to you, girl, you stand by your convictions.”

“I don’t think it’s unventilated,” said Star, contemplatively. “I wasn’t really paying attention, but there was definitely movement in all the, uh, vapors, or whatever. Professor Snape totally needs a better teacher face, though.  Like, does he just have the one expression, or what?”

“No, no,” said Sam.  “The look he gave me when I turned in my disaster was way more pronounced.”

“Still needs more than disdain and mega-disdain,” said Tucker. “Even Lancer had a wider range.”

“Come on, guys,” said Danny, “he can’t be much more than, what, thirty?  He has time to develop more emotions.”

“Yeah,” said Valerie, flatly.  “Give it a couple more years, and maybe he’ll nail down hyper-disdain.”

This surprised a snicker out of everyone.  Almost everyone.

“Uh, guys?” said Dash.  “I think I might have been the one who made it smell like burnt hair.  What was it supposed to smell like?”

“I’m so glad I don’t need to breathe,” said Jazz.  

“Oh my gosh, Jazz, that’s way too soon.”

.

“What do you think?” asked the hat.  

The hat.  

Danny could understand the paintings.  He could almost understand how the paintings worked, even.  They had the shapes of people who had once lived, their image, their likeness, and had by virtue of magic snagged a piece of their soul as they left this world.

But a hat.  Who would try to give a hat sentience?  And how?  Was the thing possessed by an extraordinarily unfortunate ghost?

“Um,” said Danny, shaking off the shock.  “I liked it!”

“Sorry,” said Star, “I’m just a little surprised.   Are you really a… a hat?”

“Yes, I am the Sorting Hat!  It is my job to divine which of our four houses each of you should belong to.  Weren’t you listening?”

“We were,” assured Star, “it’s just…”

“You’re a hat,” finished Tucker.  “Did you used to be a wizard or something?”

“Goodness, no, I was Godric Gryffindor’s hat!  He enchanted me.”

“So, are you like a computer program?” continued Tucker. “Are you an AI?”

“No Skynet,” muttered Sam.  

“Why do you guys keep thinking I’m going to make Skynet?”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat.  The other teachers were all present, except for the headmaster and Professor Umbridge.  Their absences had not been explained.  

“When you hear your name,” said McGonagall, “please come up and put the Sorting Hat on.  It also usually helps if you sit down on the stool.  Once the hat has determined your house, take it off, and put it down for the next person to use.”

Alright.  That sounded easy enough.  Danny wasn’t quite sure why such a big production was being made of this.  A few comments from the teachers and the ghosts—not that Danny had talked to them very much, this was the first full day they’d been at the school—suggested there was some kind of rivalry between the houses, but it couldn’t be that bad.  It was school.  

Except Casper High had its nasty cliques, too, and he could just imagine how school-sanctioned cliques would work out. Especially if they were backed up by centuries of history and a magic personality test.  

Fun.  

Not.

He hoped he, Sam, and Tucker would all be in the same house. And that Dash wouldn’t revert to being a bully as soon as other students were added to the mix.  And that…  Oh, he hoped a lot of things, but he would be thankful if the ‘school’ part of this whole ordeal was as easy and drama-free as possible.

After all, he had other things to worry about.

“Baxter, Dash,” said McGonagall, evenly.  

“Good luck, man,” said Tucker, holding up his thumbs. Everyone mirrored him.  

Dash looked very strange, sitting on that small stool, but he wasn’t on it for more than a second before the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was very loud.  Dash returned to the bench with a confused expression on his face.

“Fenton, Daniel.”

Danny stood up slowly.  He had expected something more like a conversation.  Was this a mind reading hat?  Was the ‘take a peek inside your head’ bit literal?  

Ugh, this was going to be a pain.  Good thing he had a lot of practice in compartmentalizing.  

“Ah, a burgeoning occlumens!” said the hat in its warm voice. “How unusual.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said Danny, mildly.  

“Oh, I’m sure your teachers will explain it to you.  I won’t take the pleasure from them.”  

The voice was, Danny decided, more than half in his head, which was…  Unsettling. Voices in his head usually either meant mind control, some jerk with telepathy, or someone trying to overshadow him. He didn’t like this.  He really didn’t like this.  

“No need to be so nervous,” said the hat.  “I keep everything strictly confidential.”

“Forgive me if I’m not reassured,” said Danny.  

“Hmf.  In any case, you have traits that would do you well in any of the houses.  Perhaps not Ravenclaw, though.  As clever as you are, you are behind academically.  You need a more nurturing environment, I imagine. As for the others… You are brave. You love your friends.  You’d do anything for them?”

“Yeah,” said Danny.  

“And there’s… something else you need to do?”

Danny was silent.  

“I can’t see it very clearly, but it is an important task?”

Danny shrugged.  

“A goal.”

“Sure.”

“I think, then, the choice is between the badger and the snake,” said the hat.  “But I believe the decisive phrase here is ‘do anything.’  Therefore, you will be SLYTHERIN!”

Wow.  Even bracing himself, that had been loud.

Danny stood up and carefully deposited the hat back on the stool.  He noticed on his way back to the bench that more than one teacher looked flabbergasted, and several spectating ghosts looked disappointed.  Almost crushed.  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  Yes, he was a celebrity among the undead, no he couldn’t be in two houses at once. They should have prepared themselves.

Not to mention that, as important as education was, it was somewhat secondary to his true goals here.  Which the ghosts partially knew about.  

“Foley, Tucker.”

.

“I can’t believe it,” said Filius later that evening when all the teachers (sans Umbridge) gathered for a drink.  

“I did say you would find the results surprising,” said Sybill, smugly.  

“Two muggle-born American transfer students in Slytherin,” said Filius, wonderingly.  “I didn’t expect to get any of them for Ravenclaw, but Slytherin?”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t denigrate my house, Filius,” said Severus.  

The diminutive teacher waved his hand.  “Oh, that’s not my intention.  But you have to admit, it seems like a strange choice.”

“They aren’t really muggle-born, though, are they?” asked Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, opting for tea instead of wine.  “I’m not sure about the Sanchezes, but the Fentons were quite prominent, back in the day, weren’t they?  At least, one of their ancestors wrote the first English book on new world magical creatures.”

“Muggle-borns and half-bloods are chosen for Slytherin all the time,” said Severus, annoyance clearly increasing.  “Not, perhaps, as often as for the other houses, but it does happen regularly.  You don’t have to be so shocked.”

“It’s nothing against Slytherin,” assured Pomona.  “We were just expecting them to get split between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.  American stereotypes in play, I suppose.”

“Mm,” said Septima, who was doodling equations on the back of her wrist.  “On my end, my thought process was more that they wouldn’t do well trying to play catchup in Ravenclaw, and they wouldn’t have the ambition and drive to hold their own in Slytherin.  The Sorting Hat disagreed.”

“Evidently,” said Severus.  He didn’t look especially pleased, but then he never did.  

“Better you than me,” said Filius, after a few minutes.  “I can’t imagine it will be easy integrating them.”

Minerva, who had three of the students, laughed, “You aren’t getting out of it that easy, Filius.  They still have charms.  How did they do, by the way?  We never really got around to discussing it.”

“None of them were brilliant,” said Filius.  “But they have promise.  I was wondering what you all thought about doing an accelerated class for some of them, to get them to a higher year-level.”

.

Being on the Hogwarts Express without Ron at his side felt wrong.  Sure, he wasn’t entirely alone, Ginny was with him, and Hegwig, but it felt different. He felt exposed.  

Although, that might have had something to do with all the people staring and pointing at him.  

The Daily Prophet had spent most of the summer convincing everyone he was a lying show-off.  The only things that had really competed with the ‘Harry Potter is delusional’ articles were the ‘haha, America is going to hell in a handbasket, aren’t we glad we aren’t them?’ articles.  

(Harry wouldn’t have even cast a glance at the second, except that he and the others had overheard some of the Order members mention Death Eaters had been behind the attack on the muggle town.  Even so, reading them made him feel grimy.)

They had to go all the way to the end of the train to get away from the unfriendly eyes, and that’s where they found Neville.  

“Hi, Harry,” he said, out of breath.  “Hi, Ginny…  Everywhere’s full… I can’t find a seat…”

Ginny squeezed past him to look at the compartments behind him.  “What are you talking about?  There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here—”

“I don’t want to disturb her—”

“Don’t be silly, she’s alright.”  She slid the door open and pulled her trunk in.  “Hi, Luna.  Is it okay if we take these seats?”

It took a couple minutes to get situated in the compartment, during which time Harry tried not to stare at Luna Lovegood very much.  The blonde girl was surrounded by an aura of almost impenetrable oddness.  

“Have a good summer, Luna?” asked Ginny.  

Luna opened her mouth to answer, then closed it, frowning. “No, actually.  My father had some friends in Amity Park.  The town in America, you know.”  She turned her head slightly.  “You’re Harry Potter.”

“I know I am,” said Harry.  

The four of them then proceeded to have a fairly enjoyable conversation, right up until Neville’s mimbulus mimbletonia sprayed them all with rancid sap and Cho Chang opened the compartment door.  

Cho Chang who he had a crush on.

Yeah.

Harry had a strong desire to curl up and die.  

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for over an hour, by which time the food trolley had come and gone, and most of the bounty acquired from it had been eaten.  

“Oh, you have food.  Brilliant,” said Ron, taking a Chocolate frog from Harry and throwing himself into the seat next to him.  “You won’t believe what happened.”

“Malfoy’s Slytherin prefect?” asked Harry.  The fear had been buzzing in the back of his head ever since Ron and Hermione had gotten their badges.  

“Well, yeah,” said Ron.  

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said Hermione.  

“But that’s not the real surprise,” said Ron, oddly dismissive. “You remember all those articles in the Prophet?  Not the ones about you.  About that town, in America?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, some of kids who survived were wizards.”

“And witches,” added Hermione.  She pulled Crookshanks into her lap.  

“Well, apparently their ministry didn’t think they’d be safe over there, so they sent them here.  Seven of ‘em.”

“What?  They think it’s safe here?” In Hogwarts, maybe it was, except Harry had been snatched away even with all eyes on him, in the middle of a heavily attended competition.  “With Voldemort on the loose?”

Everyone flinched.  

“Well, that isn’t exactly being publicized,” said Hermione. “Not—Not in the right way.  Besides, none of them knew about magic before this summer.  They’re all our age, though.  It must have been a shock.  Especially after losing their families like that.”  She shuddered.  “We’ve been asked to help them acclimate.  That’s why the meeting ran so long.”  

“Are they in Gryffindor, then?” asked Luna.  

“They’re sort of spread out,” said Hermione.  “They’re in all the houses but Ravenclaw.”

“And I’m still not sure how they got put into Slytherin if they’re muggleborn,” said Ron, who had tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “It doesn’t make sense,” he complained.

“Merlin was muggleborn,” said Luna.  “He was a Slytherin.  I’m sure there were others.”

Ron pulled a face.  

(Harry thought about Voldemort—About Tom Riddle and his muggle father.)

“Anyway,” said Hermione.  “We have three of them.  Hufflepuff and Slytherin each have two.”

First Death Eaters in America, and now Slytherins from there?  Harry shook himself internally.  No, it probably didn’t mean anything.  

“We probably won’t see much of them,” said Ron.  “They’re taking mostly remedial classes.  First and second year stuff.”

“Say,” said Luna, “do you know who the prefects are for the other houses?”

“Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw,” said Hermione.  

“And Ernie Macmillian and Hannah Abbot for Hufflepuff,” added Ron.  “You know, other than helping keep track of the younger kids and patrolling corridors every so often, there’s not really much we’re supposed to do as prefects.  From how Percy talked about it, I always sort of thought there’d be more.”  Then he grinned.  “We can give punishments out if people are misbehaving.  I can’t wait to get Crabbe and Goyle for something…”

Predictably, this set off Hermione.

.

“There’s nothing else about the Americans?” asked Draco, frowning. “I’m not sure how we’re expected to ‘help them acclimate’ with so little information.”

The Head Girl rolled her eyes.  “You’re expected to talk to them,” she said.  “Considering that they’re real human beings and all. They’ve been through a lot, apparently, and I can appreciate them not wanting to have it spread around.”

Unspoken was the ‘do you?’ at the end of her sentence.  Draco let his lip curl.  People from other houses were always so eager to think the worst of Slytherin when all they were trying to be was logical.  

“I’ll do that, then,” said Draco, stepping out of the prefects’ carriage.  He needed to find Crabbe and Goyle.  Annoying. As much as he was their leader, and he watched them, they were also there to watch him and—

(Draco chose not to think of the people who had arrived at Malfoy Manor over the Summer, of the things he’d seen.)

(When he was quite young, he’d read a book about muggle Germany during the time of Grindelwald, and how Grindelwald had subtly influenced things in that country.  He’d always been struck by the use of informants, of how everyone had been convinced to watch one another and report those who stepped out of line.  He found he could appreciate it even more now that he was inside a similar trap.)

But the Americans.  It was so odd.  They couldn’t have any lineage to speak of.  Not if they were living like muggles in some backwater town.  

… some backwater town the Dark Lord had seen fit to destroy.

… ‘Fenton’ sounded vaguely familiar.  

… Perhaps ‘Sanchez’ was from a Spanish pureblood line.

Draco would have to do research.  He was good at that.  But whatever he found, he’d have to keep an eye on the Americans.  

If nothing else, it would be good to have friends overseas.

.

“We’ll be in different dorms after this,” said Danny, vaguely depressed.  “Different classes, too, most of the time.”

“We can still see each other during the day,” said Sam.  “I think the only meal that’s segregated by house is dinner, anyway.  We should be able to hang out at all the other times.”

Danny sighed.  He had yet to have much success in his missions.  

He’d felt something wrong on the seventh floor, but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it.  He’d found a giant inaccessible dungeon full of snake statues, a snake skeleton, and a number of other somewhat questionable things underneath the school. There had been an echo of something there, but whatever it was had been long gone by the time Danny got there. He also had the faint sense of a ghost—a real ghost—beginning to form there, and he hoped he hadn’t messed it up by spreading his ectoplasm around.  

