#and seize the opportunity to etch 'It's dangerous to go alone take this' on the lid

[etlu-yume]

this is the thing though it really is like "I hate being perceived (because *I* anticipate everyone will perceive me as bad/annoying/fill-in-your-descriptor-here)" but as soon as someone tells you something observe and love about you as a human?

COMPLETELY different. Instead of the dread of 'oh no I'm bothering people' it's 'oh- wait. what? <mundane thing you never thought twice about>'

It's like when a close friend sent me a keychain that made her think of me. It had made her think about how regardless of what's thrown at me, I tend to find a way through it and out the other end.

Which I absolutely adore and love and keep coming back to every time I see it. Those kinds of words really stick (well. For me at least they do. Words and objects).

But me? Pfffff no I took one look at the "not all those who wander are lost" keychain and had to slap it on my car keys because my immediate thought was "oh hey, who gets lost even WITH the GPS? it me!".

(Friend's statement is still true. I get lost, but I usually find my way. Eventually. [Somehow]. And now I see it every time I get in the car and remember that.)

so many posts about hating being perceived….. I love being perceived by people who love me

[meikuree]

the runaround

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pieck/Yelena (Shingeki no Kyojin)

ao3 link

Perhaps it’s the way the woman has been gazing with a bored look at everything around her. Perhaps it’s the way she defiantly bites her bottom lip while looking right at Pieck, with a cunning smile that says: I want you to see this.

In which Pieck meets Yelena for the first time, at a ball.

Written for Snktober 2020's Day 24 prompt "Beginnings/Endings".

(rated explicit; 18+ only please)

The clock ticks nine in the night.

The scene on the floor lurches into full swing, as the last of  the ball attendants stream in. Pieck’s perched alone beside a bannister, observing the room and content to remain inconspicuous. The sound of strident orchestral music reverberates around the room. The nouveau rich among the Marleyans try their hand at dancing in the centre of the room, encouraged by decadent libations with highfalutin names.

Something about this particular soirée makes Pieck feel a little more reckless than usual. She’s not here for business, not strictly, in the first instance. Balls like this have become more frequent in the past few months, as Marley’s economy sputters forth with the spoils from skirmishes won and areas conquered. Pieck has never been one to sincerely delight in what they celebrate— she considers them to be in poor taste, frankly, and more of a means to an end for staying attuned to what’s happening within high society— but she has come to appreciate the opportunities to get some fresh air beyond the barracks. She has her strings that allow her to come in through unofficial means and slink out when she gets tired.

But there’s something unergetic and lacking here, making her attention wane and crave some action. All the requisite elements are present, like food and entertainment and a crowd, but there’s no life to the people. She's only heard irrelevant gossip and news so far. Perhaps she’d exhausted all the novelty here earlier, when she was eating the canapés and admiring some clams that opened like butterflies at the dinner selection. 

She wanders around, unusually weightless in the airy garment of her black evening dress, searching for some outlet for her disinterest.

She spots another woman some way off into the distance. It’s hard not to, indeed, given that she sticks out like a sore thumb with her great height. Said woman is standing tall and apart from the labyrinthine circles of conversation snaking around the ballroom, rebuffing the crowd and stationing herself in her own corner instead. A look of tedium is etched into her face. The imposing light from the chandelier casts a halo upon her, like a lonely spotlight on her straw-colored hair and sharp fringe. A half-filled wineglass is grasped in her hands, the wine inside segueing into a velvet swirl as she gives it a listless swivel.

Something about her piques her curiosity. She can empathise with her, Pieck thinks. The inevitable superficiality of these events leaves a lot to be desired.

Suddenly, she looks up. Somewhere in the trajectory her tilting head makes, she makes eye contact with Pieck, and something like a flicker of mutual understanding fizzes there. 

Perhaps it’s the way the woman has been gazing with a bored look at everything around her. Perhaps it has to do with the way she defiantly bites her bottom lip while looking right at Pieck, with a cunning smile that says: I want you to see this. 

Then it’s back to the present, the noise of the bustling crowd wreathing around herself. In a snap, something like naked interest or desire compels her forward— there's little to lose, and why not? are what she’s mainly thinking now, shrugging off the instinct to premeditate every decision— and she takes her next step. Before they lose each other to the sea of people between them, Pieck gives the woman in the distance a meaningful nod.

The mystery woman smirks in response. It lights up her face for the first time since Pieck began watching her. She takes a lengthy, decadent sip from her wineglass, eyes boring into Pieck’s all the while. Pieck decides that, yes, she will take that as an affirmation. She ducks into the nearest alcove, finding her way to a side exit hidden there. Minutes later, the tall woman emerges, the sound of her brogues clacking audible as she walks up to Pieck. 

“Greetings,” she says to Pieck.

Up close, she looks even more riveting. Pieck decides she likes her immediately. There’s something unassuming yet striking about the woman, an undercurrent of self-possession and sharpness running underneath her disinterested demeanor earlier. Like a king’s most prized and dangerous page is perhaps the analogy she would use. She's smartly adorned too, in a tailored blazer that shows off her broad shoulders. That doesn’t hurt. She’s ditched her wineglass somewhere, evidently aware that they won’t need it soon where they’re going. Pieck’s body warms from something that is not the wine. 

It doesn’t take much more conversation for them to get down to business. She’s bored. Pieck wants to get out. The night is young, or as young as it can be under the watchful eye of Marley. It’s simple enough, truly. She leads both of them out with the aim of bringing her back to her room in the barracks.

-

They don’t make it back to her room. The woman walking beside her— Yelena, she’s called, Pieck learns— curls a hand around her waist at one point, after which Pieck decides to move in favour of escaping into the nearest room possible. 

They eventually come upon a suitably disused supply room within some far-flung corner of the building. Yelena enters first with the look of a determined gladiator, then locks the door behind Pieck as she follows her in. The moment it clicks, she wastes no time backing Pieck against a table and getting the both of them entangled. Yelena leans down— or rather, kneel downs on the ground, which she has to do with how tall she is— to press a heated kiss to the crook of her neck. The motion makes Pieck sigh eagerly. She instinctively raises her hands to hold onto Yelena’s back and steady herself.

Without any preamble, Yelena suddenly lifts her up to lay her down, spread-eagled, on the table, seemingly without breaking a sweat. An inarticulate thrill rises up Pieck’s spine in response. The biting coldness of the table against her skin makes her wince a little, but Yelena is soon taking off her blazer and padding it underneath her. She bends over her, resting her elbows beside Pieck’s torso on the table surface, and dips her head to kiss her again, this time on the lips. 

They continue kissing as Pieck, eyes closed, moves to sit up straight. Yelena parts for a moment to work at undoing the clasps at the back of her dress, but frustration soon outwins enthusiasm as she fumbles with the tricky criss-crossing pattern.

“Here, I’ll help,” Pieck offers. She reaches back and deftly undoes the remaining ties, then pulls the zip the rest of the way down. 

The dress comes halfway off her, and suddenly the rest of it doesn’t seem as important any more. Yelena exhales slowly and pauses to take in the expanse of fawn-coloured skin that’s been revealed before her. It’s Pieck’s turn to bite her lip this time. The concentrated look Yelena is giving her makes her dizzy with want. Before she loses her wits entirely, she undoes a trail of buttons down her collared shirt and slips the white fabric off her shoulders to even things out between the both of them.

They fall almost naturally into each other after that. Yelena doesn’t bother with the lower half of Pieck’s dress. It’s just as well, since Pieck has to walk back with her clothes on somehow eventually. She skims her mouth on Pieck’s collarbones and unclasps Pieck’s bra at the same time with ease. That one she’s had practice with. She kisses her breasts and takes a nipple into her mouth, laving at it with deft strokes of her tongue. Pieck immediately arches her back towards her and flexes a hand in the short hairs at the back of Yelena’s head. It’s hard to think like this, with the sensation and sound of Yelena touching her burning up her entire body.

She wonders what Yelena has in store for her. She’ll find out soon enough if she keeps playing along with her. Yelena moves down, pace unhurried but not overly slow either, and curls both her warm hands around the curve of Pieck’s waist. Pieck’s body seizes up instantly with laughter that she tries to stifle with a hand to her mouth.

“You’re ticklish,” Yelena remarks with wonder, glancing up at her for a moment. She further explores the area around her hips, cunningly trying to see which parts of her will elicit a similar reaction.

Pieck struggles to speak through her giggles. “Yeah,” she bites out between huffs of laughter rippling through her body, “And you aren’t? But that's not my most sensitive spot, so you might want to move—“

Yelena chooses that moment to press a wet kiss to the zenith of her lower abdomen, where her groin just about begins. Pieck’s voice turns into a full-blown moan instead and she fails to complete her sentence.

“You were saying?” Yelena hums against her skin, in a tone of smug satisfaction. Pieck’s caught up too much in the ardently distracting things she’s doing with her mouth to attempt a glare, or any sort of response.

“Ah,” she cries out breathily, as Yelena begins to grip her hips and inundate the soft sensitive flesh of her lower abdomen with kisses. She cradles her hand to the back of Yelena’s head again, urging her on gently. Yelena decides not to tease her any further. She pares back just briefly to take in the sight of Pieck— hair slightly mussed, a vivid blush adorning her upper body, chest heaving with breathlessness— and not a moment longer. 

Her hands wander up Pieck’s thighs as she hikes the rest of her dress up. She efficiently divests Pieck of her remaining underwear and then moves in closer. She first licks a wet stripe up the inside of Pieck’s thighs, which shiver a little in response. Her fingers find their mark quickly and slip in with ease into sheer wetness; Pieck has long been aching for her by this point. Pieck lets out a sharp gasp and her head falls back, eyes almost fluttering close.

She calls on the dregs of her willpower to shift to rest her weight on her elbows then, propping herself up at just enough an angle to glimpse what Yelena is doing. She’s content to watch Yelena take the lead. There’s something intoxicating about watching an imposing, handsome woman getting on her knees for her, trying to divine the rhythm and movements that will push her over the edge. Yelena experiments a little to figure out what Pieck likes: she first works her mouth between her legs, tongue drawing tentative circles around her clit. The wet warmth of its press against her feels good, and Pieck clenches her thighs gently in response. She sighs quietly, a lovely sound that dances in the air.

Then Yelena slides two fingers into her while keeping her mouth on her, and Pieck outright sees stars. She moans and reflexively bucks her hips up into her mouth, seeking friction. The smirk plastered across Yelena’s face thereafter is felt against her skin more than it is seen; Pieck’s fallen back again, unable to stay upright, while her hands fist themselves in the fabric of Yelena’s blazer in search of futile purchase.  

A brainwave occurs to Yelena then. She rises from where she was situated between Pieck’s legs and arranges herself so that one of her hands is able to thumb at her clit while thrusting it’s fingers into her. Her mouth finds its new target at last upon her breasts; she rolls her tongue over a nipple, an overwhelming preponderance of heat gathered at the tip of it, and Pieck lets out a needy whimper from the back of her throat. She can feel a fierce blush appearing on her face.

