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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

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Loaded Question.

Yan Arlecchino x Reader. Commissioned piece.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, brief alcohol mention. Word count: 2k.

The Knave has grown past the point where she must investigate matters herself.

If a person’s life is divided into acts, then she’d consider the final word of that era written. The ink has dried, the page long turned. Through excruciating effort, she climbed the ranks, claiming the revered title ‘Harbinger’. In this frosty wasteland, there is no higher honor, aside from holding the throne the Tsaritsa occupies.

Menial endeavors are below Arlecchino. Not due to a lack of interest on her part, but to prove she must never lower herself to such a degree again. Her ambitions are great, her drive greater. She won’t stop at reaching for the stars.

She plans to have the entire night sky twinkle and dance inside her palms.

So why do you, a lowly creature of the ground, interest her so?

It’s an itch that’s been bothering her for some time. She’d like to say there is some grand, overarching reason to explain away her curiosity, but she’d only be lying to herself. She’s read your file frequently enough to have memorized the document in its entirety. There was nothing of note on the first read, the fourth, or the thirtieth. Still, she searched, trying to find some justification for the intrigue you sparked.

Her efforts conducted from afar have been ineffective. This is why today, she’s trying a more hands-on approach.

You stand behind her, your Fatui mask in place, uniform dusted with remnants of snow. She isn’t facing you directly. She’s opted to gaze out the windows of her office, her back turned to you. By not facing her scrutiny directly, she hopes your body language will be more open. Reveal little nuances you’d otherwise try to conceal. She can still make out your movements by your reflection in the glass.

“It’s been a busy season, hasn’t it?” The cadence of her voice is smooth. It isn’t time to put you on edge.

That’ll come later.

“Ah, yes, there’s been no shortage of work to do, my lady,” you reply, a little eager, but not inexcusably so. You have no idea what her intentions are, after all. “It’s good, though. I prefer that over sitting around and twiddling my thumbs.”

You are nervous — hence the rambling — yet she doesn’t find herself miffed by it. There’s a touch of something in your tone that warms her, like a steaming cup of hot chocolate enjoyed by the hearth. Sweet, comforting.

She could never stop at one sip.

“[First].”

“Y-Yes, my lady?”

Arlecchino pivots on her heel. You straighten your posture, your spine going stiff as a board. She clasps her hand behind her back and looks at you through thick eyelashes.

“Do you have any idea why I called you here?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot. Poor thing, she muses. Your trepidation is tangible, thicker than the blizzards that paint Snezhnaya in silvery white. Some may call her cruel for playing with you like this, but they’d be wrong. This is her kindness. Allowing you time to think, to mull over what words you should choke out next. Her patience for you surpasses what she gives her fellow Harbingers.

Your shoulders droop. You must not think your response will satisfy her.

“I… can’t say I do. I’m sorry.”

Arlecchino sighs, shaking her head while she does so. Your guess was right — your response was unsatisfactory, though it’s no fault of your own. She’s holding all the cards. You don’t even know you’ve been dealt a hand.

“So am I,” is her unexpected reply. “Up until a few minutes ago, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill you or not.”

You go stiff enough at the admission that it might as well be rigor mortis.

She advances on you. Slow, steady steps, her heels echoing against the stone floor. Gloved hands raise to trace the outline of your mask. It’s then tossed haphazardly into some corner of the room. She smiles at the unobstructed view of your face. Your widening eyes, inward pinching of your eyebrows. She can feel your shallow breaths against her cheek.

“You aren’t a threat,” she isn’t sure if she’s saying this for your sake or hers. “You aren’t scheming, waiting for your moment to strike. I know what that looks like. The little tells that come with it. No… you’re just you. Unassuming, genuine you.”

Arlecchino drops her voice to a husky whisper. “Are you frightened, sweet thing? Do I scare you?”

She finds the trembling of your lower lip mesmerizing.

“I don’t want to be scared,” comes your admission. She raises an eyebrow. “I want to understand.”

This earns you a chuckle. It isn’t derisive, you just stir up pleasant sentiments in her that she didn’t know existed. She cradles your face in her hands. Through the fabric of her gloves, she feels the heat your skin radiates. Lovely, she thinks. You’re oh so lovely. She regrets not doing this sooner. There is no substitute for having you in person, at her mercy, which you’re unaware you have in spades.

With some reluctance, she parts from you. Her fingertips graze your cheeks while she pulls back. She returns to her position behind her desk, her back turned to you once more. Whatever barrier she’d previously torn down between the two of you rises again. It won’t be there much longer, but she still has work to do.

You’ll be a treat to enjoy later.

“You may leave.”

At her order, you rush to gather the mask that was thrown aside. It’s slightly askew when you set it into place. She assumes you’ll fix it when you’re free from the oppressive atmosphere of her office. You waste no time shuffling toward the doors. You give her one final glance over your shoulder, then the wood creaks open, your footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Arlecchino releases a shaky breath. How long has it been since she’s struggled to maintain her composure like that? She places a hand over her pounding heart, savoring the erratic rhythm. You cause the fleshy organ to sing.

What a delight it is. What a delight you are.

There is no moon out tonight.

The wind doesn’t howl, tree branches don’t rustle. All is eerily silent.

Your dorm room is a small, pitiful thing. You have a twin-sized bed against the flaking wall, an old desk, and a closet too small for her to stand in. Your personal belongings are next to nonexistent. A few trinkets, some books, and a candle whose wick is charred from frequent usage.

Arlecchino pinches your thin bed sheets, pulling them up for closer inspection. How is this meant to keep the biting cold away? How many nights have you spent awake, shivering from the eternal winter this land is cursed with? It’s unforgivable.

The groan of floorboards gives you away.

“My lady?” You squeak. Water droplets cascade from your hair, you must’ve just gotten out of the shower. She frowns, she’ll need it to dry before you’re taken outside. It wouldn’t do for you to be sick while adjusting to a new home.

“You said you wanted to understand,” Arlecchino motions to the box on your bed which contains all your personal effects. You rub your eyes, as if thinking she’s an apparition. She can’t blame you for believing that. “Well, here is your opportunity. You’ll be coming with me. I assume you have no complaints, correct?”

The abrupt sharpness in her voice gives you pause.

“I—” you shiver beneath the weight of her stare. “I… have no complaints.”

“Good. I wouldn’t have listened to them, anyway.”

Arlecchino drops the box into your arms. You hold it close to your chest, shrinking into yourself. She appreciates how quick you are on the uptake. The thought of exerting physical force on you was unappealing, it’s no way to start off a relationship. You’ve done well to keep your emotions in check. No crying, whimpering, or begging.

“I’ve decided to open my home to you. It isn’t a long journey from here. Whatever you need, I’ll provide, within reason. I’m sure you know better than to take advantage of my kindness.”

You nod, wholly incapable of forming words.

She gives a closed-mouth smile. “Excellent. For being so agreeable, I’ll let you ask me a question. Just one, however. Choose wisely.”

The cogs turning in your head are apparent. She doesn’t rush you, seeing as this is a reward for good behavior. It’s important you learn this early on. The lesson will serve you well.

Your lips part, a few words tumbling out that she struggles to hear.

“Hm? Speak up, [First].”

“Do I… need to report to work in the morning?” You finally croak out. The Knave blinks. A moment passes. Her hand rises to cover her mouth, muffling the sounds of her laughter. She feels light, euphoric, any slivers of doubt that you wouldn’t entertain her melting away. It’s foolish she entertained the notion to begin with.

She can’t remember the last time she laughed like this. Not serving some hidden agenda, just an authentic expression of joy.

With some difficulty, she gathers herself. “No, sweet thing. Accept my care and you’ll never need to lift a finger again.”

That night, when she sits by her fireplace, she has a servant bring in another chair.

The flame dances to some long-forgotten melody. It casts a warm glow upon your face, hypnotizing you with its gyrations. Arlecchino rests her head upon her fist. To think this study was a lonely place a few hours ago. The difference your presence brings can already be felt in the room, sinking into the little details.

Your coat hanging by hers on the rack. Your former Fatui mask resting atop the mantle. The chessboard between your chairs.

In a few more moves, she’ll have you in checkmate.

She’s broken from her reverie by the sound of you yawning. You try to cover the display, a futile endeavor, considering how sharp her senses are.

“It’s been a long day,” she muses, sipping the red wine from her glass. “You should rest.”

The fire crackles, a piece of wood falling into a pile of ash. Glowing embers spark in its wake.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid I don’t know where my room is.”

“Our room,” she corrects, a hint of fondness bleeding through. You finally look at her, your interest in the flame lost. “And it’s just down the hall. A maid can help guide you if you get lost, the servants of this estate are at your disposal.”

You mull over this revelation. She can’t fault you for your caution, especially since you’re exhausted. Still, she hopes you can piece together that she would’ve killed you by now if that was to be your fate. She’s going to lengths to ensure your comfort. Your gratitude might not be necessary today, but she’ll expect it soon enough.

“Then… where will you sleep, my lady?”

“In our bed.”

Your lips form an ‘o’ that she finds terribly endearing. The urge to tease your blossoms, its roots taking hold.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Arlecchino leans forward, steepling her fingers. “A goodnight kiss, perhaps?”

You stand up immediately, your face betraying your embarrassment. “I could never hope to expect that from my lady.”

“Hm. A pity, that is.”

She lets you turn in not long after that. As enjoyable as toying around with you is, she doesn’t want you sleep-deprived. You need to be at your best for the future to come. If you were to ever let your dissent slip through the cracks, it’d awaken a beast inside her that’s better off remaining in hibernation.

For you and her both.

When the flame starts dying off, she prods at it with a fireplace poker. Nothing can start or end without her express approval.

Not even the elements.

The Knave reclines in her chair, exhaustion’s tendrils wrapping snug around her.

This ‘investigation’ is turning out to be her favorite yet.

#arlecchino x reader #yandere arlecchino x reader #yandere harbinger x reader #yandere fatui x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere x reader #commissions #my stuff

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angst-king · 3 months

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Right or Wrong

((this story is an Au where Denki is a commission kid like Hawks)) (CW this story contains mention of drinking, and neglect.)

“Denki do you mind staying after class, a few of us need to have a word with you.” Denki’s anxiety spiked visibly and Aizwa had to reassure him that he wasn’t in trouble though it wasn’t very helpful. All throughout the day he had been wondering what he could have done to need to stay after class and talk to more than 1 teacher! When the end of school bell rang he anxiously packed his bag and approached Aizawa’s desk.

“You wanted me to stay after class, s-sir?” Denki stood a foot away from the desk as he looked up at the pro hero. Hands down by his side shoulders back almost military-like in his stance. Shota nodded and walked out from his desk telling him to follow. Denki wordlessly obeyed fearing the consequences of asking what this meeting was for. Shota led him to a conference room where Principal Nezu, Recovery Girl, Midnight, Present Mic, and Hawks all sat.

“Oh Ersaser you sure brought him here fast, I’m surprised he didn’t run!” Nezu commented as he sipped his tea, Denki sure was fighting the urge to run away. Though he knew that he couldn’t do that he was too frozen to move without orders besides, they knew he had a track record for running away. He did it on the first few days of school, he hid from them as if he was trying to escape! Shota offered Denki a seat at the table which he took and nervously played with the bottom of his shirt.

“I’m sorry to make you so nervous with having this meeting Denki, but we’ve done some examining and reflecting and there are some things we need to bring up. I promise you are not in trouble.” Denki nods and tries to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him as he listens.

“You are a commission kid, it was very obvious when we received your files. Do you remember when the class had to take a test regarding your home life?” “y-yes sir” “well we got concerned when looking over your results. You say that your parents are hardly home, i understand that they are pro heroes. So let me ask this how many days a month are they home for more than 3 hours of the day?” Denki had to think about that and shrugged, he was usually cleaning the house or doing class work so he didn’t notice too much.

“I don’t know, I’m usually busy I guess.” “That’s quite alright Denki, you say you buy your own food correct? Is it food for the entire house or is it just snacks that you buy for yourself while your parents buy the majority of what you eat?” Denki shook his head

“I buy food for the entire house though they tend to eat out most times and if I do bring my own food I keep it in my room so they don’t eat it before I can.” “Where do you get the money from?” “they put money into an account for me and I just use the debit card they gave me.” “Do your parents ever ask you about school, or do they know about your time at the commission?” Denki shook his head again and folded his hands in his lap. He was confused as to why they were questioning him about his home life. His parents were pro heroes so they’d be busy right? Plus he was 16 so he was old enough to be alone for long periods. There were a few more questions that Denki had to answer such as whether had he ever been to a doctor besides Recovery Girl, and does he had an emergency contact in case anything were to go wrong. When he answered ‘no’ to both of those questions he could feel the pity in the room weighing heavily on him then Nezu gestured to Hawks.

“Denki I’m sure you recognize Hawks right? Well due to both of you having a similar background with the commission we asked if Hawks would mind stepping in as your life mentor or parental figure since you don’t have one.” That's when Denki’s eyes went wide. Why were they doing this? He had parents, they were just busy! He was doing pretty well on his own, he was keeping up with his homework even if it took him all day and night to complete it! He kept the house clean, he could cook for himself too! What more could he need?

“Look I know this is probably a lot to take in and we’re not having Hawks replace your parents. He is simply filling in a role that they aren’t putting the effort to even create. As of today, Hawks is your guardian.” “M-my guardian?” “Mhm, think of it like him being a parent that you don’t have to call ‘dad’ but he does all the things parents are supposed to do” Then Denki’s face went blank, weren’t his parents already doing what they were supposed to do?

“Wait wait. I don’t mean to speak out of turn sir but….aren’t my parents already doing that? They’ve given me a place to stay, no one hurts me, they work a solid job and all I have to do is go to school, train, keep up with the cleaning, buy food and clothes, and occasionally do some maintenance work on the house.” Hawks then spoke up in his leaned-back position in the chair he sat in.

“Hey kid, we’re gonna take things slow and figure out where I need to do my whole guardianship duties besides filling out permission forms.” “….wait…. a parent is supposed to sign those?” “yes…” “oh….” Damn, Denki had just been signing his parent’s names on them since they just told him to do that when they were busy. Maybe there were some things he didn’t know he needed. When the meeting was over, Denki headed out the doors of the school with Hawks in tow.

“Ey kid, you got anywhere you need to be?” “Hm? Just the store to pick up things for dinner tonight, why?” “I’ll come with you and I’ll pay,” Hawks says as he catches up to the younger blond, Denki furrowed his brows at this.

“Why, I’ve got my own money?” “I know but I wanna help ya cut down just a bit. I know you’re most likely not spending your money like crazy but, it shouldn’t be completely on you to get food. Besides, I wanna know what you plan on making” Denki shrugged and let the pro hero walk with him down the street and into the city.

“I’m just making chicken and shrimp fried rice, I’ve got the rice already at home. Made sure to buy that yesterday, I just need to buy some chicken and shrimp, plus some seasonings” “oh cool! Sounds delicious” “did you wanna stay for dinner, I don’t mind.” “hmm we’ll see, kid” Even though the walk to the store wasn’t very far Denki tended to get nervous in crowded streets and seemed to stay closer to Keigo. Keigo didn’t comment on this and just kept this observation to himself.

Inside the store, Denki kept getting separated from Keigo by fan girls vying for the pro hero’s attention. Denki didn’t seem to mind or care, he just went around like the pro hero wasn’t there. Keigo would apologize for the interruptions but Denki would shrug it off saying

“You’re a pro hero, it's part of the job. I’m perfectly fine on my own.” Denki wasn’t wrong he was very independent, Keigo could see that. He could also see that his confidence was fake and that he was unsure of how to act around people still, his social skills he been stunted badly due to the isolation the commission caused. He took this opportunity to observe Denki’s mannerisms, behaviors, and how he would react to things. When the shopping was finished and they had to go back out into the city he let the boy stay close to him as they walked. He used to be extremely nervous in crowded spaces so he understood the fear.

When they got to Denki’s place, Denki welcomed the pro hero inside.

“Welcome to my house, I don’t know if Mom and Dad are coming home tonight since its Thursday and usually they don’t come home till Monday maybe Tuesday” What in the hell were they doing for them to be gone like that?! Keigo knew good any well that was not their pro hero schedule and if so it wouldn’t be that long! Keigo bit his tongue and placed his shoes on the mat beside the door as he stepped into the home. He was surprised to see how clean it was, there were a few alcoholic drinks on the coffee table of the living room which Denki apologized for but besides that, it was pretty well kept.

“No need to apologize, kid just a couple of b-” Keigo paused in his tracks when he saw Denki gulp what was in them. He swallowed it down like it was nothing! Denki noticed his staring and replied

“ I don’t want it leaking in the trash bags, so I just drink what’s left.” “You could just pour it down the drain, Denki, you shouldn’t drink!” He wasn’t mad but he was very concerned by his casualness. Denki shrugged only giving back a “waste not want not” before heading into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Keigo as still flabbergasted about it. He looked through that house it didn’t feel lived in, it had nice furniture but it felt more like a show house. There weren’t many pictures or pieces of art, the furniture was beige and the environment felt cold!

As he looked around he heard music start playing, pop music playing from the kitchen. He peaked inside to see Denki dancing while chopping up green onions at the kitchen counter. He was smiling and singing along to the music playing through his phone as he cooked. Keigo didn’t want to interrupt and just leaned against the threshold and watched the teen have a good time. It was sweet to see him enjoying himself in his own house, to see him relax and not be so rigid or scared.

“You need any help in there, kid?” Denki almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Keigo speak as if he forgot the other was there! Keigo chuckled and apologized for startling him. Denki sighed and just waved him off.

“Nah I got it, I already got the rice and meat cooking, shouldn’t be long.” He answered nonchalantly, his eyes focused on the task in front of him as he went back to humming along to the music. The electricity user seemed so at ease and calm! To think he had only been released from the commission a few months ago. Keigo wondered what traumas lay beneath his relaxed facade.

Once dinner was done, Denki gave Keigo a bowl to serve himself and they sat at the table. He took note of how fast Denki ate and he knew it wasn’t just because he was hungry. Denki was shoveling spoonfuls of rice into his mouth while his other hand held the bowl close to his body in an almost guarded way.

“Hey slow down buddy, no one’s gonna take it from ya. I don’t want you to choke, okay.” Denki nods and swallows what's in his mouth and takes in smaller amounts of food. Hawks figured he could ask him some questions so he could gauge how his interactions needed to go.

“So kid, you have any hobbies?” “mhm, tattoo designing” That surprised Hawks, he asked Denki to elaborate on this.

“Well I just like to draw on people, though i mainly do it to myself in places people won't look as often.“ Denki turned over his hand to show a small ghost drawing on the bottom of his wrist. It was done in pen and looked cool even if it was small.

“Wow that’s so cute” “Thanks I have a few others in different places, but I also just like to draw them in my notebook when I can’t focus.” “that’s awesome you’ll have to show me sometime!” Denki grinned proudly at the pro hero’s interest in his hobby.

“I also like to do body modding like piercings” “Piercings?’ “Mhm, i have a few” That made Hawks look up at him fast, he had to get a good look at Kaminari wondering where those piercings had to be for him to have them! Denki then rubbed at his nose revealing a septum a small silver piercing, he moved his hair back showing two lobe piercings.

“I also have a belly button piercing, and I’m thinking about doing a tongue piercing soon” “When and where did you get all of that done?!” “Oh, I did them myself. A week or two after being brought home, i decided I wanted to change some things up. I did the ears first I waited a week in between those two, I did the septum piercing the same month as the ears, and then last month I pierced my belly button.” “Wait you did it all yourself?!” Hawks asked worriedly, Denki nodded, Hawks was bewildered by this.

“Y-you shouldn’t be doing that to yourself you can get an infection or something!” “I took care of that, i sanitized the things that I used, wore gloves, and bought good jewelry. So far everything’s healing pretty well. Besides I didn’t wanna go looking around Japan for places that to it. You already know the piercing culture here is limited.” Hawks sighed at this.