On the second front, he hadn’t heard anything from any of the leaders of the wizarding world.  Unless he counted a reply from a secretary who thought he was disturbed.  

But there was one bright spot.  They’d met the Headmaster yesterday, and Danny was certain the man’s wand was one of the two subjects of his third quest.  Which was hilarious.  Out of everything, he’d thought the Hallows would be the hardest to find.  

Not that he could just take it.  Not now.  Not yet. Not with everything else still so uncertain and Clockwork’s quiet assurance that he would find most of what he needed to at Hogwarts.  

(Clockwork and the Lady had made a deal with him, bound in old magic and ghost law.  Three tasks. Three nearly impossible quests, but at the end of them, the one who had destroyed half of his world, who had harmed his people, would be gone, and in the meantime Amity Park would be protected. Danny knew he had gotten the better half of the deal, with Clockwork practically on his side.  Even with the… other requirements.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel discouraged.)

So, he’d stay, and wait, and keep a careful eye on the Headmaster, and try to find the thing on the seventh floor, and figure out what spells worked on ghosts and if he could circumvent them, and figure out how to intercept at least one magical head of state, and, and, and…

Ugh.  

“If we aren’t too busy,” said Danny.  

“You know we’re here to help,” said Tucker, prodding Danny’s side.  “And even if the rest of them don’t know about, you know, I think they’d be willing to help, too.”

“Within reason,” said Sam.  

It was true.  Surviving near-death experiences together tended to make people—well.  Not necessarily friends, but something more than mere acquaintances.  Allies, at the very least.

(Especially if a lot of other people had died at the same time, and the survivors were holding on to the relationships they still had with all their strength.)

“I know,” said Danny.  He bit his lip.  “There’s something on the seventh floor, I think.  Need more time to figure out what, though.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” promised Sam.  

“And an ear, too,” said Tucker, tapping his.  “I’m sure there’ll be lots of rumors and legends in a place like this.”

“Me too.  Jazz has been interrogating the paintings, you know.”  He frowned.  “They’re so weird.”

“Everything about this is weird,” said Sam.  “Can’t believe we thought ghosts were the whole extent of the supernatural.  It seems so dumb, now.”

“Not really,” said Danny.  “I mean, ghosts were all that we saw, and they didn’t really mention anything else.”  He sighed. “Guess we should get ready for the feast or whatever?”

“Yeah,” said Sam, standing.  “Good luck meeting your classmates.  Housemates?  How are we even supposed to say that?”

“I don’t know,” said Danny.  He sighed.  “At least we each have at least one person from Casper with us.”

“That’s true,” said Tucker.  “Can’t say I feel like I have much in common with Star, though. Other than,” he gestured, vaguely, “all the Amity Park stuff.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.  “And you think I have a lot in common with Dash?”

“You have a lot in common with Valerie,” offered Tucker.

Sam shrugged.  “We do both fight ghosts.”

Tucker’s grin turned slightly wicked.  “And have a crush on the same guy.”

“Take a walk off a

Danny let himself smile.  It had been a while since the three of them had gotten some good banter in. It was hard to verbally spar when you were depressed.  

.

Sitting next to Paulina at an otherwise empty table felt strange.  But it would feel even stranger to sit not next to Paulina at the very large empty table.  Danny let his eyes drift over to the other three house tables.  It seemed that the others were of the same opinion, sitting together in little, painfully awkward clusters.  

All the close friend groups had been pulled apart, after all.

“Danny,” said Paulina.  Her voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah?”

“The wizard kids will have cliques.”

“I mean, yeah, they’re still human, right?”  And even ghosts formed groups.  

Paulina nodded and clenched her jaw.  “We’re going to get into one,” she said, firmly.  “We’ll have to find the best one, and fast, otherwise we’ll wind up at the bottom of the pecking order.  You know how much that sucks.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, his eyebrows raised.  He was a little surprised to be included.  

“The wizards we’ve met so far are pretty weird.  You know how to deal with weird.”

“Uh,” said Danny.  “Is this a strategy thing?  Isn’t it a bit too late for that?”

“It’s never too late to salvage social standing, and we haven’t even started,” said Paulina.  “Anyway, you’re the backup plan, in case they’re aliens who don’t fall for my charm.”  She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Should we even use charm like that here?  I mean, since it’s a class, now.”

“Hmf.  I’m good at that, too.”  She examined her fingernails.  “We’ll probably attract a bunch of people, just because we’re here and visible and new.  We just need to make sure that people stay interested in us.”

“I’m not sure I want attention, Paulina.”

“Then pay attention and follow my lead.  If you’re in the right clique, you can fade into the background.  Like Star. No one notices the stuff she gets up to. They’re all too focused on yours truly. As they should be.”

This was true, actually.  People didn’t really pay any attention to Star, except in her person as Paulina’s satellite.  Even Danny, before becoming Phantom and gaining a new perspective on life and the people in it, hadn’t.  

“Besides,” continued Paulina, “now that we, well.” She didn’t quite blush.  “You guys don’t suck as much as I thought you did.”

“Uh, thanks.  You, too?”

Wow.  That was quite possibly the worst response he could have had.  

Paulina sighed heavily.  

However, she was distracted from whatever she might have said to him by the first of the Hogwarts students coming in.  Paulina turned her attention away, her eyes flicking from one set of green and silver highlights to the next.  Whenever a student looked their way she smiled and waved, pouring on the charm.  

Danny didn’t know how she did it.  Social engineering was never going to be his strong point.

(Perhaps he could set Paulina and Star on the Minister of Magic’s trail.  They might have more luck.)

Before he could follow the train of thought, they were surrounded.  In a simply physical sense.  There was no malice and very little aggression from the students that sat near them, more than one of whom had prefects badges.  Still, Danny did have to fight down a knee-jerk reaction.  He saw Paulina shift uncomfortably as well, and he gave her robe what he hoped was a steadying tug.  

She returned it with a tight smile.  

There wasn’t much time to talk before Professor McGonagall stood up with the hat and started calling names.  Everyone went very quiet during the sorting, except for the cheer that rose with the hat’s every shout.  

Then there was food.  A lot of food.  Most of it was recognizable, but some of it was sort of weird.  Many things were pumpkin flavored.  There was even something Danny was fairly certain was pumpkin juice.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Paulina took the time to engage in social engineering. Danny took the time to watch.  They were both watched back, of course, but Paulina naturally drew more attention.  

However, there was one boy who kept staring at Danny. He was about their age and had pale blonde hair.  Really pale blonde hair.  

(Danny had thought Star and Dash were blonde.)

“You’re Daniel Fenton, correct?” asked the boy.  

“Um.  Yes. And you are?”

“Draco Malfoy.  I’m the fifth-year prefect.”

“Oh, Draco like the constellation?”

Draco blinked.  “Yes.”

“Did your parents like astronomy a lot, then?”

“Astrology,” corrected Draco.  “Astronomy is what muggles do.”

Danny carefully forced down the white-hot rage he felt at that statement.  Yeah, he had more than a normal admiration for astronomy, and, therefore, a more intense than normal reaction to astronomy and astrology being confused, but magic was real, apparently, so maybe astrology wasn’t useless.  Right.  Yeah.  And they were both about stars, planets, and space. Nothing to get mad at.

“It’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for generations,” Draco was saying, “although we occasionally make some allowances for other traditions.  My mother’s name is Narcissa, for example.  Is there anything similar in your family?”

“Dad’s side does ‘J’ names for the first born.  Jazz got stuck with that.”

The boy’s eyebrows went up.  “You have a sister?  She isn’t magical?”

“Magical enough to haunt me,” said Danny.  

“Pardon?”

“She died.  She’s around here somewhere, though.”  He gestured vaguely.  “Didn’t want to be around big crowds.  I think she said she was going to hang out with Myrtle?”

“Myrtle?  Do you mean Moaning Myrtle?  Who haunts the bathrooms?”

This time, the reaction Danny suppressed was a cringe, the emotion embarrassment on behalf of the young witch ghost.  “She just introduced herself as Myrtle.  Well, Myrtle Warren, but…  Yeah.  It’s kind of rude to describe someone as moaning, isn’t it?”

The boy puffed up, slightly, clearly offended.  

Oh, dear.  

.

The Americans were… interesting, Harry thought.  

Ron and Hermione had sat near them as part of their ‘prefect duties,’ with Harry and therefore Ginny and Neville following after.  

Well.  That may have had more to do with curiosity than anything else.  

They introduced themselves by their first names only. Dash, Valerie, and Sam.  Dash was… well.  Harry had encountered people like him both before and after coming to Hogwarts.  For example, McClaggen.  Harry hadn’t ever interacted much with McClaggen, even if they were in the same house, but Dash definitely gave off the same feeling.  Meanwhile, Valerie just sort of glared at everyone, resisting all attempts at conversation while tearing at her food with extreme aggression.  Sam had managed to engage Hermione and Katie Bell in a conversation about dark magic that was getting Hermione progressively more flustered.  

Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of the misconceptions Sam had about magic in general, or because Sam seemed to think some kinds of dark magic should be legal.  

He was starting to get a very bad feeling about these Americans.

.

“Hey,” whispered Tucker, while the students around them were distracted by something a rather round ghost was saying.  

“What?” whispered Star.

“Is it just me, or is everyone here sort of depressed? Like, I can understand us being depressed, but…”

“No, no it’s not just you.  Wasn’t there something about a student death?  Some kind of freak accident.”

“Oh,” said the student sitting across from them.  “You heard about Cedric.”

.

Danny wondered if he could get to the Minister of Magic through Dolores Umbridge.  He hadn’t gotten a good read on her during their very brief encounters the previous week, but now...  She gave off the impression of having some kind of political power.  His understanding was that the headmaster had a lot of influence among the wizards and witches of this country, so for her to be interrupting him like that…

Or maybe he was like Danny and weak against social awkwardness.

Also, her speech seemed to have a deeper meaning he couldn’t decode.  He didn’t understand wizarding culture or their political climate enough, despite his research.

Eh.  He’d have to get a better grasp of her personality and position.  Hopefully, that wouldn’t be too hard.  He did have a class with her.  

.

“The events of last spring have left a mark on the whole school,” said Severus Snape into the muffled quiet of the Slytherin common room, his voice just barely more emotive than during the placement test he had given the Casper High students, “and no doubt on many of your home lives as well. I want you to know that if you have any… concerns… regarding the behaviors of fellow students or… more sensitive topics, you can come to me.”

The man blinked slowly at them.  

“That is all,” he said, finally, and with an overly dramatic swish of his cloak he departed.  

The room quickly filled with light chatter, students breaking off into little cliques, some of them slipping away down shadowy corridors.

Paulina tugged him towards one of those groups.  

“Hi, Pansy,” she said, giving the girl a little wave, “hi, Draco.  We were wondering if you guys could show us around?  We were told our stuff would be moved here, but…”  She trailed off, shrugging elegantly.  

Danny tried to echo the movement.  

He most likely did not succeed.

(It wasn’t like he could tell.  His superpowers did not include seeing himself from the outside—Or maybe they did.  There could be a spell for that, he supposed.)

He had to admit, as the prefects made a (just slightly supercilious) show of presenting the Slytherin dormitories to them, that he rather liked the space.  It was surprisingly well-ventilated and warm, but there was still a general air of closeness, of security of bone-deep chill that spoke so well to his ghost half.  

Of course, a lot of that would probably evaporate once Danny tried to sleep in a room with half a dozen strangers, but, well, he’d deal with that when he got there.

.

Magic was great and all, but Tucker would trade it all away in a second if only to get his PDA to work properly.  

In the tent formed by his bedsheet and his body, Tucker hissed and rapped on the staticky screen, hoping an impact adjustment would do… something.  He didn’t know what.  The last three hadn’t done anything.  

The way the metal casing was heating up under his hand was disturbing.  Quickly, he thumbed the power button.  He didn’t have a lot of these left, and he wanted to be able to use them to communicate with Danny and Sam.  He missed their late-night Doom sessions.  

(Along with everything else about his life in Amity Park. He at least had the power to make talking to his friends possible.  The rest? Not so much.)

He groaned into his pillow.  He’d been working on this off and on all week.  Another night wouldn’t matter in the long run.  

Maybe one of his classes would help him understand what he was doing wrong.

.

Sam had sort of enjoyed needling Hermione (the girl reminded her a lot of Jazz), even if she knew she shouldn’t, but the nasty fight between some of the fifth year boys in the common room had really ruined the mood. Hermione’s friend, Harry, was apparently some sort of celebrity.  Like, in the same way Phantom had been a celebrity following Walker’s invasion.  

So.  Not really a great thing for him.  

Ugh.  Sympathy. Feelings.  She sighed and stared up at the red and gold ceiling.  If the color scheme didn’t do her in…

.

Danny met Jazz in the air over the school.  

“I didn’t see you much today,” he said, twisting hands that he is keeping carefully transparent.

“Yeah,” said Jazz.  “I’m just…  I’m still adjusting.  I think you’ll like Myrtle, by the way.  She’s lonely, but fun.  I think there might actually be a bit of ectoplasm in her, believe it or not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  She can flood the toilets, apparently.  Although… I’m not sure if she meant the toilets themselves, or just the room in general.”  She frowned. “Because she said something about sinks…”  She shook her head.  “Not important.  Want to hear what she told me about the secret underground room and the giant snake skeleton?  Not to mention all the other ridiculous stuff that’s happened here.  If this is ‘safer,’ I don’t want to know what the rest of the wizarding world is like.”

“Like what happened in Amity, I guess,” said Danny. “But!  Yes.  Please tell me what you found out.”

.

Breakfast was nice.  Especially when Sam, Danny, and Tucker compared schedules and realized that they had more classes together than they expected.  Not with all three of them at once, but even just two of them together was better than nothing.  

Yes, they got a lot of strange looks, especially when Jazz joined them.  Evidently, eating breakfast with people from other houses just wasn’t done.  Which was stupid, in Sam’s opinion.  Actually, the whole house system felt increasingly stupid to Sam.  She just didn’t understand the point.  Was it for sports?