“Keep doing that,” she gasps, as her hips stutter upwards. Yelena stills for a second, taking in what Pieck just said, then dips her head again with an intense look: she doesn't need to be told twice.

Yelena angles her fingers inside her so they hit her just right, and quickly enough the sensation of her touching Pieck in all the right spots overwhelms her. She soon becomes intimately acquainted with just how vocal Pieck can be, and takes it all in amused stride (“I’d feel proud if someone complains about the noise,” she comments wryly as Pieck reddens). At one point Yelena pauses briefly to place a hand under Pieck’s chin, and Pieck tilts her head up to look at her at her urging. Then Yelena moves back down again to continue her ministrations, watching her with a predatory glint in her eye, and they don't take their eyes off each other again after that. It doesn't take long for Yelena to coax an orgasm out of her thereafter. Every push of her wiry fingers into her earns her a sharp stroke of pleasure that flares in the pit of her abdomen, and the intensity soon builds until she can hold on no longer. She comes with shuddering breaths and a loud moan that she barely manages to muffle, back arching off the table into Yelena’s warm body. 

They both catch their breaths for a few seconds after that. Pieck slowly wipes away the few beads of sweat gathered at the back of her neck with her hand. When her breathing evens somewhat, she sits up again. Yelena is kneeling on the floor, still, a slightly unfocused look in her eyes as she watches Pieck. Pieck flicks her midnight hair over her shoulder and beams at Yelena, unembarrassed despite her state of half-undress. 

Yelena suddenly twitches as though she’s just remembered something, and she moves to withdraw her hand— but Pieck stops her. Without breaking her gaze on Yelena, she draws Yelena’s hand from between her legs and captures her fingers in her mouth to suck them clean. She doesn't miss the way Yelena sucks in a breath.

“Getting you going?” she teases.

Yelena snorts. She grazes the back of her hand against her mouth. “What did you say your name was again?” she asks.

“Rose Palermo,” Pieck lies with a confident flourish.

“Well then,” Yelena says with a skeptical raise of her eyebrows, “I must say you look remarkably familiar, Miss Rose, now that we’ve met.” 

Pieck frowns. “Go on…?”

Yelena takes this as a cue to lean in so close that her face is only a hair’s inch away from Pieck’s. “I’m certain I’ve seen you a few times on military grounds, Miss Rose. But that’s not your name, is it? Should I be calling you Pieck Finger?”

Shit, Pieck thinks. “You’re sharp,” she responds. “How did you know?”

Yelena parts from her and shrugs with a proud smile. “Generally, you’d make sure to take your armband off before masquerading around with a Marleyan name.”

Pieck can't even argue with that. It’s true. In her defense, old habits die hard. Now her first concern is getting Yelena to shut up about this the moment they leave the room. But she pauses first to calm down and reach into the recesses of her mind for what she knows about her. The identity of the woman before her has been silently dawning upon for a while. She’s seen her a few times in the past, she remembers now. 

“I know you too,” Pieck counters, regaining confidence. “From the 54th, aren’t you?” When Yelena doesn’t reply, she continues, knowing she’s right. “I’ve seen you at the firing range. You're good with a gun, I have to say.”

“Looks like I've a fan,” Yelena comments drily. But underneath that she’s impressed, Pieck can tell.

Pieck simply returns a smile, unnerved. “You're quite an intriguing character.”

“As are you, Miss Pieck.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Pieck’s fine,” she says, resisting the mild urge to roll her eyes. You’ve just bedded me, for God’s sake. She stretches herself out along the table, trying to diffuse the tension in the air. “I assume you’re not going to tell anyone in the barracks about this or, god forbid, your superiors.”

Yelena scoffs. “What, do you take me for a fool? Of course not.”

That makes Pieck chortle a little. She taps her fingers rhythmically on the table. “Just making sure we’re on the same page,” she clarifies, “we both know that I'm not the only one who’d get into trouble.” She punctuates the insinuation with a threatening smile that Yelena’s sure to see. The military takes a hard stance on fraternizing within its lines. The trick is simply, as usual, not to get caught. Which was precisely why she wanted to run under a false name this night. She needs Yelena’s cooperation in that, though.

Though perhaps she can already count on her, if she didn’t object to her being Eldian despite noticing it. She has far more to lose from ratting them out than Pieck does, anyway. It’d be a stiff verbal warning for Pieck, versus a release from the military for her, if it comes down to that. A Marleyan like her would also generally be pressured to keep this on the down low for simpler reasons like social stigma. She’s not too worried at this point. 

“Oh, I’m well aware,” she hears Yelena reply. “I have discretion, don’t you worry.”

“And you’re not going to tell your friends? Boast about it?” Pieck studies her own hands.

Again, a scoff. “No.”

Clipped words, but a full answer nonetheless.

Satisfied, Pieck turns to face her again. That affirmation will do for now. She bridges what little distance remains between them, and cups a hand around Yelena’s jaw. With a gentleness that surprises even herself, she thumbs at the corner of her lips, leisurely drawing out the friction between them from before and whetting it through her touch. It’s as if a switch has been flipped, and Pieck finds herself back to basking in the magnetism of Yelena’s presence, savouring this strange thing between the two of them. 

But first, a question. “Did you single me out back there?” Just because I’m someone with a name?

Yelena gives an amused snort. “No, believe it or not.” She wraps a hand around the one Pieck has cradled around her face. She remembers how those same hands felt on her earlier. “Your own charming, pseudonym-using self led me here.”

“That’s good,” Pieck murmurs, “I’m not anyone special, you’ll quickly realise.” The statement is part deliberate irony and part circumspect self-opinion.

For some reason, that makes Yelena turn her head to laugh into Pieck’s palm; Pieck feels the vibrations travel up to the tips of her fingers. She’s soon capturing Pieck’s hand in hers, manipulating it until she’s kissing her cool knuckles. A quiet thrill surges forth in Pieck’s hands at the contact, though she tamps it down.

“Modest. I like that. Why don’t we be friends?”

The expression on Pieck’s face gently changes. She regards Yelena with a mix of curiosity and not-misplaced vigilance. The scene would resemble a knight ceding unquestioning fealty to a stately princess, were Yelena not wearing a charming yet obviously haughty grin. And were they not both still half-naked from something much more involved. 

Pieck thinks: she cannot help but feel that they are playing a conversational game of cat-and-mouse, ducking around changing rules with every line, but she does know she finds the woman interesting enough so far. She would make for a good eye to keep on the ground in the military, to boot. The only resource Pieck has ever had are her friends and friendly relations and all the strings of influence she can tug at. One more person wouldn’t hurt to be let into her orbit.

She does want to know the woman before her better, besides. It’s as simple as that.

“Sure,” Pieck says after a while, expression unreadable, though she’s still convivial. “You’ve certainly been friendly enough.” 

This pleases Yelena; she moves in to kiss her on the lips. Pieck reciprocates, gently. She sighs into her mouth, the warm breath tickling both their cheeks. She wraps a hand at the back of Yelena’s head again to draw her in, intending to finish this up.

They don’t say much more before Pieck wraps a hand around the lithe flesh of Yelena’s hips, resolving to return the favour from earlier. But Yelena does move to whisper something into the shell of her ear; and Pieck, eyes closed and pulse jumping in her ears, receives it with silent assent.

“This is going to be the start of a beautiful partnership between you and I, don’t you think?”

[jaybear1701]

Apologies for the delay in posting the last part of this MFSWeek story. Hope you’ve enjoyed it!

Anacostia is far from pleased with the plan, prompting her to have a word with Raelle and Abigail. Perhaps “word” is a bit of an understatement. They’re speaking so loudly that Scylla can make out their muffled conversation even from the other side of the glass wall as she approaches Anacostia’s office.

“And if the killer targets her?” Anacostia paces behind her desk, agitation etched in the rigidity of her shoulders and the tense set of her jaw. “What then, Collar?”

“Then I’d protect her!” Raelle snaps, and Scylla’s heart stills.

“You can barely protect yourself,” Anacostia shoots back. The barb hits its mark, dead center, and Raelle visibly flinches, but she doesn’t look away.

Scylla seizes the opportunity to interrupt and raps her knuckles against the door, drawing the attention of all three women. Abigail’s as stoic as ever, lips set in a firm line, while Raelle soften when she sees her. Anacostia’s chest rises and falls on a heaved sigh, and she beckons her inside.

Scylla enters and the tension is heavy, thicker than it seemed from the outside. She stands next to Raelle, whose frustration radiates off her.. 

"Dr. Ramshorn." Anacostia's voice is back to normal decibel levels, though still strained. "Collar and Bellweather have just informed me of their less than ideal course of action. I'd like to get your input."

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re asking,” Scylla says.

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Anacostia replies. “That’s not something to take lightly.” 

"I understand your concern, Sergeant. But with all due respect, we shouldn’t let emotions cloud our judgment.” Anacostia’s gaze is piercing, and Scylla can practically feel Abigail’s curious sidelong glance. Raelle stands frozen in place, eyes forward.

Scylla pushes forward. “Innocent people are dying, and we have a chance to stop it. The benefits far outweigh the risk.”

Nostrils flaring as she forcefully exhales, Anacostia stretches her neck up at the ceiling. “You keep her safe.” The glare she fixes on Raelle and Abigail could puncture steel. “Or your ass is grass. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.

“Get out before I change my mind.” They move to leave. “Except you, Ramshorn, I’d like a word.”

Scylla avoids eye contact with Raelle and Abigail when they walk past. The door closes with a quiet click.

“Don’t you think you were being a little harsh?” Scylla says when they’re alone.

“I don’t like any of this,” Anacostia wearily drops into her desk chair.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Anacostia pinches the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a joke, Scylla. If anything happens to you…”

Scylla knows all too well that Anacostia’s fear stems from the losses she’s faced. It’s what bonded them together all those years ago, when Scylla was too young and too reckless in the wake of tragedy. It’s why Scylla kept others at arm’s length, erecting walls around her heart. But Scylla’s done letting that fear dictate her life. 

“Nothing will happen to me,” Scylla reassures her. 

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I can handle myself. As can your detectives.”

Anacostia inhales slowly, and exhales. She looks like she wants to argue some more, but also knows it's futile when Scylla's set her mind to something. “At the first sign of trouble, you’re out. Deal?”

“Deal.”

 ***

 Tally takes care of everything. She contacts the groups on Scylla’s behalf, submits all the necessary proofs of lineage, and eventually secures an invitation for a meet and greet with the Associated Daughters and Sons of Early American Witches. The group congregates at the Salem Witch House, a plain yet severe looking building with dark gray clapboard siding, diamond-paned windows, and a steeply pitched roof that accentuates the three triangular shapes integrated in the home’s facade. 

Raelle drives Scylla to the meeting and idles the car just outside. Scylla knows she has nothing to be worried about. But despite her previous bravado, she’s still nervous, hands so cold she’s lost all feeling in her fingertips. Her left knee bounces as she looks out the passenger-side window.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Raelle rests her hand on top of Scylla’s knee to calm her jitters. The warmth of palm seeps through the fabric of Scylla’s dress pants.