“Please just be careful, I don’t want you getting hurt or damaging yourself.” That seemed to make Denki laugh eliciting a

“Aaaw you care about me or something?” Confusedly Hawks nodded

“Yeah I do, I may not be your parent but still, I don’t want anything bad happening to you.” “oh you’re serious?” Denki looked back at him.

“Hell yeah I am, and no its not just because I’m ‘assigned’ to look after you. I took this opportunity willingly because I know what its like to not have anyone to guide you when you get out. People do stupid things…but since that’s the case, if you’re going to do stupid things you need to be at least somewhat smart about it.” “….so no piercing my tongue?” “let's wait on that okay, kid?” “Deal!”

After dinner Hawks offered to clean up the kitchen and pack away leftovers so Denki could sit down. He wasn’t actually upset with him over the fact he was piercing himself. He was just worried about the risks, but he also knew that it was a control aspect. Being in the commission your bodily autonomy would be completely stripped from you until you were nothing but their soldier, their puppet. They owned you and there wasn’t much you had control over. Being released had to be not only overwhelming but confusing since you now have to figure out how to be a person without much instruction. Well, he already knew Denki didn’t have anyone to teach him so he essentially taught himself! Hawks did too, he was still figuring himself out though the biggest changes were transitioning.

Hawks was a transmale, and when he first started his transition he was lost and confused and was changing everything at once to not only change himself into what he wanted but to cope with his new freedom! He did a lot of stupid things he pierced himself, stayed out late drinking, and picked up some bad habits. So he could sympathize with Denki and see why he was doing the things he did, he just hoped he could be the guide he needed.

#king's fanfic #Denki is from the hero's commission #Traumatized Denki #denki angst #hawks angst #parental figure hawks #mha angst #mha fanfic blog

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unmaskedagain · 4 years

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Yeah, I’m done

I got in this prompt in November, if I remember right. I didn’t really look at it because… What the hell is a fall out fic?!!! I thought maybe it meant Lila exposed but I’ve done quite a few of those. However, I don’t really think I ever focused on it too much; usually, I stray to all the wonderful things Marinette does without them. This came from someone anonymous so It's not like I can just ask the sender… SO I decided to wing it.

Marinette could honestly say she had waited a very long time for Lila to be exposed as the liar she was. Over a year in fact. A very long fourteen months.

If Marinette was honest with herself, she would also add that she stopped waiting for any reason other than the fact she hated lies about… seven months, three days, and seven hours ago.

Why did she remember that so well?

That was the moment Marinette stopped trying to save everyone. Don’t get her wrong; she was still Ladybug. Ladybug was still a kickass hero. She did her job better than ever before.

However, Marinette decided to take a step back, breathe, and let the chips fall where they may.

Her fellow students, her once friends, had been trapped in the spider web of Lila’s tales; awestruck and utterly hypnotized into believing everything the Italian girl had to say. Even the ones about a girl most had known their entire lives.

A bully, they called her.

A selfish jerk.

A jealous bitch.

Her! Marinette! The girl who had done so much for them; had gone to bat for them more times than she could count, and obviously more times than they could remember.

Slowly, one by one, her friendship with each and every member of the class withered and died until there was nothing left but ashes.

It was then Marinette realized some things weren’t worth saving.

Marinette had no trouble forgiving them; it was who she was. But she promised herself she wouldn’t forget.

And if they could treat her like this, after everything, that she didn’t want to be friends with them anyway. Not now, not ever.

When Marinette stood up and announced her resignation from being Class President at the end of the prior school year, the entire class cheered. Like they did when Chloe was forced out of office. (…That only broke Marinette’s heart a little.)

The bluenette changed her number the day after school officially let out for summer. It wouldn’t matter, she knew. She doubted they’d even realize. Most hadn’t so much as texted her in months. Unless they needed something; a favor.

But Marinette was done with favors. Done with free commissions that no one ever seemed to realize cost her an arm and a leg; the fabric was expensive, art supplies for banners were expensive, designing was time-consuming. She was done with any free babysitting. She was done to bring in free sweets on big test days or when the class had a hard week prior. Marinette was done fundraising for class trips and events Bustier would exclude her from at the behest of the rest of the class for her “poor attitude” and “negative energy”. She was done with planning birthdays, making special presents, when no one in class even bothered to wish her a happy birthday.

And most of all, Marinette Dupain-Cheng was done fighting for people who didn’t fight for her. She had tried for months and months to get them to listen to her and what did she get in return? Deemed a green-eyed Liar! As far as she was concerned Lila and Chloe could have at it; do whatever they wanted.

She didn’t have a single friend in class.

They weren’t her concern anymore.

…

It took about a month into the new school years for the class to really understand that. Lila had originally voted in as class president, and had feigned a few tears while thanking the class for the honor but had declined due to being too busy. So Alya was voted in next.

Alya handled the first two birthdays, Ivan’s and Alix’s, really well; she decorated their desks, gave them a birthday card. However, the usual tray of baked goods that were usually brought in for every birthday never showed.

When Alya inquired if Bustier had forgotten to order the cupcakes, the teacher had looked confused.

Marinette tried not to smirk as she sat in the back of the class, pretending to look over her sketchbook.

“I’ve never ordered any before,” Bustier said. “Marinette always did. She was class president. It was her job.”

The two looked back at Marinette; expectant looks on their faces.

The Asian girl snorted. It was never the class president’s job. Chloe never did it in all the years she ruled the class with an iron fist. Marinette had done it because she had been their friend. And she didn’t order them. She bought the ingredients and made them herself.

“It’s the job for the new class president,” Marinette corrected and watched Alya’s face fall. Normally, at that point, Alya would try to ask Marinette for a favor; for Marinette to do it instead.

However, the glasses-wearing girl had taken to ignoring her ex-bestie as much as she could.

“Fine!” Alya huffed. “I’ll do it myself.”

The next thing the class realized had changed was when Bustier announced, “Maybe it’s time we start planning for any class field trips?”

Alya had nodded earnestly, and started making outrageous plans for all the trips the class could take; one to Paris Disney world, another to England, New York, L.A, and so many other very costly ideas.

Ideas, when Marinette was Class president, she would’ve quickly shot down as being impractical, expensive, dangerous, impossible, and any whatever other reason she could think of so the class wouldn’t get their hopes up.

Alya did no such thing.

Marinette just shook her head, and let her ex-friend dig her own grave.

The announcement happened in the morning. Alya had stayed behind when the bell rang for lunch to talk to the teacher and had blatantly glared at Marinette as she said so

And Marinette knew exactly what Alya was planning on talking to Bustier about.

Sure enough, at the end of the school day, Bustier had made another announcement; in front of the entire class.

Marinette really hated how unprofessional the teacher was.

Bustier made it clear that, once again, Marinette was excluded from the class trips that year until her behavior changed. This caused half the class, specifically Lila and Alya, to send her smug looks.

Marinette had nodded, “I understand, Miss Bustier. I can’t say it won’t be a relief not to have to help fundraiser.” The smug looks didn’t entirely disappear but a few faces looked confused instead as if they didn’t realize that meant Marinette wouldn’t help. “I always hated all the planning it took,” And doing all the work, she didn’t add. “Fundraiser after fundraiser. Coming up with the budget, making reservations, clearing it with the school board, clearing it with the parents, getting chaperones, actually raising the money.” She gave a fake sad sigh. “Oh well. Hope you guys have a blast though.”

Then it came time to plan for the first fundraiser. A bake sale.

Marinette had nearly fallen out of her chair laughing when Alya brought it up. Because the bluenette had always hated doing bake sales as she was the only one who ever brought in any baked goods. It was like the entire class thought that just because Marinette lived in a bakery it would be easy for her to get all the food needed.

It wasn’t. She made most of it herself and bought the rest with her own money.

“So who’s going to bring what?” Alya asked. She looked straight at Marinette and seemed to wat for the bluenette to speak. Only for Marinette to raise an eyebrow as if daring her to ask. Alya looked surprised for a moment before she seemed to remember that Marinette wasn’t going to help out. “We’ll make a list.”

No one said a word.

Marinette leaned back in her seat, with a smirk on her face. Alya had said they needed to raise at least $2,000 for the bakery. A highly unrealistic goal. Marinette had only ever raised $423 from a bake sale before.

“I can bring in cookies,” Alya offered once the silence and confused looks continued. “Anyone else? Nino?” She asked her boyfriend.

Nino’s eyes went wide, “Uh, I usually just play the music.” Alya glared at him. “But my mom has a killer blondie recipe. I can ask her to make some.”

Alya nodded, “Sweet. Rose?” And then, one by one, Alya called on each member of the class to see what she could force them to bring.

Even though all but one person in the class promised to bring something; it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a very big class. Theirs were the smallest in the entire school which was why new kids always got stuffed with them. In addition, flyers and a banner still needed to be made to promote the fundraiser.

It was clear as she looked at the list that Alya knew they were in trouble. And again, her eyes went to Marinette, a little bit more pleading now. Marinette just shook her head and started sketching a new dress.

She was done with always coming to the rescue.

Marinette didn’t go the bake sale. However, she heard about how much of a disaster it was from Aurore, her new friend from Mendeleiev’s class.

Half the food was burnt and overpriced. The flyers were terrible. And then it rained halfway through.

Suffice to say, the fundraiser was a bust.

And so were the fundraisers that came after it. Never once did the class meet their goals; though admittedly, their goals were never realistic, to begin with.

Marinette knew for certain by December that there was no way the class was taking any of the “oh so amazing trips, and it’s such a pity you can’t go, Marinette” they had planned. Or any good trip for that matter.

It took months for the school board to approve big trips; weeks to approve small ones. Paperwork needed to be filed with detailed plans ready to present. If a big trip got approved, and then for some reason, they couldn’t go and decided to do a smaller trip instead, new Paperwork would need to be filled out. The new trip would need to be approved. It wasn’t like Bustier could take the class somewhere without permission. And if it wasn’t done in time, there would be no trip.

In late October, Marinette posted a flyer on the class board, and around the school, promoting her new website. It got curious glances but only Adrien asked about it.

Adrien, who was neither enemy nor friend, but a neutral party who refused to get involved. His version of the high road, Marinette guessed.

“What’s that?” He asked. “You starting your own business?”

Marinette nodded, “MDC designs. I designed a bunch of clothes over the summer and got a few friends to model them; Aurore, Marc, Luka,” Juleka looked up at the mention of her brother “Kagami, Ondine, Claude Mireille; and a bunch of girls from the fashion club. People can choose the premade designs already promoted on the site and I can send it to them in their size. Or they can contact me for a custom piece; dresses, scarfs, nearly anything really. That’s a lot more expensive, though. Not at much as it would’ve been, say last year, but now that I’ve stopped doing free commissions, I could lower the price.” She said the last sentence louder than polite but she wanted the entire class to hear.

No one in class blinked twice at her statement. However, Marinette knew they would.

Adrien nodded happily, “Cool, that’s kind of what my dad did in the late 90s when he was starting out. Computers were like barely a thing he said.”

Marinette couldn’t picture a time without computers or her smartphone and couldn’t imagine a life without the internet. She shivered at the thought. “Aurore’s become really well known as an Instagram model. I gave her a few outfits in exchange for her promoting my stuff. She even got a few of her model friends to promote my clothes as well. It’s going really well. If the trend continues; I was thinking of doing a live, online, runway show. I’ve already been scouting places.”

That got some envious looks. Whether it was because Marinette was doing so well or because others would be used as her model, she didn’t know. She didn’t care.

Marinette was done caring about every stupid little thing.

The blond just nodded with enthusiasm, “You’re a great designer. I’m sure you’ll be a hit in no time.

“Hopefully, rather than later,” Marinette smiled. “It’ll go even better when Nadja promotes me on her show. I just have to babysit Manon for free for five random days of Nadja’s request that she could request … any time.” It had been a steep price but Marinette had been willing to pay. “She’ll even promote my runway show if I ever have it.”

The first time someone, Mylene, realized just what Marinette had meant when the drama club inquired to her about getting more costumes for the school play and she had no one to turn to. She took one look at commission prices for local tailors for custom pieces and nearly threw up. Marinette’s website, while still expensive, was a much better deal. Still, Mylene couldn’t afford it.

Nino needed a gift for his mom and remembered how much she loved the scarf he got her last year. He thought it was a good idea to get her something similar. But then he remembered Marinette had made the scarf. And Alya would kill him if he bought anything from Marinette’s website. So Nino settled on something small.

When the school dance came, for the first time the majority of the girls in class would have to buy their own dresses. They came from a store, were cheaply made, and were not nearly as amazing as the ones they previously wore.

All in all, it wasn’t the greatest year for Bustier’s class. Midterms had taken a heavy toll. It tense and everyone was clearly frustrated. So were Marinette’s friends from other classes. So during Lunch, Marinette surprised her table with delicious baked goods as a pick me up. The ones she normally would’ve brought just for her class.

Marinette pretended not to notice the hopeful looks on her classmates faces when she walked by with the iconic light blue Dupain-Cheng bakery box. And ignored the crestfallen looks on their faces when she headed them out to just her friends.

In April, it was clear that the trip to New York had fallen through as they didn’t have enough money. Alya had to rush to get something small approved before the end of the year; a trip to the local amusement park. Marinette didn’t laugh when Alya announced it to the class who looked really bummed all their hard work didn’t pay off. She didn’t even blink twice. It had nothing to do with her after all.

In May, the truth finally came out. It happened on a Thursday.

Lila had forgotten her lunch bag at home. Her mother brought it. Lila’s eyes went wide at seeing her mother and she did everything she could to get her out of the class as soon as possible.

Rose asked Mrs. Rossi, “How the meeting in Achu went?”

To which Lila’s mother replied, “A what now? I’ve never been to Achu.”

Marinette had merely leaned back in her seat to watch the fireworks.

And it was beautiful.

It was an even bet as to who had the bigger meltdown.

Mrs. Rossi: when she learned just how much her daughter had been lying; to her, to the school, to her classmates, and basically everyone she met since moving to Paris. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time and it caused a lot of trouble in the past which was why they had to move to France. Mrs. Rossi was quick to refute any rumors about celebrity meetings, traveling around the world, and ever meeting any royalty. And that Lila had no medical issues whatsoever and didn’t participate in any charity organization.

Lila: she had nearly been Akumatized when her mother started to reveal the truth. Luckily, Ladybug had been nearby to catch the little butterfly. (Marinette had just left to the bathroom, not that anyone had really noticed). The hero refuted ever knowing Lila outside of stopping her akuma forms.

And Finally Alya: who had burst into an angry rant and furious tears at being lied to. It was another near akumatization. Alya had to be physically restrained from attacking Lila once the realization hit her about her blog being discredited for lies.

A lot of the class yelled and made accusations but no reaction was nearly as extreme as the other three. Lila had taken advantage of her classmates for almost two years. They carried her books, remade plans so she could be included, took notes for her, threw parties to celebrate her newest accomplishments.

However, Marinette noted, not one of them mention the friendship they had destroyed because of their belief in Lila. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

The bluenette had long since realized she wasn’t ever as important to her ex-friends she once thought.

The entire class was still angry the next day. Lila didn’t show so vented to each other.

Marinette still sat in the back of the class, content to come up with designs to present to a nice lady who wanted a killer dress to wear to her sister’s wedding, and let the class deal with its own drama.

Unfortunately, some people didn’t get a clue.

“Marinette,” Adrien said brightly. Marinette fought not to look up at the sky and ask god why. “What do you think about the Lila situation?”

“I don’t really care,” The bluenette said. “I was done with the whole thing a while ago.”

Suddenly everyone remembered Marinette was there. Marinette who swore Lila was lying for months. Marinette who they had ostracized and exiled. Marinette who they had ignored. Marinette who had once been their friend.

Rose gasped, her hand over mouth, tears welled up in her eyes, “Marinette! I’m so sorry,” She cried.

“I can’t believe we were so mean to you,” Juleka said.

“Dudette, I had no clue what I was thinking,” Nino said.

More apologies came, each one more heartfelt than the last. Alya had been last. She looked like she had been stabbed from the pain her face. Eventually, the glasses-wearing girl cried, “I’m so sorry girl! I’ve been the worst bestie ever. I should’ve believed you over Lie-La.”

Marinette looked at her classmates, shrugged, and said, “Okay.” Then she went back to looking working.

That was it. However, clearly by the silence that came from the class. They had been expected a bigger reaction. Tears of joy and relief. Happiness to have her friends back. Anything but they got nothing.

Alya frowned, “Didn’t you hear us? We’re sorry. We should’ve trusted you, we know that now. We’ll make it up to you, we promise.”

Marinette sighed but shook her head. “No. Thank you. I don’t need you to make it up to me,” She said. “I don’t want you to make it up to me. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

“But, but…” Rose looked around for help. “We’re friends again.”

“Yeah,” Adrien said brightly. “It can go back to the way it was.”

At that, Marinette put down her pencil. She gave the class a hard look. “Let me make this clear because I have no intention of repeating myself: we are not friends. None of you,” She gave pointed looks to her ex-friends, the longest to Adrien and Alya. “Are my friends. You were mean. You called me names. You spread nasty lies about me because Lila told them to you. You excluded me from all class activities; despite the fact that last year I did the majority of the fundraising, the planning, and the work. You hurt me. Things will not go back to the way they were. I don’t trust you. We are not friends. And we will never be friends again. No amount of apologies will change that.”

Alya went to protest, “Girl, we’re-”

Marinette interrupted her, “Just move on. I have.” Then put her headphones in until Bustier managed to get control back over the class. As far as Marinette was concerned there wasn’t anything left they could say.

…

That didn’t stop them from trying.

No one in the class seemed to believe that Marinette, their everyday Ladybug, wouldn’t forgive them. Lila had been withdrawn from school and no one knew what happened to her. And without Lila’s presence, the class was sure Marinette would have no problem moving on from the drama the Italian girl had caused.

They never even considered the fact that Marinette had never been angry at Lila. She hadn’t been happy at her lies. But she had been furious that her friends had fallen for them so easily, particularly the ones about the bluenette.

“Hey,” Alya said brightly stopping in front of Marinette’s desk the following Monday morning. She thought Marinette just needed the weekend to calm down. “All the girls are planning a slumber party at Rose’s on Friday, you in?”

“No,” Marinette said firmly. “I’m busy,” She offered politely.

And she would be “busy” every time they wanted her to do something.

Too busy to go to all the parties she had been previously excluded from. Her ex-friends still hadn’t realized Marinette had never wanted to go after she realized they just weren’t worth it anymore.

Too busy hanging out after school. Or go to Adrien’s photoshoot. (Alya just wouldn’t understand that Marinette was so done with her crush on Adrien.)

Too busy to help with the school play.

Too busy to watch Kitty Section preform.

Too busy to go play video games.

Every day, every moment they could; her ex-friends were trying to pressure her into being their friend again, hanging out with them again, forgiving them. They just wouldn’t take no for answer.

Honestly, Marinette was just done with their antics.

Particularly the incessant need to make sure Marinette was on the “big” class trip; as if they believed if Marinette went it would make up for everything.

Marinette made it clear she really, truly was way too busy to go some random beach trip. She really did have plans and she couldn’t back out of them. They were too important.

But her ex-friends kept bringing it up, with Alya leading the charge, over and over again. They didn’t care what Marinette wanted at all. And once more, Marinette was reminded why she was glad they weren’t her friends anymore.

Eventually, once again, they got the teacher involved. Bustier had so “nicely” announced in front of the class, that Marinette was more than welcome to go on the class trip with them and that they looked forward to coming along.

And as far as Marinette was concerned that was the final straw.