It was probably for sports.  Sports were the root of all evil.  Just look at Dash.  He hadn’t had any sports for a whole Summer, and now he was acting like an actual decent human being.  

Okay.  That reasoning was suspect.  Sam would have to come back to this when she was more awake.  Early mornings were the worst.  

Anyway.  She had an acceptable breakfast with her friends and the people she’d grown to tolerate, then she set out to find History.  

Which is how she overheard the conversation between Hermione and her friends.  

“What’s S.P.E.W.?” she asked.

Hermione’s two friends glared at Sam.  Probably for the sin of eating with people from another house. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well,” said Hermione, just slightly hesitant.  “It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare…”

(Sam found a new cause to get incandescently angry about. Wizard society sucked.)

.

Harry was surprised to see five of the Americans, the three Gryffindors and the two Slytherins, standing by the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts, quietly talking to each other.  

“What’re they doing, then?” asked Ron, scowling. “Consorting with the enemy?”

“Honestly, Ron,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes.  “They aren’t the enemy.  And they’re from the same place.  It must be difficult, being so far away from home.”

Ron grunted and shrugged.  “What d’you think Umbridge’ll be like, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.  

They filed into the classroom, the remainder of the class, including the Slytherins, their green looking horribly out of place amongst all the red trim, following shortly after.  No one knew what Umbridge would be like, regarding punishment, so they didn’t want to immediately get on her bad side.  

“Well,” she said, in a sickly-sweet tone, “good afternoon!”

There was a mumbled response.  

Umbridge said “Tut, tut.”  She actually said tut tut.  Out loud.  “That won’t do, now, will it?  I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’  One more time, please.  Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” said the class, in something approaching unison and the least enthusiastic tone Harry had heard since Ron had tried to convince Hermione to help him with his Divination homework last year.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge.  “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?  Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the students exchanged gloomy or exasperated looks. Lessons without wands tended to be uninteresting, with very few exceptions.  

(Instead of quills, the Americans produced pencils and pens from their bookbags.)

Umbridge opened her handbag and pulled out her own wand, which was as stubby as she was, and tapped the blackboard.  Words appeared on the board at once:  Defense Against the Dark Arts, A Return to Basic Principles.

Harry couldn’t quite repress a groan.  Luckily, he wasn’t the only one.  

“Well now, your teaching in this subject had been rather disrupted, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge.  She turned to face the class, her eyes briefly lingering on Harry, and then the Americans.  “Or completely nonexistent.  The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.

“You will be pleased to know, however,” she continued, still acting like she was talking to kindergarteners, “that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year.”

Each word Umbridge spoke made Harry’s heart drop farther. How could Dumbledore let this woman teach them?  This year?  When knowing how to fight dark magic was more important than ever?

Umbridge rapped the board again, and new words appeared. Course aims:  1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.  3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.  

Oh.  This year was going to be bad.  As for the day, it got worse when Umbridge assigned a reading from what had to be the dullest book Harry had ever read.  Including that one time—No.  Focus.

He massaged his temples and wondered if he needed to get a new prescription for his glasses.  The words on the page refused to stay sharp.  

Harry looked up when the Americans started to whisper among themselves and caught sight of one of the most shocking things he had ever witnessed: Hermione not reading.  

Soon, everyone was staring either at Hermione or the Americans, who had left off whispering after some pointed glaring from Umbridge but had replaced the whispers with passionate gesturing at something in the back of the book.  Those, too, died down after a while, in favor of looking at Hermione.  

Eventually, Umbridge could no longer ignore the situation.  

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, we’re reading just now.”  Umbridge smiled.  It wasn’t pleasant.  “If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said Hermione, undeterred.  

“And your name is—?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”  

“Well, I don’t.  There’s nothing written up there about using defensive spells.”

“There’s nothing in the book about using spells, either!” said the Slytherin boy, waving his copy angrily.  “There aren’t even any of the, um.”  He paused and looked at Sam for a second.  

“Incantations,” said Sam.  “I mean, that’s what I’d call them?  I don’t know the official term.”

Umbridge inhaled through her teeth.  

“Using defensive spells?” she asked, voice pitched unnaturally high.  “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss—”

“And what about outside of the classroom?” interrupted the Slytherin boy.  

“Like, this is supposed to teach us how to not die, right?” asked the girl next to him, examining her fingernails.  

“You have to practice self-defense to actually get good at it,” agreed Valerie, crossing her arms.  “What’s the point of this class if we’re not going to actually learn how to do stuff?”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, “surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?”

“Students,” gritted Umbridge, “will raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class.”

At once, a dozen hands went up.

“Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked, voice dangerous.  

“Isn’t the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts to practice defensive spells?”

“Miss Granger,” said Umbridge.  “As you are not a Ministry-trained educational expert, you are not qualified to decide what the ‘whole point’ of this, or any, class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have—”

“I really doubt that,” interjected Ron.  

Umbridge took another deep breath.  “You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”

“What’s the use of that?” demanded Harry, loudly.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a—”

“Hand, Mr. Potter!”

Predictably, Umbridge turned her back on him as soon as he thrust his fist into the air.  Instead, she called on Dean Thomas.  

(The part of Harry’s brain that wasn’t vibrating in frustration noted that the Americans were passing notes between each other.)

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” he asked, once she had gotten done with interrogating him about his name.  “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free—”

“Do you expect to be attacked in class?”

Harry was very tempted to say yes, considering that three of his four previous DADA teachers had wound up attacking him.  

… Did Professor Lupin’s werewolf form having a go at him bring the count up to four?

Umbridge talked over Dean.  “I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school,” she said, with the air of someone who was about to do just that, “but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,” she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

The Slytherin boy stood up, chair scraping across the floor. Sam, next to him, had gone pale. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around her wand.  

“Sit down, Mr.-?”

“I’m leaving,” said the boy, not deigning to give Umbridge his name.  He picked up his bag.  “Maybe I can sit in on an actually useful lesson.  I mean, if I can figure out how to make a pineapple tap dance, I can get it to fly into someone’s face.  At least that’s something.”

“Sit down,” repeated Umbridge.  “I do not know what your classmates have told you, but you, all of you,” she said to the class, “have been frightened into believe that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—”

“We haven’t been frightened into believing anything!” exclaimed Dash, also rising from his seat.  “Our entire city was attacked!  We need—"

“Which was a tragedy.  One that is unlikely to be repeated!  Now, sit down.”

The other Americans stood up.  

“We heard about Cedric Diggory, you know,” said the Slytherin girl, coldly.  “And a lot of the people who attacked us were never caught.”

“We also know about the giant murder snake that apparently lived here,” said the boy.  

“I, for one, can’t believe that wizards are less likely to be murders than any other human,” said Valerie.  “If normal people need to take self-defense classes, I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to.”

“The government preventing people from learning how to defend themselves is historically a bad sign,” said Sam.  “Of course, slavery is also a bad sign, and you all have been ignoring that for God only knows how long.  There are actual slaves in this school.”

“Wait,” said the Slytherin boy, horrified.  “Are you serious?  Is that what you were talking about before?  Oh my God—"

“Children!” exclaimed Umbridge.  “Your hands are not up.”  

The looks Umbridge got after that outburst were filled with incredulity, not

Parvati Patil raised her hand.  

“Yes?” asked Umbridge.

Harry was beginning to wonder if she was looking for punishment.  

“Isn’t there supposed to be a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to—”

The room exploded into a flurry of objections, spurred on by the Americans.  

“Who exactly do you think is going to attack you?” shouted Umbridge over the ruckus.  

“I don’t know!” shouted Harry back, even though part of him knew this was a bad idea.  “How about Lord Voldemort?”

Silence.  

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

“Points?” whispered Dash.  No one else spoke.  

The Slytherin boy was looking at Harry with something like hunger in his eyes.  

“Now, let me make a few quite plain.  You have been told that a certain Dark wizard had returned from the dead—”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Do not make matters worse for yourself, Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Umbridge shrilly.  “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie!  I saw him! I fought him!”

Glee spread across Umbridge’s toad-like face. “Detention, Mr. Potter.  Tomorrow evening.  Five—  What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um,” said the Slytherin boy, who like the rest of the Americans was halfway to the door.  “Leaving. Like we said?”  He hadn’t stopped walking.

“You will do no such thing!  All five of you will be joining Mr. Potter for detention.”

“Pass.”  His eyes flicked towards Harry again.

“Excuse me?”

“We have better things to do than humor someone who’s refusing to do their job,” said Sam.  

The classroom doors slammed shut right in front of the Slytherin boy’s nose, and he took half a step back.  

“Tomorrow evening, at five o’clock, all six of you will join me for detention in my office.  Now.  The rumors of that Dark wizard’s return are lies.  The Ministry guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard.  If you are still worried, if someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, come see me outside of class hours, I would like to hear about it.  I am here to help.  I am your friend.  Now, kindly, continue your reading.  Page five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’”

The Americans slunk back to their seats but pulled a variety of colorful transfiguration textbooks from their bags instead of Defensive Magical Theory.

With an air of triumph, Umbridge sat down behind her desk.

Harry stood up.  

“Harry, no!” whispered Hermione, tugging at his sleeve.

Harry ignored her.  (Which was, in all honesty, a stupid move.  Ignoring Hermione rarely had positive consequences.)

(In his defense, the preceding several minutes had been… stressful.)

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?”

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accid—”

“Just like Amity Park, huh?”

“A tragic accident,” continued Umbridge, voice full of ice.  

“It was murder.”  Harry was shaking.  He felt like he was under a spotlight, and he wanted to be anywhere but here, talking about this.  “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

For a second, Harry thought Umbridge would start screaming, but instead her lips curled up into a parody of a smile.  “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

As Harry walked forward, Umbridge started scribbling on a small, pink, piece of paper, angled so that Harry couldn’t see what she was writing.  Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Harry flinched.  

The…  What were they even doing?  Why were they sitting like that?

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said Umbridge, holding out a roll of pink paper.  

Harry took it from her without a word, turned on his heel, threw open the door, and—

Was almost trampled by the Americans all escaping the room at once.  

Dash grabbed him by the upper arm, and soon all six of them were running down the hallway.  It took several seconds for Umbridge to start shrieking, and, by that point, the Slytherin boy had pulled them all into a secret passage that someone who hadn’t been at Hogwarts for even a month shouldn’t know about.  

“Wow,” said Sam.  “You work fast, Danny.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, giving her a thumbs up.  “Got to thank the Bloody Baron, though.”  He paused.  “Still can’t believe that’s his actual name…”

“Sorry about dragging you with us, by the way,” said the Slytherin girl.  “I’m Paulina. This is Danny.  You already know these three, I think?”

“Er,” said Harry, not at all sure how to deal with this situation.  Part of him just wanted to shout.  He was still vibrating with suppressed rage.  

“I didn’t really catch your name in all that, though,” she continued, gesturing behind them.  

“It’s Harry.  Potter.”

It was… interesting, how his name didn’t spark any recognition in them.  At least not at first.  Then Danny stiffened and—

“The poltergeist is coming this way,” he said, mildly.  

“You can tell?” asked Paulina.

“I could always tell.  Why do you think I was always in the bathroom when ghosts were around?”

Valerie scowled, and shot a truly venomous glare at her watch.

“Do you think we can convince him to bug Umbridge?” asked Sam.

Danny shot a look of surprise at her.  Then he smiled.  “Maybe,” he said.  He turned back to Harry.  “It was nice meeting you.  I hope we can talk again sometime.  It sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and, well…”  He shrugged.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Americans were here, for the most part, because their families were dead.

“But you should probably track down Professor McGonagall sooner than later.  I’d bet that Umbridge put a timer on that.  If that’s possible.  Is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, suddenly a hundred times more anxious about the paper clenched in his hand.  

“Gosh, imagine if Lancer could do that,” said Dash.

“I’d take Lancer any day,” said Danny.  “He actually tried to teach stuff.  Anyway, I’m going to go head off Peeves.  You might want to go around.  I hear he can be kind of a jerk?”

“Right,” said Harry, walking further down the secret passage, because he had been here for a proper length of time and had learned about it properly.  

… Although he supposed that asking the ghosts was a proper way to go about learning the secret passages.  

No, he had to focus on how to explain getting kicked out of class to Professor McGonagall, not on the weirdest interaction with Slytherins he’d had to date.

[danddymaro]

Death Stranding | Sweet Façade

Pairing : Higgs monaghan X Reader // Sam Bridges x Reader

First part : Stay

Previous: Goodbye

Again, this is  just a little direction I want to go;  a little idea that pathed it’s own way.

Thoughts are italics in quotations = ‘Example’

Flashbacks are in italics = Example

Wordcount: 3066

Sweet Façade

Small globs of rain descended from the gloomy sky as a calm shower of precipitation stretched out for miles, something which didn't bother the calm male as he coolly made his way into the shelter, brushing off the bits of moisture that stuck to his shoulders with his gloved hands.

“ Package for miss (f/n) (l/n),” the arriving porter said aloud, his voice bouncing off the walls of the safe enclosure as he stepped forward, all while detaching the special package from his backpack,

“Hello? Anyone here?” He questioned loudly before he stepped right before the access terminal, placing his other hand out to utilize it, waiting a total of three minutes before he received a response back,

"Hello?" greeted a woman’s voice, sounding huffy and breathy, having just run through her little underground home to greet him. 

Before him a holograph appeared, the moving image of the young, (h/c) haired woman greeting him,

“Did you say package?” She said with surprise, her brows raised high as her eyes seemed peeled wide, “For me?” She added with apparent curiosity, all while pointing a single index towards herself.

At the question, she watched as his gloved index finger trail beneath the letters of her name, sounding them out with a sure nod. 

He wore a sweet smile as he addressed her, "(F/n) (L/n), That's you right?" He asked, his liquid blue eyes raised up to her, glued to her artificial image with unmistakable fascination.

Despite the knowing fact that she was simply just a hologram, the porter had trouble straying his eyes anywhere else. Selfishly, he swallowed her whole, not having a mind for anything else but the (e/c) eyed beauty manifested before him.