“I’m fine.” Scylla tries to sound convincing. “I’ve just never infiltrated anything before.”

Raelle’s fingers tighten around her knee in a gentle squeeze. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know.” She covers Raelle’s hand with her own. “Listen, about what Anacostia said... She went a little too far”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Raelle breathes out as she looks out into the street.

“Hey.” With her free hand, Scylla gently grasps Raelle’s chin and turns her gaze back toward her. “I trust you.”

Lips quirking up in a small smile, Raelle takes Scylla’s hand and presses a kiss to her palm. “Bells and I will just be down the street if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.” Scylla nods and steps out of the car. 

Gathering her courage, she walks up a cobblestone path toward the structure that once served as the home of Jonathan Corwin, one of the more prominent judges during the Witch Trials, according to Tally’s reports. Steeped in such terrible history, an ominous aura surrounds it. And while, logically, Scylla knows that witches and spirits aren’t real--or, at least, not scientifically proven--goosebumps still prickle up her arms. 

When she enters, she’s immediately greeted by a tall and imposing woman, who’s hair is pulled back in a single braid that accentuates her sharp cheekbones. 

“You must be Scylla,” she says. “I’m Sarah Alder. We exchanged emails.” Her handshake is firm and steady.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Scylla says as she follows Sarah through the narrow halls of the main floor. 

“I’m glad you were able to make it.” They bypass several rooms filled with 17th century artifacts, some real, some replicated, ranging from metal plates and cutlery to items allegedly used by witches, such as clay “witch bottles” for keeping evil spirits at bay and doll-like “poppets” that represent their “victims.”

Before long, they enter a sitting room in the back with a large stone hearth and a wooden long table pushed against one wall, covered in various letters and other papers, yellow and tattered with age. About a dozen or so association members are gathered, seated on fold-out chairs arranged in a circle. A blur of introductions and awkward small talk ensues. 

Scylla already knows she won’t be able to remember everyone, but she takes particular note of Gerald, a veterinarian who apparently prefers to be called by his (bizarre) nickname, “Witchfather;” a jovial pediatrician with red hair named Berryessa; an older Asian dentist named Nessa; and a man named Porter, about Scylla’s age, who works as a prison counselor. Porter, in particular, seems oddly familiar, but she can’t quite place why. 

They’re all eager to speak about their ancestors, and Scylla smiles politely and does her best to keep up with their questions about her ties to Sarah Cloyce. She’ll have to thank Tally later for the primer on her predecessor.

“One of the lucky few who got away,” Berryessa comments.

“They’re actually more common than you might think,” Nessa adds. 

Scylla makes a mental note of their interest as the conversation continues to ebb and flow, eventually turning to the more mundane, administrative aspects of running the group. 

“I apologize that you’re not able to meet more of our brothers and sisters. I’m afraid our attendance numbers have been dwindling of late,” Sarah says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Scylla says. “Any particular reason why?” 

Silence falls around the room, thick and uncomfortable. 

Gerald smoothes down his graying beard with his thumb and forefinger. “Dwindling interest in history, I suppose.”

Berryessa leans forward, voice dropping as if she’s sharing a secret. “It’s so bad this year that we haven’t even sold all our tickets to the gala.”

“The gala?” Scylla asks.

“The High Atlantic Charity Gala this Saturday,” Nessa answers. “We participate every year. All proceeds are donated to Salem’s historical sites.”

“You should join us,” Porter speaks up. “We could spare a ticket, right, Sarah?” 

“You’re more than welcome, Scylla,” Sarah agrees. “We can send you the details.”

Scylla shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“Please,” Sarah says. “We insist.”.

“Then, I’ll see you there,” Scylla smiles and Porter’s cheeks flush. 

By the end of the meeting, Scylla’s exhausted. She’s not sure she has anything of substance for the case, but she at least has a few names for the detectives to investigate. Relief washes over her when she finds Raelle waiting for her outside, leaning against the hood of the car. And all Scylla wants to do is steal a kiss when she opens the passenger-side door. 

“So, how’d it go?”

“Good,” Scylla smiles, giving into her desire and leaning in to press a chaste kiss along the scar on Raelle’s cheek. “Do you want to be my date on Saturday night?”

 ***

 “I don’t like this,” Anacostia grumbles as Tally outfits Scylla with a “wire” beneath her black dress. “Have I mentioned this already?”

“Only about three dozen times,” Scylla says, her dress half unzipped, the top hanging loosely around her waist “What’s a few dozen more?”

They’re crammed in the back of an unmarked surveillance truck, discreetly parked a few blocks from the gala at the Salem Witch Museum. 

“It’ll be fine, Sarge,” says Abigail, already mic’d up and ready to go in her own evening gown, its vinyl bodice dark and shiny. “You said it yourself. The more eyes and ears we have in there, the better.”

“We’ll see and hear everything in ‘witch’ central.” Tally carefully straps a miniscule microphone and transmitter around Scylla’s waist, and Scylla instinctively jumps at the cold press of the electronics against her skin. “Sorry, all done.”

She pulls her dress back up, pleased that the wire is perfectly hidden beneath its sequins, arranged in a deep v-shape in the sheer mesh of her backless dress. 

When she’s done, Tally hands her a pair of large hoop earrings. “There’s a camera embedded in one of these. Try to keep your head steady, if you can.”

Scylla nods and she puts them in, surprised at how light they feel despite the added technology. 

“How do I look?” Scylla asks when she’s finished.

“Like your dress could use more fabric,” Anacostia mutters while Abigail lets out a low whistle.  

“Rae’s gonna be beside herself,” Tally comments.

“What?” Anacostia head snaps toward Tally. 

“Nothing!”

Anacostia frowns at her watch in agitation. “And just where the hell is Collar?” 

“Said she needed to get something.” Tally slides into a chair, swiveling toward three different computer screens to pull up the feeds from the cameras on Raelle, Scylla, and Abigail. “I strapped her up earlier.” The first two clearly display the interior of the van, while the third shows someone  approaching the rear of the truck and reaching out a hand to knock on the door..

“Speak of the devil,” Abigail mutters. She swings it open and glances at Scylla. “You ready?”

“Ready,” she answers, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Anacostia places a hand on her arm, stopping her before she can hop out. “Just remember to be careful, all right?” 

“Don’t worry,” Scylla pats Anacostia’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll be around a long time to prematurely age you.”

“You better.”

Scylla carefully hops out of the back with a helping hand from Abigail, breath catching in her throat when her eyes land on Raelle, who’s holding a single lilac-colored rose in her hands. Her hair’s out of their usual braids, and hangs loose and soft.  She’s dressed in a sharp black suit, sleeves scrunched up to her elbows. The plunging neckline of her flesh-colored blouse gives the illusion that she’s not wearing anything underneath her jacket. Scylla forces herself not to stare.

Raelle, however, doesn’t have similar qualms. Her eyes drink in Scylla from head to foot and, for once, seems speechless. “Wow, you look…” 

“You clean up nicely, Detective,” Scylla says when she finds her voice again.

“Even I’m shocked,” Abigail comments, eyebrows raised.

Flipping off Abigail with one hand, Raelle hands the rose to Scylla with the other. “This is for you.”

Scylla twirls the smooth stem between her fingers. “Thank you.” She brings the petals to her nose and inhales its sweet scent.

“You two are nauseating,” Abigail says with mock indignation.

“I should probably leave this here.” Scylla turns back around to Anacostia, who’s scowling from the back of the van, and Tally, who unabashedly grins.

“Does it look like we have water and a vase in here?” Anacostia grouses.

“Don’t worry,” Tally assures her and takes the rose. “We’ll keep it safe.” 

Raelle offers Scylla her arm, and Scylla links her own into the crook of Raelle’s elbow. And if she happens to move closer to Raelle, well, she can justify it from the chill in the air.

 ***

 The gala’s in full swing when they pass through the arched double doors of the brownstone-and-brick museum, which reminds Scylla of a strange hybrid between a castle and a church. The main floor’s been cleared of most of its exhibits, giving the popular tourist trap an open, almost ballroom-like atmosphere for the High Atlantics to mingle and dance and drink their way into spending thousands of dollars on early settlement artifacts.

Raelle’s hand rests on the small of Scylla’s back as they make their way through the crowds, warm and steady, and doesn’t remove it until Abigail introduces Scylla to her mother, Salem’s chief of police. She’s as stern and regal as she appears in televised press conferences, perhaps even more so. Many other Bellweathers are also in attendance, including Abigail’s cousin, Charvel, and her fiancé, Ciro Hood.   

“Dr. L’Amara speaks very highly of you, Dr. Ramshorn,” Petra says when they shake hands. “And I have to say we’ve been very impressed with your work.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Scylla says, flushing slightly from the compliment and the proud smile Raelle beams her way. “It’s an honor to work with Dr. L’Amara and for an excellent police department.”

“Maybe we can make it permanent.” Petra accepts a flute of champagne from a server passing by with a tray. “There may be room in the budget to hire another permanent pathologist in the medical examiner’s office next year, if you’re interested.” 

The offer catches Scylla off-guard, and Raelle watches her switch interest. She had always assumed she would leave Salem once her fellowship ended. But now... “I would be interested,” Scylla nods gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Petra smiles before she’s called away, and Abigail goes with her.

Raelle and Scylla continue onward toward buffet tables filled with canapés, cheese, fruit, and a wide assortment of hors d’oeuvres. 

“We should probably split up.” Raelle pops a few berries into her mouth. “Cover more ground. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Somehow, I’ll find a way to manage.” Scylla eyes a tray filled with lobster claws.

Raelle flashes a grin before she disappears into the crowd. 

 ***

 As the night continues, a few association members greet Scylla. Berryessa gushes over her dress, while Nessa introduces Scylla to her daughter, an Army soldier who’s home on furlough. Scylla hasn’t yet spotted Sarah or Gerald. 

Scylla eventually finds herself wandering the exhibits of the side halls, just to escape the commotion of the gala and have a few minutes to herself to recuperate. She comes across one display that catches her eye. Behind the glass is a noose and an array of 17th century weapons, including a curved blade set in a cross-shaped, ivory hilt. The placard next to it reads: Camarilla Scythe, circa 1693.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” A voice says behind her.

Scylla turns to see Charvel Bellweather and Ciro Hood approach, arm-in-arm. Together, they make a striking couple, reminding Scylla of a Disney princess and prince who stepped out of a movie screen.

“The violence that stems from fear and hate.” Charvel comes to stand next to Scylla, peering inside the case. “Hundreds of years later and we still haven’t learned our lesson.”

“That’s very true,” Scylla agrees. 

“To play devil’s advocate,” Ciro starts.

Charvel rolls her eyes. “The devil doesn’t need an advocate.”

“I’m just saying,” Ciro raises his hands. “They were doing what they thought was best to protect their people.”

“By killing the innocent?” Charvel scrunches up her face. 