“I’m good,” Marinette said. “Seeing as my behavior hasn’t changed. I think its best I don’t go; right Miss Bustier? That was what you said? And obviously to you thought it was a good reason.” She reminded the teacher. Bustier flushed a pink color at being called out. “It wasn’t like you, an adult woman, caved into peer pressure from your students and a childish need to avoid confrontational situations.”

Silence from the class. No one had expected Marinette to react as she did. In their minds, she was still their “everyday ladybug”; the nicest and sweetest girl in school. The idea made Marinette scoff. Where was that mindset when Lila got ahold of them?

The bluenette glared at the teacher, the woman who should’ve never let the Lila issue get as far as it did; never let Marinette be ostracized and bullied. “I mean, you called me out in front of the entire class to tell me I couldn’t go. Not the first or last time, by the way, you did something so… crass. Not the most sensitive way either.”

“Well, I think-” Bustier had tried to say but was cut off.

Marinette wasn’t going to let her have a word in, “I’m so glad I started to record lesson last year, for you know notes? You know after that expulsion incident? I worried about what I’d miss. It made it so easy for my parents to understand why I was excluded from class events because they could watch it. I mean I have months and months of video evidence they just… loved. They got to see exactly what this class is like on an everyday basis, and exactly how you run it. So did our lawyer, who seemed rather interested in my school. It turns out that physically harming, via tripping or pushing them into walls as you walked by just hard enough for it to hurt. Or destroying private property; like a phone, spilling water on a laptop, or sketchbooks filled with work for commissions. Or verbally bullying someone. Or sending horrible texts daily, all of which I saved and printed out, can be considered harassment. Which is illegal and the perpetrators involved could face criminal charges as well as be sued for the destruction of said property and for emotional ramifications I suffered. But a teacher would never let anything like that happen in front of them so it wouldn’t be on any of the videos I have, right?”

She let the words fill the room. Bustier had paled dramatically and looked ready to faint. The rest of the students who had taken to bullying Marinette instead of ignoring her looked sick. Marinette had no sympathy for any of them. They got themselves into this mess.

Marinette shook her head, “I asked them to chill for now because you’re the teacher. You did what you did for a reason. It’s not like you’d shirk your responsibilities on the class representative. Or force some poor student to be a model example and mediator for all class issues. Or god forbid, cater to the bullies and blame the victim; allow one of your students to be verbally and physically harassed daily. The videos I have surely would never show anything like that; let alone prove it in a court of law… No matter what my lawyer says. But again, you don’t have to tell me why.” Marinette already knew why after all. And she was so done with Bustier. “You had to have had a good reason. Otherwise, I would have to take this to the school board. And a judge in a court of law. And see if you can explain it to them. Maybe I’ll even send them to my mom’s best friend Nadja so she can put them on her show and the world can see too. And we can find out what everyone thinks of you and your teaching methods.”

The threat was clear to all.

Bustier better back off. Or Marinette would make her back off.

The teacher only had to slip once, and she was done for.

“Enjoy the trip,” The bluenette smiled cheerfully, in a way that reminded them eerily how she used to smile at them when Marinette was still their friend; still their “everyday Ladybug”. But instead of bringing warmth as it used to, all they felt was shivers. “It might our last one altogether. After all, who knows where we’ll all be in September. May be separated into different classes. Or different schools. With the way Damocles expels students with no procedure whatsoever, you never know. Or have a new teacher. We can only guess. I think its best if we just… leave things alone. With the way things are, if you push, you might get pushed back… right off a cliff.”

Marinette was done playing games.

When the class left for their “big” trip, Marinette had finally let out a sigh of relief. Next, she was so transferring to Mendeleiev’s class.

She was done with Bustier’s class.

While the students of Bustier’s class were playing at the beach and plotting their next move to get Marinette to forgive them, Marinette was fulfilling one of her biggest dreams.

The bluenette did have for her online runway show. She had spent weeks and weeks promoting it on her website. Aurore, some of the fashion club, and other rising Instagram models walked the runway in Marinette’s new line. Jagged hosted. It hadn’t been Marinette’s idea, but Jagged complained to Penny when Marinette turned him down the first time and Penny talked to Marinette.

Chloe made a deal to her mother to watch the runaway show to review in exchange for Chloe being one of the models. Again, Marinette expressed concerns but couldn’t turn down the chance of Style Queen seeing her clothes.

Marc helped designed the runway; to give it an artistic, futuristic, edgy look. Claude brought in a smoke machine and his laser machine that the used for his short films to make everything really pop.

Clara Nightingale let Marinette use her music as the runway music. The superstar performed a song during the show and promoted it on her social media feed in exchange for a few custom pieces and Marinette getting Ladybug to do some selfies with her. (Tikki had to be bribed with an entire tray of chocolate chip cookies, and to be left alone with the TV in Marinette’s room for the night; something about finally catching up on Game of Thrones.) Marinette was quick to agree. Though Jagged had been in a huff until Marinette agreed to let him close out the show.

The world took notice, albeit mostly because of Jagged and Clara. But Audrey, the Style Queen herself, had raved about how cutting edge it was. She claimed that an underground, exclusive, fashion show was the new big thing in fashion. The clothes were marvelous too. All in all, MDC’s runway was exciting, sophisticated, and fresh, just like her new line.

Not long after Style Queen’s review posted, the orders had come flying in on her website. Everyone who was anyone seemed to NEED to be seen wearing the MDC brand.

Marinette had smiled ear to ear for the rest of the weekend. She looked forward to what the future would bring.

It was a new day.

Which was great because…

Marinette was so done with yesterday.

#ml fic #ml salt fic #ml salt #Marinette deserves better #marinette dupain cheng #class salt #alya salt #A bit of Adrien salt

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sinsbymanka · 4 years

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Hey. I'm sorry. So. Your post about sunseekerknight is really long and it seems out of date. I thought everything had been resolved and she promised to make amends but this all started back around again and it sounds like your issue isn't solved. Can you update me real quick? Sorry.

Thanks for being polite and coming to me. I’ll try to summarize things to the best of ability while also noting this is kinda a clusterfuck. It got long, so it’s under a cut.

In March 2020, I commissioned @sunseekerknight (I’m blocked so I can’t actually @ her) to do a Tarot Card commission of my Inquisitor for $80. I sent the money via PayPal friends and family as she requested which is something I no longer do for artists, even though I’d done it before with no problems.

The main post goes over my initial experience really well - the repeated attempts at contact and missed deadlines. This post was made on June 18, 2020 and blew up. I informed Ada that day I was making the post and she told me she’d be doing so as well.

I’d already filed the PayPal claim which was ultimately denied because I’d sent the money via friends and family, despite SSK’s assurances she’d help me resolve it in my favor.

I didn’t hear from SSK after this and I didn’t contact her. My father passed away on June 20th and I was busy dealing with the personal fallout of that (he’d been in the hospital the whole month of June as it was) so my priorities swung towards processing my own grief and planning what happens next.

On July 10th, my PayPal claim was denied. I forwarded the claim to SSK with the following message:

I want to inform you that PayPal has indicated, due to the way you asked me to send the funds (friends and family), they are unable to provide any sort of refund based on their policies. It is your responsibility to make the refund.

Because of the history of fraud I've uncovered, I will be pursuing this further. I am, in particular, asking PayPal to mark this account as one used for fraudulent transactions and scamming money before closing it. My hope is that this account is in your real name and that getting this account marked for fraud has real consequences you have to live with.

I honestly didn’t expect to hear from SSK again, but I did on July 12th:

Oh, I see. Now the difficult situation has become even more difficult. I'm sorry to say this, but, as I said earlier, I had only two offers for people affected by my actions - a PayPal dispute or finished art. And since PayPal is useless in this situation, all I can offer you - is art. I’m still ready to finish your commission because I don't want you to be left with nothing. I would like to return the money, really, but it will take time and I don't know how much, considering the current situation on Tumblr. I still want to resolve this issue peacefully, despite what is happening now. I know that you don't trust me, and I understand this, as well as the fact that you are disappointed, angry, etc., but still I want to do at least something so as not to leave the situation as it is now. But if this is your final decision, then okay, I understand and accept it.

This message struck me as victim blaming. I am, after all, responsible for the situation on Tumblr which means she can’t get commissions. I reacted with some venom and my tone is not great here, but I do ask you to understand the frame of mind I was in here on July 13th:

I don't think it's fair to claim that PayPal is being unhelpful in this situation when it is you who are refusing to refund money for a service that was purchased and not completed. I think it would make me feel better if you started phrasing the "situation" in a way that took responsibility for it. Such as: "I cannot refund the money to you myself, because I spent it before delivering what you paid for, and I cannot get your dispute resolved through PayPal because I asked you to send the payment a specific way that precludes disputes."

I also feel hurt that immediately after I sent my email on Friday, you blocked me from Tumblr and turned all your social media accounts private. I can't think of why you would do this when you claim to still want to resolve this and when I have been more than kind. I find it difficult to believe that you didn't know what my review would cause - it sounds to me like this is something that has been brewing for awhile. Frankly, I'm amazed it took three years. I would also appreciate if, instead of blaming the "situation" on Tumblr for your inability to receive new commissions, you began taking responsibility for that as well. May I suggest: "My actions in the past three years have harmed many people and they are angry about it with good cause. Because I have damaged my reputation to a great extent, I will probably not receive many, if any, people willing to pay me money for commissions."

I fully expect to receive nothing from you: art or my money returned. When speaking with PayPal on Friday, they advised the only way to shut your PayPal account down is if I file a criminal complaint with the IC3, which is the US's Internet Crimes division of the FBI. I did so and sent them the screenshots I have of all our conversations, your posts on Tumblr, and links to the posts of other people who publicly came out regarding the same behavior they experienced. I'm uncertain I can withdraw my complaints from both PayPal and the IC3, and if I could I don't think I would. I'm sure this isn't something that is high priority for them, but I assume eventually they will contact you to discuss your actions. The way I see it, you have three options at this point in time:

Find some way to issue a refund to me, and any other customers you've wronged. If I am contacted by investigators, I will say a refund was eventually issued in my case.

Deliver the art you promised to me, and any other customers. If I am contacted by investigators, I will say a product was eventually delivered in my case.

Continue to ignore what you've done and hope that no real consequences come of it.

As to the art, I don't want it anymore. It has been tainted by this awful experience and I will not enjoy it. I will, however, accept it if you choose to do it to lessen whatever consequences you may end up facing because, truly, I'd rather you learn from this than end up with financial or legal consequences that are even more burdensome.

Honestly. I never expected to hear from SSK again. But I did because this is the drama that never ends. On July 20th:

I must apologize for the long silence. Sorry, I just got home from an unexpected vacation with my family, and I followed the advice of my parents and friends - spend these days away from work and the Internet to feel better. As I said, I understand you. You sound reasonable and you are totally right - it is my responsibility for that. And I'm trying to work it out, even if these are rather strange ways. And it wasn't about you personally. This was part of another problem with a friend I was trying to protect, and I followed the advice to keep the accounts private during the "war" and block some people on the tumblr during this time to avoid any collisions. But still, I was available for correspondence via email, and now all my accounts are again freely available. I know how it looks like, especially for you, when you have really been more than kind to me, and I cannot apologize enough to somehow change and improve this situation. I just fucked up on all fronts and I admit it. And I see, yes. I don't mind returning your art or money, it's just a matter of time. These are not days, these are weeks or months, and it is solely a matter of your patience. If you do not mind waiting, then I will try to return the money to you, since you no longer want art for obvious reasons. I understand and accept it, and it's okay. If you're willing to wait, I'll keep you informed of the refund situation and will do it as soon as I can.

You’ll note earlier I told you I can’t tag SSK cause I’m blocked. I’ve never been unblocked since July despite her saying she would. This is also the last email I got from SSK. I’ve had no communication since to my knowledge.

At this point in time I was tired. Really tired. It was bad news I got this email exactly a month after my father passed because I just didn’t want to do it anymore. This is my second to last email to SSK in response also on July 20th:

Please feel free to do what you need to do to manage the situation. For my part, I have said and done all I can. I have asked for a refund for a service you have been unable to provide in a reasonable time frame, and thus you are legally obligated to return my money in the same reasonable time frame. That time frame has passed already.

When I am contacted by authorities about this matter in response to my complaints, I will tell them you have promised refunds but have not delivered. The only thing you could do to change this answer is to issue a refund before I am contacted.

This exchange is draining and unhelpful for me. I ask that you please do not contact me again until you are ready to issue a refund.

On September 25th, I was informed SSK had successfully opened commissions on Twitter and Instagram. This spurred me to send one final email:

I've been informed you recently reopened commissions to buy yourself something and met your goal, even though you only advertised on Twitter and Instagram.

I would like to remind you that I'm still owed a refund AND you shouldn't spend that commission money until you deliver on that art. Please do not rip and entire new group of people off.

There are other people, in the notes of the original post, who can attest to terrible experiences similar to mine. In particular, @starsandskies, @vorchagirl, and @charlatron have all come forward to talk about what she’s done and their experiences. Her pattern seems to be to open commissions, deliver a few, have the rest dragged out of her, and then to not do other ones. I drew the short straw this time.

I don’t know if she’s reading this - if she is, at this point all I really want is an apology, a list of people who are waiting for art/refunds from her, and a plan as to how she’s going to make it right. If she doesn’t do those things, I suspect I’m going to keep getting dragged back into this cluster for awhile to talk about my experiences.

If you’re waiting for artwork Non, open PayPal disputes and file complaints if you need to. The sooner the better.

#manka answers asks #sunseekerknight #this again #I'm tired of it again #sorry guys

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sassyduckqueen · 4 years

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One Bad Day- ML Prompts and One Shots 6

Whoo!! Finally did a Gotham/ ML crossover. The Valeska twins are my favorite characters from the show and I wanted to use my head cannon of them been the leaders of the jokerz gang in this so I did. Anyway, hope you guys like it :D Also warning Miss Bustier and Alya do not look good in this.

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"Dupain-Cheng," Alya's voice made her look up from her sketchpad. She sighed softly to herself as Lila and Sabrina stood next to her. All three had their arms crossed and sour looks on their faces. Marinette frowned to herself. Since Lila came back to school, she had made up so much stuff and convinced almost everyone that Marinette was the devil incarnate, which caused most of her class to bully her. Alya especially. She had turned from Marinette's best friend to one of Marinette's worst tormentors. She was also as bad as Lila herself. While most of the class bullied her, a few people didn't join but they weren't on her side either. Juleka, Rose and Mylene withdrew back into themselves, clearly effected by Lila's backhand compliments. Chloe stopped bullying Marinette but didn't stop others. She did look towards Marinette at the back as if she wanted to say something but then she would look afraid and shake her head. Nino didn't join in with the bullying either but like Chloe, he said nothing. Adrien, on the other hand... well... he still had his head in the sand and believed that Lila's lies weren't hurting anyone. She did have a small number of friends outside of the class though. Luka, Kagami and to her surprise, Adrien's cousin Felix had all joined her side and she had a budding friendship developing with Aurora but it was in the early stages. Never the less, she had high hopes for it. With another sigh, she looked at Alya who was still glaring at her.

"What did I do now?" She asked in a tired tone. Alya sneered, clearly not caring about her former best friend.

"We want you to give up your role as class representative," Sabrina stated as Marinette yawned. Both Alya and Lila smirked. It was their punishment for Marinette not falling into line.

"Yeah, you're useless at the job and we don't want a bully to be our class representative," Alya declared in a nasty manner. She believed that Marinette loved the job and would beg for them not to take it from her. She was wrong. As soon as the words left Sabrina's mouth, Marinette felt instantly relief. She had long since grown tired of been the class representative. Hell, at this point, she hand it back to Chloe with no questions asked.

"Ok," She stated, making the three girls blink at her in surprise. "I'm too busy to continue as class representative anyway. I'll tell Miss Bustier,"

With that, she grabbed her bags and walked over to the teacher's desk as she walked in. Miss Bustier smiled and looked at her.

"Is everything ok, Marinette?"

"Everything is great," She replied, rolling her eyes. Nothing had been great since Lila returned and took over her class. Nothing had been great since she was forced to accommodate for a liar. Nothing was great since she had been declared a bully because she didn't want to be friends with hers. Miss Bustier frowned. "I resign as class representative,"

"Marinette? Are you sure?" Miss Bustier asked, not wanting to lose her as the class representative. She was so organized and great at planning that Miss Bustier barely had to lift her finger to do any work.

"Actually, it was Lila, Sabrina and Alya who told me that they want me to give up my role and honestly, I'm more then happy to so yeah, I resign," She smiled before walking back to her seat and sitting down before looking at the stunned girls. "There we go. I'm no longer class representative,"

The class was stunned, along with Miss Bustier but she shook her head and smiled at her students.

"As Marinette has decided to retire as class representative, we will need a new one," Miss Bustier stated, completely ignoring the fact that Alya, Lila and Sabrina basically forced Marinette to resign. "Does anyone want to volunteer?"

"I will, Miss Busiter," Lila stated, holding up her hands. Miss Bustier smiled.

"Anyone else?" She asked but no one else rose their hands. They all were thinking the same thing. Lila had lots of connections. Lila knew lots of celebrities. Lila was the best choice to be the class representative. "Ok, if no one else wants to run then I declare that Lila Rossi is our new class representative. Congratulations, Lila,"

"Thank you, Miss Bustier," The Italian smiled sweetly as she looked at the class. "I promise to do my best. Alya, will you be my duty?"

"Of course, girl," She smiled as Marinette rolled her eyes. Once lunch rolled over, Marinette went to the classroom where the class representative met and told them what happened. They were shocked and disappointed but told her it was a good thing as she was getting more and more busy with her commissions anyway. She grabbed a folder that was practically bursting and wished them luck with the new class representative before heading to where Lila and Alya were having lunch. They began to glare at her as she walked over before she dropped the file on the table. Lila looked at it with uncertainty.

"What is that?"

"This is all of the notes, information and request forms on our class," She smiled sweetly before pushing it over to Lila. "These are all yours now. Now don't forget to send in permission forms three months in advance for trips outside of Paris. One month in advance for inside Paris. You'll want to prebook everything and use fund raisers to get the money. Oh and don't forget anyone's birthdays. For the last year, I've been setting up special birthday greetings on their desks, completely with a small present and a cupcake from my parents' bakery,"

"Can't you do that still?" Alya asked but Marinette smiled sweetly.

"No, I'm no longer the class representative," She replies, clearly happy. "That's now Lila's job. Oh and don't expect any free things anymore, Alya. Since we're not friends, you don't get the friend discount. If you want any food from the bakery, prebook and pay in advance. If you want a dress made, check out my website for a pricing list but make sure you don't leave it too late. Six months before an event is an acceptable time to order it. Do it any later and it will be rejected,"

She turned to the rest of her class who were sat at their table.

"In fact, that goes for all of you," She smiled before turning off and walking away. To Alya's surprise, there was a slight skip in her walk as if she was happy with the outcome. Alya sneered. That wouldn't last long when she sees what an amazing class representative Lila will be.

~Time Skip~

"Ok, class, I manage to secure us a week away to the USA," Lila grinned as she stood up in front of the class. Marinette was surprised for once. All of Lila's other attempts had been terrible but she guessed that she finally worked out how to do the work. Or at least she will when Lila reveals where they are going. The class were very excited as Lila smirked, believing they would be amazed. "We are going to...."

She went silent, creating suspense. The class's minds were racing. Was it New York? Hollywood? Florida?

"Gotham City!!" She squealed, expecting excitement but was met with silence and looks of fear. Everyone had heard of Gotham but not for good reasons. It was the city of Batman and his rogues gallery, who terrorizes the city. Lila took a deep breathe. "I know it has a bad rep but I promise you. Gotham is amazing. I've been there before and there is such a glamorous side to it that no one gets to see before the media is trying convince everyone it's super bad but a lot of those 'statics' are made up and there's hardly any villains anymore. I know Batman and he helps keep the streets safe,"

"Really?" Rose asked, feeling a little scared. Lila smiled and nodded.