Oblivious, (f/n) remained calm, not having an idea as to how intensely the man eyed her, nor was she aware of the merriment that shone within his blue crystals as the white cap he wore obscured a good portion of his face.

She did, however, notice his growing smile, and catching onto the subtle curl of his lips she mirrored him, nodding. 

Smiling gently in return she responded, “That's me,” she told him with a firm nod, " But I wasn't expecting anything," she said with a bit of confusion, still offering him the pleasant upturn nonetheless.

" Oh?" He said back to her, his eyes finding hers, staring right at her image with surprised, widened orbs. "That's pretty weird, cause the name here is yours," he said tapping the container, " This is also your location," he added as he placed the package down, a sure grin on his face as he waited for her to receive it.

‘You’ll just love it,’ He thought to himself, certain. ‘I just know it...Just like I know you…’

"Ok, let's see," He heard her mutter as she came down to it, inspecting it with the curiosity of a kitten.

She then opened it carefully, not sure what to expect at first. 

It wasn’t like she didn’t trust the porter, she had no reason to, but still, she was somewhat skeptical.

‘I didn’t order anything,’ She told herself, ‘in fact, it’s rather strange he’s  even made it all the way here,’ She mused, ‘Given the storm and all,’ she went on.

She had doubts, however, the moment her eyes landed on the contents within the secured case, her eyes grew wide, glimmering with absolute joy,

‘Could it be?’ She wondered, swallowing hard, her hand gently skimming over the surface of the hardcovered book.

Stunned, she stared down at the item with stillness before she gave an unexpected jump, a literal hop full of glee that surprised the man,

" I can't believe this!" She said with astonishment , pressing the small booklet close to her chest, twirling around happily. She held it with adoration as she beamed at the porter, unable to hide all the giddiness she felt,

  "You have no idea what this means to me!" She said happily.

  He watched her, his head slightly cocking to the side as he watched the woman gleam, a joy so sweet and pure worn out on display, that he felt it was a shame not many people could get a chance at such a lovely sight.

 He'd never felt his chest hurt so much, and with such sweetness nonetheless,

‘It’s only when I think about you,’ He thought with a shake to his head. 'That's the only time this happens,' He added, wanting to press her hand to his chest so she could feel the heavy bouncing for herself, just so she’d understand how intensely he felt for her.

(e/c) colored eyes seemed so warm and sweet, being windows to a heart he wanted to hold and claim, one that he was certain was deserving of everything lovely the world had left to give,

‘Sweetheart,’ he mused, ‘I’d snatch up what’s left of the world just to give it to you... If it'd make you smile just like that, I wouldn't hesitate.' He silently assured her.

She was like an innocent, little butterfly walking right along his bloodied palm,

careless and free, small and beautiful…

Of course, the lovely, delicate creature didn't know the malicious danger she was in. She was unsuspecting as such, naively crawling over his mercy, trusting in his words and his convincing façade.

He knew who he was, what he was capable of, and with the same little perk to his mouth, he wondered what would take place,

Just how would their love take course?

Would he simply crush her? Unintentionally, would he end up destroying her just as he had a habit to do so to many other things in his life?

‘If you’d be mine, would I somehow ruin you? ’ He thought with a touch of sadness,

Or

Would he adore her so much as to keep her in a glass jar? Far away from everyone else, safely hidden away until only he knew where she was being kept,

‘How long would I have to hide you?’ He wondered, knowing that somewhere along the line he’d be challenged,

‘Eventually, he’ll come looking for you,’ He thought with a little huff of amusement, one so small, the woman had ignored it, not paying it any mind.

‘I know I would. I’d go crazy trying to find you again,’

"Where did you even find this?" (f/n) asked, astonished. " I'd lost hope I'd ever see this again," she said, continuing to hug the small booklet, looking down at the porter with open ears.

“ I know we haven't met personally, but I come here frequently,” He informed her, not entirely lying because he did make frequent deliveries to her as a freelance porter.

However, as of late, he’d been busy with Amelie,

 ‘And her bullshit,’ He thought annoyed.

In fact, he made sure he was the only one that ever really got through,

‘I make an attempt at it,’ He thought with more annoyance, knowing that somehow, Sam bridges made it through to her,

‘Every...single...time.

Somehow Bridges gets a hold of you.’ He added with disdain.

“Anyways, I was just going along with my normal deliveries and I happened to come across it," he further explained, " I've also got some fuel here for you, seems like it's an old order you'd made a month back that just never made it's way here. I  figured  I'd drop it off  to you, and maybe get the chance to finally greet you," He said with a small chuckle, causing her to release one of her own,

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" She said with true regret evident, even through her little giggle. " Even moreso, Thank you!" she added, 

" It's taken too long for us to meet each other then, " She added while shaking her head.

"Entirely," He added softly, agreeing.

Carefully setting the book aside, she continued to happily chat with the man,

"From the bottom of my heart, I'd like to thank you for your service, " She said with gratitude, wishing she had something else to offer him other than a meager ‘thanks.’

"Oh no, no please!" He fretted, both hands set before him, "I don't do this to get praised, you're making me blush," he added, keeping the little grin she wore alive.

“Um, hey, If you don’t mind me asking,” he started, “ what is it? " He asked, sounding interested, speaking in regards to the booklet she'd earlier pressed against her bosom. 

"What was in the package? It must have been something real important to you, given your reaction," he said with a hint of tease in his tone.

Glowing pink she bowed her head with embarrassment, thinking of how silly she seemed with her little squealing and twirling,

"I'm sorry you had to see that," She muttered with embarrassment, hiding her face within her hands.

 'Are you kidding me?' He thought to himself, 'Baby, you're killing me... being so damn cute with me...'

 "If it makes you feel better, it made my day," he said amused, causing her to release a little groan, "Nooo…"

"I'll remember this day for a long time," he added, causing her to throw her head back, "Stop it!" She whined, continuing to laugh.

It’d been the first time in weeks she’d laughed, so much so, she’d forgotten she even had the ability to do so. 

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," He told her, "but it is a nice pick me up," He added, not lying at all. 

"Really?" she said with a placid, little pleasant smile taking over as she settled down from her little fit, "How?" She asked with a shake to her head, wondering how her strange outburst could have ever made anyone's day.

"Defiantly. Being stuck out there in this gloomy weather all day,  you're smile feels like the sun," he beamed, causing her face to instantly burn as the words reached her.

"customers like you are the best," he added, loving how easy it was to cause her to fluster. "So I should be thanking you," He continued on, knowing just what he was doing, slipping in little teases masked by convincing innocence.

"Anyways, the book," he pointed out, making (f/n) snap out of her little daze, 

" Oh," She said while calming, " This book...It's actually just a mess of things," she confessed, instantly smiling so hard her eyes were squeezed together.

"it's stupid...really," she muttered with the same cute upturn that had him swooning.

The booklet was full of pressed flowers and leaves, along with  little pictures she'd taken, as well as a written page here and there that were coupled with meaningless, little doodles on every other page.

 It wasn't much, probably worthless trash to others, but a treasure to her, holding memories and sweet moments, all the things she never wanted to forget.

"I guess you could say it's like an old diary of mine," she explained, not going into much more detail before their conversation was interrupted by a loud-sounding crash outside the enclosure.

It was then that a harsh banging sound spread across the field outside, traveling into her home in a violent boom, startling her. A sharp gasp left her as she looked up to her ceiling with a tremor raking her entire body.

Heavy rain continued to fall, all sounding stronger than it had a few minutes prior, and at the recognition of the large, vicious goblets attacking her structure, her gaiety ceased in its entirety, (dark/light) eyebrows creased up with worry as she cringed at the strong downpour that crashed over the roof of her little home.

She could hear it echoing even from her safe enclosure, knowing that just outside, it disintegrated everything it smothered.

'Again with this endless downpour ;  Again with another storm, ' she thought with a mix of bitterness and sadness, because yet again she thought of the traveling porter whose name had become infamous now.

Connecting the world…

Bringing everyone together…

Through blood and sweat; Through harsh breaths and slim escape as well, he did it all.

'I hope you're not out there right now… stuck somewhere with those monsters,' she thought with a forelone expression placed over her. 'that merciless rain that takes everything it touches…the same one that won’t hesitate to take you as well,’ she added as she felt her heart race, anxiousness clawing at the walls within the muscle.

'Please...Please be safe,' She thought while a dark cloud loomed over her.

Meanwhile, the man outside watched, his eyes fixed on her saddened expression, his gaze softened as he looked on to what he considered to be a true gem, because even as she began to grow sullen, she was a charming sight,

'Downright breathtaking,’ he thought astounded.

If only he could run his fingers through those strands of (h/c), and not just that, but coo sweet words close to her ear to lure yet another smile from her.

He’d give anything for another one of those wide grins, much more to see the previously settled cute, little color find it's way onto her sweet face.

'Anything,' He thought while lovestruck. ‘ I’d give anything to do so,’ he added.

' But for now, I have to go. ' he thought with a pout, unloading the rest of the lost cargo he mentioned earlier, sending it through to her.

“Well I should be heading off,” he said with a small wave, causing her to stare wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open at his sudden leave.

'The damn storm is picking up,' She told herself, 'And he just up and leaves?!' she added worriedly.

“Hey! Wait Just a minute!” She cried out, her voice laced with alarm, “ Don't tell me you plan on going out there like that," she said with concern, her hand reaching out to him as a natural response despite the fact that they were in separate rooms, not anywhere near for her to grip him back. 

He looked back at her with a half-smile, his blue eyes staring dead at her startled expression. Grimacing, he spoke, "I think I don't have a choice do I ? besides it's my job," he told her with dismissiveness towards his own well-being, something that astounded her.

"I had just planned to drop off your deliveries and be off, " He told her, " But I got so caught up talking to you, I lost track of time, " He explained, " I should have left a long time ago!" He said shaking his head, seeming disappointed with himself.

"Anyways, don't worry about me mam," he said pulling up a boyish grin while mock saluting her by using his pointer and middle finger, "You just stay safe," he added, not really wanting to leave, but of course not having any other choice.

 It would have been easy for him to simply take her, singlehandedly destroying everything that got in his path from doing so, but he’d decided that with her, he wasn’t taking that risk.

  'He's crazy,' (f/n) thought to herself, jumping at a particularly loud clap from outside her thick, protective walls.

She then better lip tightly,

 Thinking...

Contemplating…

 'What if something happens to him? 

What if he gets caught up in that storm? ‘ 

And much worse, 

‘ What if he never makes it back?' She wondered distressed,

'if any of that were to happen, I wouldn't ever be able to live it down,' she told herself.

He bothered to bring back some lost package, something she'd forgotten already, all because he thought it mattered, coming through what were probably the worst conditions to travel, and much more that that he’d been loyally delivering cargo to her for a long time now.

“ Hey…” she uttered softly, sounding small uncertain at first, swallowing the heavy clump in her throat.

“ You can stay here,” she told him, growing more confident, “ There's a vacant room here that you can use,” she added, nodding with more assurance as she saw him halt in his steps.

“ You can use it if you want or, at the very least stay until the rain stops.” she offered, “That's all I ask of you,” she added, hoping he’d accept. "As far as I know, there's nothing out there to hide under...no other shelters in sight either. " she reminded him.

He then turned back to her, a grateful smile adorning him being a mask to hide the snide that lay beneath.

“You’d do that just for me?” he asked her, eyeing the melting worry that was over her face. As he seemed to contemplate the suggestion, she relaxed her shoulders dropping and her (e/c) eyes brightening.

" Please? At least until this clears up," She said lowly, nodding.

 “You’ve done enough for me already, believe or not,” she further explained, “ I haven't seen another person in what feels like forever. And I know traveling through this area has gotten very difficult. But you did so...All in order to hand me some lost cargo I had honestly given up on finding." She said astounded,

"Not only that, but you also brought me some essential supplies, " She added.

" You risked your life for me when you could have very well walked away at any given moment, especially when the first storm hit. " She rambled on,

" So please," she said again, clasping her hands together, "Please Stay. Take it as a token of my gratitude seeing as I have nothing more to offer you," She bargained.

  ‘Truly….Truly  I am smitten,’ he thought to himself, all while nodding, pretending to be defeated by her plea.

 "Just until then," he said quietly, "I wouldn't' want to impose,"

" But you're not!" She said hastily, "Believe me, you're not!" she said giggling, waving him off.

 Eagerly nodding she went to open the door, “ Just come in," she responded back, all of which was a mistake of course, but how was she to know?

How could she have guessed that the man she invited in her home was none other than the same terrorist in the golden mask both feared and hated by mass populations ; 

 Higgs Monaghan.

 She reached out for him, her hand circling around his wrist, tugging him inside, the sudden coldness of the outside world hitting her hard before she was back within the warm safety of her home with him following in suit.

"come on," she persuaded, anxiously as she heard just how vicious the wind blew.

Safely inside he watched her, eyes fixed on the back of her head, the (h/c) hair making his fingers twitch.

They were loose, the (long/short) strands bouncing with each step she took, teasing him with their bouncing movements,

'My dear...sweet... (f/n),' Higgs mused, head over heels for the woman, mad with desire,

 'I can't wait to have you all...to...myself.' 

Next : Open Heart

A/N: I fixed it. I hadn’t slept for a whole day when i completed this and I just knew I let a lot of stuff slip me. Have you ever been awake, but not awake? It’s an experience.

[highsviolets]

of hyperdrives & hands: engineer!reader x obi-wan

summary: you’re fixing the hyperdrive on the Negotiator when a mysterious being pays you a visit.

word count: I honestly have no idea bc i wrote this whole thing on my notes app in the car lmao. (sorry if the formatting is weird/there are typos!!)

rating: G. but also, this is basically a love letter to Ewan McGregor’s gorgeous hands.

A/N: fulfilling a request for the lovely @aty-cgca7! ily, chasity! I hope it’s everything you were looking for 💖 also I know nothing about engineering or computers or hyperdrives so don’t come for me y’all 😂

of hyperdrives & hands, a fic by corellians-only

Brow furrowed in concentration, you squint in the hazy light. Reaching up to your forehead with your left hand, you slide your fingers across the surface of your skin, batting away renegade wisps of hair that had fallen away from your bun.