“We don’t know they were innocent,” Ciro says.

“Oh? And how exactly do you go about proving someone’s a witch?” Charvel turns toward Scylla. “What do you think, Doctor?”

They walk to another case, which contains old bibles, treatises, and letters. 

“Some historians believe that the witch trials were caused by ergot,” Scylla traces her fingers across the glass. “A fungus that can grow rye and wheat. When consumed, it can cause delusions and muscle spasms. Things that early colonists might consider a witch’s curse.”

“See?” Charvel nudges Ciro.

“It doesn’t hurt to understand where the settlers were coming from,” Ciro insists. 

“Sure. Are you going to try to understand that Windpipe Killer who’s been going after our families, too?” Charvel asks. “I’m sure that murderer has their twisted reasons.”

“There is no right or wrong, only a difference in perspective,” Ciro says, eyeing the books with interest.

“If you say so.” Charvel shrugs.

One open tome depicts a drawing of Camarilla soldiers executing “witches.” The black and white drawings are gruesome. A shiver runs down Scylla’s spine. 

 ***

 Later, when Scylla tries to find Raelle and Abigail, she comes across Porter instead. He's nervous and awkward in his eagerness, but endearing. Scylla has to admit he’s handsome in his tuxedo, even a bit dashing. 

“You made it!” He moves in for a hug, and Scylla awkwardly pats his broad shoulders. “How do you like everything?”

“It’s incredible, but a little overwhelming,” Scylla answers honestly. 

"You get used to it." He rakes his fingers through his golden curls. "I didn't know how to mention this at the meeting, but... you don't remember me, do you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Salem High?” He smiles shyly. “We graduated in the same class together."

That's when it clicks--the reason he had seemed so familiar.

"Porter! We had chemistry together, right?"

She remembers he was fairly popular, sporty. Perhaps he played soccer. Or was it lacrosse?

He nods, pleased. "It's been a while. We missed you at the 10-year reunion."

"I was finishing up my residency," Scylla explains. "Hard to get away." It’s mostly true, though she could have taken a weekend, if she really had wanted.

“Maybe we could catch up more with a dance?”

His face is so openly expectant, Scylla almost feels guilty about turning him down. Perhaps if they had met at some other time, before a certain blonde, and blue-eyed detective had wandered into her life, Scylla would have said yes. 

But before Scylla can answer, a hand slides across her back, electrifying the skin exposed from the low cut of her dress.

“Actually, she’s spoken for.” Raelle appears beside her and thrusts out her other hand. “Raelle Collar.”

Porter hesitantly shakes her hand. “Porter Tippett. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were here with someone.”

Raelle curls her arm around Scylla's waist and rests her hand lightly on her hip. “Ready to go?”

“I’m sorry, Porter,” Scylla says. “Maybe we can catch up a little later?”

She doesn’t catch Porter’s response because Raelle’s already pulling her toward the dance floor. Once there, amid the other swaying couples, Raelle pulls her close, gently cradling Scylla’s left hand with her right. Scylla lightly rests her other hand on Raelle’s shoulder as they move to a slow and mellow melody played by a jazz band. 

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” The blue of Raelle’s eyes seem more intense than usual. 

Scylla’s eyes narrow slightly. “Would you care if you did?”

“No.” Raelle half smiles. “But I wouldn’t get in the way again if that’s what you wanted.”

“He’s not who I want,” Scylla admits, and Raelle’s expression softens. “Did you find anything?”

"No. You?"

"There were witch hunters called the Camarilla. Might be relevant. Tally will probably have a run down by the time the night's through.

Raelle hums softly as they continue to dance, cheek-to-cheek. She smells of dark vanilla and sandalwood, and Scylla nuzzles the crook of Raelle’s neck to breathe more of her in.  

"Can I ask you something?" Raelle asks after one song ends and another starts up.

"Of course." 

"Earlier, with Petra, were you actually interested in that position or were you just being polite?” Raelle whispers. 

“I’m interested." Scylla closes her eyes.

“I thought Salem had too many painful memories for you."

"It does. It did. But I'm making new ones. Happy ones." She skims her lips against the edge of Raelle's jaw, unable to stop the slow spread of her smile when Raelle's breath hitches. 

When Raelle rests the side of her head against hers, Scylla revels in the way they fit so perfectly together, her heart contracting and expanding with affection. And she wonders what she’s waiting for. Why she’s holding happiness at arm’s length when she could finally embrace it.

She makes a decision.    

“Rae,” Scylla whispers, a confession hanging from the tip of her tongue.

The lights cut out.

The museum plunges into darkness. 

Startled shrieks erupt around them while the organizers shout for everyone to keep calm.

“Shit,” Raelle curses, grip tightening on Scylla’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.” She begins leading her through the panicked crowd, but the push and pull of packed bodies trying to rush out at once causes them to lose contact.

“Scyl?” She hears Raelle call out in the din.

Scylla’s about to respond and make a blind break for the exit when she feels a stinging prick against her neck, and then feels nothing at all.

 ***

 Throbbing pain radiates from Scylla’s head and down her neck as she regains consciousness. She cracks her eyes open. Everything’s blurred, and she tries to blink away the haze to no avail. Wherever she is, it’s dark and cold and reeks of decomposing flesh. The putrid scene is unmistakable and Scylla gags. 

“Hey,” a woman says from her left, panic lacing her words. “Hey, are you awake?” 

“Yeah.” Scylla’s mouth is so dry it’s hard to speak. “Where… where are we?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of freaky murder lair or something.”

“What?” Scylla tries to move, but finds she can’t. She’s handcuffed to a bar on the wall, still in her evening wear. The tight metal bites into her wrist, and the sharp sting helps the room slowly come into focus.

They're in a windowless room with cinderblock walls. A basement, perhaps? The young woman who spoke is to her right, similarly bound to a chair. Her long dark hair is mussed, her eyeliner smudged, and her deep violet dress torn in spots. Meanwhile, another woman is strapped to a gurney, unconscious, with no visual wounds. Both of her arms are hooked up to IV lines.

Scylla recognizes her immediately: Charvel Bellweather. There’s a tray next to her with syringes and surgical equipment.

“Oh my god, we got caught by the Windpipe Killer,” the woman says, hysterical. “That’s what this is, right? The Windpipe Killer?”

“We have to stay calm,” Scylla says even though her heart is about two seconds from pounding out of her chest. “I’m Scylla Ramshorn.”

“Glory Moffett,” she says. “I can’t believe we’re going to die. I’m too young to die!”

“No one’s going to die, Glory.” Scylla glances down, stomach sinking when she notices that her dress is torn at the midriff. The wire is gone. Shit. She shakes her head. Her earrings are still on. That’s something, at least. “Someone will find us.”

"Like, our dead bodies?"

"No," Scylla insists. She hopes the camera is still able to send a signal. "Tally? I hope you can see this," she whispers.

"Tally?" Glory asks. "Who's Tally?!"

The door swings open, and Glory shrieks. Three hooded figures enter, menacing in their dark cloaks. None speak as one approaches Charvel while the other two stand guard over Glory and Scylla.

���If you’re trying to contact your colleagues at the SPD, I’m afraid we removed this long before we left the gala.” The one closest to her lifts the camera that had been strapped to her body, and drops it on the floor. It crunches beneath his boot.

She feels like she’s heard his voice before.

"Who are you?" Metal clanks against metal as Scylla struggles against her handcuffs. “Why are you doing this?”

“To finish what our ancestors started, Dr. Ramshorn.” He pulls down his hood. “And purge impure blood tainted by the devil.”

“Gerald?” Scylla can’t believe it.

“You know this freak?!” Glory squeaks. The hooded figure next to her unsheaths a curved dagger and holds it to Glory’s neck.

“Witchcraft isn’t real, Gerald,” Scylla says as calmly as possible even as her throat tightens with panic. “You’re delusional.”

“The public are the ones who are deluded,” Gerald says. “We are doing the Lord’s work.”

“What about Sarah?” Scylla asks. “What have you done to her?”

Gerald smirks. “My dear friend will get what’s coming to her, like the rest of you.” He turns toward Charvel. “Ciro, if you’ll please.”

Scylla mouth drops open.

“Ciro Hood?” Glory exclaims. “Aren’t you her fiancé? You’re like a power couple. How can you do this?!”

“A necessary evil to get close to the Bellweathers,” Ciro says, as he picks up one of the syringes and points the needle toward the ceiling, flicking the barrel. “To protect us all.”

“Oh goddess,” Glory moans.

“Don’t!.” Scylla cries out, fear courses like ice through her veins. “Please. Take me first.”. 

“All in due time, Dr. Ramshorn,” Gerald says. “All in due time.”

Ciro brings the syringe closer to the access port of one of the IV tubes. Just as he’s about to insert it, a loud bang rattles the ceiling, followed by the rumbling of dozens of footsteps. He freezes as Gerald barks at them that they have to evacuate.

“How did they find us?” Ciro asks. 

Gerald backhands Scylla. Her head snaps back, the taste of copper filling her mouth.

“We have to go,” the third killer says. A woman. Scylla doesn’t recognize her voice.

“But Bellweather,” Ciro protests.

“Leave her,” Gerald orders, taking out his own dagger. “Wick, take Moffett.”

“We should just kill them all,” Wick says. 

“No, the police won’t touch us if it means endangering one of their own.” He uncuffs Scylla and hauls her to her feet, while Wick does the same with Glory. “Try anything and we’ll slit Moffett’s throat.”

With a bruising grip on her arm, he shoves her toward the door. They’re forced down a dark hall when a shout rings out, “SPD, freeze!!!”

Earsplitting gunshots crack in the air.

Glory screams.

Gerald yanks Scylla to him and turns them around. The edge of the cold blade presses against her neck. She can make out two bodies on the floor. Glory cowers in a ball on the ground as beams of light rush toward her.   .

“Hold your fire!” A familiar voice rings out, and Scylla’s heart hammers against her ribs.

Raelle.

Gerald walks them backwards. “Stop right there,” he shouts. 

Raelle stops. The light from her flashlight is blinding. 

“It’s over, Gardner.” Raelle’s voice is cold and harsh. She creeps forward with her gun raised. “Let her go.”

“One more step, and the SPD will have one less employee.” Gerald knicks a patch of Scylla’s skin, and she cries out. 

Raelle lowers her weapon slightly, enough so that the glare of her light isn’t as harsh. Scylla can just make out the storm swirling in a sea of blue. Scylla nods imperceptibly..

I trust you.

The shot thunders out. 

In a flurry of activity that comes too quickly for her to process, Scylla finds herself falling backward onto the floor, still clutched in a dead man’s grasp. They crash to the ground, knocking the air clean out of Scylla’s lungs. She manages to peel herself away, heart thundering so hard her head pounds in sync, and the next thing Scylla knows, gentle hands are tenderly brushing hair from her face. 

“Scyl?”

All she can see are blue eyes filled with concern. She collapses forward and a pair of strong arms wraps around her.