"Gotham is truly amazing,"

~Gotham City~

For once, Lila wasn't actually lying. Gotham really was amazing and somehow, she had gotten them rooms in the Gotham Royal hotel, which was one of the most expensive hotels in Gotham but Marinette still felt uneasy. Neither Chloe or Adrien were here and somehow, Lila had convinced Miss Bustier and the class that Gotham wasn't crime central. She had declared that the media had made it up to get a good news story and that the level of crime was the same as most other places. Somehow, the class and Miss Bustier believed that. Marinette only decided to go because she knew her class would get in trouble. She might be angry at most of them but she didn't hate them and certainly didn't want to them to meet their hands at the likes of the scarecrow or another rouge. As soon as the rest of the class and Miss Bustier was booked in and heading to the lifts, Marinette walked over to the desk and tried to get her room.

"I'm really sorry, Miss but there's no reservations for a Miss Dupain-Cheng," The receptionist explained, frowning as Marinette sighed. Lila smirked over at her before playing the stupid card.

"Oops, I'm so sorry, Marinette," She gasped, walking over and handing her a different hotel card. "I completely forgot to book you a room too. I was so stressed with all the preparations. I hope you're not mad at me,"

"Not at all, Lila," Marinette smiled but she was fuming. She knew Lila did it on purpose but if she got mad or angry, Lila would spin it to make it look her fault. She turned to the receptionist who was frowning at Lila. "How much is a room for a week?"

"It's $2,100," The woman gasped, feeling bad for Marinette. "I can take off 20% but my boss will fire me if I go any longer. It would be $1,680 with that discount,"

Marinette sighed, knowing she couldn't afford it even with the discount this woman was offering her.

"Is there a cheaper hotel nearby?" She asked, making the woman frown.

"The Carmine Hotel is the cheapest hotel in Gotham," She explained, frowning. "Rates are $46 per night but its rough as hell and in the bowery area,"

"I guess I don't have much choice," Marinette mumbled before she grabbed her suitcase. She turned to the receptionist and smiled kindly. "Thank you for your help and I'm sorry for wasting your time. Have a good night,"

"Miss... here," The woman handed her pepper spray and a taser. "I hope you don't have to use it but this city is rough, especially at night,"

"Thank you," Marinette smiled before taking it. She put it in her bag and looked back at where her class should but naturally, they had already gone to their rooms including Miss Bustier. She sighed and left the hotel before taking her phone out and googling the location of the Carmine Hotel. She sighed and began to head in the direction that Google maps pointed her in. She walked through the streets, frowning they changed from rather neighborhoods to graffiti covered ones. She kept her head low as she noticed prostitutes, gang members and drug dealers hanging around. She sped up and made her way to the Carmine Hotel. She came to it, just as the owner put out a sign that said closed for the night. She rushed over but he closed the doors and locked them, making her gasp as she knocked on the door. Panic began to fill her as no one answered before she sank down to the steps. She was really glad she wasn't in Paris right now as she wouldn't be able to let her fear overtake her. Tikki flew out of her pocket and hugged her holder.

"It's going to be ok, Marinette," She whispered as Marinette began to cry from fear. She was alone in a city full of criminals and she had no where to stay. She knew Lila had done it on purpose but she had no proof. Tikki hugged her as she curled up in on herself and sobbed. Tikki rubbed her paw against Marinette's arm, trying to comfort her. Gradually, she stopped sobbing and just hugged herself as tears rolled down her face silently.

"Why me, Tikki?" She asked, looking at the little god with big, sad eyes. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"You did nothing wrong, Marinette," Tikki smiled, trying to reassure. "You're the most amazing person I've ever met. Come on, let's see if we can find a police station or somewhere safe,"

Marinette nodded and got up, grabbing her suitcase. She began to walk through the streets again, wondering where she should go. Gradually, she came to an abandoned amusement park. Looking at Tikki, she figured that maybe she could do what Master Fu did and hide in a merry go round til the morning. She carefully slid through the gate and made her way into the amusement park. Tikki shivered as they looked around. All the broken rides looked sad and the whole place had a spooky feeling to it. She shivered as the wind blew, carrying voices and the echoes of footsteps on it. She gasped as she realized they were getting louder. She quickly picked up her suitcase and hid in the nearest ride, ducking down as two shadows appeared. One of them seemed to be attempting to do a cartwheel.

"I'm bored!!" He stated, standing up straight before he grabbed something and threw it at the other. "Entertain me, Miah!!!"

"I'm not a performing monkey, Jay," The other replied in an annoyed tone. "And you're always bored,"

"Well, maybe if we were doing something instead of this, I wouldn't be so bored!!" Jay gasped, once again attempting to do a cartwheel. He laughed when he fell on his arse before backrolling and getting up. "Couldn't we gotten some ice cream before we came here?!"

"No, you're already hyper as it is," The one called Miah replied as Marinette watched them. She couldn't see their faces but Miah appeared to be wearing a wide brim hat and a long coat where as Jay seemed to be in some kind of suit. "Besides, we're already here,"

"Which reminds me... why are we here?" Jay asked as he did a hand stand before straightening up. Marinette could hear Miah groan in annoyance. "Hey, I don't like it here ok? Reminds me too much of the circus,"

"It would," Miah muttered as the clouds moved in the sky, revealing the moon and allowing it to light up the park including the two newcomers. Marinette covered her mouth as she gasped in shock at their appearances. They weren't much older then herself but the two of them were some of the most terrifying people she had ever seen. Jay was dressed in a light gray tailcoat, black pants and a yellow shirt, completely with white shoes and gloves. His ginger hair was spiked up and he appear to have scars across his face and surrounding his eyes. The part that creeped Marinette out the most was the grin that had been carved his face. Miah, on the other hand, was wearing a dark coat with purple details, a black wide brim hat, extremely colorful shoes and a two toned pants. He wore sunglasses, despite it been night and did haven't a single scar. However, his skin was a ghastly shade of white and his lips appeared to be stained red, giving him a similar look to the Joker. In fact, both of them resembled the joker in some sort of way. Jay with his permanent smile and Miah with his chalky skin and red lips. "Anyway, we're because-"

"Because?" Jay asked as Miah stopped talking.

"Shh," He stated, looking around. Jay pouted but when quiet as Miah turned to him. "We're not alone,"

Marinette's eyes widen in fear and she covered her mouth to cover her breathing as Jay tilted his head in confusion.

"Are you sure you're not just hearing voices again, Miah?" He asked.

"It wasn't a voice, you idiot," Miah replied, annoyed. "It was breathing and I know what my hallucinations sound like. They don't normally breathe!"

Marinette was terrified at this point. She wasn't sure how things could have got worst but she was pretty certain she was about to be murdered. God, Lila would love that, wouldn't she? Despite her fear, she managed to keep herself from bursting into tears and began to question her sense. Why did she think it was a good idea to hide in an abandoned amusement park in Gotham? Maybe she would be ok if she bolted now. She could use Tikki to transform but before she could even think or say the words, a shadow casted over her as Jay leaned over and smirked.

"Found ya," He grinned before grabbing her and dragging her out of the ride but before he could drag her to her certain death, she twisted his arm and threw him over her shoulder, slamming him into the ground before she bolted, prepared to leave her suitcase but she tripped over Miah's foot as he put it out, making her fall as Jay laughed. He got up and walked over as Miah leaned on against a candyfloss stand.

"Huh?! She's just a kid!" Jay declared as Marinette curled up on herself, more concerned about protecting Tikki.

"A tourist... clearly..." Miah stated, walking over before dumping her suitcase next to her. She looked at it as Jay straightened up. "I assume that's yours,"

Marinette nodded.

"I'm confused though... if she's a tourist, why is she here?" Jay asked, making Miah tap his chin with his fingers before he turned to him.

"Wow, you actually had an intelligent thought," He stated, smiling a little. "But you raise a valid point... why is she here and not in a hotel?"

"Please, don't kill me," She gasped, making Jay gasp in a dramatic way.

"We don't kill children," Miah stated, making her look at him in surprise. "So why are you here and not in a hotel?"

Neither of them expected Marinette to begin to cry when Miah asked her that but both looked at her with concern as she broke down in front of them. Through her sobs, she explained what had happened with her class and how she had been bullied because she tried to call out a liar. She spilled out everything to them. Not just what had happened tonight but for all of the things that had happened to her. She had repressed her feelings for too long and even though crying in front of two people she was sure were criminals was probably a bad idea, she couldn't help it. Lila on purposely refusing to book her into the hotel was the final straw. She was just glad that she wasn't in Paris. She flinched as Miah knelt down and handed her a handkerchief. She blinked in surprise and carefully took it, thanking him as she wiped her eyes. The sound of extra footsteps made the three of them look in the direction they were coming from before Miah straightened up.

"Jay, could you take care of her while I attend to why we were here in the first place?" He asked, causing Jay to nod and turn to Marinette, who was still sniffing away her tears.

"Why don't we go get some ice cream?" He smiled, helping her to her feet and grabbing her suitcase. Marinette couldn't help but nod. "I know a diner that does it 24/7,"

"Really?" She asked as Miah walked over to the newcomers and Jay led her away from the scene. It didn't take them long to get to the store. Once there, he ordered two scoops of Chunky Monkey and asked her what she wanted. They took a seat towards the back but Marinette noticed that the owner was terrified of Jay and that he didn't pay for the ice cream. She decided that it was probably best not to question it though. Jay happily dug into the ice cream as Marinette slowly ate hers. She had a lot of questions but wasn't sure how to ask them. "Um.."

"Is the ice cream not good enough?" He asked, concerned before a murderous glint appeared in his eyes.

"Oh, no... the ice cream is good... great actually," She smiled truthfully before looking down. "I just have questions. Like why are you been nice to me? I'm guessing the two of you are criminals so it doesn't make sense,"

"Huh... you're a smart one," He grinned before getting a mouthful of ice cream again. "Me and my broski are criminals but even criminals have rules and limits and you are upset, scared and alone in the most dangerous city in the world. Anything could happen to you and I guess older brother instincts kicked in. Point is we're not going to kill you or left you alone in a scary city that isn't even your hometown,"

"How did-"

"Suitcase," He stated, pointing to it as the door opened. Jay waved his hand as Miah looked around before he joined them. "No one from Gotham carries a suitcase with them,"

"And also your accent," Miah stated as he waved down a waitress. She carefully approached as he smiled.

"W-What can I get you, Mr Valeska?" She asked, shaking.

"I would like a coffee. Black, two sugars," He stated before turning back to Marinette. "You're French right? I have to say your English is brilliant,"

"Y-Yeah, I'm from Paris... um thank you... we're required to learn it in school," She mumbled, playing with her spoon as the waitress returned with Miah's drink before she rushed off again. "Um... I don't want to be rude but can I ask about...."

She gestured to her face as she went bright red. She felt super rude asking but she was also extremely curious. The two nodded and looked at each other.

"You want to tell her or should I?" Jay asked, making Miah frown.

"I'll tell her," He stated, looking back at her. "Believe it or not but we were identical twins. I'm not sure if you know this but there was a villain called the Joker. Real nutjob and crazier then anything Gotham had ever seen before. No one knows his real identity and he just seemed to manifest overnight then one day, he just vanished. No one knows what happened. Some say the bat got him. I personally think his girlfriend, Harley Quinn, finally had enough and murdered him but no one knows for certain. Anyway, he had "fans". A lot of normal folk saw him as a beacon to say fuck it to the man but mostly they just kept quiet about it. A few of his fans, however, began to make their own gangs based on him. Most of them didn't last long but the Joy Boys and the Jokerz did,"

Marinette nodded as he listened.

"Well, we ran afoul of the Jokerz," Miah sighed. "You see we were you might call petty criminals. Nothing major. Stealing and cheating a few people in rigged games at the circus. Anyway, the Leader of the Jokerz, J-Man came to our circus and got pissed at us when we ripped him off. We brushed off his threats but that night, he had his gang break into the circus and kidnap us. They took us to ace chemicals and basically tortured us for 'cheating'. As a punishment, they decided to carve up Jerome's face, giving him a permanent smile and gave me a literal acid bath in the same acid that was rumored to have created the Joker. Hence, our very unique look,"

"That's awful," She gasped, covering her mouth in shock. "Did you report it to the police?"

The two of them laughed as if she had told a joke.

"This is Gotham, sweetheart," Jay smirked. "Police do nothing, especially when they're paid to look the other way,"

"Instead, we were branded insane and throw into Arkham Asylum. We were already a little insane from our life at the circus and the torture but been in the asylum... pushed us over the edge," Miah sighed as Marinette frowned.

"Y'all could go insane with one bad day," Jay grinned before he smiled. "But don't worry. We got our revenge,"

"As of right now, we are the current leaders of the Joy Boys and J-Man... well, he drove us mad so we simply returned the favor,"

"He's basically a vegetable in the asylum,"

"An eye for an eye. A mind for a mind," Miah smiled. Marinette shivered a little but to be honest, she could see where they were coming from. She wanted to get revenge on Lila. At first, it was to help her friends but Lila had been tormenting her so much that she just wanted to return the favor at this point... but she couldn't because she was Marinette Dupain-Cheng, kindest girl in Paris and the superhero Ladybug. Even if she wanted to give into revenge, she couldn't risk feeling those feelings due to Hawkmoth. Adrien would hate her if she did and what would Tikki think? She would be so disappointed in her.

"Is there a bathroom in here I could use?" She asked. Jay pointed in it's direction and she rushed into there. She locked the door and took out a deep breathe as Tikki flew out.

"Are you ok?" She asked, seeing the tears in Marinette's eyes.

"I really wish I could get revenge on Lila right now," She whispered, sinking down to her knees. "I must be an awful person to think that,"

"Of course, you're not," Tikki stated, placing her paw on her leg. "You have every right to be angry with her,"

"I know but I can't get revenge on her like those two," She sighed, frowning. "I'm Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I'm Ladybug. I'm suppose to be a hero,"

"Only in Paris," Tikki pointed out, making her look at her with shock. "What? Ok...look, I'm not saying that you should murder or hurt Lila but maybe... those two could help bring well deserved Karma to her,"

"You think I should ask them for help?"

"At this point, yes," Tikki stated, making Marinette frown. "Marinette, I don't normally agree with people like those two. They are more Plagg's area but tonight we learnt that Lila was willing to let you wonder the world's most dangerous city on purpose. She was probably hoping you would be mugged or murdered and that is not right. Your class didn't offer to help you and Miss Bustier abandoned you so if you ask me, I think it's high time we knocked them down a peg or two and I think our new friends can help us do just that,"

"But... I can't do that... right?" Marinette asked, clearly conflicted about Tikki's suggestion. Tikki gently placed her paw on Marinette's cheek.

"Why don't you think it over?" She asked, getting a nod of the young girl before they both jumped at someone knocking on the door.

"Are you ok in there?" Jay's voice asked through the door.

"Fine," Marinette replied before splashing her face with water. Tikki flew into her purse before she walked out and headed back over to the twins. Miah was sipping his coffee as Jay dug into a second helping of ice cream. She noticed he had gotten her a second helping too. She sat down and slowly began to ate it before Miah made a noise. Both Marinette and Jay looked at him.

"It just occurred to me that we haven't formally introduces ourselves," He mused before smiling and turning back to Marinette. "I'm Jeremiah Valeska and that is my brother, Jerome,"

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," Marinette stated, holding out her hand. Jeremiah smiled and shook it before she turned to Jerome. He shook it as well. "It's nice to meet you two,"

"Likewise," Jeremiah nodded as Jerome looked at him.

"Can we keep her?" He asked, making the other roll his eyes. Marinette blinked as she realized he had taken off his sunglasses, revealing that his eyes were in fact a pale acid green color but weirdly enough, it suited him. "I've always wanted a little sister. Hey, Mari, can we adopt you?!"

"Well, I'm sure her parents would be disappointed if she got adopted by two villains," Jeremiah sighed before looking at Marinette. "How long you in Gotham for?"

"It's suppose to be a week," She mumbled, getting a nod of both of them. She jumped a little as her phone pinged. She picked it up and blinked as she saw the time. Somehow it had become 4am. Letting a yawn, she checked the messages as the twins went quiet. Luka had sent her a message, wishing her luck with the trip, her parents had sent her a handful of messages telling her that they love her and to have fun and lastly, Lila had messaged her with the details of the event planned for tomorrow... well, what was technically today since it was 4am but with a threat at the end, telling Marinette not to show if she knew what was good for her. Marinette sighed softly and locked her phone, taking a deep breathe to try and center her feelings. The twins looked at each other with interest.

"Say, Mari, you're really good at controlling your emotions," Jerome stated.

"I broke down in front of you,"

"Yet here you are, clearly trying to calm yourself down and also you calmed down rather quickly earlier too," Jeremiah pointed out before leaning on his hands. "Why is that?"

Marinette sighed before launching into a explanation about how Paris has it's own super villain. She explained that he wasn't like the Gotham types as he was trying to get hold of two very powerful items that could basically end reality itself and he has the two to transform people into super villains, giving them powers and everything.

"I know that everywhere has criminals but Hawkmoth manipulates everyone's feelings. You can't get sad or angry because he use it to make you evil," She sighed. "Cat Noir and Ladybug are trying to defeat him but it's hard so we repress our feelings. That way we won't get akumatized. My friend, Luka, taught me some breathing techniques to help me calm down as I tend to get worked up and over-react but it's been really hard to deal with repressed emotions with someone like Lila around,"

"Lila?"

"The liar I told you about," She sighed, making the twins nod. "She is horrid. She actually got me expelled and framed me for been a bully and the worst part is everyone, apart from a small handful of people and my parents, actually believe her. Her stories are so dumb as well. The reason why my class is Gotham is because she convinced them and my teacher that it isn't dangerous and that the media is just trying to make it look bad. She claimed to have helped Batman and single handedly defeat a number of villains, including the likes of the Riddler, the Joker and Bane,"

"Seriously?" Jerome asked as Jeremiah giggled, clearly amused by the whole situation.

"Yes and they believed her!" Marinette gasped. "She once claimed a napkin could gorge out someone's eyes. A napkin! But it gets worst! The boy who she "saved" from the napkin that I toss to her was wearing glasses!"

At that point, the twins burst into laughter with tears in her eyes. Marinette couldn't help but smile a little.

"She claimed that she got tinnitus from rescuing a rockstar's cat from a runway," She stated as they laughed even more. "Mind you, this rock star has had a crocodile for ten years and is severely allergic to cats!! But nope, Lila rescued poor Mr whiskers from the nasty airplanes! Oh and then there's the whole "I'm dating Damian Wayne and we're so in love. He's the sweetest boy ever. My damiboo is devoted to me!" Like seriously?! Who is she trying to kid?!"

"She called him Damiboo?!" Jeremiah roared as Jerome cackled with laughter. "That kid is the coldest person in Gotham. Everyone knows that!"

"On the plane here, she claimed that she was practically a Wayne, that Commissioner Gordon is her uncle, she was best friends with Poison Ivy and Harley, that she helped the Riddler go straight after she defeated him, that she cured the Joker and that thanks to her hard work, Gotham is the safest city in the world," Marinette explained, getting the boys to laugh even more. To the point where they were hitting the table with their fists. "I wish that I could just prove her wrong,"

"Why don't you?" Jeremiah asked as he wiped his eyes with a napkin. "Her claims are so outlandish that it shouldn't be too hard,"

"You'd think but no one in my class believes me and the one person who knows she is lying is convinced that her lies aren't hurting anyone and that if we expose her, she'll get akumatized again," She sighed, poking her ice cream with her spoon. "He's more concerned about her then me. What if I get akumatized? Do I not matter?"

The twins frowned as she sighed.