Maker, but it was warm down here, in the maw of this behemoth ship. You curse softly to yourself as a bead of sweat hovered perilously close to your eyelash, threatening to obscure your vision as you strain to locate the loose wire that had sent you onto the Negotiator in the first place. Hadn’t your father always warned your that space was cold? When you told him you had joined the Civilian Engineer Corps to help with the war effort, he had even cracked a joke about adding extra layers to your uniform.

You frown. Clearly, accomplished pilot though he was, you father had never been in the hyperdrive control center of a Republic Venator-class Star Destroyer.

Catching your distraction, you shake your head. No. You needed to focus. Now was not the time to question your father’s supposed space travel wisdom. There’s a job to be done. Hyperdrives did not fix themselves.

There she is. Rather than simply becoming disconnected, the wire had split in two, snapping under the pressure from the processing core directly above the unit. This was going to be more complicated than you thought.

For a few hours, the only sounds that filled the room were soft snip of wirecutters and the gentle thrum of the engines. As you start re-routing the stray wire, your mind begins to wander.

You had heard stories about Star Destroyers with entire hangers of processing cores for the shields alone. That their nav computers were the most accurate in the galaxy. That their holo encryption system was unbreakable (it wasn’t. You had written and sliced a viral code into their data key a few standard months back, just to see if you could). This was your first time on such a warship when it was in space, and while it was impressive, at the end of the day, it ran like any other ship.

Tali had been even aboard General Secura’s flagship, the Liberty, for a supply dump once and she swore that their weapons systems were the most flawless thing she had ever seen - barring General Kenobi, of course, she had added with an impish grin tossed your way.

Your not-so-subtle crush on the dashing General was an open secret among your platoon of female engineers. Most of them assumed it was because he was pretty and famous — he was on nearly every holomag cover, after all — but you knew better. You knew he was a good man. His hands told you so.

The first time you had seen General Kenobi, you had been playing in the undercity of Coruscant when a boy a little older than yourself had stopped to ask what you were building with the rubble left behind from an explosion caused by the nascent Black Sun cartel a few days earlier.

“I don’t know,” you had responded belligerently, upset at your endeavors having been interrupted - and by a boy, no less. “Why do you have a braid in your hair?” you continued. “I thought only girls had braids.”

The boy had adjusted his stance to stand up taller. “I’m going to be a Jedi,” he proclaimed. “I’m Obi-Wan,” he offered with a smile. His eyes flashed suddenly, and with a quick thrust, his hand extended into the dusty air. A sheet of durasteel that had been hovering precariously at the tip of the heap was now suspended in midair, mere centimeters from crashing down on your head. Even in the grim half-light of the slums, you could see sapphire eyes earnestly fixed on the hunk of metal. Strong, lithe fingers gestured gracefully. The object fell with a great crash a few meters away.

You could only stare in awe.

The faint sound a male voice calling had caused him to twist his head and listen. “I have to go.” He frowned. “Master Qui-Gon is calling me. I hope I see you again some day.”

He bowed slightly, then turned and trotted back toward his Master.

You had never been quite able to forget the teenager with pretty hands who had saved your life.

Nearly two decades later, you had seen him again. You and Tali had been sipping cups of caf before your shifts in the makeshift mess hall of a personnel loading area when you sensed his presence. Not in a Jedi way - you didn’t have a lick of Force sensitivity, you knew - but in the way you noticed that everyone seemed to speak a little softer and trail their eyes after the passing figure in white armor.

He had strode past the the two of you, hardly sparing a glance at two female civilian engineers and pointedly ignoring the sheer weight of the gazes trained on him. Later, over a pint of lomin ale, Tali has raved about his hair, and how “he had a shoulder to hip ratio that was sharper than a vibroblade, didn’t you notice?”

You had taken a sip of your drink and laughed good-naturedly at Tali’s antics. You had noticed him, to be sure, but you had been transfixed by his hands, not his muscles.

Back in the days before the war, when you were still a little girl, your father Aves had always told you to take note of a being’s hands. In the present moment, you smile as you refit the access panel on the hyper drive’s core reactor as a the memory comes to mind.

Even though he was a good father, Aves had been a man of mystery. Whatever it was he did for a living, it had blessed him with an intimate knowledge of guns, starships, and computers, and he had passed everything he knew on to his “blazing sun,” he used to call you affectionately.

“Blazing sun,” he would instruct you, “you can tell a lot about a being by their hands.” When he was satisfied he had captured your attention, the impression of a smile glowed across his face. He resumed cleaning his carbine rifle as he spoke, his voice low and smooth. “You can tell a lot about a being by their hands,” he intoned again. “Their trade. Their social class. How they hold a weapon. What kind of weapons they use. If they can pilot a ship. If their mind is focused or skittish.” The tall man had shrugged gently, an action that seemed counterintuitive to the grade A contraband blaster now resting comfortably in his expert grip. A new power pack slapped into place with a precise snap. “If you ever want to know someone” — he tucked a stray hair behind your ear tenderly, the other hand still clutching the blaster — “look at their hands.”

You begin tapping out routine codes on the core reactor to test the replacement wire. The various combinations of letters and numbers in basic and binary were muscle memory, and you stared in awe as your own fingers punch in the digits seemingly of their own volition.

Yes, it was General Kenobi’s hands that most enraptured you, you decided. Slender, calloused (you supposed - not that you had ever had the pleasure of testing that theory for yourself), extensions of strong, well muscled arms that indicated a strong degree over his motions. He had held them so softly at his sides that day in the mess hall. They had gestured animatedly as he walked alongside a clone commander, a graceful arc to his movements that made you think he would be a good dancer — or a formidable fighter.

The klaxon of an alarm drives you from your reverie. “Oh, kriff.” The latest code you had entered seemed to have caused the wires to short circuit, tripping an internal safety alarm.

“Kriff, kriff, kriff.” You continue to swear violently as you all but run over to the central computer console and entering a code to kick-start a program to halt the shrieking din. Within the minutes, the alarm bells stop, and you sag against the console in relief.

“Is something the matter?” a rich tenor voice asks from behind you.

Immediately you tense. In a singular, practiced motion, you pivot on your left heel and whip your blaster into your right hand simultaneously, turning to face the voice in a fighting stance.

“Freeze!” you call into the shadows. Your eyes scan the cavernous room methodically before settling on a spot a few meters in from the doorway where the light seems distorted. You take aim with your blaster.

“Justice, freedom, faith,” the disembodied voice replies calmly from the same spot.

Your eyes narrow. Whoever the being was, they had given the correct password. But the upper-class Coruscanti accent didn’t belong to anyone in your platoon, and who else would be prowling around the underbelly of General Kenobi’s flagship? There had been faint rumors of a lightsaber wielding Separatist operative. Maybe they were coming to sabotage the ship? Well, not on your watch.

“Step into the light,” you order, durasteel edging into your voice. “Keep your hands above your head.” The contours of the blaster are cool, comforting in your grip, soothing the blood rushing just beneath the surface.

A tall auburn-haired man steps into the light, arms raised. “Will this suffice?” he asked wryly, amusement playing across his features as you feel shock and embarrassment creep up your neck and onto your cheeks.

Stars above. I almost shot General Kenobi. A thousand thoughts race through your mind faster than light speed - some witty, some pragmatic.

But of course, what slips out is neither of those.

“Fierfek, you startled me,” you manage to spit out instead. It’s only your steel will that prevents you from collapsing from embarrassment on the spot. Feigning nonchalance you decidedly do not feel about almost murdering a war hero and childhood crush, you holster your weapon and turn back to the console.

“I gathered as much,” he returns, amusement still coloring his tone.

The room fell silent for a few moments as you run system diagnostics.

“What is it you’re working on?” This time, he’s so near you can feel the heat of his breath on the back of your neck. Well honed reflexes are faster than your brain, though, and it isn’t until you feel a gentle pressure on your elbow that you realize it’s raised to jab him in the throat.

General Kenobi’s chuckle seems to fill the room. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?” he murmurs. A shiver runs up your spine despite yourself and you feel your stomach start to coil.

You stare at the data steaming on the console until your eyesight begins to blur. “That depends. Are you trying to kill me, sir?” Maker, but you were mouthy today. What was wrong with you?

Kenobi releases your arm dropping his to his side. Immediately, you feel bereft somehow with the loss of his touch.

Peering over your shoulder, he asks, “hyperdrive problems?”

Kriff, does that man not realize what he is doing to you, muttering in your ear like that? Of course he doesn’t, you dolt, you tell yourself; he’s a Jedi. Not his fault you’ve had a crush on him since you were nearly eight years old.

“A replacement wire short-circuited the system and triggered an emergency code,” you respond as evenly as you can manage. A fresh sweat breaks out across your forehead as another complex code dances across the screen.

“What code is that?” He reaches out as though he could absorb the masses of data contained in the system through osmosis. Maybe he can. You’re not a Jedi.

The movement serves a different purpose for you. Something wet and bright glistens as his hand moves into the blue light of the console.

“You’re bleeding.”

He glances down and grimaces. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Blood is starting to gather around an incision slashed across his right hand.

He opens his mouth to retort no doubt, but you beat him to it. “Don’t give me that bantha dung about Jedi business.” A grease stained finger jabs in the direction of his chest.

Kenobi’s face remains impassive. When he doesn’t respond, you roll your eyes, and, tugging at his elbow, drag him over to the glow lamp near your workstation.

He continues to scrutinize you, and you look down at yourself, wondering what he’s staring at. Your coverall sleeves are rolled up, there’s sweat gathering at your collarbone, and you feel the grimy mixture of dust and stale perspiration coating your face. You’re a hot mess if there ever was one.

Resolutely, you ignore the flush on your cheeks and the steel of his gaze and rummage for a bandage in the care pack attached to your hip. Several excruciating seconds later you find one and tear it open.

It’s when you’re grasping his hand in one of yours the he finally speaks. “I’ve seen you before.”

His cool composure inspires a sudden flash of irritation. “You seem rather certain sir,” you say as you apply a bacta salve.

“Because I am,” he responds mildly. His hand grips yours tightly when you apply the bandage, and you almost asphyxiate on the spot. You were right — his hands are calloused.

“Well, consider this your repayment from saving a girl from durasteel in the Coruscant under-levels about twenty years ago,” you answer with a quick smile. It’s hard to be angry when Obi-Wan Kenobi is in effect, holding your hand.

Reluctantly you release him from your grasp, letting your hand drift down to your side.

The General inclines his head in thanks, then glances back at the computer. “Is the hyperdrive fixed, then?”

You nod, stuffing supplies back into your pack. “I modified the code and replaced the wire so it should be okay.” You meet his eyes. “I’ll be with the ship until it returns to Coruscant, so if there any problems I’ll be available to assist, sir.”

You turn to leave, but he reaches out and catches your hand. “And who do I have to thank for such diligent caretaking of both my ship and my hand?” he inquires. His touch is like satin against your dirty hands and you grin in spite of it.

You consider for a moment. “A blazing sun,” you tell him.

You smile as you make your back to your quarters. Yes, you could tell a lot about a person by their hands.

[escxpedes]

loopholes (cont.)

I literally can’t even begin to tell you how much everyone’s support meant to me on the last chapter. All your comments and tags were so sweet, it was seriously the highlight of my day. I’m sorry for the delay, I meant to get this out a couple of days ago, but I’ve come down with a bad cold. This part, while fun, was so hard to get right. Angus Macgyver is a genius, his mind goes a mile a minute, and I wanted to do my best to replicate that. This part is a little slow in getting to the Macriley stuff, but I wanted to show how much he really thinks about things. He’s such a complex character, that if I didn’t do him justice, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Also, there’s dialogue in this one! Sadly, Jack isn’t mentioned in this chapter, but he’s there in spirit. Clearly, we all love and miss him. I hope you guys enjoy, the last part will be out soon! x

~

loop·hole

noun | A loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in a system, such as a law or security, which can be used to circumvent or otherwise avoid the purpose, implied or explicitly stated, of the system

~

Riley finally moves into her new apartment, but struggles to adjust after the events of Codex and the realization of her feelings for Mac. When Mac finds her passed out over her keyboard after a late night of coding at Phoenix, he decides a talk is long overdue. Just some slightly angsty soft!macriley to help you cope with this season 5 hiatus.

~

of lips that i am yet to kiss (and eyes not met my own.)

It's highly unlikely that you'll find Mac walking down the halls of the Phoenix Foundation so late at night. Without the bustling energy of his coworkers fetching important documents or discussing the best way to break down one of the many mysteries the foundation deals with, the darkened hallways and quiet atmosphere can be unnerving.

Sure, he spends nearly every waking hour employed there, but he'd rather be outside the office in different countries, doing hands-on work and saving lives. When you work in his profession, It can be difficult to separate business and pleasure, but that only makes it more important—if only to conserve what mental health he has left. 

However, in the haste of putting together last-minute preparations for yet another meeting with the Department of Justice and trying to make it back to his house in time for something Desi whipped up, he managed to forget his cellphone.

It's funny, mainly because of how little the small device truly matters to Mac.

It only goes to show how insignificant material objects, or even human beings in general, are. The idea that something so meaningless can affect someone's life so much when, if they just looked past that obsession and considered its part in the profound scope of the universe, another perspective would take shape.

It's fascinating stuff, really.

There's a concept essential to understanding Japanese aesthetics, otherwise known as an ancient set of ideals important to Japanese society, called Yūgen. When applied in the right context, Yūgen underlines this deep awareness of the universe and the experiences we have within it. It's often the feeling interpreted when you gaze at the stars late at night or watch the sunset dip behind a hill.

Mac wouldn't think twice before breaking his phone, or rather, breaking the phone of his nearest friend, open for an obscure part that might make one of his many homemade devices come together. However, when he's the only person able to communicate the scientific specifications of an unheard-of-until-recently base plan for saving the planet, he's practically on call 24/7.