“Rae…” She buries her head in Raelle’s chest, grasping her shoulders. 

“I’ve got you,” Raelle clutches her tight. “I’ve got you.” 

 ***

 Sirens and flashing blue lights fill the aftermath. Scylla doesn’t remember walking from the house. Or letting the paramedics poke and prod her to make sure she’s okay. It all goes by in a blur. Tally hugs her tight, and Anacostia holds her even tighter, while Raelle works to secure the crime scene with Abigail and their fellow officers.  

“You sure you’re okay?” Anacostia drapes a thin blanket over Scylla’s shoulders. 

“Yeah,” Scylla nods. “What about Glory and Charvel?”

“Moffett’s a little shaken up, but no worse for wear,” Anacostia confirms. “Abigail went with Charvel to the hospital, but it sounds like she’ll be just fine.”

“That’s a relief.” Scylla pulls the blanket around her tighter as Anacostia leads her to a squad car.   

“So,” Anacostia starts as they lean against the trunk. “You and Collar were putting on quite the show before everything went to hell. Craven was beside herself.”

Scylla’s cheeks heat up. “I just escaped from three serial killers, could you maybe wait to grill me about my girlfriend?”

"Girlfriend, huh?" Anacostia chuckles. “She makes you happy?”

“Very.” Happy is an understatement. Raelle got her to notice her heart again for the first time in a long time. 

“Then I won’t bust her chops. But if she ever hurts you...”

“I won’t,” comes Raelle’s voice. 

Scylla's breath catches.

“Good.” Nodding, Anacostia squeezes Scylla’s shoulder. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.” As she passes Raelle, she claps her on the back. “You did good, Collar.”

Scylla steps back into Raelle’s arms when she’s close, succumbing to the gravitational pull between them. 

"Will you stay with me?” Scylla rests her forehead against Raelle's.

"Of course." Raelle rubs soothing circles up and down Scylla's back. 

“All night?”

“As long as my girlfriend wants me.” Raelle’s grin is bright enough to chase away the shadows of the night. 

Groaning, Scylla hides her face against Raelle’s shoulder. “You heard that?”

“I did.” Raelle presses her lips to Scylla’s hair. 

“Is that… okay?”

“Scyl, look at me.” Raelle cradles Scylla’s face between her hands, holding her gaze, eyes deep like the ocean. “I’ve wanted nothing more since that first night we met.” 

Tears slip down Scylla’s cheeks as she leans forward and kisses Raelle, warmth unfurling inside her chest. 

“Just so you know, I expect chocolate chip pancakes in the morning,” Scylla says when they pull apart. “They better be as good as you say they are, or it's a deal breaker. Got it?"

Raelle only laughs. "Got it."

[kittinoir]

Echoes of You Ch. 22

Read on Ao3

Chat Noir was exhausted, but cautiously optimistic. 

The city was near-silent beneath him as he cut a path towards the Eiffel Tower, as though every Parisian were holding their breath. The clock on his baton told him he had just under half an hour to make it there, but he wasn’t worried. Even if he was a few minutes late, Felix and Chloe wouldn’t be facing Hawkmoth alone.

He glanced behind him, searching the shadows, but they remained empty. Maybe, he thought, she just wasn’t coming.

Marinette’s balcony had been his final stop that night. The light had been on, but the room had been empty. He’d been disappointed, but hope had urged him to leave the mouse Miraculous and the pink rose on her desk. It wasn’t half the apology he’d wanted to give her, but it would have to do until he had an opportunity to talk with her. He hoped it would be enough for the time being.

But for now, he needed to focus. He hadn’t let himself dwell on the situation beyond what he’d told the others because it was too overwhelming, and none of it was guaranteed, but… if it went right, if they were successful, then everything would change. The world would come a little bit back into balance.

Adrenaline burst through Chat Noir’s system as the Eiffel Tower came into view. Though devoid of any activity, very light on it was lit, as though to give them their best advantage. 

He stopped short of the Tower itself, angling instead for the Trocadero Gardens across the Seine. He landed silently on the steps where Felix had instructed they meet, and was hardly surprised when his cousin grabbed him roughly by the arm, yanking him into a deep shadow.

“Where have you been?” Felix demanded, releasing him with a little shove. 

“I’ve been running recruitment,” Chat Noir said with a grin. “And speaking of, I’m going to need Trixx.”

“Trixx?” Felix unconsciously wrapped a hand around the pendent at his throat. “Adrien, I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, but you can’t seriously mean - ”

“Nothing like that,” Chat Noir cut his cousin off. “He just belongs with someone else - but I’m not leaving you defenceless by any means.” Chat Noir reached into the bag at his hip, pulling out the Miraculous from the box. 

Felix hesitated, staring at the little box in Chat Noir’s palm.

“You’re really giving me one?” he asked. Despite everything, Chat Noir realized his cousin really expected to, at the very least, punish him for his previous stunt.

“I really am,” Chat Noir said. “You did good here, Felix. No one’s perfect; you deserve the same chance Chloé got. Will you take it?”

For once, Felix actually smiled. “Trixx, let’s rest.”

The kwami spiralled out of the necklace, coming to rest in Felix’s palm. He seized on the snap peas Felix had produced and scarfed them down. He continued to eat even as Felix removed the necklace and picked up the new box.

“Hey, Trixx,” Chat Noir said, accepting the necklace. “Ready to play with an old friend?”

“You found her then?” Trixx asked, drifting towards his Miraculous.

Chat Noir hid a wince. “Not yet. It’s still work in progress. Hopefully after tonight it’ll be safe enough to try.”

They both winced at the burst of yellow light as Felix opened the lid of the new box.

“Greetings, my King!” Pollen rose gracefully out of their box, executing a bow as they went. “I’m Pollen of the Bee Miraculous; I grant the power of subjugation. To activate the Miraculous, simply say ‘Buzz on’.”

“This is going to raise a lot of questions,” Felix muttered as he slid the comb into his hair, “But…thank you.”

“You’ve earned it,” Chat Noir said simply. “Remember the time limit.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “How could I forget? Alright, get going. Remember to wait for the signal.”

“Got it,” Chat Noir said. “Rena Rouge will take care of your illusion. See you out there.”

Chat Noir left, heading for the second meeting spot he’d arranged that night as a yellow flash briefly lit the shadows of the Trocadero. 

“Carapace?”

A voice drifted from the shadows. “Over her, du - Chat Noir.”

Chat Noir could make out a dozen forms among the dark struts of the Eiffel Tower, all talking quietly. The multitude of colours were muted in the night, but what they were was unmistakable.

“Alya?” he asked, stopping beside his friend.

“Right here,” she said, stepping up beside Carapace.

Chat Noir held out the box. “Ready?”

“So ready,” she said quietly. He’d never seen her quiet before, but he didn’t think he was imagining the glistening of her eyes as she took the Miraculous. “I never thought I’d ever get to do this again.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Chat Noir warned. “But tonight we need all hands on deck.”

“I understand,” Alya said quickly. “I just…I didn’t know last time would be the last time. Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else with me,” Chat Noir said. He meant it, too. His Lady had chosen these people - well, most of them. They all loved her almost as much as he did. Even though she wasn’t there, it was almost like having her unbreakable spirit with them. 

“I see the gang’s all here,” Red said, dropping in beside him.

“Almost,” Chat Noir admitted. He couldn’t help a glance over his shoulder, as though she might still show up. 

“It’s interesting,” Red mused, glancing over their team mates. “Almost the entirety of Mme. Bustier’s class from Francois Dupont High School - with two notable exceptions.”

Chat Noir stiffened. No. No way. “Marinette might show up yet,” he said as his heart began to pound.

“She’s not who I’m interested in,” Red said, leaning in. “It’s you - Adrien.”

Chat Noir stifled a frustrated sigh. “This is unbelievable.”

Red actually scoffed. “It’s hardly rocket science. You haven’t exactly been subtle.”

“You of all people know you can’t give a Miraculous away to just any one,” he said. “They’re too dangerous.”

Her wince was barely noticeably. “You just better hope no one else notices the pattern, Adrichat,” she whispered. 

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, deciding it was best to move on to other topics.

“Yeah,” Red said after a moment. She turned to look out over the city, crossing her arms against an invisible chill she never could have felt through the suit. “I am, but…it doesn’t feel right to do this without her.”

A hint of pain and regret twisted through Chat Noir’s gut, but he couldn’t let it hurt him, not here, not now. “I know,” he agreed. “But it’s the only way to get her back.”

“You know how to restore her memory then?” she asked. She glanced back at him but he avoided her gaze.

“I have a few theories,” Chat Noir said, but he didn’t elaborate. “Let’s get through tonight first.”

“I’ll help you, you know,” Red said. “I… everyone knows how Chat Noir feels about Ladybug. I know you must be missing her. Besides,” she grinned, “I’ve gotta get rid of this kwami; she won’t eat anything but the best pastries in Paris. And I thought I was fussy.”

Beneath them, one of the lamps surrounding the plaza abruptly flickered out. Chat Noir felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

“It’s time.”

Red nodded. “See you on the other side.”

Chat Noir saluted her and made his way to the darkest shadow in the structure where Rena Rouge was waiting for him. It deepened as another lamp went out. He felt more than he saw her shudder as he landed.

“I’ve dreamed of punching Hawkmoth right in the face,” she whispered, “But this…”

“It feels like a trap,” Chat Noir admitted. 

“Yeah.”

“It may be.” He stifled his frustration. “We have no way of knowing. Improvisation’s always been my stronger suit.” Even so, he’d done all he could to prepare.

Nothing, however, could prepare him for what he saw seconds later in the plaza.

It was the most stunningly beautiful, horrific akuma he’d ever seen in his life. Worse, he knew her.

“…Marinette?”

He recognized the gown, and in a terrible blinding flash, he realized it hadn’t been on the mannequin when he’d dropped by her place. Now he knew why. 

It wasn’t the project she’d been building over the past past couple of weeks; instead of black, the fabric had turned a brilliant, violent red. Black edging lined the silhouette. The hem, which had once flared out into a dramatic train, was in ashy tatters. Her hair tumbled loosely around her shoulders, longer and darker than he’d ever seen it before. The top half had been pulled back into a bun, the only ornamentation a hair stick decorated in midnight black flowers. Her skin was so pale she looked like a spectre. Her eyes had gone completely black.

All Chat noir could do was stare. “How…did this…how…”

“Oh, Marinette.”

He whipped to Rena Rouge. She, too, was staring at the figure in the plaza, sadness etched in her features.

“I tried to warn her,” she said. “Anyone can be akumatized.”

Nothing made sense. He couldn’t make it make sense. Rena Rouge wasn’t <em>wrong</em>, but Marinette was the strongest person he knew. Sure, she could get upset like anyone, but she always seemed to be able to quickly get her emotions under control.

“Warn her?” he managed. His gaze had wandered back to the akuma. He couldn’t look away. It was like seeing a ghost. “Why did she need warning?”