"And it's not like I haven't tried," She frowned. "Everytime I provide proof of her lies, it's brushed aside and she makes me look bad. I tried to tell everyone from the beginning that she's a liar but I was told I needed to stop been jealous and asked where's my proof. My ex best friend posted Lila's lies on her blog without fact-checking a single thing and yet has the nerve to demand proof off me then refuses to accept the proof I give her! 'A good journalist always checks their sources' yet she didn't even bother to try and ask the heroes if they're best friends with Lila. Nope, instead she posted it straight onto her blog and refuses to listen to reason. Even Lila was friends with the heroes, Alya shouldn't have posted that cause it makes her a target for Hawkmoth and the rest of Ladybug's enemies but nope, I'm been jealous!"

"Why would you be jealous?"

"Oh, I had a crush on the same guy as Lila did but that was ages ago now. My feelings for him died the moment he put hers before mine," She admitted. "Besides, I have a different love interest now and the class knows it yet they chose to ignore it because I must be jealous at the fact that Adrien is in love with Lila. As if. If they opened their eyes and actually took a good look, they would see how uncomfortable he is with her. I'm pretty certain the only reason why she is still clinging to him is because he doesn't know how to tell her or anyone that it actually makes him feel uncomfortable but as usual when I point it out, I'm just jealous that they're in love,"

"Your class sounds like a piece of shit," Jerome stated, making Marinette sigh.

"They're not... not really... before Lila came, they use to be so nice," She smiled sadly, causing the two brothers to look at each other. "Me and Alya were best friends, I was the class representative, Adrien was sweet and caring, the class cared about each other. We would support each other and try to help each other. I would bring in food from my parents' bakery and would help make them things like banners and dresses. It was nice and peaceful. They didn't hate me or think I was a bully. I mean sure I would get tired from staying up to make a dress or they would ask me last minute to do something or to help them but I didn't mind,"

Once again, the two brothers looked at each others but neither said anything despite it been obvious that Marinette's class were using her. That was something they knew from personal experience and they also knew that it would only hurt her more if they told her that her class didn't care for her. She would deny it and get more upset. She would have to see it for herself and learn that lesson on her own. Besides, she had already been through enough for tonight.

"You know if you want, we could help you get a little even with your class," Jerome suggested, making her look at him.

"No... they don't deserve it..." She mumbled, playing with her hands. She was expecting the twins to try and convince her otherwise but they shrugged.

"Ok but the offer still stands if you change your mind," Jeremiah stated, making her look at him. "Now why don't we find you a hotel to stay in for the rest of the week? I'm sure you don't want more nights like tonight,"

She nodded and yawned a little.

"Thank you for helping me,"

~Later That Day~

Marinette sighed to herself as she arrived at Wayne Tower. She didn't want to go but she also knew that there were assignments on this trip that would affect her grades so she had no choice but to turn up. She frowned when she saw the group and Miss Bustier talking to one of the workers of Wayne Tower. Lila noticed her and narrowed her eyes before whispering something to Alya, making her ex best friend smirk and nod. She frowned, knowing she would have to be extra careful. However, she had a nice hotel room in Gotham's ritz hotel. It wasn't quite as fancy as the royal hotel but it was nice and not in a rough area. Jeremiah and Jerome had gotten her a great deal, causing her room to practically be free. Despite been criminals, they were extremely charismatic and charmed the hotel staff into giving her a huge discount and free breakfasts for the full week. They also gave her a number she could contact them on if she needed help. She was honestly quite surprised at how nice they were been to her. She offered to buy them breakfast as a thank you but they told her it's fine and that she owes them nothing. She put it down to their older brother instincts. She took a deep breathe and walked over to the class as Miss Bustier spotted her.

"Ah, there you are," She smiled, not even asking to see if she was ok or if she got a hotel to stay in. "Alright, class, let's head inside,"

Marinette sighed and followed the class in. She rolled her eyes when Lila began to talk but ignored it, just keeping herself to herself. Honestly, she couldn't wait to head back to her hotel and spend the rest of the day doing what she wanted. She frowned to herself as she saw Lila whispering to Alya again. She wasn't impressed with the smirks that they were wearing and it made her feel paranoid. The tour continued through the morning and yet Lila or Alya did nothing. Finally, lunchtime rolled around and just like in school, Lila got everyone she could to carry her stuff. Marinette rolled her eyes and brought herself some lunch before sitting down away from everyone else. She slipped a cookie to Tikki, who happily munched on it before continuing to eat. She was quite happy enjoying her meal when Alya walked over and slammed her hand on the table, making her jump.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Marinette?!" She practically screamed, making Marinette look at her fear and widen eyes. "Lila tried her damn best to get the best thing for us and you blame her for making one mistake?!"

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Marinette gasped.

"Blaming her for forgetting to book you a room," She growled, making Marinette frown before she sneered darkly. She snatched Marinette's drink. "I think I should teach you a lesson,"

Before Marinette could do anything, Alya proceed to throw the drink over and then dumped the rest of her foot on her. Tears welled up in Marinette's eyes, making Alya laugh.

"Good, you're so pathetic," She sneered. "I'm glad I decided to stop pretending to be your friend,"

"W-what?" Marinette gasped, looking shocked. Alya laughed at her reaction before smirking darkly at her.

"Did you actually think we were friends?" She asked in a bitchy manner. Marinette say nothing. "Because we weren't. I only befriended you because you had a use. You gave me free stuff and food but since you don't do that anymore... well, you're no use to me or the rest of the class,"

"B-But... we were... friends?"

"News flash! I was using you! All of us were and you were so desperate for friends you couldn't see it," Alya snarled, causing the tears in Marinette's eyes finally fall. She jumped up and ran as fast as she could but tripped up, causing the class to laugh. She rushed as fast as she could out, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes as she ran. She didn't care who she ran into but gradually she slowed down. She wrapped her arms around her waist as she walked. As she walked, the sky darkened and rain poured from it. She finally came to a stop and just fell onto her knees, tears sliding down her cheeks as she shook. Alya was never her friend. She was using her... so was the class. They didn't care for her. They just saw her as an easy target and used her for what they could. They weren't good people that were been misguided by a liar. Lila's appearance didn't force them to change. She just brought out their true colors. Adrien wasn't a kind guy. He was a doormat who cared more about Lila's feelings and keeping the peace then Marinette. Alya wasn't a fun loving, kind girl. She was a selfish, arrogant fool and she was never Marinette's friend. None of the class were. She was nothing more then a joke to them. A small giggle escaped her lips through her sobs as she thought about it. She was a laughing stock and never released it. They were using her and she was too stupid to see it. Her sobs slowly turned to laughter as she realized the whole situation. They didn't care for her. Everyone had chosen Lila over her even though she never forced them. They saw her as a bully, despite knowing that she would never do that. Her class were full of wolves and sheep. Her laughter turned manically as she slammed her fist into the floor. Tikki flew out of her purse and hugged to her cheek.

"Marinette?" She asked as she continued to laugh. "Are you ok?"

"I'm... fine..." She giggled, wiping her eyes before she cupped Tikki in her hands and gently kissed her head. "I just realized that the class see me as a joke and I finally got the punchline..."

"Oh, Mari..." Tikki sighed, hugging her cheek as Marinette took out her phone and called the only people who had shown her actually kindness in the last 24 hours.

(***)

"Here we are," Jeremiah smiled as he handed Marinette a fresh cup of hot chocolate. She smiled and muttered a thanks. As soon as she contacted them, they sent one of their hench women to pick her up. Ecco had located her quickly and brought her back to their hideout, which was an underground bunker. Jerome was sat on the sofa, watching some cartoon and Ecco had disappeared. Marinette took a sip of the drink and smiled a little as it warmed her up. "Ecco's gone to go find you some fresh clothes,"

"Thank you," She muttered as he sat down next and looked over some blue prints. "What are those?"

"Designs for the Riddler. Usually, he makes them himself but he wanted a maze this time round. I have experience with them and well we needed the money," He replied, drawing something. Marinette leaned over.

"It looks cool," She muttered. "Are you good at solving them?"

"Yes but I also like designing them," He replied, turning to her. "I designed this bunker actually. It's a maze,"

"Really?" She asked as he looked through the blue prints before placing one in front of her. She looked at it and nodded, tracing her finger along the escape route.

"Impressive,"

"I'm good at solving problems," She muttered, smiling as Ecco came back in, holding some clothes in her arms. She gestured to her, causing Marinette to follow her and showed her the bathroom, which Marinette was grateful for.

"I figured you would want a shower to get that drink out of your hair," Ecco smiled before handing her a towel and fresh clothes. "You can use my stuff to clear yourself and to wash your hair. It's on the left hand side,"

"Thank you, Miss Ecco," She smiled, causing Ecco to smile a little.

"You can just call me Ecco. No need for Miss," She smiled, getting a nod of Marinette. "I'll wait here so you don't get lost when you're done,"

"Ok," Marinette nodded before disappearing in the bathroom. It didn't take her long to get her shower but when she came out, she looked a lot happier. Ecco took her old clothes from her and showed her back to where the boys were before disappearing again. Jerome looked over as she walked in before the two of them moved and took a seat on the sofa. She sat down on the armchair and played with her hands.

"Now that you've had a shower and feel a little better, want to tell us what happened?" Jeremiah asked, making her sigh before she launched into an explanation. She explained how Lila had threatened her in a text last night and how she told Alya that Marinette had had a go at her for not booking her a room at the other hotel. Jerome happily pointed out that Marinette had every right to blame Lila as it was her fault. Marinette nodded and continued with her story, explaining why she was covered in a drink when she got here. Both of them looked pissed off when she revealed that Alya had poured her drink over her and threw her lunch on her before calling her names and revealing to Marinette that they were never friends and that she was only using her. Marinette sighed and sadly explained that she realized that her class actually didn't care for her. Sure, some of them weren't as bad as the likes of Alya or Lila but Lila's appearance had simply brought out her classmates' true colors and it wasn't good. They were either bullies or cowards. She sighed, looking sad as she finished her tale.

"So what do you want to do about it?" Jeremiah asked, making her look at him.

"Yeah! Are you gonna let them get away with treating you like shit or are you finally gonna do what you should have done in the first place and put them in their place?" Jerome asked. Marinette frowned a little and looked down.

"I can't..." She whispered, looking down at Tikki who gave her an encouraging smile. She looked up at the twins. "Look... what I'm about to tell you must never be repeated to anyone ok?"

"We can keep a secret," Jerome grinned, getting a nod of Jeremiah. Marinette took a deep breathe.

"You remember I mentioned that Paris has two heroes, Chat Noir and Ladybug?" She asked, getting a nod of them. "Well... I'm Ladybug..."

Both boys reminded silent as they stared at her in surprise.

"Great... now you hate me because I'm-"

"How the hell did you become Ladybug when you're like... what 15?!" Jerome shouted, making her jump as Jeremiah frowned.

"That explains a lot," He muttered, looking at her but to her surprise, neither of them looked at her with hatred but with sorrow. "No wonder why you refuse to break. You literally can't afford to,"

"She's 15, Miah!! She shouldn't be a superhero!!" Jerome screamed, standing up. "She should be having fun, not fighting a fucking supervillain!"

"Agreed," Jeremiah nodded. "How long have you been a superhero?"

"Since I was 13," She admitted, causing Jerome to scream and kick something while Jeremiah frowned. "You don't hate me?"

"Contradictory to popular belief, we don't hate heroes," Jeremiah explained. "Without heroes, villains wouldn't exist but what I'm more interested in is how you became Ladybug? Are you a meta?"

"Oh, no," Marinette stated, lifting her hair. "I can't tell you the details but it's basically magic,"

"Magic is real?" Jeremiah asked, frowning as Jerome ranted angrily. "I take it no one knows your identity,"

"Well, Master Fu does but that's because he gave me my miraculous,"

"Miraculous?" Jeremiah asked as Jerome went silent. She explained that it was a magical jewel that gave her the ability to transform into a hero. "Fascinating,"

"Does this Master Fu help you fight this Hawkbitch?!"

"Um... no..." Marinette muttered. "I have my partner Chat Noir but it's our responsibility to defeat the akumas and find hawkmoth,"

"An adult gave you that kind of responsibility?!" He screamed. Marinette nodded. "Oh my fucking god!! Right, we're killing him!! What kind of fucking adult dumps that kind of responsibility on a kid?! Even Jim fucking Gordon or Batman would do that!!"

"The Robins are children,"

"Yes but Batman is always with them and actually does the majorly of the fights! The Robins are side kicks, not full time heroes!" Jerome declared before stopping for a second. "God, it really tells you how fucked up a situation is when a villain like me is questioning it. Anyway, what has this gotta do with you not been able to get even with your classmates?"

"I'm a superhero,"

"Yeah but only in Paris," Jerome countered. "You're in Gotham City, sista! I think it's time to let loose, get even and have a little fun!"

"I'm with Jerome on this one," Jeremiah stated, making Marinette bit her lip. They watched as she got up and began to talk to something. Jerome rose an eyebrow before she walked back over. To their surprise, a red blur suddenly flew from her pocket, revealing Tikki to them. "Uh... Jerome... you're seeing that little red thing right?"

"Yep..."

"Ok, cool..." Jeremiah muttered in relief. "I thought I was hallucinating again,"

"Hello," She smiled, making Jerome jump onto Jeremiah and scream.

"It talks!!" He screamed, making Marinette giggle.

"It's ok," She reassured, gesturing towards Tikki. "This is Tikki. She's a kwami and agrees with your suggestion of having some fun,"

"What the hell is Kwami?" Jeremiah asked, shoving Jerome off him before looking at her. "Um... no offence,"

"None taken," Tikki smiled. "Also Kwamis are basically gods. We were created when certain ideas came into existences. I'm the kwami of creation,"

Jeremiah blinked and looked like he was having an existential crisis.

"Everything I know is a lie..." He muttered as Jerome sat up. "Gods are real..."

"I'm guessing you don't believe in gods?"

"Not my cup of tea," He replied, frowning as Jerome looked at Tikki before holding out his finger.

"Jerome Valeska," He grinned as she shook it.

"Tikki, kwami of creation," She smiled. "It's nice to meet you,"

"Likewise," He smiled. "Though it's my first time meeting a god,"

"So now that formal introductions are done, shall we make a plan?" Marinette asked, smiling a little.

~A Few Days Later~

"I'm so sad that we only have two more days left in Gotham," Lila stated, pouting as Alya sighed as well. Truth be told she couldn't wait to get out of this godforsaken city but it had served a purpose. None of the class had seen Maribrat since the Wayne Tower incident. Lila hoped that she had been killed and dumped in a ditch somewhere. It would serve her right for trying to expose Lila for what she was. Shaking her head, she sighed gently as the class walked to the Crystal Palace that was a mall. Lila was glad. She could finally get some new clothing. She could try and get some free stuff by throwing around the Wayne and Agreste names. She turned to Alya. "I wish I could off helped Batman a little more,"

"Don't beat yourself up, girl," Alya assured as they walked through the mall with the rest of the class. "You should be impressed with yourself. Thanks to you, Gotham is a safe city again,"

"Yeah, I supp- is that a jack in a box?" Lila asked as she stopped, along with the rest of her class. To their surprise, the mall security had cornered it off, called the police and had began to evacuate the area while the police checked over the box. An officer walked up to the class and began to order them to leave the area. Miss Bustier, however, tried to argue.

"With all due respect, it's just a big box," She pointed out but the guy gave her a dead pan look.

"Last box we had like that turned out to be a bomb. Now please move-" He stated but suddenly, a bunch of clowns holding machine guns suddenly came out from the different shops and shot into the air, causing Miss Bustier and her class to scream. The security guard took out his gun and pointed it at the clowns.

"GCPD!!" He shouted, clearly not impressed as the rest of his officers took out his gun. A couple of the clowns began to shoot, causing the officers to shoot back.

"ENOUGH!!" A voice shouted, making the clowns stop shooting. The officer frowned and lowered his gun slightly as a young man dressed in a black pin stripped trousers, a red shirt and a purple jacket walked out. His dark green hair was gelled back. Lila gasped in horror as she saw his face. She knew he wasn't the joker but he resembled him. He was holding up his arm and had something in his hand. He stopped and smiled as. "Dead man's switch! You're familiar! Another trick me and my brother have. Only this one's more advanced then the last. You shoot me, my thumb loses and then... boom, boom, boom... now I have several bombs sprinkled through the mall but of course, that's not the only trick up my sleeve,"

A few clowns marched out with a couple of hostages as well, followed by another young man. The class gasped in fear as they saw the scars and the smile that was carved into his face. He was wearing similar pants to but his shirt was yellow and he had a light gray jacket with white boots and gloves. His ginger hair was spiked up and he had a shot gun slung around his side. He was also holding a dead man's switch.

"Jimbo!! It's been a while!! Hey, are you and that cute doctah still together?!" He shouted, grinning. James turned his gun on him but he tutted, holding up . "Uh, uh, uh!! You shoot me and boom, headless people,"

"Man, I hate this family," One of the other office stated as James lowered his gun. Miss Bustier's class were clearly scared, expect for Lila. She was thinking how she could spin this into a fantastic story. "What the hell do you two circus freaks want this time?!"

"This is our little sister's welcome party," Jeremiah smiled, making the police officer groan as James looks at them in confusion.

"Little sister? You don't have a little sister!" James shouted as the officer groans.

"Another Valeska?!" He gasped. "Sure, bring out some crazy broad!!"

"I wasn't always crazy, Officer," A girl's voice stated, making me everyone look at her as she skated over to them. She didn't look like the twins. She had dark hair that was placed in space buns and wore a pink and blue jester's outfit with roller skates on, that were mismatched along with her stockings and gloves. Her make up was simple. She had stripes under her eyes and a tear drop on her left cheek. Her lips were ruby red and her eyes were a bluebell shade. James frowned as he realized her accent was french. She wasn't originally from Gotham. "But you know what they say. Y'all can go insane with one bad day,"

"Marinette?" Alya gasped, causing the clown girl to look at her.

"I'm not Marinette anymore," She stated. "I'm Miss Fortune,"

"Marinette, you ne-" Miss Bustier stated but she stopped when she saw the look on Marinette's face.

"Ah, Miss Bustier... you use to be my favorite teacher," She smiled sweetly. "Until you took the side of a liar that is. Did you ever consider that Lila hadn't booked me a room on purpose?"

"Marinette, I can't-" Lila stated but was cut off by Marinette's insane giggle.

"Oh but Lila. I'm not angry at you," She smiled in a psychotic way. "In fact, I want to thank you. You see I never would have met my brothers if you hadn't pushed me over the edge, turned my whole entire class against me, convinced them I was a bully and of course... if you had booked me a room in that hotel. Thanks to you, I met the Valeska twins and it's a real eye opener when two villains were more compassionate then my own class and teacher! Without you, I never would have realized that I'm a fucking joke to you fair weathered friends! It doesn't matter that you lied about everything. Cause they should have trusted me. That's what friends do! But no, instead, they claimed I was jealous! Refused to give me the benefit of a doubt! Well since I don't have friends, I thought why not make some new ones. Turns out most of the Gotham villains really, really hate liars and bullies,"

"What the hell, Marinette?!" Alya screamed as James looked at her. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Just because Lila is better then-"

"Lila? Better then me? That will be the day!!" She grinned, laughing in a way that made Lila uncomfortable. "Lila isn't better then me and I'm here to prove it. Unlike you. Jimbo, you're the commissioner right?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know Lila?" She asked, pointing at her. James looked over and frowned.