He remembers having it in the labs earlier that day when he stopped by before his meeting to remind Bozer to come by his house on Friday for the team's new weekly attempt in group-bonding.

After the betrayals that surfaced during the climax of taking down Codex, the team collectively decided to spend more time as a group in hopes of eliminating any lingering doubts. 

They used to hang out all the time before the government dismantled the Phoenix Foundation.

Mac still can't believe that, after everything they had been through, he allowed his friendships to dissipate over the year they had been separate.

Bozer is his childhood best friend, and Riley had become a solid foundation in his life. He didn't have anyone outside his team at Phoenix, and while he deeply cared for Desi, their first relationship was proof that too much time—and too little communication—with each other can do severe damage to one's sanity.

If Russ hadn't brought them back together, would they have tried to reconnect at some point?

Mac wants to say they would have but wouldn't blame them if they didn't; they all lost something they cared about, and each served as a constant reminder of it.

It would've been hard, but part of him feels like living without them is a lot harder.

When he manages to access the lab, flipping his shiny new I.D. card over his fingers and into its place in his wallet, his eyes scan the room. It's empty, which isn't unusual at this time, but years of military training have rewired his brain to notify him of threats, even if there aren't any.

Just like he thought it would be, the device sits untouched a few tables behind Bozer's workspace where Mac had been sitting.

Quickly, because he left the house in a hurry and forgot to leave a note, he scoops up his phone and makes his way towards the exit. There's a couple of missed calls, but it doesn't seem like he missed anything too important.

Not that they would let him. 

At any rate, they would probably show up on his doorstep if they couldn't get a hold of him. With days off so few and far between, that's the kind of interaction he's hoping to avoid. Hence, why he came to pick up his phone when he realized it was missing instead of waiting until the next day.

He's nearly made it to the end of the hall when a light flashes in his peripheral vision, coming from the I.T. department.

His body is tense with apprehension; his mind races with several different kinds of possibilities and outcomes. He slows his pace, his movements fluid, silent, and controlled from years of stealth practice.

The light is soft, he notices, as if only one or two monitors are in use.

When he gets to the doorway and nudges open the door, hands at the ready, his entire body sags in relief to see the dark wavy hair he's come to associate with one of his closest friends.

"Riles?"

The nickname falls from his mouth before he can stop it, and even though the light from the monitor creates a halo above her head, shadowing her features, it's unmistakably her.

She doesn't move. 

It becomes abundantly clear why as Mac moves towards her and notices the monitor's screen filling up with a sequence of letters that look nothing like coding despite his lack of knowledge in programming languages.

Her elbow balances precariously on the edge of the table, her arms creating a makeshift pillow for her head. The weight of her forearm bears down on the keyboard, causing the side of her hand to press down multiple keys at once.

He shakes his head a little, amused by the situation unfolding. 

Her cheek rests comfortably on her hand, a serene expression masking the signs of exhaustion that showed on her face.

Mac's lips curved into a soft smile, seeing Riley in any state that wasn't cloaked in layers of worry or anxious determination always washed away any doubts he might have about working in such a stressful field.

The scars that covered his body, the secrets he has to keep, and the pain he has to endure are so unbelievably worth it as long as she out of harm's way and able to sleep peacefully.

Of course, he couldn't imagine anyone else by his side on a mission, knowing they share the same love and passion for kicking ass and saving lives.

However, he also knows that more lies underneath the surface.

He wouldn't wish the hardships of this job on anyone. Seeing it affect someone he cares about, watching it break them down slowly pulls at his heartstrings and fills him with a knowing sadness. 

When a piece of hair falls into her face, his fingers don't hesitate to gently brush it behind her ear, lightly tracing her cheekbone and caressing her cheek.

Kneeling, his hand drops to her shoulder in an attempt to gently wake her.

After a couple of shakes, the expressive brown eyes he's come to look forward to seeing begin to flutter open and nearly render him speechless.

She blinks a couple of times, inhaling slowly, "Macgyver."

Her voice is full of sleep and breaks from misuse, but the way she says his name—like there's nobody else she'd expect to see when she wakes up —has him grinning from ear to ear.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Rising from her position on the table, she scans the room before meeting his eyes and scoffing, "It's hardly the morning."

He laughs softly, holding back the urge to mention that technically it is morning considering its past twelve. Instead, he focuses on the matter at hand, or more likely, the question at hand.

"What are you doing here so late?"

She's more alert now, sitting back in her chair and lifting her arms to stretch out the muscles that stiffened while she slept, glancing at her work on the monitor.

Her face drops into a grimace when she notices her mistake, "Matty and I were talking about updating the foundation's firewall and spyware," she yawns, "I must have been more tired than I realized."

Mac's eyebrows scrunch in thought, remembering something Bozer said earlier about Riley spending quite a few nights this week working late.

Between going over his mother's scientific data, trying to patch up whatever relationship he had left with Desi, and making sure he didn't go off the rails with grief, his effort to check in on everyone decreased significantly.

"Yeah, you've been doing that a lot lately," his hand returned to her shoulder to emphasize his point, "Everything okay?"

She waves him off, "There's too much work that needs to be done around here before we can get things running the way they used to."

Riley doesn't lie to him—if you overlook the whole situation with her ex, Aubrey, that is, but the movements she's making indicate otherwise.

Her eyes refuse to meet his, flickering down and to the right. When she talks, her head shakes lightly, and she purses her lips in an attempt to give off a careless impression. Maybe someone who doesn't know her or didn't train to pick up on it would believe her, but he knew better.

She was definitely hiding something from him.

Part of him understands that if she wanted to talk about it, she would. However, his instincts urge him to press harder, locate the problem, and bring back her contagious smile that always seems to fill him with warmth.

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, you can't patch some things together by sheer will and sellotape, so instead, he stands up and drops his hand from her shoulder.

"Let's get you home."

[chestnut-b]

Himawari Chapter 8

Beneath a masked smirk, the letter found a comfortable home in his breast pocket. 

Note to self. Iruka is truly a man of extremes. A Hashira offers him a souvenir, and he asks for Orochimaru’s head or nothing at all.

Chapter 8 of a Demon Slayer AU

In the blink of an eye, summer had passed.

Iruka looked out into the vast forest as the winds of autumn blew past. The colours were already well in the midst of changing; green giving way to golds and reds. The lush soundscape of summer was no more, instead, the winds carried crisp, dry notes that only served to accent the chill that settled in his bones.

He sat now in what was a certain Hashira’s preferred napping spot, high above the school grounds. It had been a few months since the man had left, but now, in the teacher’s lap, a tired hound was napping, warm and content.

Iruka gazed at the slip of paper in his hand. He had to keep a good grip on it, lest a sudden gust of wind carried it off. Admittedly, he’d gone over its contents five times by now, but surely, he thought, one more time couldn’t hurt.

Iruka-sensei,

At the time of writing this, I’m still alive, isn’t that nice?

If you are too, then I’m glad it wasn’t a wasted trip for Bisuke.

You’ve spoiled him, and he’s pickier about his treats now, but I guess that’s fine.

Not much excitement where I am I’m afraid, and not much good tea either.

If you’d like a souvenir, you need only ask, though Guruko can’t carry very much. Please be reasonable, sensei.

It was signed off with a gracefully brushed henohenomoheji.

Iruka’s other hand rested in Bisuke’s fur. He stroked it absentmindedly, sighing.

“Bisuke, what do you think I should ask for?”

The hound in question merely whined, and nestled his head deeper under the sleeve of his haori. With a chuckle, Iruka carefully folded the paper back up, his fingers running over each fold and crease, before tucking it into his breast pocket. He let his palm linger on his chest.

It’d gotten just a bit warmer.

--------------------------------------

“Sakura? What’s the matter?”

The next morning, Iruka had seen Bisuke off, well fed and rested. He was in the middle of making his afternoon rounds when his ears picked up the sounds of soft crying. The school had been set up in an abandoned shrine compound, and he’d found her behind the aged offering box, below the large twisted ropes and bells.

“I-Iruka-sensei.” She lifted her head, her cheeks red and tear stained.

He crouched before her and placed a hand on her head.

“I’m here. What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “I miss my parents.” She cried.

Iruka looked at his surroundings.

That’s right...her parents were shrine keepers.

Iruka hadn’t met them, but he knew they’d sheltered many slayers over the years, more than a few who were only alive today thanks to their intervention. The Harunos had been talented herbalists, and he’d come across their books on numerous occasions in Sarutobi’s library.

“I’m scared, sensei. I know we’re supposed to fight, but when I think about demons, all I can think about is running away.” She admitted, clutching her knees closer.

Iruka’s chest tightened. The child had only been here for half a year.

“Sakura, it’s only natural to feel that way. We’re human.” With the edge of his sleeve, he started to dry her cheeks. “Until you’re able to take care of yourself, we’re all here to protect you.” He’d say it as many times as he needed to.

“But the selections-“

“If you don’t want to take them, you don’t have to.” That was really the only saving grace in all this, he thought somberly. “If you want to follow in your parents’ footsteps, there are other ways to do it, Sakura. You don’t have to fight.”

“R-Really?” The relief in her eyes was apparent.

Iruka smiled gently, nodding. Getting up slowly, he offered her his hand.

“We’re teaching you to fight so you can protect yourself. Even if you don’t join the corp, there will always be a place for you.” He explained. Taking her small hand in his, he helped her to her feet.

Truth be told, it was something he always wished he could say to Naruto, but even he wasn’t sure those words would hold up under the weight of his destiny. Sakura at least, he didn’t have to worry for. If the Senju wouldn’t take her in, Sarutobi would. He’d see to it himself if it came down to it.

Hand in hand, they started to walk back into the compound. The rest of the children were playing catch, and their laughter echoed through the pavilion. By now, picking out Naruto’s voice amidst the chaos was second nature to Iruka.

Feeling a little more at ease, Sakura tugged gently on his hand, prompting him to face her.

“But sensei, fighting with swords, it’s a little fun.” She smiled sheepishly.

Iruka laughed and winked at the girl.

“Isn’t it? Sakura, don’t lose out to the boys. If they get out of hand when I’m not around, you’ll have to knock some sense into them for me.”

The smile widened into a returning grin.

“Ok!”

--------------------------------------

Months he’d spent ranging and searching, only to reach another dead end.

I should be used to this by now. How many years has it been?

Kakashi stepped back to lean against a tree, his hands resting on the hilt of the blade propped before him. The moon, previously obscured by a sea of clouds before the battle, finally revealed itself, casting a soft light on the surrounding area.

It was a scene of pure carnage.

A small rural village had been wiped out by a single demon. The bodies left uneaten were strewn about, marred beyond recognition. The women and children had been taken first.

They were always taken first.

If he’d arrived just two days earlier, he could have saved these people.

Stop it, Kakashi. If you carry on like this, you’ll-

Shut up, Gai.

The Hashira sheathed his blade. He’d found a spot upwind, away from the stench of blood and decay. Taking a seat at the base of the tree, he brought his fingers to his lips, and soon a sharp whistle cut through the dead silence of the night. It wasn’t long before a crow descended, landing on his arm. With its usual beady stare, it waited for instructions.

“Call for the kakushi.”

The support members from the nearest outpost would need to deal with the aftermath. He couldn’t afford to be held up by the local authority. After all, the demon slayers didn’t have any kind of recognition from the governing powers.

The crow crooned softly before taking off into the sky. With a tired, hooded gaze, Kakashi watched as its dark silhouette melted into the night.

You aren’t too fond of them, are you?

An amused voice echoed in his head.

Exhausted, Kakashi didn’t resist the inviting pull of the recollection.

The teacher had watched him send off another report one late afternoon. He sat under the shade of the large tree that stood between their rooms. Unlike the cold glow of the moon, the light that fell was a warm gold, dappled. Bisuke had taken a liking to being curled up in Iruka’s lap, a habit he’d apparently picked up from Guruko, and the youth had been engrossed in a book that was decidedly not Icha-Icha.

It was true, he admitted. Kakashi wasn’t overly attached to his assigned crow messenger. That was why he had his hounds. Traveling on a plane of existence humans had no access to, they were only marginally slower than the birds. Impending tragedies, proclamations of death and loss. Any time a crow cried, it could be sending a slayer to his last battle.

No, unlike some of his comrades, he couldn’t find a reason to be fond of his messenger, exactly.

He walked up beside the teacher and leaned against the trunk of the tree.

“When was the last time a crow brought you good news then?” He’d challenged.

Iruka put down his book and closed his eyes with a considering look. His lips slowly turned into a smile, the kind that broadcasted thoughts of unabashed wickedness. Propping his chin with his hand, he looked up to Kakashi with a gleam in his eyes.

“Hmm. Obviously, when it told me you’d be coming here!”

Kakashi’s visible eye twitched incredulously.

Iruka tried to keep a straight face, but quickly ended up turning his head away, bringing a hand to his mouth in a sorry attempt to stifle his laughter.

“Oi, don’t laugh so hard at your own joke.” he’d sighed, exasperated.

It only served to have the opposite effect. Bisuke, awoken by the shaking, looked up, blinking at Kakashi blearily.

After a few more awkward moments, the laughter finally settled.

“But you know, in hindsight, it’s not a joke. I really do mean it” Iruka sighed with a soft expression.

Kakashi didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed he felt pleased by the admission, weirdly enough. He’d been sent to do a job, and while he’d dreaded it at first, being away from where he was most useful, he couldn’t say it was a complete waste of time. Iruka had proven to be a patient teacher in the art of fuda seals. It was also undeniably interesting to watch him at work; the paper coming to life with scriptures composed of inky, stylised crows.

Regrettably, the techniques used for the bounded field required a deep knowledge and understanding of the terrain, far beyond what he had time for. While he couldn’t hope to achieve the same level of expertise by a long shot, he’d been taught a few tricks, and he always appreciated the opportunity to pick Iruka’s brain.

“You don’t have a crow of your own?”

Iruka shook his head. “You know I don’t get sent out on missions. Even the sword I use now belonged to my father.”

Another curiosity.