“I don’t really know,” Rena Rouge said as another light flickered out. “A few months ago we were talking on the phone. She was really freaked out. She said there were these…gaps? She couldn’t remember anything about Hawkmoth, or you and Ladybug. It was so weird, but after we talked about it, she seemed to forget that she forgot. She never brought it up again. Maybe I should have.”

Chat Noir couldn’t breathe. As he stared at the girl in the plaza, a thousand little puzzle pieces fell into place.

<em> ‘You love that girl’.</em>

Plagg’s words were like a bullet to the chest. His kwami had tried to tell him in the only way he could. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it.

<em> ‘I think something’s wrong…I’m having trouble…’</em> Remembering.

That was what she was going to tell him all those months ago. It had always been her, right in front of him this whole time. The reason she’d been so sure of her plan. His Lady…Marinette…the reason he’d been so confused about his feelings for both of them was because…

“Marinette is Ladybug.”

Beside him, Rena Rouge stiffened, and then sighed a little laugh. “Of course. Of course she is. Do I even want to ask how we ended up here?”

“No,” Chat Noir whispered through cold lips. “No, you really don’t.”

“But…then this means you’re going to have to fight her.”

“No,” Chat Noir said as fury finally ignited, burning away everything else. “I’m going to have to save her.” Adrenaline made his eyes fairly glow. “And then I’m going to make Hawkmoth pay for what he’s done to her.” 

For everything they’d sacrificed. For every sleepless night and broken heart and stolen kiss. For everything they might never get back. 

Felix was right; Hawkmoth had never played by the rules. This time, he’d crossed a line.

And Chat Noir was ready to get his claws dirty. 

[tanirath]

Remember to Hate You

A story written by its3am

Original on Ao3

Notes:

Slight AsraxJulian, Slight ValdemarxOC, LucioxMC,��the third chapter contains explicit content

italics are flashbacks

Summary:

Athenia is from a Southern tribe that was overrun by another warring one. She was held a slave until the tribe that destroyed her own decided to take on the Scourge of the South and fell. She began working at a herbalist for them, doing what she needed to do to survive. Morga never paid attention to her, and she couldn’t stand Montag, so she was glad to never have attracted their attention. She managed to flee one fateful night and traveled alongside some of the best doctors in the country, working her way up in the ranks and learning every skill she could. She was strong, spirited, could hold her own, but at the same time, knew when to remain quiet, depending on what the situation warranted. She knew how to benefit from any situation. This story begins when Athenia first came to Vesuvia and started working for Dr. Devorak. She attended a party and ran into the very last person on this planet that she wanted to see, the only person who could ruin her chance at this fresh new life.

Chapter One:

Athenia sighed as she made her way silently through the trees. Snow fell and coated the ground, the branches of the trees, the fur that protected her neckline from the bitter cold of the coming season. Her eyes scanned the cold ground, unsure if anything would be left for her to gather. She knew the caraway was crucial to surviving the illness that had fallen upon the tribe, and she knew she would forever be revered if she were able to bring it back at this critical time. She ran her hands over her wet hair before pulling it up into a bun, shivering as snowflakes melted on her exposed neck. The telltale white blooms came into view as she emerged into an open field, she followed the slope of the earth as it valleyed downwards, losing her footing as she descended. She let out a soft cry as she landed on her bottom, the back of her legs now soaked through from the wet snow that had fallen. She opened her satchel and made her way to the wild caraway blossoms. The dirt was cold and stiff beneath her fingertips as she dug away at the plant, seeking the root that nestled beneath the earth. Cursing as she went, she gathered what she could before the sun began to set behind the tree line, branches still and bare as ghosts waiting to be reborn. As she rose to her feet, the cold wet snow on her pants seemed to seep into her very bones, sending an unpleasant tremor through her body. A branch snapped in the distance. She froze, unable to move. With bated breath, she waited to ensure silence once again surrounded her, the setting sun fading as darkness cloaked the world in unseen danger. Another snap to her left, and another. And another. Until the sound surrounded her rising as if it were a cursed choir choking the serenity from her world. The valley floor turned red, rolling and churning as it neared her boots. Water? No, she realized. The clicking of thousands of beetles rose to an ear shattering crescendo, drowning out her horrified screams until she was dragged under, falling through the tiny shelled bodies of the blood red bugs.

Sweat gleamed on her brow as she sat up abruptly, unable to catch her breath. It was this same dream, every year to the day, a cruel reminder of her past. It was the day that damn coward ran away, only it didn’t end like her dream always did. She remembered the forest, the snow falling silently as if it actually were a dream. The caraway. The cold wet of her clothes as she trudged back with her herbs, the ones that would prove her as indispensable. She would prove that they needed her, she would keep them alive this season and in turn they would forever be grateful. She remembered emerging from the forest, walking into camp and froze as she saw a man on the cold ground, Morga in front of him with her spear pressing into him. His telltale blonde hair confirmed it was Montag, without a doubt. She held her breath as she saw Morga muttering something to him, before he quickly rose and turned, locking eyes with her for but a moment before disappearing forever into the forest.

“Athenia?” She heard a soft voice call, “Athenia, are you awake in there?” Julian’s sweet face came into view as he peeked his head into her room. “I thought I heard you crying.” “I’m alright, are we late?” She asked, wiping her forehead as she sat up, eyes wide. “Not yet!” Julian grinned, and left her alone, shutting the door behind him. Athenia groaned as she climbed out of bed, there was a celebration party that the city was expected to attend the next evening in recognition of the Count’s birthday, and she rolled her eyes imagining what a bore it was going to be. All the proper people, in their proper clothes while the poor suffered and starved.

The sun shone brightly in the bluest sky she’d ever seen, not a cloud in sight. The air around her warm, as if she were wrapped in safety’s embrace, finally away from the world she left behind. Her satchel jangled at her side, her medical tools meticulously placed into side pockets and wrapped in cloths to keep them from scratching one another. She smiled as she walked through the cobblestone streets, merchants and bakers lined up in the early light to sell their wares to smiling customers, the streets filled with bright linens and flowing silks. The first day of the rest of her life.

Once dressed, she met Julian outside where he was looking up at the sky. The clouds had begun to roll in, and they were headed to the Palace on their day off. Julian had taken the liberty to volunteer them both to help set up for the festivities since they happened to both be free from clinic duties that day. She didn’t argue, as it would certainly help her be seen by Palace staff, and any opportunity to impress was one that she would seize if it meant possible advancement. They were quiet on the way to the Palace, the shops bustling as they danced their way through the crowds, avoiding collision in the hustle and bustle of a pre storm morning. The sweet smell of fresh breads filled the air, swirling with the scent of kicked up dirt and perfumes of the passersby. Once out of the crowd, Athenia focused on her feet, watching each footfall and imagining a life as a healer employed by the Palace. A life of luxury and comfort, warm foods and cozy beds. By the time they finally made it to the Palace, rain began misting down from the sky above. She frowned thinking about their walk home, brow furrowing as Julian greeted the guards before they passed through the wrought iron gates.

Warmth and golden light enveloped them as they entered through the golden double doors. The air smelled of lily of the valley, frankincense. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the delicate, clean aroma, listening to the sound of her footsteps tap on the flawless marble floor that stretched out in all directions. “You coming?” Julian called out playfully, several strides ahead of her. “It’s nice, huh?” “Yeah, it’s amazing…” She breathed, eyes widening as if to take in as much of the beauty that surrounded her as possible. She hadn’t been through this part of the palace before, and had only been inside once for the autumn masquerade. Carved statuettes seemed to gaze at her from every hall’s end, angelic faces and halos, full lips and chiseled muscles etched flawlessly into marbles and clays. Curtains of red and gold lay elegantly over large paned windows topped with stained glass displaying roses, animals and yet more angelic forms. The floors glittered as they made their way through the Palace, specks of gold inlay just beneath the glossy finish under her feet. “Welcome!” A warm voice called out, she looked up to see the Countess beaming at them, taking long, elegant strides to meet them. “Countess…” Julian hummed, bowing. Athenia’s face flushed pink as she tried to awkwardly curtsy at the Countess, eliciting a sweet laugh from her pretty lips. “Is this Athenia?” The countess asked, eyes glittering as she looked her up and down smiling all the while. Athenia nodded, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable, but could sense that the Countess was kind. She smiled up at her, Julian glancing over to gauge her reaction. She held in her excitement as the Countess beckoned them to follow her through the halls and out onto a veranda overlooking the gardens. They were magnificent. The rain pitter pattered on the rooftop sheltering them, the scent of petrichor filling her senses as the earth swirled and churned under the falling raindrops. The air held a slight chill this January day as they sat at a table covered in papers and lists. The Countess had certainly been working hard already this morning. “So here are the ideas I’ve come up with, the servants will begin after lunch this afternoon. I’d like you to lead them, the Count seems to be quite fond of you and he would be pleased if you took care of things.” She stated, ending with a less than pleased tone. “Interesting.” Julian said flatly, no sign of emotion in his response. Athenia looked over the lists and diagrams as Julian and Countess Nadia conversed, her tone bordering on melancholy and annoyance, his seemed more cautious, receptive. Her ears perked up as to take in some of the conversation, confused by the seemingly displeased tone on a day to prepare for an upcoming celebration. “Red wine, make sure the fountains over here are red wine. Buffet table over here.” She pointed to a rectangle on a map and sighed, her lips tilted downward into a slight frown. This was more work than fun for her. Where was the Count? Shouldn’t he be helping? She leaned back in her chair, listening to the sounds of the rain and the Countess planning, Julian “mm-hmm”ing along.

She could hear the increasing chatter through the busy city streets as the days passed by. In the market as she purchased sweet bread, at the Rowdy Raven when she went for a late night brew, down by the docks as she took a morning stroll before heading into the clinic, eager to get the head doctor, Dr. Julian Devorak’s attention in her thirst for success. This is where she would build a life for herself. She would do whatever it took. The excitement and anticipation was growing, as the new Count that some seemed to love, some seemed to despise, was giving a speech tonight before the gladiator’s match. Cruel, wicked, arrogant. Beautiful, charismatic, unmatched love for celebration and fun. These were the things she heard about him. By that week’s end, she couldn’t decide if she dreaded finally seeing this man, or if she were excited to find out what all the fuss was about. But tonight was the night, and she would be there in the crowd.

After each and every room was explained, after Julian had filled each and every margin with notes of plans, locations of this and that, this flavor that scent, they rose to their feet as a knock sounded on the door. The Countess seemed to glide over to the closed door, opening it to invite the visitor in. White hair, dark skin, a beautiful smile “Asra!” The Countess exclaimed softly, “You’ve made it just in time!” The city’s magician came approached, appearing to glow even in this gloomy weather. Athenia looked over to Julian just in time to see his face flush red, eyes averting and landing firmly on his feet. “I was just finishing up here with Julian and Athenia, she is Julian’s assistant, they are graciously helping with the preparations.” She explained. “We’d better get started on that, let’s go now, come!” Julian exclaimed in a strange theatric voice, grasping Athenia’s arm and tugging her toward the doorway. She followed, glancing back at the two beautiful people settling into their seats on the veranda, the colors they wore cutting through the bleak day like an oasis in the desert. Almost mesmerizing. Julian pulled her through the door and promptly shut it behind them before he began walking quickly down the hall, leaving Athenia to sprint to catch up to him.