"No... I don't,"

"Really? Cause she claims to be your niece!" Miss Fortune stated, reeling off and debunking every liar Lila had said about Gotham before exposing the class and Miss Bustier too. She went into detail about how she broke down and how Miss Bustier didn't even help her find a place to stay. The more she revealed, the angrier James and his officers got. The focus was no longer on the Valeska brothers but on the french teacher. To her horror, she was arrested for child endangerment and negligence. Lila wasn't arrested for anything but neither was Marinette. In fact, she broke down and to the officers' surprise, the Valeska brothers stayed with her. They didn't even put up a fuss when they were arrested but insisted that Marinette was innocent. For the first time in his career, James decided to look the other way, refusing to arrest Marinette. She was taken down to the GCPD along with the Valeskas and the rest of her class. James connected a few of his friends to get the french class out of the city and back to their homes. Thanks to Bruce Wayne, it only took a few hours before they were all sent home.

~A Few Weeks Later~

Lila unlocked the door to her home and smirked, noticing it was once again empty. Her mother had pulled her from DuPont after the whole Gotham incident, shocked that her teacher would arrange such a dangerous trip for her class. Of course, she had kept her mother in the dark about her role in it and while she wasn't able to paint Marinette as a true villain, she still spun the story to seem like a hero in it. Last she hear was that Marinette was in therapy and had left DuPont as well, Miss Bustier was fired and the rest of their class had realized the truth, not that it made a difference now. The damage had already been done and she was still doing more. She walked over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water. She turned on the lamp and dropped it in shock as she noticed two people in her living room. Her eyes widen as the twin with the carved smile took out a blade as his brother sat in the armchair.

"Hello, Lie-la," Jeremiah stated. "Our little sister sends her regards,"

~Bonus Scene~

"Whoooo!!" Marinette giggled as she sat in the trolley. Jerome was running full speed, pushing her through the shop as the security chased them. Jeremiah was holding onto the edge of the trolley, laughing as well. The three of them jumped away, letting it crash into some where before running off. They headed into the nearest store and straight to the toy section. Jerome grabbed a toy light saber and threw it at Jeremiah who caught it before he grabbed a second one. Marinette laughed as the two of them began to fight each other, making noises as they did. Jerome paused the fight and gave her his light saber before helping her onto his back. Once she was comfortable, they resumed the fight with her and Jeremiah fight as Jerome carried her on his back.

"Die, Sith scum!!" Jerome shouted, causing Marinette to laugh.

"My force powers are too great for you, Jedi fool," Jeremiah replied back as he climbed on the table and kicked the display. "Oh, security is coming!!"

"Retreat!!" Jerome screamed, running off with Marinette on his back. Jeremiah jumped down and ran with them, grabbing a bag of sweets on the way out.

"Best day ever!!"

-------------------------------------------

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palbabor-writes · 4 years

Text

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

Warnings: Ghosts, spirits, blood, gore, adult language, death, mentions of violent crime

Word Count: 9403

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t.

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Notes: I went with a whodunit theme for this fic with some healthy ghosts and haunts thrown in. As this is pre-All Might’s retirement, Hawks is the #3 Hero.

Yōkai

Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters and spirits in Japanese folklore. The word 'yōkai' is made up of the kanji for "bewitching; attractive; calamity" and "spectre; apparition; mystery; suspicious."

The small island of Miyako is renowned for its turquoise waters, pristine coral sanctuaries, amusement parks, and sprawling mansions. All in all, it’s a trust fund tourist trap. Still, like most pristine and shiny things, there’s a seedier underbelly that’s scrapes against the rough, sandy bottom. Come at low tide and you’ll catch a whiff of decay and rot.

Miyako Island is another example of that duality that exists within everything. No matter how pretty the water, there are always dark creatures that lurk in the shallow shoals and coves.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands.

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty.

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police.

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable?

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’.

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words.

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask?

It’s the state of the bodies.

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased.

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks.

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back.

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?”

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens?

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again.

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains.

It’s not a confirmed connection.

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?”

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in.

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside.

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.”

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk.

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.”

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries.

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome.

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground.

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies.

It looks like rain.

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes.

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind.

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat.

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward.

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips.

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face.

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.”

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something?

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.”

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man.

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?”

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more.

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy. Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis.

That takes time.

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something.

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work.

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea.

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain.

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly.

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline.

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright.

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know?

It’s fucking weird.

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante.

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun.

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail.

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end.

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane.

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash.

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting.

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time.

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline.

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons.

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’.

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least.

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing.

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island.

******

The 9th victim is an outlier.

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier.

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body.

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin.

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon.

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop.

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here.

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth.

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off.

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick.

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion.

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house.

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline.

The voice startles him.

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over.

KEIGO TAKAMI.

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time. How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk.

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet.

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How...

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up.

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real.

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down.

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter.

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion.

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning.

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal.

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway.

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible.

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What?

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling.

There’s nothing.

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it.

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him.

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat.

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island.

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk.

It looks like...huh?

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors.

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back.

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs.

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing.

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow.

Oh, that’s why.

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively.

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth.

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to.

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell.

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...”

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH.

There it is.

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk.

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward.

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man.

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift.

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically.

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer.

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze.

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone.

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing.

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most.

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks.

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest.

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows.

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier.

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here.

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule.

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago.

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky.

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call.

******

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol.

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case.

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed.

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling.

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun.

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching.

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all.

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers.

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something...

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC.

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow.

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks.

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami.

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies...

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020

Beta edited by @albinoburrito

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black-streak · 4 years

Note

Hey I love your writing!! For a prompt how about a Timmari story where they keep meeting at a coffee shop and start dating. Then Mari gets a job at WE and finds out that Tim is a Wayne.

Oh! I love seeing your comments on my works! (and your username is 👌) this prompt was extremely fun and I ended up with a really cool premise imo considering it's only around 1000 words. If I didn't already have a long wip, I'd probably expand this a ton, so thank you so much for sending it in. Hope you enjoy!

~---~

Marinette never meant to become employed at Wayne Enterprises. Honestly, she's not sure anyone ever did, based on the stories her new coworkers shared with her upon her revealing that working there had been an accident.

They'd welcome her and ask how she came to find herself working in the office. From the moment she opened her mouth, nods of understanding and small knowing smiles came flooding her way.

So many saying they were down on their luck, taking odd jobs, even working for criminals when times were tough, just to put food on the table. Suddenly, like an angel of good omens, a business card passed by steady promising hands and a call later, they were working a stable job in a reputable company without fear of being laid off.

That… Was not quite how she came to be here, but they never let her get past the, "Completely by accident, I'm still not sure what's happening," so apparently surprise jobs were common in Gotham.

They were, however, taken off guard and even applauded her upon finding out exactly where she was stationed. How did someone like her end up with this position? Good question. She wishes she knew.

Sighing softly, she took her time heading up towards the up most floors, on a mission from her new boss.

Waiting on the elevator, she reminisced on her time in this wretched city thus far, trying to figure out how she ended up here of all places. She moved from Paris out of sheer need for change, sick of the overly safe, villainless streets. How does one act as a hero when there is nothing to be heroic about? Add on the money Fu passed along to her in accordance with her gaining guardianship of the miracle box plus selling the massage parlor he no longer had need for and it left her… well enough.

Setting up shop, she settled in quickly before reopening her commissions page and began working once more. It was around this time she met Tim, her now boyfriend.

The two had bumped into each other in the coffee shop down the way from her place, her newest haunt for sketching. Well rather, they bumped into each other numerous times on multiple days always at the same time and murmured soft, embarrassed apologies with light blushes and avoided eye contact. The usual barista began setting their coffee orders on a little table off to the side before their arrival instead of waiting for them to order and handing it off to them separately. Something about "shipping it" and needing the two to just "get on with it already".

This led to having regular conversations over their preferred beverages until eventually one had to leave, usually Tim. After three months of this dance, Cathryn, their barista, took the steering wheel once again and wrote a little message on his cup to just ask her out already. Three weeks in and she could not thank the barista enough. Her boyfriend was amazing.

It was around the time she first visited that particular coffee shop that she picked up a new love for creating fabrics and materials to incorporate into clothing. She began to look further into organic chemistry, using the information to help formulate new fabrics that were more durable, yet light and flexible. They quickly became a feature amongst her commission prices, allowing the truly daring to strike out and debut her newest materials in her stead.

Finally reaching the office she needed, she spoke briefly to a nice woman named Tam, who promptly walked over to the CEO's door.

"Miss DC is here with files for review and sign off."

"Now?" A familiar voice spoke up.

"Considering she is behind me, I would presume so."

"Did she mention which department?"

"She didn't."

A soft sigh, "Let her in."

Tam gestured her in with an amused, "good luck," closing the door behind.

"One moment please," he spoke, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. She stared in surprise for a moment, not entirely processing the situation. Finally she just shook her head and accepted her reality.

This might as well happen. Adult life was already so god damn weird.

"Take your time," she shrugged, taking a seat in the chair across from him.

His eyebrow scrunched up for a second in concentration only for him to snap to attention, surprise splashed across his features, "Marinette?"

"Morning Tim!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I suppose. Working. Guess this is a bit of a conflict of interest, huh?"

With a blink, he turned back to his computer and clicked through a few files, eyes scrolling the pages only to come to realization.

"R&D division. Direct assistant and secretary to Mr. Lucius Fox. Hired one week ago."

"Yup," she popped, completely unsure how else to react.

"I thought you were a fashion designer?"

"I am. Have my own business and everything. You're as confused as I am."

"Did you apply?"

"Nope."

"Then how- nevermind. I know how. Same way everyone ends up here. By surprise and random happenstance."

"Well yes, though I was under the impression I was being asked to create a suit for someone considering the email came through my site and not my personals."

His eyes seemed to twitch just barely. She got the distinct feeling he knew something she didn't. That was fine. He didn't even know her designer pseudonym yet. Speaking of them not knowing things about each other.

"I thought you said you were in the family business?"

"I am. Bruce Wayne is my adoptive father."

"Well okay then. On that note, Mr. Fox has requested your immediate attention on these files. He expects them to be returned to his office within the hour. The project will be underway in the meantime." She stated, falling back into work mode and dropping the stack onto the desk in front of him with great pleasure as his eyes glared at the paperwork.

"Not going to wait approval?" Tim asked.

"I've been assured that will be unnecessary. I may be new, but it's been made very clear to me. I only answer to Mr. Fox. You're more of a formality in this instance and will have no effect on my work."

He gaped at her before shaking it off with a laugh, "I assume Lucius himself told you as much."

"Pretty much."

"Of course he did."

"Still on for tonight?"

"If I get through the mess you just left me."

"You will. Only have an hour, remember?"

"I suppose we are then."

"Wonderful! We have so many new things to talk about," she stated, leaning in with a sly look before turning on her heel and sashaying out of the room, "See you later, Boss!" She called cheerfully on her way, cackling at his choked off response and violently red face.

Closing the door behind her, she met Tam's unimpressed, yet curious look, "What was that about?"

"Just found out my boyfriend works here!" She grinned, heading back to her own division to the sound of the Tam's gleeful laugh.

#timari #timinette #maribat #ml x dc #working on prompts sent in before the cut off #last two? i think will be put up tomorrow #what are timelines?#screw it Mr Fox and Tim as CEO can coexist

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queen-of-the-avengers · 3 years

Text

It’s A Match!

Characters: Sebastian Stan x Suzanne Annucci (second person; you; you’re)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: love at first sight, sebastian fluff, soulmates

Summary: Sebastian explains the pull he feels whenever he looks at you. How whenever he looks at you, he sees the rest of his life. Chris doesn’t understand it yet, but you’re the person Sebastian is meant to be with.

Part One

Part Two

Author’s Note: This is the third part of seven parts of the commission for @sea040561.

You don’t remember anything from your last dialysis treatment. All you know was that you were watching the Marvel movies when someone came into your room. It might have been a nurse to sit with you, but you’re not exactly sure who it was. Your chest catheter has been removed, and in its place is an AV graft. It feels weird to have something right beneath your skin, but you need it there if you want to live.

You’re able to go back to work provided you take it easy, but when are you never not careful? Since leaving the hospital, you feel ten times better than you did before because you got your dialysis treatment. You still hurt and are in constant pain, but it’s better than it was before.

Your boss was skeptical about letting you go back to work despite having a doctor’s note saying that you could, but you really just want to go back to work and continue living as if everything is normal. As soon as you got back to work, all of your coworkers shows just how much they missed you.

They brought balloons, made a banner, had a ton of food you couldn’t even eat, got you “get well soon” cards, and gave you lots of meaningless gifts. You should be happy you have a team to fall back on when things get tough, but this had the complete opposite effect on you. You should feel happy that they did this for you, but you feel empty. You should feel happy that you have people who care about you, but you feel sad inside.

None of these people know what it’s really like, and none of them make the effort to get to your illness. Each and every one of them talks about how sorry they feel and how they wish they could make you feel better, but you bet half of them don’t even know what an AV graft is. You have no one on your side, and that’s pretty fucking lonely.

The only time you actually felt like you were comfortable and felt safe is when that stranger came into your hospital room and sat with you through the session. They didn’t have to, but they did. You don’t know who they are, but you know you felt completely safe with them by your side. It drives you insane not to know who they are, but maybe they’ll show up next time or the time after that.

Hopefully, you’ll get to know the mysterious stranger who thought it was a good idea to take time out of their day to come and sit with you. In the meantime, you’ll just have to work and pretend like everything is fine… like always.

All Sebastian could think about as soon as he got tested, was you. Chris likes to tease him about it, but all Sebastian wants is another afternoon with you. He’d rather sit through every movie he’s ever made with you instead of going to Hollywood parties and pretending like everything is fine.

Chris thinks he’s crazy for going back, but once Sebastian has his mind on something, then there is no changing it. Sebastian drove to the hospital, excited to even get a glimpse at you. He doesn't know if the nurses will let him in, but he’s going to try his damnest to sit with you again. He’s memorized the floor and room number, so he doesn’t waste time going up there. He had to tell the receptionist a lie that he’s visiting his sister, but he’ll do anything to talk to you one more time.

He walks into the wing of the hospital you were in and approaches the window. He’s expecting you to be there, high on the drugs, and watching one of his movies. Instead, he sees a completely different person talking to a family member. This isn’t you, so where were you? His mind immediately goes to the worst possible thing.

Was he too late? Was his hesitation to get tested the reason why you’re dead? Are you even dead? In surgery? His mind can run through millions of possibilities, to remind him that you’re gone-gone, so he needs to put those worries to rest. He approaches the same nurse’s station as he did before, and one of them looks up with a smile.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes, the woman who was in that room yesterday, her name is Suzanne, where is she?”

“Suzanne…”

The nurse tries to remember who was in that room yesterday. She wasn’t the nurse who was working that day, so she has to go get the chart to refamiliarize herself with the case. She gets up and walks over to the area where they keep their paper files. Sebastian guesses they haven’t had time to digitalize them just yet. The nurse flips through the files until she finds the right one.

“Yes, Suzanne Annucci. She was discharged yesterday after her dialysis treatment.”

“Discharged? But she has kidney failure. Aren’t those patients supposed to stay in the hospital?”

“Most of them, yes, but there are some who only come here for a dialysis treatment.”

“Is it possible if you could give me her address?”

He knows it’s a long shot, but he had to ask.

“I’m sorry, I can’t disclose a patient’s personal information. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that was it. Thanks.”

If only Sebastian can get his hands on that file, then he would know where you live. Yes, that does sound stalkerish, but he doesn’t think he can wait until you come in for another session. Plus, he can’t keep going to the hospital in hopes you’re here. If he had your address, then he could hang around the places you normally go. It might be wrong, but he can’t help himself.

It’s in the name of love--as if that got anyone anywhere.

Another nurse calls the nurse that’s holding your file, and she sets it down on the table to tend to other business. No one is looking at him, so all he needs to do is sneak a peek before hightailing it out of there. All the nurses are busy, giving him this window of opportunity. He snatches the file and opens it, reading as much as he can.

He only has time to grab your address and work address before someone starts heading his way. He slams the file shut, returns it where he found it, and leaves as quickly as he can. If he has your work address, maybe he can walk in and pretend he needs something just to talk to you. He doesn’t know where you work, but he hopes he can figure out a smooth way to talk to you.

He doesn’t want to look like a complete stalker if he goes alone, so if he can convince Chris to go out with him, then it would be as if two best friends are hanging out. Chris is in the middle of a FaceTime call when Sebastian comes back home. Chris immediately knows the kind of look Sebastian has on his face, so he knows it can’t wait.

“Hey, Scott, I’ll call you later.”

“Alright.”

The older Evans ends the call first before turning to his best friend.

“What happened?”

“She wasn’t at the hospital, but I did manage to get her work and home address.”

“Dude, you realize this is a crime you’re committing. You can go to prison for this.”

“If I get caught,” he tries to joke, but Chris just rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m not going to harm her in any way. All I want to do is talk to her. I believe she is the one for me, and I can’t just let her go. I want you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“It’s less suspicious,” Sebastian shrugs “Plus, I want you to see this woman.”

Chris doesn't know how Sebastian did it, but he managed to convince him to go on this stalker run. Chris is only teasing Sebastian about all of this, but there is a line that he can’t cross. No showing up to your house and no showing up to your work. If he wants to hang around in hopes you might run into him, then that’s fine. Sebastian understands where Chris is coming from, so all he’s going to do is sit in the parking lot and observe.

He knows this comes off as creepy, but something inside of him is telling him it’s the right thing to do. Sebastian puts your work address inside his GPS, and off they go. It’s surprisingly not far from where the hospital is. For someone who has ESRD, he’s shocked you work at a place that requires a lot of physical movement. Though, when he pulls into a parking space that has a clear shot of the front lobby, he understands you’re only a receptionist. Seeing you inside doing your thing gives him a rush of feelings.

“Which one is she?” Chris asks.

There are multiple receptionists, so Sebastian points you out.

“The one in the red dress.”

“She’s cute.”

“She’s more than that, Chris. She’s beautiful beyond measures.”

“Okay, Romeo,” Chris chuckles.

“Look, I want you to understand where I’m coming from here. You may see just a woman, but I see the rest of my life with her. I believe in love at first sight and soulmates, and I believe she is mine. At first, our relationship would start off rocky because we live in such different worlds, but it’ll get better. She’ll become used to my crazy schedule, and I won’t mind taking care of her.

“I can picture our one-year anniversary. I’d take her to that spot by the Hollywood sign that no one really goes to, and we’d have a picnic up there when it’s sunset. I’d propose to her, and we’d both be so happy that we’d want to get married right away. I can imagine her walking down the aisle in a big white dress with all of her family cheering her on. She’d have this big smile on her face, and I know I’d be crying at the thought of being with her for the rest of my life.

“I imagine us having three kids--two boys and a girl--with two dogs and a cat. We’d have this big house that the kids can run around in, a big yard for the dogs, and we’d live in a safe neighborhood. I’d go with her for her dialysis treatments, to make sure she is going to be okay. Our kids will worry about their mom, but I’d assure them that she is going to be okay.

“I imagine waking up next to her every morning, to talk to her, hold her hand, kiss her lips, and laugh with her. I can see us growing old together.”

Sebastian is staring at you as he talks, but he looks away with a sigh.

“I know how this must seem, Chris. I know it sounds creepy, but it feels right. It feels like something is pulling me to her. Call it love, fate, or whatever, but I can’t ignore this feeling. I’ve never had this with any other woman before. I’ve never been able to look at a woman and know that I might have a real future with her. I am meant to love her, and just because you haven’t found someone like that, doesn’t mean it’s not out there.”

Chris doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s always known Sebastian to be poetic and emotional, but this is on a whole other level. He’s never heard Sebastian talk about a woman like this, so he knows it’s real. He can tell by the look on his face that he meant every word he said. Chris can’t tease him any longer because this just became real.

True, Chris hasn’t found someone like that, but who is he to say soulmates don’t exist. Chris loves love, and the fact that Sebastian might get a real shot at it is what convinces him that Sebastian is doing the right thing.