“Well, I can only say you’re not missing much. They’re supposed to be for official use only.” He’d said ‘supposedly’, remembering at the back of his mind, the numerous occasions Gai sent his just to annoy him.

Loud and brash, just like its owner. It even had a bowl cut to match.

Iruka leaned his head back against the tree. A group of starlings had soared by after emerging from the surrounding forest, their cries echoing in the evening sky.

He looked up at them wistfully, an expression that reminded him painfully of Tenzou. He’d often done the same.

“You may be right about that. I’d probably just grow to become envious of it.” He chuckled.

Kakashi watched the last of the birds disappear.

“Envious of their freedom?”

“Hmm...You think they’re free just because they can fly, Kakashi-san?”

Ever the casual philosopher, he’d come to know Iruka’s fondness for throwing him questions like these.

Kakashi thought of his own situation. Unlike the other Hashira who watched over their own territories, after Tenzou’s death, he’d been granted leave to move as he pleased, to retire from his post, if he so wished to. He could go anywhere he wanted.

But no, he didn’t think of it as freedom in any sense of the word.

“I suppose even a bird needs a place to rest its wings.” He said after some consideration.

After a long pause, Iruka bowed his head, eyeing the sleeping hound in his lap. Then he whispered, with a voice that spoke of wishes, of places far beyond his reach.

“Maybe true freedom…means having a place to return to.”

“Maybe.”

--------------------------------------

The approaching human presence pulled him from his rest. The moon still hung in the sky. It hadn’t been long.

Dressed in the uniform blacks, face obscured by a headdress, a corp member stood at attention before him. He looked just a bit nervous.

“Kakushi, reporting for duty, Hashira-sama! Do you require any medical attention?”

Kakashi shook his head, and took to his feet.

“Carry on with your duties. They need to be given proper burials. I’m heading off. I don’t sense any other demons, but stay alert.”

“Understood! May you see victory on the battlefield, Hatake-dono.” He bowed. He passed a satchel of fresh supplies to Kakashi before joining the rest of his comrades.

A thoroughly unpleasant job, but someone has to do it.

An hour later he found himself enjoying the hospitality of an elderly pair of bamboo cutters who had spotted and hailed him from the road. Sitting around a small fire, they offered him a bowl of hearty stew and to his surprise, a small cup of sake. He’d refused at first, but the couple had insisted.

“A small token for those who risk their lives protecting us.” The lady said, pressing the cup into his hands. The man with her explained that they too, had once been saved by a slayer on the road.

The Hashira didn’t have the heart to tell them they’d very nearly avoided a death trap not too far away. He would stay with them tonight, at least.

After the couple had retired for the evening, Kakashi stationed himself in the trees above. He would have fallen asleep too, had he not sensed Bisuke’s presence nearby. It had been nearly a week since he’d been sent off to the Forest of Death.

The hound materialised before him, and after receiving a grateful scratch, turned around to allow Kakashi to retrieve his quarry.

The first, a letter in a familiar, careful script.

Kakashi-san,

It is good to hear that you are alive. I do hope it remains so.

My thanks for sending Bisuke, the children enjoy his company, but not nearly as much as I do. Working for you, he deserves every bit of spoiling he gets.

As for a souvenir, I would have requested for Orochimaru’s head, but you did ask me to be reasonable. Instead, should you find yourself visiting headquarters again, I would ask that you find time for a detour. A selfish request, I know, but it would be appreciated. Naruto was just a bit disappointed that he didn’t see you leave with his own two eyes.

Having heard of your unfortunate circumstances, I’ve sent a small consolation. Should it run out, you’re more than welcome to send one of the hounds. I hope it brings you some comfort in your time of need.

Lastly, while you’re out there, why not take the opportunity to pick up some better quality reading material? Jiraiya-sama sends his regards, but also asks me to tell you he’s disappointed that you didn’t listen to him. Whatever that means.

Stay safe, and may fortune go with you.

Iruka

It was only too easy to hear his voice narrating it.

He chuckled as he read it one more time.

Note to self. Iruka is truly a man of extremes. A Hashira offers him a souvenir, and he asks for Orochimaru’s head or nothing at all.

Beneath a masked smirk, the letter found a comfortable home in his breast pocket.

Accompanying it was a small pouch holding a small container. He didn’t have to look to figure out its contents, but he did so anyway. The earthy fragrance of tea; a precious portion of Iruka’s personal stash.

It brought to mind quiet afternoons in amicable company, the warmth of a hearth, and shared, amused laughter.

“Bisuke, don’t go gloating about this to the rest. They’re going to get jealous.”

The hound grinned before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Alone, Kakashi looked up at the moon.

It seemed to glow a little warmer now.

One more thing to add to my list of duties, he sighed.

He’d have to find something good enough to send back for the tea.

--------------------------------------

End of Chapter 8

--------------------------------------

Author’s notes:

Woo, can’t believe we’re already at Chapter 8! What started out as a joke drawing has exploded into a completely, unexpectedly long fic with over 14 illustrations planned so far. I’ve never written anything longer than 2k words the past 15 years or so, so this has been a real brain stretcher. Thank you all for your kudos and comments so far, I always enjoy reading them! (They certainly encourage me to keep this on a regular schedule!)

Sometimes I also forget that not everyone is familiar with Demon Slayer, but I hope it’s been easy enough to follow along! Even if you aren’t, I don’t think you’re missing too much since I’ve made changes to certain parts of it. : )

Terminology and Fun facts:

Kakushi - ‘Hidden’ brigade (sounds very similar to Kakashi huh). They do all the clean up work following a battle. Typically staffed by non-combatants.

Fuda (Seals) - Protective charms that were, in real life, distributed by Shinto and Buddhist priests. The inspiration for Iruka’s is directly taken from the Kumano Hongu Taisha Shinto shrine in Japan. Googling “crow ofuda” will give you a good idea of what it looks like.

Again, thank you for following along so far! I’m having a lot fun writing and drawing for this : ) (at least, before I crank the pain factor up to 11).

See you in the next chapter!

[kessielrg]

[Kingdom Hearts] A Sleepy Confession

Summary: By far, Ven’s got the most boring job at the flower shop; the cashier. Sitting day in and day out for someone to browse along the rows of flowers and gardening tools, then probably walk right out again. Sometimes an interesting thing would happen- but they were few and far between. [flower shop AU focused on UX kids][Part 4 in a series of oneshots][VenxOC][EphemerxOC/F!Player]

Rating: K+

Word Count: 1,602 words

If you liked this story, please reblog!

. . .

Allergy season sucked. It sucked even more when Skuld wouldn’t let him take an allergy pill to combat some of the symptoms. But no, his allergy pills were the kind that just made you drowsy. Skuld didn’t approve of that, no sir. Not that it was going to make anything worse when he was already nodding off to sleep. Even just on the trip over with the window down, he could feel the film of pollen cover his eyes and making them more irritated than before. At this point, his thoughts were becoming so mixed together that he wasn’t even sure if Skuld was still in the building or not.

When the bell above the front door twinkled, he almost didn't react. Ven rested his head on top of his folded hands as he sleepily tried to decide who had come in. That information alone would determine whether he should pretend to be more awake or not. Whoever it was, it was a female around his age. The end of her black hair was obscured by the bulk of the hoodie she was wearing. Her eyes were covered with rose colored glasses, but it was when he saw the dark purple denim shorts that he thought he knew who it was.

“'Bout time you showed up.” Ven told this person without hesitation. “Brain's long left though.”

The newcomer paused. She looked over at Ven with a hint of confusion. Sure, Xion had been meaning to come by to buy some sunflowers for her room, but did Ven actually expect her? It didn't make much sense- especially if he thought she was here for Brain. Sure, there were times when her and Brain would get together and talk bohemian lifestyles when the feeling struck. It wasn't something  expected of them, though. Was it?

“I'm not here to see Brain.” Xion told the half awake teen.

“Good.” Ven then slurred. “Because we've got to have a talk, Sabrina.”

And that was when it clicked for the younger teen.

“Ven, I'm not-” she immediately tried to argue, but Ven cut her off with a frustrated huff.

“Shuttup, would you? For once just listen to me. I have a lotta say and I want to say it while I don't know if I'm awake or not.”

Xion couldn't hold back her little chortle. This had to be serious if he had the nerve to interrupt her. She could still tell him that she wasn't Sabrina, but now she was curious. “Alright then,” she mused, “What do you have to say to me?”

“You're a bitch.”

Not being the words she expected to hear, Xion jumped a good foot before shooting Ven a surprised stare. The only word she could get out was a flabbergasted, “What?”

“You heard me.” Ven asserted, nuzzling his head in his arms for a moment. “You're a bitch. And you wanna know why? It's because… It's because you're perfect.”

Xion gave Ventus a neat raise of her eyebrow before bringing her attention to a small arrangement with faux sunflowers in it.

“I thought you said I was a bitch?” she inquired, feeling it would be the thing Sabrina would say- if she didn’t get outright insulted. “How can I be a bitch and be perfect at once? You’re contradicting yourself, you moron.”

Okay, so Xion had to flinch at calling Ven a moron. She didn't mean it, but it sounded like something Sabrina would say. Apparently, it was a good guess because Ven didn't think of anything against it.

“That's because you make it contradictory.” he insisted. “You have to know you're doing it on purpose too. You have to know that one look into your eyes is like falling into a deep abyss of… of just losing yourself. Surrendering...”

Xion watched with some amusement as Ven started to nod off. He snapped back up when he heard himself snore, but he still wasn't fully awake again.

“You're so aware of your own body.” he then told her, letting out a long yawn. “Always finding things that work for you so well, and when you want attention, you get it. Even when you're not trying to be noticed, you still stand out. It's just… How can you not be aware of your own presence? Your confidence. Your… your...”

“Sexuality?” Xion suggested without thinking about it. Ven didn't confirm or deny the thought, instead letting out small hum as he adjusted his arms to cradle his head in his hand. A thought occurred to Xion that she quickly shook away. He was thinking about Sabrina, not her.

“I can always tell when you're faking it.” he then sighed. “The way you stand. The way you talk. You think no one notices, but I always do.”

The younger teen paused as she started to pick up a small vase with an artificial sunflower in it. She looked over at Ven with a curious raise of her eyebrow.

“Always?” she questioned in a small voice.

“Always.”

Xion idly rubbed her fingers on one of the sunflower's petals. “That's quite the ability, if you ask me.”

“Is nothing that special,” Ven slurred. “You can always tell when Roxas and I switch places. Same thing.”

Xion let out a small snort. It was true, Sabrina was usually one of the first to realize that Ventus and Roxas had decided to switch places for a day, for a prank or otherwise. Xion was also particularly good at it too -if not better because she lived with Roxas- so it wasn't a 'superpower' unique to Sabrina in any way. The idea that Ven could scope out Sabrina's little lies the same way was the odder part. Maybe there still was the same level of knowing that person well enough- not that it was particularly easy when the other was a notoriously good actor. Roxas and Ventus had well proven themselves to be bad at acting.

“Why can't you say all this on a normal day?” Xion then mused as she made her way to the main counter.

Ven gave a rather bitter snort at the idea. “Why? Why can't you-”

He cut himself off when Xion was close enough to get a good look at. Closer, it was easier to see how her face was more round that Sabrina's, and her hair was cut short instead of just hidden in the dark colored hoodie. For extra emphasis, Xion even brought her glasses down a bit for him to notice the playful sparkle in her ocean blue eyes.

“Xion!” Ven exclaimed as he sat back up. “How? When?!”

But the playful grin on her face grew.

“Do I really look that much like Sabrina?” she wondered with amusement. “I didn't even think we sounded enough alike. Her voice is a bit lower than mine.”

Ven took all it had in his power not to sigh, “And it sounds beautiful.” to Xion. Even after that initial jolt, he must have still been tired to daydream about his crush. Just thinking about it made him emit a low, pitiful groan.

“She's right.” he whined to himself, hiding his face in his hands. “I am a moron. I just told you all of that stuff about her and… Urg. I'm an idiot.”

“I think you're tired.” Xion mused as she gave his forehead a little poke. “How long did you stay up last night?”

“Same time as usual.” he insisted. “I think Aqua says it's allergies. My eyes get so sore I can't keep them open, and then the allergy pills we have aren't the non-drowsy ones...”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it.”

After a small shake of his head, Ven got the register ready to ring up Xion's little vase and single sunflower. He knew his face was flushed red with embarrassment. He was lucky Xion was the type to ignore the obvious clues when someone messed up. It didn't stop him from feeling bad about the whole thing, though.

“I'm sorry I got you too confused.” he told her, all but blurting it out as he handed her the receipt. “And thanks for, you know, not laughing at it. Or me.”

“It was a good speech.” Xion grinned. “Why can't you just tell her all that stuff? She'd listen to it if you show as much conviction as you gave me.”

“Do you really think she'd respond well to it?” Ven questioned back. “Let alone say anything about it at all? Depending on where we even are determines if she pretends to acknowledge I said anything.”

“Fair point.” Xion agreed with a little click of her tongue. “Maybe write it to her in a letter? Stick it in her locker or something at school, or even have Brain give it to her while they're at home?”

“Xion, I know I look like a sucker, but even I'm not stupid enough to think that would work.”

Xion gave him a simple tilt of her head before saying, “Have you tried, though?”

The corner of Ven's mouth twitched. He hadn't, really. But it was still intimidating- mostly because Sabrina herself was intimidating.

“She likes it when you're bold, you know.” Xion informed him with a little wink. She replaced her sunglasses, took her receipt and sunflower, then started to head out the door.

Ventus watched her with heavy-lidded eyes before placing his head back down in his arms. At least he could sleep now. He could dream of a solution to get Sabrina's attention. In his dreams, he was bold enough to do anything.

If only he could be that bold in real life...

[systlin]

It was some six weeks after her last sight of her Johnathan in the well when Arabella met the Lady in Blue.

She had returned to their home in the country, and had taken up her place as the lady of the house as if nothing had happened. Of course, there was much gossip around the recent happenings and the apparent return of magic, but the few times her maid boldly broached the subject of Mr. Strange, Arabella quite firmly told her that Mr. Strange was away for some time, but was well, and would return when he was able.