The day went as planned, Julian assigned servants to rooms and tasks, his height an advantage when it came time to hang sparkling decorations overhead. The tables were set up, the glittering ribbon hung, the places set and ready for the following evening. It almost seemed as if something were missing, but Athenia couldn’t quite put her finger on it. ‘Ah!’ she thought to herself, ‘must be missing all the people.’ She was sure it would all come together once everyone had arrived. The Countess had arranged for a carriage to bring them home in the morning, as the storm had picked up and it was too dangerous to leave the safety of cover at that time of night. They had been given guest chambers in which to stay, and were pointed to the baths in case they wished to wash off the stresses of the long day. Athenia shut the door to her room and flopped onto the bed, inhaling the sweet aroma of the soaps used to wash the quilt that lay on the bed, pressing her cheek against the soft fabric. She counted the stitches to one hundred until she looked up and around her, gazing at the silken canopy above her, the plush carpets below her feet, the gold foil pattern on the hand carved ceiling above her. Everything in that room was as elegant as the rest of the Palace. Her daze was broken as a knock sounded at her door, startled, she jumped up and ran to open it. A girl with bright red hair was on the other side with a tray of food, beaming up at Athenia as she held it out like an offering. “Here’s your dinner Miss Athenia! My name is Portia, if you need anything just holler!” “T-thank you Portia-“ Athenia stuttered out, wide eyed at the array of delicious foods that lay on the tray. “Your friend the next door down is snoring. I put the tray by the door” she stated simply, pointing toward Julian’s room. Athenia nodded and smiled. “Thank you for dinner-!” Athenia shouted after the vibrant girl as she bounced away down the hallway. Closing the door, she set the tray on a nearby dresser, unsure of what to have first.

After the tray was nearly empty and the hour had grown late, she felt decidedly restless in her quiet room all alone. She opened the door and peeked out into the hallway, Julian’s tray rested outside the door, still adorned with all manner of delicacies. She chuckled and shook her head, deciding to check out the baths. She softly padded down the hall toward the bath room, lost in thought. She imagined what It would be like to work here, spend every day surrounded by such beauty. As she approached the door, it slowly opened, causing her to jump back. Who would be bathing at this hour? Her question was answered as the occupant exited, thankfully fully clothed, but their unnaturally wide grin displayed dangerously sharp teeth that were not at all friendly. Their eyes shone red, skin a pale green as they exited wordlessly, hand in hand with a small, dark haired girl, clad only in a towel. She smiled sweetly, face flushed a bright pink as she made eye contact with Athenia, not a sound escaping her plump pink lips. Athenia stood for a moment, realizing if she came any sooner she probably would have seen something she didn’t want to. Shuddering, she peeked inside to ensure she was alone before slipping through the doorway and into the steaming room.

Athenia slipped out of her clothing, setting the pile neatly on a nearby chair that was glistening with the dampness from the air. She untied her dark ponytail, the silver ends fanning out wildly around her pretty face, in desperate need of a good soak. She dipped one foot in the hot water, two, sighing as she lowered herself into the fragrant depths, soaking her tired body all the way to her shoulders, her neck, her chin until the waterline lay right below her nose. She floated backwards, leaning against the edge and reaching for a perfumed bar of soap. Rubbing it between her hands, a decadent lather spilled out from her fingertips, dropping bubbles into the heated water. Placing the soap back where it belonged, she lathered her hair, her neck, shoulders, scrubbed her arms, lathered her full breasts, her soft stomach, legs and feet. She slowly indulged in the rare scents, making sure to lather every part of herself as to somehow capture the fragrance to keep forever. She sighed, breathing in, breathing out, as her shoulders relaxed, her back releasing all of the tension she didn’t realize she was carrying until now. She could have stayed there forever, she thought this to herself as she begrudgingly opened her eyes, her gaze landing on a pile of soft towels, appearing as pillows on the shelves lining the wall. The air seemed cooler now as she emerged from the bath. She wrapped her long hair, twisting it up into a towel, and used another to dry her body before wrapping herself up for the trek back to her room. Certainly no one would be out and about at this hour. Except perhaps Portia, who seemed as if she had just awoken, full of energy as she brought by dinner. Athenia smiled as she made her way down the hall, thinking about how wonderful everything here was. She silently placed one bare foot in front of the other, clutching her clothes, her boots. The fuzz lining her shirt collar tickled her nose and she let out an involuntary giggle before her blood ran cold. Eyes. There were eyes on her. She could feel it.

———————————————————————————————————–

You can read the other chapters here:

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Please check out the writers AO3 account. All of their stories are incredibly well written and thought-through. Leave Kudos and most importantly: feel free to comment below their works. I couldn’t be happier with this stunning gift I recieved from them.

Athenia belongs to me

[avi-stella]

Another Day | Mob/Shigeo Kageyama x Reader

RATING: Teen | WORD COUNT: 1,720 | GENRE: Slice-of-Life/Friendship SUMMARY: You and Mob become friends. NOTE: My overdue part of a trade with @pepcvina. I'm sorry it took me so long to deliver! Since your part was 2K+ words, to keep the trade fair and as an apology for taking so long, I do have one other fic for you queued up. Thank you for trading with me!

Sounds of rustling papers and shoved books fill the room as you stand up from your seat, the chair legs scraping against the floor as you do. You start to pack your things as well, your eyes flickering over to the well-built teenager that you had just finished tutoring for the day.

"You seem awfully excited Musashi," you note with a laugh as the male shoves all of his supplies into his bag. Musashi had been your friend for quite some time now. You first met him near the beginning of the school year. Though initially frightened by his bulky frame, you later discovered just how much of a sweetheart he was when he happened to pass by and save you from some bullies.

You've spent a lot of time with him since then, wanting to show your gratitude by helping him with his studies which he was rather weak on, but nowadays, you merely hang out with him just because you enjoy his company. Of course, being friends with someone who looked like he could beat up anyone who got in his way did have its perks.

"We got a new member for our club!" Musashi explains with a large grin, prompting you to smile as well. It was great to see him so happy, though you are a bit surprised by his news. The Body Improvement Club did have some of the kindest people you've ever met in your life thus far, but you didn't think anybody else would be interested in their intense (you thought so, at least) regime.

"Oh? Who is it?" You ask, genuinely curious.

The teenager hums. "Do you know Kageyama Shigeo?"

Kageyama Shigeo, or mostly referred to as Mob. You knew of him and have seen him around in the hallways of the school, though you never really got the chance to strike up a conversation with him before. He seemed friendly, albeit awkward and perhaps a bit of a loner. You once heard rumours that he possessed psychic powers, but you never really believe any of them. After all, Mob looked too..."average", you guess you could say, to have such an ability.

"Huh, I never really took him as somebody who would be interested in the Body Improvement Club..." you muse as you finish up with the last of your packing.

"You should join too!" Musashi beams, giving you a firm slap on the back which causes you to stumble forwards, but you don't have the heart to get angry at his strength.

You shake your head at the offer. "I told you before, it's fine," you answer and refuse; it isn't the first time the teenager's asked you to join. "But I guess I am curious about your new member. I'd like to tag along for today."

As expected, when Mob first introduces himself to you, you only see someone plain and average; though you guess you are a bit worried as to whether or not he could keep up with the Body Improvement Club. In any case, the small smile that the teenager flashes you melts your heart somewhat. It's pure and innocent, and you feel almost compelled to protect him.

"Are you part of the club too?" Mob asks, tilting his head to the side.

"No, I'm just a friend," you respond. "And since you're a member now, I guess that means we're friends now too!"

Mob's face seems to light up at that, something you weren't expecting. "I've never really had a friend before," he admits with bubbling excitement despite the loneliness of the phrase itself. An awkward smile creeps up onto your features, uncertain on how to reply, so instead, you merely wish your new friend good luck with the club.

"Thanks!" He bows before leaving to join with the others.

You decide to hang around the room for a bit when the door opens again, and the Body Improvement Club trudges in with Mob passed out in their arms. "What happened?" You ask with pure concern and worry as the other members set him down. The teenager is drenched in sweat, and his body looks so heavy. You go retrieve a bottle of water for the male for when he later wakes up as Musashi explains what happened.

"Figures that it would be too much for him right off the bat..." you comment idly, wiping off the sweat that adorned Mob's forehead.

"We're going to continue with our run," the club president announces. "Can you take care of him?"

"Yes, of course," you answer with no hesitation.

Nodding in satisfaction and knowing that Mob is in good hands, Musashi leaves to continue with the club activities. You decide to leave Mob alone for now and allow him to wake up on his own as you go back to what you were previously doing. Minutes tick by until you hear the teenager groan, catching your attention.

Mob's eyes flutter open, confusion making its way onto his features as he glances around at his surroundings. "What happened...?" He croaks out, graciously accepting the water bottle you hold out for him. He unscrews the cap and takes generous gulps of the refreshing liquid.

"You passed out," you explain to him. "I can understand your eagerness, but if you push yourself too much like that, it could be dangerous. You should be more careful..."

You can't distinguish just what kind of expression Mob is wearing, but he nods in understanding. Your gaze on him lingers, and he shifts uncomfortably from your intense stare before he finally brings himself to ask, "Is something wrong?"

Not having realized that you were staring, you give a small embarrassed jump. "Oh, uh...no, I was just...wondering... Some people say you have powers. Is it true...?" You question slowly, not sure if it was appropriate to bring it up, but you were curious.

"Yes."

You blink in surprise, not having expected such a straightforward and nonchalant answer. "Oh, uh... I see. I think that's pretty cool."

A sudden lull appears in the conversation, and when you make no move to break it, Mob decides to ask, "You're not going to ask me to prove it?" It's something he's gotten used to that it feels strange somehow when you don't react as how others usually did with him.

"You don't have to if you don't want to. Plus, I believe you."

To your pleasant surprise, you and Mob became closer as time passed on. The teenager was great company to be around with, and it was endearing to see him try so hard with the club. You never expected somebody like Mob to be so hardworking and determined.

You supported Mob throughout everything and cheered him on whenever you could. Little by little, you can see the improvement in his stamina, and it warmed your heart. He even seemed to have become good friends with the other members of the club, and you can't help but laugh at the sight of someone like Mob with a happy grin on his face while surrounded by intimidating-looking males. You knew better though that they each possessed a heart of gold and wonderful companionship.

You're just about ready to leave the school when you feel somebody harshly pull you back by the collar of your uniform, causing you to gasp and drop your belongings. You don't need to look to know just who it was, and you mentally curse your bad luck.

"Going somewhere?" Your bully sneers as you try to maintain your composure.

"Home," you answer and stand your ground.

The male before you frowns. "I don't think so. Your friends aren't here, and we have some catching up to do."