“Go inside, man. Talk to her,” Chris finally says.

“I will when I figure out how.”

“Alright, well, then, for now, let’s just go back home. You know where she works and where she lives, but I swear to God, if you show up at her house without talking to her first, I’m not your friend anymore.”

Sebastian just laughs as he starts the car and heads home. Despite not doing anything, he’s exhausted by all the emotions and feelings inside of him. All he wants to do now is lay in bed and read a book or something relaxing. Chris has other plans with his brother, so he gets ready for when Scott picks him up. Sebastian changes into a comfy pair of sweat pants and falls onto his bed.

He hasn’t even laid there for two minutes when his phone rings. He debates on whether or not he could answer, but when he sees it’s from an unknown number, he has to answer. His manager sometimes gives his number out to people who might want to work with him, and this might be one of those times. He asked for it, and now he’s getting it.

“Hello?” he mumbles.

“Yes, is this Sebastian Stan?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”

“I’m Doctor Patterson at St. Thomas Memorial. How are you doing?”

“Good, how about you?”

“I’m doing well. I have your test results for the kidney match for Suzanne Annucci.”

Sebastian almost choked on his own spit. He didn't think the results would come in this quickly.

“Yes, what did it say?”

“You are a perfect match for her. Would you like to proceed with the process? You don’t have to decide--”

“Yes, I would,” Sebastian interrupts the doctor. “Sorry, but I’d like to proceed.”

“Transplants usually happen within twenty-four hours of being matched. We’d like for you to come in as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

Sebastian can’t stop smiling well after the call with the doctor. You don’t know him and he doesn’t know you, but he’s going to save your life. That’s the best thing a human can do for another.

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hecohansen31 · 4 years

Text

Reaching Ecstasy:

Art Teacher! Michael Langdon+Student! Reader.

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

I know that it has been quite some time since i last wrote these things, but I have been rather busy with life and other things and writing is kind of a rather busy thing for me, so I hope to be writing more once some things go off my schedule.

So, please forgive me, and I hope to be writing more during the holidays!

(Alongside trying to do a masterlist!).

This was an idea that I worked up after a few history of art lessons, about the sculptures of Bernini, which are absolutely beautiful, so do check them out!

With this being said, I hope you’ll enjoy this, andy! as always: if you want to be tagged in it, you just have to like the picture and it’ll be out on Sunday!

SUMMARY: When the times come for your interview with Mr. Langdon, your art teacher, you can’t help but be rather confused by his requests.

WORDS: 4,7 K

WARNINGS: Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Compromising Situation and Slight Dub-Con (Michael using his position of power over Reader, although she is consensual to the entire thing) (also Reader is absolutely legal, since she is 20, in this fic!), Blasphemous talk abotu Ecstasy.

The arrival of Mr. Langdon had brought some kind of change in the life of the students of Saint Therese, a private catholic boarding school, where troubled young ladies were sent so that they could be taught to be wives, able to properly satisfy their husbands.

The peculiar teacher wasn’t only a male, and attractive as sin, but he had rather interesting methods of teaching, constantly pushing boundaries and trying out new teaching techniques, which resulted in a major interest in his subject history of art from his students.

But what was the strangest thing about him was his way to examine student’s knowledge of his subject since he didn’t ask questions about it in class, in front of many people, but he asked the students to meet him in his office for a private interview.

At first it had seemed dauntingly terrifying and everyone thought he hid more, than just a simple interview about Picasso, Rubens or Giotto.

But once Coco had tried to “seduce” him, which resulted in her getting a complain on her behavior and failing the class, something for which she still complained with her ‘Marie Antoinette attitude’, meanwhile you just rolled your eyes at her stupidity.

Although Mr. Langdon asked each interview to remain private between him and the student for the student’s privacy, some of your fellow students had revealed you some details, mostly because you were extremely anxious about the exam.

History of art was one of your favorite subjects at the boarding school and you were fascinated by Mr. Langdon’s ingenious lessons (although all the girls would joke about him being a male version of “Mona Lisa Smile”), so you didn’t want to fail it.

And from what you had gathered from your friends, Mr. Langdon wasn’t only interested in your knowledge of his subject, but he was also questioning you about your most inner soul.

But deep down nobody had wanted to reveal you some of the questions.

“They are private, (Y/N)” had mumbled Mallory, looking at you as if she had been burned by fire “… I am sorry but I think that it isn’t something that I can tell you, but believe me, nothing will ever make you feel ready enough for what it is to come”.

So, you weren’t truly calm when you walked in Mr. Langdon’s office, escorted by than governess Mrs. Venable, who liked Mr. Langdon less than anybody else did, since according to her, and from what Madison had referred to you, after an accurate mission of spying on the strict governess, ‘he was the portrait of any debauchery and sin’.

She was probably bitter, because he didn’t believe in her mindless rules, alongside acting like he owned the place, stealing everything she had built with her steady and merciless hand.

“Mrs. (L/N), remember to answer Mr. Langdon truthfully” she mumbled as she left you on the threshold of the closed studio, where the art story teacher interviewed his subjects “… good luck”.

You just bowed your head in submission, before you approached to knock onto the door, being immediately welcomed by Mr. Langon’s dark and hoarse voice, as he adjusted himself behind his desk, where various drawing stood, alongside many more books, which laid open.

The scarce light gave the office some kind of gloomy atmosphere and this didn’t ease the anxiety you felt churning in your stomach, desperately wanting to call for Mrs. Venable, but as you set your feet over the threshold Mr. Langdon’s eyes were onto you, staring at you predatorily.

“Mrs. (Y/N) such an honor to finally meet you” he mumbled, inviting you with an elegant gesture of his hand, ordering you to come forward and sit, in front of him, to which you obeyed quickly.

Unlike many of your fellow students, you didn’t have any behavioral trauma or problem, you were more a shy child your parents had no use of in their travels.

‘Why can’t you just smile more?’.

‘Why can’t you have friends?’.

‘Why can’t you just be more like us?’.

You had no clue why you were so closed off, sensitive and gentle, anything your parents didn’t approve of, since they were socialite of the highest steps of the celebrity ladder: you were an ashamed dot on their immaculate records.

Hence, they had thought that the private boarding school could hide you well enough and maybe had they remembered about you they would have some day come to take you back.

You didn’t hate the boarding school, as many of your fellow students did: it gave you a chance to appreciate your usual calm style of life, which you loved with all your shy heart, but still…

… in some moments you wondered whether you were losing something of the outside world.

Maybe it was men like Michael Langdon that made you blush just as they looked at you.

You took a seat, in front of him, focusing your attention on the conjoined hands in your lap, although Mr. Langdon’s gaze stayed on you, in an heavy velvety caress that got you to tremble lightly, meanwhile a thrill of an unknown emotion moved down your spine.

“… you are rather interested in my subject” a quick nod was all you were able to reply “…although you don’t intervene often, I see that you listed in your future work options of wanting to to take a job in the art sector”.

Although it wasn’t an inquiry you knew he was expecting an answer.

“… I would love to work in a gallery or with children, teaching, although it can be difficult sometimes”.

“I can absolutely agree with that” his tone was almost heartfelt and it eased you on a more comfortable note, with you straightening your stance onto the chair, although your eyes were still linked to your hands “… have you ever visited any art gallery or museum?”.

“Oh, I have been in Italy for a whole month, meanwhile my parents were on a tour” you replied immediately, excited that now you knew somebody who would appreciate the same delicacies as you.

“Are they musicians?” you were sure that the answer could be found not only in the latest tabloids but also in your file so the fact that Mr. Langdon was ignorant on the matter surprised you.

Positively.

“Actors, they are mostly performing in theater, lately” you explained, thinking about the Italian tour you had gone on, barely sixteen and meanwhile your parents slept off their hangover you visited many beautiful cities, recognizing some of them in Langdon’s drawing.

“Acting: when life imitates art” he mumbled, his tone lightly sarcastic and you couldn’t stop a little giggle to leave your lips “… but I am glad to know that I am not talking only with lost causes: people like you make teaching worth it”.

Although they were compliments, there was some darker tone in Mr. Langdon’s words, seducing and hypnotizing, which got you to finally raise your head and meet his cerulean eyes, a mix of beautiful blue was tinted with the shades of grey, mostly for the influence of the dark room.

His blonde curls were elegantly styled as a veil of gold, soft at the sole sight and you wondered whether he had simply woken up like this or took care of it, and you thought what it would feel to card an hand through it and pull it, meanwhile you straightened it, entwining it through your fingers.

All these thoughts made you unfocused and when you realized that Michael Langdon had caught you in your fantasy you blushed immediately softly retiring again your gaze onto your hands.

And you felt Mr. Langdon’s smug look on you, as if his plan was working.

“Then I hope you visited Rome, and Galleria Borghese” you nodded immediately, remembering walking the beautiful mansion in the middle of the chaotic Rome, just to be welcomed with your own retire from the chaotic city life, in a peace of the senses that had brought you to lose yourself.

Mr. Langdon fidgeted with some drawings, before he moved to you a polaroid with the beautiful “Apollo and Dafne” statue by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.

The two statues entwined in a fatal embrace that had doomed Dafne in becoming Apollo’s favorite plant.

“Then you won’t mind telling me what this is” and you immediately replied with the most classical of answers, explaining the dates and the commission behind the sculpture, before moving onto an explanation of what this statue stood for.

You gaze was linked to the photo, but you felt Mr. Langdon’s heavy eyes on you.

“… can you also tell me the reason behind the inscription on the base of the statue” he stopped you halfway your mumblings to point to the basement, where a Latin phrase was written.

“It’s a warning against the temptations of lust” you immediately replied, moving your eyes onto Mr. Langdon’s face, since it wasn’t something you had talked in class: you could barely mumble something about ‘lust’ or ‘temptation’ without having to explain the meaning of it to Mrs. Venable.

“… oh, truly delightful” praised you Mr. Langdon, making you blush, but you withheld his stare, proud of your answer “… do you think that lust is bad, Mrs. (L/N)?”.

You couldn’t help but blush, because since you had isolated yourself from your fellow peers, you had never experienced lust to the point that you had thought it wasn’t in your destiny.

But there was something downright sinful, that made you feel lust, indeed, towards Mr. Langdon.

You weren’t the first one to fall to his charms, hence the reason why you tried desperately to be so in control with him.

“…I do think that it depends” you mumbled, meanwhile Mr. Langdon shifted his head onto an hand, looking at you closer, making you feel even more intimidated, although his eyes showed a true light of interest, as if he valued your opinion “Measure is something important in each thing: Lucretius would condemn lust, alongside Virgil… the impossibility to fulfill desire is something that damns Dido, but…”.

“But?” he was literally pending onto your lips, wondering what would be coming next and you couldn’t help but be beyond proud of that effect, straightening your position on the chair.

“… but is life worth without pleasure? Passion can be devastating, but Lord Tennison doesn’t say 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’, doesn’t Ovid find damnation and his greatest glory in love?”.

“A true classicist, Mrs. (L/N)” commented Michael, softly, his eyes caressing you and his interest sparking up “… but we are making all this pagan talk … when Bernini was a loyal collaborator of the Catholic Church, such as in this work of his”.

And then “Saint Theresa” was shown to you, the beauty of the form intensified by the marble chosen and the décor around the entire chapel, where the Cornaro family watched the miracle happening in the center of it.

After a brief description of the chapel, you moved onto explaining Saint Theresa’s legend: she had been documenting this in her diaries, talking about how she had been transfixed in the chest by an arrow, shot by an angel, like drawn and sculpted in the complex statue.

And this brought the saint to prove what was described in the Sant Scriptures as “ecstasy”.

“Ecstasy could be described in a more earthly way as…” and you tried to calm down, smothering the blush that was fighting to show up on your face “… an orgasm, since Bernini used the depiction of sexual ecstasy, which gained quite a few times some rather problematic critics and accuseo f being blasphemous, mostly because we are in the Counterreformation era…”.

You tried to shove off your uneasiness trying to cover the embarrassment with overtalking, which was something you always did and would function most of the time…

… but not with Mr. Langdon.

“… Mrs. (L/N) there is no need to be shy, I am not Mrs. Venable” he laughed, sending you a very pointed look, before he smirked “… Bernini does indeed have an… ambiguity to his sculptures, which I honestly find like it’s one of the most interesting about his style, don’t you think?”.

You were all red in the face, you could totally feel it, immediately reaching out to gently pull up your sleeves and pushing the collar of your modest uniform, a simple plain shirt under a black overalls, with a skirt instead of pants, which covered both your chest and your legs, since the skirt was over the knee.

The only tempting exception to the rules was the stockings, rigorously black but slightly sheer.

“… I found it…” you tried to take some time ignoring the question and looking around Mr. Langdon’s desk, more to fake some kind of delirious confusion than to actually hide your gaze “… interesting”.

“Certainly, a girl who can speak about Bernini and Tennyson and Lucretius can surely use some better term than simply ‘interesting’ “ the arrogant way with which he spoke got something to act up in you and suddenly you lost any pretense of embarrassment.

“… of course, I can! And I find Bernini extremely interesting because of his beautiful depiction of ethereal beauty, mixed and stained with some human pleasures, hence the depiction of such pleasures in his statues”.

You hadn’t looked even in the slightest at Michael for the entire time of the discourse as you met his gaze knowing perfectly that you had gone over your role as a student, probably disrespecting him in some way.

But Mr. Langdon was simply looking at you as if he had the “Saint Theresa” of Bernini shown in front of him, and you just took a deep breath trying to recompose yourself, and as your hands retreated from Mr. Langdon’s desk, but he quickly reached out for them, holding them in an extremely tight grip as you reached out to look in his eyes.

“Truly wonderful, Mrs. (L/N)” he mumbled, looking at you completely absorbed in your eyes, before he left your hands and your gaze, making you almost stumble on the desk lowering yourself on it and almost falling ungracefully on your elbows, as he moved to retrieve something.

What he tried to find, meanwhile you wondered whether what had just happened was just your imagination acting up or had truly happened, was the little block of paper where he teachers wrote their grade of the students, which would be given to Mrs. Venable and added to the other grade for the final exam.

He then moved it to you, offering it to your eyes and although the grade was definitely impressive you couldn’t help but gawk at it.

“Something is wrong, Mrs. (L/N)?” he asked, meanwhile you scrunched your nose, and although anything screamed in your body to just shut up, you were unable to obey it and muttered, without even thinking.

“I think that I deserve more than the grade you have me, sir”.

He smirked, meanwhile realization slowly came over to you about what you had just said.

“Well, well” he commented, slowly pushing himself in a more relaxed position in his chair, his legs crossing over and his ankle touching perfectly his knee “… I gotta admit that I love a girl who is ambitious”.

Again, your mouth spoke again, and you were unable to withhold your words.

“I am not ambitious. I know what I deserve and won’t settle for anything else”.

After your little discourse Mr. Langdon was definitely intrigued, amusement and something darker shining in his eyes.

“And to think that you appear like such a shy and meek girl” he mumbled, his lips following perfectly each word in a sensual dance, that ignited your cheeks, but you didn’t back down, standing to your phrase “… the little mouse has the personality of a fierce lioness, I gotta admit that I like that about you, Mrs. (L/N), almost as much as I love that pretense of innocence you hid behind…”.

“I don’t know what you mean” you muttered, finally your embarrassment setting up, in your guts, although nothing in you wanted to stay and be lost in those provocative eyes.

“Exactly, you act like this pure sweet girl, shy and scared by anything, when in reality you don’t want nothing more than a proper competition, somebody who understand what you think and will challenge… you want to roar and somebody who will answer”.

You couldn’t help but agree with the entire thing, although you were too ashamed to admit it.

For all your life people had tried to change you to shape you in their prospective, but nobody had ever tried to lower themselves to your level and understand you.

Give you a proper challenge that would burn out the rest.

Except Mr. Langdon.

“It is true, you, Mrs. (L/N), deserve definitely something more, more than this boarding school, more than feeling like you mean nothing and that you count less than that” his hand again shot out and this time it caressed your arms, naked due to the fabric that had ridden up, meanwhile you attempted to relax and cool your body temperature “… but you are the one who stuck yourself in this position, hence you are the only one who can help yourself out”.

“But I don’t know how” the entire discourse spoke to you in a soulful way that you couldn’t help but answer with your deepest soul exposed.

“… ecstasy is the freest of the expressions of glory” you didn’t follow Mr. Langdon’s discourse, what “ecstasy” had to do with you, but still with the way he was gently caressing you and the way his tone had become so serious “… in ecstasy saints and martyrs discover the deepest of secrets, and you, my dear, little mouse, should do the same”.

Breath was taken from your lungs and your answer took a few minutes.

“How can I experience ecstasy?! I am not even a believer!” desperation shone in your tone, since as you had been put in front of your sadness, your existence explained and reduced to nothing more than a cliché, you felt nothing more than an emptiness that threated to consume you.

“What is truly ecstasy, if we cut off the entire religious part?” his hand moved in elegant gesture, completely hypnotizing your face “… it isn’t nothing more than when you feel the freest, Mrs. (L/N): sex shows us the most vulnerable side of us”.

Your cheeks were definitely on fire and you immediately raised from the chair, some part of you indignant to his indecent proposal, and some other…

… desperately wanted to follow on.

“This is abuse of your power!” you screamed and grabbed the first drawings that you found on his desk and threw them in his face, but he didn’t have any reactions, instead remaining perfectly icy and glacial, and before you knew it, the part of you that was aroused by his suggestion made wet heat recoil in your nest, the one between your legs.

“Then run away, Mrs. (L/N)” he was extremely serious “… you can tell it to Mrs. Venable, give her a reason to throw me away, please…”.

But you didn’t move, you didn’t run away and you didn’t say anything to Mrs. Venable instead shooting a quick look at the door to find that it was closed perfectly.

“… or stay here, be my guest and found out how much better life can be” his voice was an erotic whisper and you were sure it was meant simply for your ears “… it can be strangely freeing to let our darkest desire finally get the best of us, after we oppressed them for so long”.

You didn’t know if it was the fact that Mr. Langdon had chosen you, beside your schoolmates, prettier and more interesting than you or his discourse, but something had started being ignited in your chest and suddenly you were just unable to stop the fire from spreading.

And soon you were onto the desk, leaning down to kiss Mr. Langdon, you, who was barely able to have a normal talk with people, doing the first move, which was gently welcomed with a sweet answer of Mr. Langdon’s lips, pressing against yours with an emphasis that brought down any resistance you had.

You broke apart just for air, and when you did, although Michael was hiding everything in his gaze you caught a bit of surprise as if he hadn’t expected you to act up on your desire.

And soon his mouth, barely away from yours, was turned in a smirk.

“… you are a delight, Mrs. (L/N)”.

“(Y/N)” you mumbled shyly, before hiding your gaze “… you might as well as call me by my first name since you seem to know everything about me”.

“Then I insist you call me Michael” he grabbed your chin to push you to meet his tantalizing beautiful eyes “… you taste so much sweeter, than I thought”.

“You have thought about this?” you asked, surprised, enough for Michael to push you back in your chair, with a light push, meanwhile he raised from the chair, effectively towering over you.

“Oh you have no idea how much the thought of you crosses my mind” you blushed, immediately at his meaningful words, pushing yourself further in your seat, meanwhile he came around the desk to effectively tower over you, making you shiver in your sit “… the only girl with a mind that is capable to attract me”.

You blushed, feeling yourself unable to stop a giggle from coming to life in your stomach, meanwhile Mr. Langdon… Michael was in front of you.

“Twice as beautiful as a Raphael’s painting…” he continued, meanwhile he gently lowered till he was between your legs and you couldn’t help but blush, knowing what would come next.

Had your stack of erotica spoken the truth.

“… and if you taste sweet from your mouth, I wonder what you’ll taste like down there” and before you knew it, your stockings were pushed down on your legs and discarded without minding them any interest, he then raise dlightly your long skirt, making you blush and attempt to close them “… don’t deny my little piece of heaven, little Theresa”.