She tried to immerse herself back into the world of the gentle lady; she truely did. But after pillars of darkness and women who’d returned from death with a curse laid on them, after dances in faerie and gentlemen with hair like thistledown, it was...trying.

She found herself lingering in Johnathan’s library, looking over his bookshelves. There was little left in the way of magical tomes on them, but there were a few dense, dry books on the history of magic left, and she found herself sitting down to puzzle over them. It was difficult going; the writing was dreadfully dense and obscure, and she found little of interest in them.

But she persisted, even as tales of children working magic they read in twigs and people working spells that came as natural as breathing were told breathlessly by the servants. She remembered, though, Johnathan speaking excitedly of this ritual or that, and when she at last found a mention of a spell...one to light a candle, a trifle, really...in one of the books, she eyed the candles waiting on the reading table thoughtfully.

At last, hesitantly, she spoke the words. Nothing happened.

“That’s all nonsense, you know.” The voice was cordial, friendly. And utterly unfamiliar.

Arabella spun, snapping the book closed. At Johnathan’s desk, where he’d spent long hours writing, was a woman. A very queer woman.

She was tall, long of leg and arm, with a great tumble of auburn hair caught back in a simple braid. She was wearing a blue dress, a plain blue woolen dress with slits up either side to the hip. Arabella could see this, because the woman was leaning back in the chair with her feet up on Johnathan’s desk, ankles crossed. Under the dress were leather trousers, and plain leather boots, the sort a laborer might wear. They looked well worn.

She was looking at Arabella, rather bemusedly. Her skin was fair and freckled, and there was a long staff leaning against the desk next to her. Strange things that might be letters were carved into it, and stained red. Her eyes were very blue.

“Excuse me!” Arabella fumbled for the bell to summon the servants. “Excuse me, but how did you get in here?”

A wide smile, amused. “I go where I like. All ways open for me if I wish them to. And don’t be afraid. I’m not here to harm you. I am here to help you.”

“Who are you?” Arabella stood, moving towards the fireplace. There was a poker there, good and sturdy.

“Well now. Names are a powerful thing, and I don’t think you’ve earned mine just yet, Arabella.” The woman did not seem concerned as Arabella grabbed the poker. “But if you do not wish your Johnathan back, I will go, and not trouble you again.”

Arabella did not set down the poker. “I’ll make no bargains with you.”

“A wise course of action, were I a fairies. But I am not.” She produced a knife, seemingly from nowhere, and pressed it against the ball of her thumb until blood welled. “See? I bleed red, as do you. I am as human as you.”

Arabella did not move. “Why are you here?”

“I told you. To help you to get your fool of a husband back.”

Arabella did move at that. She straightened in indignation, spine ramrod straight, and lifted her chin. “My husband is a magician, good lady, and has served this nation in war...”

“Yes, he has, and he’s also a fool.” The lady in blue dropped her feet to the floor and stood. She was taller than Arabella by a good margin, and she slid the knife away into a sheath at her belt with the ease of long practice. “But he is a lucky fool. My lord has decided that he should be aided, and so here I am.”

Arabella’s eyes dropped. The sheath of the knife was decorated with black feathers, and more of those strange, sharp maybe-letters. There was another black feather tucked into the end of the woman’s braid.

Black feathers. Raven feathers.

She lowered the poker a bit. “Your lord? You serve the Raven King?”

She was taken aback by the response. The woman in blue threw back her head and laughed, laughed as if Arabella had just told the most delightful joke in the world. Laughed until she gasped, and wiped a tear from her eye.

“The Raven King? Oh, no. I don’t serve Uskglass. I serve the one that Uskglass learned from, same as he does. Uskglass is working some part of the great plan, same as me. We would be more...how would you put it these days...a colleague of Uskglass, you could call me. An acquaintance.”

“You know the Raven King?”

“Of course.”

“My Johnathan would love to meet you, he was always fascinated by the old stories.”

“Oh, he has. And they refused my aid, the silly twits, because they did not trust a sorceress. Had thoughts about a woman’s place, even your dear Johnathan. Thought me a faerie out to trick them. I knew they would, but I had to attempt it anyway. Anyway.” A nod at the book Arabella still held. “Those are useless, unless you want to use the pacts made by another, and even if you do wish to settle for a lesser power, you don’t need all that nonsense. A true magician makes their own pacts, and weaves their own spells.”

“Pacts?” Arabella finally set the poker aside, fascinated despite herself. It occurred dimly to her that the servants ought to be here by now, but it did not surprise her that they were not.

“The bond with the spirits that lets magic work. Magicians for centuries in this land have been using those made by Uskglass. None of them bothered to make their own.”

So easily said, it was. Knowledge that two centuries worth of magicians would have killed and died for, tossed out with the casual sort of air one would use to dismiss a servant.

“Lazy, it is.” The woman in blue shook her head. “But then, I suspect it suited Uskglass to have the magicians of his kingdom bound to him so, and having to rely on fae servants rather than their own power. It’s a clever move. Our lord would approve.” She looked at Arabella, in the eye, direct as an arrow. “So then. Do you wish to learn?”

“Excuse me?” Arabella said faintly. “Learn what?”

“Sorcery, of course. True sorcery, such as your fool of a husband has only dreamed.”

[thegizka]

The Masks We Wear

ShikaTema Week 2020 - Day 2 - Masquerade

Anbu AU where Naruto becomes Hokage shortly after Gaara becomes Kazekage.

Genre:  (Implied) Enemies to Lovers

Word Count:  1699

Read it on Ao3.

Temari was a bit surprised to see him there.  It wasn’t because their first encounter had been a fight nearly to the death before he called it quits and escaped.  It was because she could see him.  The rest of the Hokage’s anbu guard were meticulously hidden and staying that way, but he was lounging in a tree as though wasting a lazy summer afternoon.

She knew he was skilled enough to hide undetected, so why wasn’t he?  Perhaps he was just THAT confident in his abilities.  She could begrudgingly admit that he was capable; he had nearly defeated her in their first encounter.  But he was above all a strategist, and there was no advantage to being out in the open.  If anything, it jeopardized his kage’s secret meeting by calling attention to this outpost.  Was he baiting a trap then?  For whom?

The questions baffled her, but she had the self-control not to break her position.  He remained nonchalant and out in the open during the entire duration of their kages’ meeting.  She’d be lying if she said it didn’t bother her.  There had to be a reason for it.  Perhaps Gaara would have some insight.

“The Hokage seems genuine in his desire to collaborate,” Gaara mused as the siblings convened to discuss the secret negotiations.

“Is he trustworthy though?” Kankuro asked.  “He’s been Hokage for what, two months?  That’s barely enough time to secure the trust of your own village.  Why is he extending offers of peace to us?”

“He is an earnest character.  I do not think he is setting us up for a trap.”

Temari studied Gaara’s face as he spoke, looking for the nearly imperceptible tells in his stoic features.  Something had happened between him and the Hokage when they fought two years ago.  She didn’t know what exactly it was, but he had earned her brother’s respect and trust, which was quite a feat when he almost never trusted anyone.  It made her nervous.

“Temari, did you notice anything outside?” Kankuro asked.

“Things were quiet,” she noted, “though one of his anbu, the Deer, was a bit strange.”

“How so?”

“He didn’t attempt to conceal himself at all.  He just sat out in the open the whole time.”

“That is suspicious,” Kankuro decided, echoing her earlier judgment.  “They’re definitely up to something.”

“Was he armed?” Gaara asked.

“He’s anbu,” she said.  “Of course he was armed.”

“But was he actively displaying or holding his weapons?”

“No.  He was just sitting there.”

“It could have been a gesture of good faith,” Gaara mused.

“You can’t be serious.”  Kankuro’s eyes narrowed.  Temari agreed with him.  It was too unusual for enemy villages to show such trust at the beginning of alliance negotiations.

“I wouldn’t discount it.  As I said, the Hokage is earnest.”  Gaara closed his eyes in thought for a moment.  “Temari, I’d like you to mimic the Deer next time.  Be visible.  Appear unarmed.  Try to figure out what they’re intending with this unusual behavior, but don’t provoke them.  If it is a gesture of peace, we want to reciprocate.”

“You’re asking your sister to expose herself to what could very well be an ambush by enemy anbu,” Kankuro reiterated, not looking happy.

“Yes, but I know she can handle it.  And in case things do turn against us, I want you there to back us up.  Baki can watch the village in our absence.”

“He won’t like this plan,” Temari warned.

“He never likes our plans,” Kankuro grumbled.

“But he never says no to us, either,” Gaara concluded with something like an amused grin.

-----

A month later, Temari was back behind her mask accompanying her brothers and a handful of their anbu to another meeting.  They arrived before the Konoha delegation, which allowed them the advantage of choosing their positions around the little outpost which served to shelter the kage while they negotiated.  Kankuro checked that the building itself was secure before taking up his position in the shadows.

“Be careful,” he whispered from behind his mask before disappearing somewhere along the perimeter.  It felt wrong not to follow him into obscurity, to remain standing and visible beside Gaara where all advantage of surprise was lost.  But this was her mission, and she was anbu.  She was focused and ready to do her duty.

The Hokage arrived a few minutes after they had settled into their positions.  He paused at the other end of the clearing, and she had a chance to look at him straight on.  He was the same age as Gaara, remarkably young for a kage.  He also seemed unguarded and relaxed.  Perhaps that was the earnestness that Gaara kept mentioning, or maybe it was naivete.  She wondered if it was genuine or a practiced presentation.

Gaara stepped forward to greet him.  The Hokage said something to the Deer who was hovering at his shoulder before advancing to reciprocate the greeting.  The two leaders headed into the shelter to negotiate in private.  Temari wasn’t pleased with her brother going one-on-one with another kage, but both parties had deemed the current level of privacy necessary to these early stages of their alliance, so she remained where she was.

The Deer crossed his arms and leaned against a tree on the other side of the small clearing.  He looked relaxed, but she could feel him studying her.  She crossed her arms as well but chose not to lean against anything.  Her reaction time would be marginally faster if she remained balanced on the balls of her feet.

“It’s been a while,” he said after a long silence.  She didn’t say anything in return, allowing him to lead the direction of the conversation.

“We battled, what, three years ago?  A lot has happened since then,” he continued.

She watched his body language for hints of his intentions, but he appeared fully relaxed.  She expected no less from a rival anbu.  Temari thought of Gaara’s encouragement to use this as a chance to find out the Konoha delegation’s intentions.

“Are you still a crybaby?” she asked.  His head tilted slightly.  She had surprised him by replying.

“How do you mean?”

“Last time we fought, you turned tail and ran like a crybaby.”

“That’s not exactly how I’d describe it.”

“But you did run.”

“There are many reasons why running could be advantageous.”

“That doesn’t make you look less like a crybaby.”

“Do you usually insult new allies?”

“We’re not actually allies.”

“Aren’t we?”  He tilted his head curiously.  “We’re here for the same purpose.”

“A deer and a wolf may both go to a river to drink, but only a fool would consider them allies.”

“Are you a wolf?”  He pushed himself upright.  She could feel the weight of his scrutiny.

“Perhaps you’re the wolf disguised as a deer.”

“That level of deception is too troublesome.  I prefer to be straightforward.”

She didn’t fully believe him.  He was anbu, after all.  Half of their missions depended on deception.  But he hadn’t told her anything significantly unreliable, and his current behavior matched what she remembered from their previous encounters.  She didn’t believe that he was without a secondary motive, but he hadn’t given her reason to think it was antagonistic.  Perhaps he was being earnest enough to warrant some trust.

“If you prefer straightforwardness, why are you anbu?” she asked.  He shrugged.

“It’s the best way to protect the future I want to make happen.”

“Is it the future the Hokage is working toward?”

“He is a critical part in it.”

Temari thought that was an odd way of saying yes.  His voice indicated amusement, but his words gave the Hokage a passive role as though he were simply a part in the Deer’s plan.  Was he trying to manipulate his kage and take power, or were they simply working toward the same goal?

“Why are you anbu?” he asked, interrupting her contemplations.  Normally she would deflect, but his honest answer had earned reciprocation.  She would just have to choose her words carefully.

“I believe in the Kazekage and what he’s working towards.  Being anbu allows me to best serve him.”

“So we have the same goal,” he concluded.  “We should be allies.”

“Assuming our kages are in agreement.”

“That’s what these meetings are for, right?”

“I suppose they are.”

-----

When she met with her brothers to debrief after the negotiations, she gave them her honest judgment.

“I think they’re genuine.  I’m not ready to set aside all of my suspicions, but if this Hokage is as earnest as you say, he’s won over his anbu already.  The Deer, at least, seems committed to an alliance with us.  There was no aggression to our interactions.”

“Kankuro, what did you think?”

“There was no move to provoke us.  Their anbu were respectful of our positions around the perimeter and didn’t cause suspicion.  I wouldn’t invite them over yet, but I could see us getting along well enough to work with them.”

“Good.”  Gaara’s mouth turned upwards in a light smile.  Temari was still getting used to these smaller expressions of his.  “I would like to move forward with the next step in our alliance.  Temari, since you’ve started building a rapport with them, I’d like you to be the main messenger and representation for us.”

“I’d hardly call a fight and a conversation with one of their anbu much of a rapport,” she said.

“It’s all we have to work with right now.”

“I’ll do it, of course.  But I’m sure Baki won’t be pleased about this.”

“I’m not too happy with it either,” Kankuro grumbled.  “Kidnapping the Kazekage’s sister could provide a lot of leverage to our enemies.”

“You’re just upset that I get to leave the village and you’re stuck here helping Gaara with administrative work,” she teased.

“Whatever.”

The following night, Temari donned her anbu mask and took off in the direction of Konoha carrying a sealed letter formally requesting an alliance with the Land of Fire.  She felt the weight of Gaara’s hopes in it.  Those were her hopes too.  She thought of the Deer and wondered whether his hopes aligned with theirs.  She was looking forward to finding out.