A shiver involuntarily runs down your spine, and you gulp back your fear. Before you can respond, a meek voice interrupts and joins in on the conversation. "Excuse me..."

Your bully rolls his eyes, directing his attention towards none other than Mob. "What do you want?"

"Do you think you could leave her alone?" Mob asks, his question coming out as more like an innocent and polite request than anything else. "I think you're making her uncomfortable."

A frown mars the other male's lips. "What? Do you want to take her place instead?"

"What? Well, no, but—" Mob isn't given a chance to answer, his cheek making contact with the bully's fist. The impact and abrupt action catches Mob by surprise, and he crashes onto the floor with a loud thud which draws out a shocked and horrified gasp from your lips.

Within seconds, you're by Mob's side and helping him up, asking if he was alright as the male rubs the reddened skin. You snap your attention towards the other teenager and flash him an icy stare. You can tolerate being bullied yourself, but you will not idly sit by and watch your friend, somebody incredibly sweet like Mob, to be beaten around.

You might not have physical strength, but you know where to hit to make it count. Steeling yourself for whatever consequences there might be in the future, you give a strong kick to in between the male's legs. He winces and doubles over, his hand moving to massage his groin. You seize the opportunity, grabbing your stuff with one hand while holding Mob's hand in the other and dragging him along as you dash to safety.

As soon as you've managed to put enough of a safe distance between you and the school, both you and Mob slow down to a stop, clutching at your knees while you try to catch your breath. You both collapse to the ground, exhausted and relieved.

"Thanks for coming to save me," you offer the teenager words of gratitude when you see a small trail of blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. He must have been punched really hard, and you quickly fish through your bag for a handkerchief.

Mob gives a small hiss at the pain as you dab away the blood. "How about we get some ice cream?" You suggest. "My treat."

Mob nods in agreement, a ghost of a smile etched on his lips. You stand up and dust yourself off before helping Mob up as well. You gather your belongings once more as the two of you continue on your way.

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[bharatiyamedia-blog]

What Is a Deepfake, and Ought to I Be Involved?

http://tinyurl.com/yy9kvlu9 meyer_solutions/Shutterstock We are inclined to belief the content material of video and audio recordings. However with AI, anybody’s face or voice could be recreated with pin-point accuracy. The product is a deepfake, an impersonation that can be utilized for memes, misinformation, or porn. One take a look at the Nicholas Cage deepfakes or Jordan Peele’s deepfake PSA makes it clear that we’re coping with unusual new expertise. These examples, whereas comparatively innocent, elevate questions in regards to the future. Can we belief video and audio? Can we maintain individuals accountable for his or her onscreen actions? Are we prepared for deepfakes? Deepfakes Are New, Straightforward to Make, and Rising Quick Deepfake expertise is just a few years outdated, nevertheless it’s already exploded into one thing that’s each fascinating and unsettling. The time period “deepfake,” which was coined on a Reddit thread in 2017, is used to explain the recreation of a human’s look or voice by means of synthetic intelligence. Surprisingly, nearly anybody can create a deepfake with a crappy PC, some software program, and some hours of labor. Imagine it or not, the picture on the left is the deepfake. Deep Homage/Bob Thornton As with every new expertise, there’s some confusion surrounding deepfakes. The “drunk Pelosi” video is a wonderful instance of this confusion. Deepfakes are constructed by AI, they usually’re made to impersonate individuals. The “dunk Pelosi” video, which has been known as a deepfake, is definitely only a video of Nancy Pelosi that’s been slowed down and pitch-corrected so as to add a slurred-speech impact. That is additionally what makes deepfakery completely different from, say, the CGI Carrie Fisher in Star Wars: Rogue One. Whereas Disney spent oodles of cash finding out Carrie Fisher’s face and recreating it by hand, a nerd with some deepfake software program can do the same job for free in a single day. AI makes the job extremely easy, low cost, and convincing. The way to Make a Deepfake Like a pupil in a classroom, AI has to “study” the right way to carry out its meant activity. It does this by means of a strategy of brute-force trial and error, normally referred to as machine learning or deep learning. An AI that’s designed to finish the primary degree of Tremendous Mario Bros, for instance, will play the sport over and over till it figures out one of the simplest ways to win. The particular person designing the AI wants to offer some information to get issues began, together with just a few “guidelines” when issues go improper alongside the way in which. Other than that, the AI does the entire work. The identical goes for deepfake facial recreation. However, after all, recreating faces isn’t the identical as beating a online game. If we have been to create a deepfake of Nicholas Cage internet hosting the Wendy Williams present, right here’s what we would want: A Vacation spot Video: As of proper now, deepfakes work greatest with clear, clear vacation spot movies. That’s why a number of the most convincing deepfakes are of politicians; they have an inclination to face nonetheless at a podium underneath constant lighting. So, we simply want a video of Wendy sitting nonetheless and speaking. Two Datasets: For mouth and head actions to look correct, we want a dataset of Wendy Williams’ face and a dataset of Nicholas Cage’s face. If Wendy seems to the suitable, we want a photograph of Nicholas Cage seeking to the suitable. If Wendy opens her mouth, we want an image of Cage opening his mouth. After that, we let the AI do its job. It tries to create the deepfake over and over, studying from its errors alongside the way in which. Easy, proper? Effectively, a video of Cage’s face on Wendy William’s physique isn’t going to idiot anyone, so how can we go a bit additional? People Magazine/Time Magazine Probably the most convincing (and probably dangerous) deepfakes are all-out impersonations. The favored Obama deepfake by Jordan Peele is an efficient instance. So let’s do one among these impersonations. Let’s create a deepfake of Mark Zuckerberg declaring his hatred of ants—that sounds convincing, proper? Right here’s what we’ll want: A Vacation spot Video: This may very well be a video of Zuckerberg himself or an actor who seems just like Zuckerberg. If our vacation spot video is of an actor, we’ll merely paste Zuckerberg’s face on the actor. Photograph Knowledge: We want pictures of Zuckerberg speaking, blinking, and transferring his head round. If we’re superimposing his face on an actor, we’ll additionally want a dataset of the actor’s facial actions. The Zuck’s Voice: Our deepfake must sound like The Zuck. We are able to do that by recording an impersonator, or by recreating Zuckerberg’s voice with AI. To recreate his voice, we merely run audio samples of Zuckerberg by means of an AI like Lyrebird, after which kind out what we would like him to say. A Lip-Sync AI: Since we’re including the voice of pretend Zuckerberg to our video, a lip-sync AI must ensure that the deepfake facial actions match what’s being stated. We’re not making an attempt to downplay the work and experience that goes into deepfakery. However when in comparison with the million greenback CGI job that introduced Audrey Hepburn back from the dead, deepfakes are a stroll within the park. And whereas we haven’t fallen for a political or superstar deepfake simply but, even the crappiest, most evident deepfakes have precipitated actual hurt. RELATED: The Problem With AI: Machines Are Learning Things, But Can’t Understand Them Deepfakes Have Already Triggered Actual-World Hurt As of proper now, the vast majority of deepfakes are simply Nicholas Cage memes, public service bulletins, and creepy superstar porn. These shops are comparatively innocent and straightforward to establish, however in some circumstances, deepfakes are efficiently used to unfold misinformation and harm the lives of others. In India, deepfakes are employed by Hindu nationalists to discredit and incite violence towards feminine journalists. In 2018, a journalist named Rana Ayyub fell victim to such a misinformation marketing campaign, which included a deepfake video of her face superimposed on a pornographic video. This led to different types of on-line harassment and the threat of physical violence. Stateside, deepfake expertise is usually used to create nonconsensual revenge porn. As reported by Vice, many customers on the now-banned deepfakes Reddit discussion board requested the right way to create deepfakes of ex-girlfriends, crushes, mates, and classmates (sure, little one porn). The issue is so large that  Virginia now outlaws all types of non-consensual pornography, including deepfakes. As deepfakes grow to be increasingly convincing, the expertise will undoubtedly be used for extra doubtful functions. However there’s an opportunity that we’re overreacting, proper? Isn’t this essentially the most pure step after Photoshop? Deepfakes Are a Pure Extension of Doctored Photos Even at their most elementary degree, deepfakes are unsettling. We belief video and audio recordings to seize individuals’s phrases and actions with none bias or misinformation. However in a manner, the specter of deepfakes isn’t new in any respect. It’s existed since we first began utilizing pictures. Take, as an illustration, the few images that exist of Abraham Lincoln. The vast majority of these images (together with the portraits on the penny and the 5 greenback invoice) were doctored by a photographer named Mathew Brady to enhance Lincoln’s spindly look (particularly his skinny neck). A few of these portraits have been edited in a way that’s paying homage to deepfakes, with Lincoln’s head superimposed on the our bodies of “robust” males like Calhoun (the instance under is an etching, not {a photograph}). Atlas Obscura/Library of Congress This feels like a weird little bit of publicity, however throughout the 1860s, pictures carried a certain quantity of “fact” that we now reserve for video and audio recordings. It was thought of to be the polar reverse of artwork—a science. These pictures have been doctored to deliberately discredit the newspapers that criticized Lincoln for his weak physique. In the long run, it labored. Individuals have been impressed by Lincoln’s determine, and Lincoln himself claimed that Brady’s pictures “made me president.” The connection between deepfakes and 19th-century photograph enhancing is oddly comforting. It gives us the narrative that, whereas this expertise has critical penalties, it isn’t one thing that’s totally out of our management. However, sadly, that narrative could not maintain for very lengthy. We Received’t Be In a position to Spot Deepfakes Endlessly We’re used to recognizing faux pictures and movies with our eyes. It’s straightforward to have a look at a Joseph Goebbels family portrait and say, “there’s one thing unusual about that man within the again.” A look at North Korean propaganda photos makes it evident that, with out YouTube tutorials, individuals suck at Photoshop. And as spectacular as deepfakes are, it’s still possible to identify a deepfake on sight alone. However we received’t be capable to spot deepfakes for for much longer. Yearly, deepfakes grow to be extra convincing and even simpler to create. You can also make a deepfake with a single photo, and you should use AI like Lyrebird to clone voices in underneath a minute. Excessive-tech deepfakes that merge faux video and audio are extremely convincing, even once they’re made to mimic recognizable figures like Mark Zuckerberg. Sooner or later, we could use AI, algorithms, and blockchain expertise to combat towards deepfakes. Theoretically, AI may scan movies to search for deepfake “fingerprints,” and blockchain tech put in throughout working methods may flag customers or recordsdata which have touched deepfake software program. If these anti-deepfake strategies sound silly to you, then be part of the membership. Even AI researchers are uncertain that there’s a real answer to deepfakes. As detection software program will get higher, so will deepfakes. Ultimately, we’ll attain a degree the place deepfakes will probably be unimaginable to detect, and we’ll have much more to fret about than faux superstar porn and Nicolas Cage movies. !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) {if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function(){n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments)}; if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)}(window, document,'script', 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbevents.js'); fbq('init', '335401813750447'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); Source link