The words made a thrill go down your spine and suddenly your legs, slowly opened revealing your simple green panties, nothing too much, simple cotton since it did the job pretty well, and didn’t irritate you, but also didn’t hide your arousal very well.

And you were suddenly conscious that Michael knew about it all too well, as his eyes reflected lust and satisfaction.

“I could smell you perfectly as you walked in here, you were scared, but wanted more…” his hands come up slowly to your thighs, effectively caressing the tender skin of the inner part, just a few millimeters from your nest, perfectly hidden by soaked panties, shining in the dim light of office “… and then you started talking about ecstasy and passion flowed in you, you are a fucking masterpiece”.

And his hands finally came up to your panties and pressed down onto your puffy folds, excitation having pushed them to swollen lightly and you were unable to stop a moan from leaving your mouth, but luckily you caught yourself, biting your lips to suppress the sound.

And Michael smirked at that, before his fingers traced a little line between your fold, teasing you further, before they came to a halt right on your clit, and there his touch becoming even more featherlight.

He looked at you in the eyes, after that, and your cheeks were again moderately red, this time due to arousal and not embarrassment.

This was definitely freeing.

He smirked knowing exactly how you were feeling, meanwhile his hand moved down your thighs pushing lightly in them and you were sure that marks would be in there, although the pressure helped you focus on an earthlier level..

“… doesn’t it feel good?” he muttered, meanwhile you breathed down, heavily “… doesn’t it feel right?”.

You were just able to nod, begging for more and Michael didn’t hesitate to give you more, again caressing you with the back of his hand, before he pushed your panties to the side, with such ferocity that you couldn’t help but blush, and hide your face in your hands.

You were vulnerable and open for him, your arousal evident and you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious for a single moment, before Michael’s tongue came down between your folds tracing the same line he had touched with his hands, and if you had been left breathless by his hands-

His tongue caught all your breath and you held it in your lungs.

Surprise coursed through you and a tremble went through your body.

“So responsive” he mumbled, truly amazed by your reactions and suddenly shyness started disappearing in your soul, solely focusing on your pleasure “… my little girl”.

And he pushed himself further in you, his tongue finding your clit and his lips attaching on it, sucking it, till he got enough and moved to collect the wetness you held between your thighs, your juices glowing on his face.

And then his tongue parted your folds, penetrating you in the deepest and most secret part.

You were past the point of no return.

You didn’t know what was going on through your body, only pleasure coursed through you and before you knew it, you were lost in your own personal ecstasy, with Michael’s expert mouth, pushing his tongue in you, teasing your little pearl with slow strokes and then fucking you with his tongue, in fast thrusts, knowing exactly what to do to make you crazy.

“… I am close” you mumbled, not knowing why you felt the need to make Michael’s attention fall on you, as he raised his head to finally meet your eyes and the sight was so intensely erotic, that you felt even more arousal flood in your center “… fuck, this is just… I don’t know if I can…”.

Michael looked like an angel, with his long blonde hair, perfectly styled and before he even knew it you tangled your hands in them, pulling them till his mouth came to the point where you wanted and he smirked, against your pearl, gently biting it, a little pain that brought you back to reality.

But then the real fun began because Michael intensified his moves till he brought you over the edge again, helping himself with his fingers, after he eased one in you, a sudden penetration which had been strange for a few minutes before Michael crooked his finger gently in you, hitting that perfect spot and making you almost fall from your chair.

From that moment on Michael held a hand against your waist, to restrain you from buckling up against his face and his fingers, gently easing pleasure in you.

And this was enough for you.

Your ecstasy came onto you not like some kind of stabbing or poking made by an angel (although you had to admit that you heard some kind of angelic choir) but in waves of pleasure, and with Michael’s teasing smile, suckling lightly on your clit.

Your breath became shallow and your fingers dug in the chair, meanwhile you tried to push yourself through it, feeling the pleasure take over and never wanting to leave this kind of sensation.

When you came down, after Michael let you ride the waves of your orgasm with the gentle help of his finger since his tongue was too rough for your oversensitive folds, gently ushering you in your afterglow and when you were able to breath down without feeling like each breath lasted for ever…

… you saw the expression on Michael’s face.

Shame came to your mind first, at the knowledge that you had just done ‘that’ with your teacher, but he looked at you as if he had the true “Saint Theresa”, sculpted by Bernini in front of him.

“… I am…” you tried to apologize, quickly closing your legs, ashamed by how free you had let yourself be.

It was true you had left yourself be too free with him, and you weren’t sure if you could go back to how you had been before.

“… you are beautiful, little girl” he smirked, and laid a soft kiss on your inner thigh “… my own little private Saint Theresa in ecstasy”.

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So as always: any kind of feedback is welcomed, as long as it is nice and well-behaved!

And here are to some lovelies who wanted to be tagged!

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spookyceph · 4 years

Text

Garden-variety

ShigaDabi Week Day 5 | Civilians

Summary: Just your average, everyday family. Nothing to see here.

Rating: SFW

Warnings: Swearing

The door swings open, setting off a pleasant tinkle from the bell hung above it. The man who enters the shop halts two steps in. Stares, moon-eyed, at the wall-to-wall jungle surrounding him. Plants hang from the ceiling, trailing shiny leaves and flowers as big as an open hand just overhead. They cluster on shelves outfitted with lights and temperature control running along both walls, organized by type and need: prickly cacti, tender herbs, seasonal blooms, medicinal roots. Potted specimens that populated office buildings just like the one he’d clocked out from not long ago dominate the tiled floor, leaving only a narrow path to the register deeper in. The air is close and sweet and alive with the scent of green, growing things. When the man received directions to this side street he’d had his doubts. Now he sees why Anai from accounting recommended it. Though small, the shop has impressive variety as well as healthy stock. He walks up to the counter and gives the service bell a single, polite tap.

A tall figure emerges from a doorway to the right. The man freezes halfway through his standard smile of greeting.

It has to be an employee. Maybe even the owner. Logic leaves no room for other explanations. Yet the mental images the man carries of such people share as much in common with what he sees as a poodle does with a wolf. It has nothing to do with the scars—though they’re impossible to miss. They ripple up the stranger’s forearms and cover the whole lower half of his face, mottled pink and white, textured like a half-melted wax museum figure. No, it’s more the multiple piercings gleaming in both ears, the side of the nose, right eyebrow, even two in the scarred lower lip. Another factor is the spiky mess of half-white, half-black hair. His clothes clinch it. They have a worn, handmade look, his shirt a thin linen, and rips in a few random places on his jeans.

The way he arches a brow, wiping long-fingered hands on a rag, does nothing to dispel first impressions. “Yes?”

Though the question is curt, the voice asking it remains rather soft. Its still enough to throw the man further off balance.

“I…er…flowers?”

The lack of coherency doesn’t slow the stranger a but. “Anniversary, funeral, hot date, what?”

“Um, well, an apology, actually.”

“To whom, and how bad did you fuck up?”

The man clutches his messenger bag to his chest as if it’s a shield. “E-excuse me?”

Employee, owner, whoever he is sighs and throws the rag onto the counter. “I don’t give a shit about the details—I’m a florist, not your therapist. But I do need some idea of what you’re going for so I can plan accordingly. So, again, who’d you piss off, and how much?”

Anyone with a decent amount of common sense and even a scrap of pride would have told the odd stranger to mind his own business, thank you very much. Maybe even stormed out. Written a bad review. Found some way to file a complaint. The man knows this. Yet nothing about their interaction thus far suggests the other would regret the loss of a customer whatsoever. More important, something in the unflinching intensity of the stranger’s electric-blue eyes says that threatening him in any way would be a bigger mistake than what the flowers are for in the first place.

So, suddenly sweating and feeling suffocated by the shop’s tropical air, the man stammers out the truth. “M-my girlfriend.”

The other takes one look at his red, damp face and nods. “That bad, huh? Fine. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”

Meek as a mouse, he watches the shopkeeper—the stranger can be no one else, fearless as he is—pull a pair of shears from his back pocket. He goes to one shelf, clipping several examples of a deep purple flower that grows in long clusters. Going to another, he cuts a few sprigs of bluebells—these the man recognizes. Lastly, he gathers a bunch of large clovers from a long tray. Selections decided, the florist goes to work arranging them.

The purple flowers he staggers at descending heights so the clusters aren’t mashed together. Between them, the bluebells are hung like strings of tears. Partway below the other two, he groups the clovers. All three are bound with a rubberband around the stems and slipped into a narrow glass vase from beneath the counter. He sets the arrangement down.

“There you go. Anything else?”

With one look, the man forgives the shopkeeper’s rough edges. While flowers won’t make up for anything, the thought and beauty of these serve as a promise that he’s willing to back the gesture up with action.

“These are perfect. Thank you.” He surrenders his credit card.

“You’ll want a pink rose from the place two streets over next time,” the florist says while ringing him up. “I don’t usually carry any here.”

The man blinks. “Next time?”

“After your girlfriend and the other woman dump you. A pink rose is a good choice for people on a first date. Romantic, but not as intense as a red one.”

His heart and jaw drop simultaneously. “B-but…you don’t think…they won’t both dump me, will they?”

Bright blue eyes piercing, the florist hands the credit card back. “Only if they’re smart. Have a nice evening.”

Shell-shocked, the man shambles his way to the exit, flowers in hand, glazed stare not registering the shop door as it opens before he reaches it. Nor the boy with half red, half white hair who holds it open for him with a wry smile as he staggers out.

The door closes quietly behind the newcomer.

“Another satisfied customer, I see.” His soft-spoken cadence bears an unmistakable resemblance to the shopkeeper’s, just as his face, hair, and left eye do.

“He had it coming. Anyway, you have uncanny timing. He was my last for the day.”

Shrugging, the boy holds up the plastic shopping bag in his right hand. “Fuyumi sent me to pick up a few things for dinner tonight. I figured I might as well walk home with you since I was in the area.”

“And make sure your delinquent older brother stays out of trouble. Right.” The florist sighs. “It’s been two years since Deika City, Shōto. No one’s come after my head. Not much of a Hero Commission left to.”

“That doesn’t mean the remainder aren’t still looking. Natsuo, Fuyumi, and I are just watching your back, Touya.”

“Keeping me on a short leash, you mean.”

“Your husband agrees with us.”

“My husband can use whatever leash he wants on me. It’s just annoying when you three do it.”

The boy’s—Shōto’s—nose wrinkles. “Too much information.”

“Like you don’t feel the same about your friend. The one that was over last—”

A sudden cough interrupts him. “I’m not one of the country’s most wanted villains.”

The shopkeeper—Touya—presses a hand to his chest. “I’m but a humble florist. Not a villainous bone in my body.”

“Explain the theft charges then.”

Black eyebrows shoot up. “What theft charges?”

“Stealing my hair’s color scheme, you jerk.”

A smirk creeps across Touya’s face. “There’s hope for you yet.”

As predicted, they arrive home without incident. While Shōto goes to deliver the groceries to Fuyumi and Natsuo, who can be heard clattering around in the kitchen, Touya heads to the other side of the sprawling house. Also as expected, he slides open the partition to his room and finds a blanket-draped figure still sitting on the futon, hunched over a handheld game.

“Haven’t moved since I left this morning, have you?” he says with no real disapproval.

“Nope,” comes the shameless reply.

Smiling, Touya kneels beside the figure and pulls the top part of the blanket away. Long white hair that curls every which way is revealed. The figure’s eyes don’t tear themselves away from the flickering screen. Eyes as red as the crown of camellias Touya plops onto the other’s head.

At last, the game pauses.

“Must be the end of the week if you’re bringing me dead plants.” The way the crimson eyes look everywhere but at Touya ruin the sneer on chapped, scarred lips, though.

“Tenko.”

“What?”

Touya leans in, closer and closer, until the concept of personal space vanishes, and he has to be stopped with an annoyed—yet still gentle—elbow to the ribs.

“What? What do you—?”

“Nothin’.” He tucks some of the unruly curls behind the other man’s ear. “Just happy to see you is all.”

That does the trick. Tenko’s gaze locks with his for a split second before skittering away again. Touya watches, biting the insides of his cheeks to hold back a laugh, as his husband grabs an empty cup beside the futon. He fumbles, nearly dropping it—and not because one hand is missing fingers either.

“Make yourself useful and get me some water.”

“Hm…you are looking flushed.” Touya puts a palm to Tenko’s forehead. “You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”

The offending hand is smacked away. “I’m your king. You aren’t allowed to make fun of me. I forbid it.”

With a bow meant to hide his grin more than anything else, Touya takes the cup and heads for the kitchen.

One glance at the piles of chopped vegetables covering the counter tell him something is up.

“We expecting an army?” he asks as he opens the refrigerator.

“Just three of your friends who led one,” Natsuo replies, still slicing and adding to the heap (and occasionally sneaking a bite or two). “Tenko asked if we could have them over tonight.”

Touya’s fingers slip on the handle of the water pitcher. Only a last-second scoop and grab saves it from shattering all over the floor. “He did? When?”

“A couple of days ago.” Fuyumi taste-tests whatever she has simmering on the stove before adding a pinch of salt. “They’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

“Atsuhiro-san offered to bring sushi, but…” Natsuo taps the knife on the cutting board, looking bemused. “I think he was joking? Only I don’t get it.”

“He’s joking if he knows what’s good for him.” Body curiously light, Touya closes the refrigerator. “Need any help?”

Fuyumi shakes her head and wipes her steamed up glasses off on the hem of her shirt. “We took care of most of the prep work before you came home from work. Anyway, we’ve agreed to keep all sharp objects away from you.”

“Besides, you over spice everything,” chimes in Natsuo.

“Haha. Everyone in this house is suddenly full of snappy comebacks.”

“We learned from the best.”

Touya is still smiling when he returns to the bedroom. Not only has Tenko gotten up, but he’s in the middle of stripping off his pajamas. As he pulls his shirt over his head, Touya admires the dozes of scars crisscrossing his torso. The scars that had bought their lives. That proved how far he was willing to go for those he loved.

“Hm?” Tenko drops the shirt and blinks down at the finger tracing an old, jagged slice running diagonally through his chest. The flower crown is still on his head, though askew.

“You asked the others to come over.”

Caught, he raises one hand to the side of his neck, lightly scratching. “Yeah, well…it’s been a while since we saw them, that’s all.”

Touya sets the cup aside on the dresser. Gently pulls the worrying fingers away, pressing them over his heart instead. The index and thumb lift to keep away from full contact purely out of habit.

“I’m glad.”

Tension drains away from Tenko’s posture with a sigh. His free hand rises to stroke the pinkish ripples of scar tissue on Touya's cheek. The ripples that had once been so much half-living skin on a half-dead man.

“You know…they won’t be here for a couple hours yet.” A smile flickers to life on Tenko’s face as the heartbeat under his palm picks up its tempo.

“I suppose we can keep busy in the meantime. We never did cross everything off those lists of ours.”

Tenko’s eyebrows leap up. “You remember what was left on them? Off the top of your head?”

Smirking, Touya leans in to nuzzle his neck. “I only went over them about a million times, imagining doing everything with you.”

Though Tenko huffs, his eyes go half-lidded, breath speeding up a notch. “Do you happen to remember whose turn it was to pick then?”

“Hmm…no. But I concede the choice to you.”

“How generous.”

“You are my king, after all.”

Tenko’s hand buries itself in the undyed half of Touya’s hair. “I am, aren’t I?” A tug earns a rewarding gasp. “Even though you’ve always been the sort of subject who follows orders only when he wants to.”

“You finally gonna teach me to behave?”

“Doubtful.” A show of teeth, thrilling and fearsome. “But I guess I’ll just have to keep trying, won’t I? You’re bound to learn one of these days.”

An answering smirk. “Sure. One of these days.”

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setinprovincialbohemia · 4 years

Text

ON SELF-RESPECT

Joan Didion (1961)

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships which hampered others. Although even the humorless nineteen-year-old that I was must have recognized that the situation lacked real tragic stature, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nonetheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honor, and the love of a good man; lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proved competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed apprehension of someone who has come across a vampire and has no crucifix at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself; no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through ones’ marked cards the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others – who we are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbably people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one’s underwear. There is a common superstition that “self-respect” is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English inAppointment in Samara and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbably candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: “I hate careless people,” she told Nick Carraway. “It takes two to make an accident.”

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named co-respondent. In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of mortal nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for reelection. Nonetheless, character – the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life – is the source from which self- respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-yaer-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: “Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke out about it.” Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, “fortunately for us,” hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnee.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult bin the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with ones head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

#joan didion #vogue

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anctilbrayen · 3 years

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Current Insurer profile: This vehicle is a brand of Insuring Group (Indianapolis, IN). The policy is issued by Insuring Group under the name of Indianapolis Group. This vehicle was a personal automobile (no logos shown) on April 1st, 1997. The car was owned by another driver (same driver). The vehicle did have a license. An insurance policy covers both drivers in an accident with and has coverage limits on a separate policy. An additional insurance policy protects both insured and named insured drivers. Both drivers were covered up to $75,000 at the time of the accident. Since the policy covers both under a single policy, it covers both insured and named insured drivers not just the insured ones but also the named insured policies. The driver is responsible for filing the claims against the insurance company for the insurance benefits offered in the policy. This situation doesn’t have to be complicated if the insured driver provides any documentation to the insurance company, or the vehicle is damaged in an accident..

State minimum insurance requirements in Pennsylvania

State minimum insurance requirements in Pennsylvania Auto insurance laws in Pennsylvania are varied depending on your insurance provider. If you’re a newly licensed driver, you’re required to have a valid Pennsylvania auto insurance license for at least three years to comply with the state’s new zero-F limit. *You may have to get a different Pennsylvania car insurance license if you do not own the vehicle listed on your insurance policy. Your license will not continue if you cancel your coverage or allow it to lapse during a scheduled renewal period. Auto insurance laws in Pennsylvania are unique in that they require you to prove financial responsibility in addition to your liability coverage. In addition to the standard liability plates and state required insurance, Pennsylvania similarly requires its drivers to carry Personal Injury Protection (PIP) and Uninsured/Underinsured Motorist Identification. You will need that information when you register your vehicle or in the event of an incident. Pennsylvania does not require you to carry your resident driver’s license (ROTV.

Types of Insurance

Types of Insurance and Protection are: Life insurance and annuity products sold: Life insurance, annuity products offered by Mutual Fund Companies underwritten by Allianz Life Insurance Company (ATOMIA), Houston, TX and United States Life Insurance Company (USS Iowa City, IA). Each insurer is solely responsible for the claims on its policies. Mutual funds are not affiliated with any private corporate or government entity and provide tax-free retirement income for policyholders. ETF annuities are not investments, are not guaranteed by any bank or credit union and are not guaranteed that assets of mutual fund funds will be fully distributed in the event of the loss of a primary income. ETFs are not guaranteed by any bank or credit union and are not offered for loss of principal without first obtaining authorization from the ETF company. This information is not intended to provide financial advice. You are encouraged to consult with an experienced agent for all of your insurance needs. You want to find the lowest rate and don’t know what it is.

Cheapest Car Insurance Quotes in Pennsylvania by Profile

Cheapest Car Insurance Quotes in Pennsylvania by Profile Average Annual Premium by Age 60 Years Old$3,427.29$3,424.99 61 Years Old$3,436.67$3,547.67 62 Years Old$3,541.27$4,951.00 63 Years Old$4,967.33$5,049.13 64 Years Old$5,201.79$6,092.67 65 Years Old$5,256.47$7,547.58 66 Years Old$6,069.35$7,918.66 67 Years Old$8,085.58$9,564.68 68 Years Old$11,172.81$12,172.68 69 Years Old$14,826.50$15,069.25 70 Years Old$16,8.

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