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elodieunderglass · 3 months

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Horror isekai where Perceiving the Weird Eldritch Thing gets you catapulted into a nightmare labyrinth of puzzle-solving.

I.e Those Who Perceive The Hunt of the Goblin King Must Partake In The Labyrinth and Can Only Be Freed If They Complete It In One Day and One Night. By Fae Law. For Reasons.

But the definition of “perception” clearly needs to be updated because some normal guy simply films the Hunt of the Goblin King Behind Arby’s, and puts it on Facebook -

No, not instagram or TikTok, it’s important that it be Facebook -

Because the rules are pretty clear, “the rules are the rules” as is carved ominously in elvish runes above the grim gate, and the Contract is Sealed. and so therefore the guy and 25 of their most random real-life acquaintances must run the gauntlet together. It’s Some Guy, their immediate neighbors, their first partner’s mom, their friends from hobby Facebook groups (oh this poor guy and their hobbies; the elderly birdwatchers from Facebook and the young up-and-coming drag king community), their random teen kid niece, college friends, a dog who also watched the video, a couple consisting of a woman who is the guy’s Facebook friend and showed her husband the video, and the husband doesn’t even know Some Guy, so he’s in the labyrinth and absolutely furious about being forced to be involved, and they proceed to break up over the course of the puzzle.

It’s important that the narrative keeps trying to be a sexy dark horror isekai! but within this the comedic reality of Catherine, 52, the guy’s horse-riding instructor, being passionately involved in escape-room-style puzzle solving and grappling with minor goblins. They are in fact speedrunning the gauntlet.

The Goblin King finally has to say: all right, actually, I only really set all this up to fuck with one (1) guy at a time, thanks for your willingness to participate, but I think all 25 of you can consider the gauntlet fully run.

And the group would be quite hurt by that. The rules are the rules. We have a contract, actually. Let Catherine cook.

#this feels extremely like… 2015 tumblr to me #but it also feels a sort of comforting honesty in this time #thank you for giving me this safe space #this plot idea just feels like some kind of nostalgia . to me.#writing it out I felt like I knew it was unfashionably written AND YET #I was thinking last night about how Stranger Things works quite #well because it’s set in the 80s… it is load-bearing that it be set in the 80s… it’s plot relevant and worldbuilding #well for some reason this plot has to be set pre-pandemic post-impact-text-memes

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quirklessidiot · 3 years

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title : cigarettes and parfaits [1] pairing : older!nanami kento x younger!reader [13 year age gap, ft toji fushiguro] Genre: romance, fluff, super duper mild angst, slice of life, josei, bad comedy, strangers to lovers au

Summary: you’re pretty sure you’d remember marrying a man 13 years older than you, right?

Warnings: alcohol, smoking, very,very mild smut, y/n making stupid decisions, everyones a human-au so yeh non-canon stuff and everyone’s happy (periODT BECAUSE NANAMI DESERVES HAPPINESS)

Notes: after repeatedly giving you jjk angst, i have been very happy to announce that i am able to write something fluffy now. Yay! (Anyways this is based on the manga sesame salt and pudding, yall better read that. It’s just *chefs kiss*) also this may or may not be written ebcause of the amount of smoll nanami content i’m seeing around this site hmPH

masterlist || taglist || [next ; updates every friday]

The sound of your alarm blared at the crack of dawn, making you immediately jerk up in an unfashionable manner, you shouldn’t drink on Sunday nights. Good lord, why did you even do that?-

Your thoughts are cut short though when you feel something, better yet, someone, next to you. It’s dark but you could definitely tell that whoever this stranger is, had settled himself quite comfortably by your side. You blink once then twice then slowly reached out to switch your lamp open to get a good look on who was next to you.

Thankfully, you’re still in your clothes from last night.

Also, who the fuck is this?

Your brows are furrowed together as you try to remember who this person was. Blonde hair and jaw so sharp that it could probably cut the vegetables on your kitchen counter, some fine lines littered his face as he wrinkled his forehead in his sleep.

The tie on his neck is loose as you slowly peered to observe him even more and for some odd reason that made your ears turn bright red as you check out his rather lean figure (he wasn’t overly muscular, he was just right)

“Oh shit.” You mumbled, snapping out of your daze, you had to focus! This was a stranger for crying out loud, “Who the-”

Before you could even say anything more, his eyes shot open and you’re greeted by chocolate brown eyes. You try to stutter out a reply, clearly in your frazzled state the only thing you could let out was, “What the fuck?”

“Oh, you’re awake.” his voice was deep and quite raspy, and daresay, it suited his rather sharp appearance.

Was this stranger awake this whole time that you were gawking at him under the dim light? Your ears turn even a brighter shade of pink. Was it just the heater or was this room getting hotter than it should be?

Yet despite your flustered state though, he thankfully remains oblivious, “Are you feeling any better?” he asks.

Despite his bland facial expression, there was a certain warmth in his tone and that made your heart beat quicken. It wasn’t everyday that you’d wake up to find a good looking older gentleman next to you after all, “I’m good…” You shyly replied, the confidence you had moments ago while you were cursing him was gone when you heard his soft tone, “I- sorry but who are you? What happened?”

He stares at you for a moment and purses his lips, “Nanami Kento.” he introduces himself briefly. From the likes of it, he seemed like a professional, “To be honest, I don’t have much recollection from last night due to the alcohol. When I woke up a few moments ago, you wouldn’t let go and I had no choice but to lay there and wait for you to wake up.”

You paled just a bit at his explanation and turned bright red right after, how embarrassing! Not only did you just embarrass yourself in front of this older gentleman awhile ago, you did something so unlike you last night! Thank god this ojisan was a lot more calmer than you. He didn’t even look that perplexed or annoyed by your state at all.

He runs his hands through his soft blonde hair after and lets out a low groan.

“D-Does your head hurt, Nanami-san?”

“Yes.”

“I-would you-” you tried to stammer a few words out yet you're immediately cut off by his phone ringing.

Right, boundaries. You shouldn’t overstep them since you already did so much last night to disturb him despite you two being so out of it. You watch him as he answers his cell phone in a quick and suave manner, all traces of hungover gone, “Nanami speaking.” He greets as soon as he answers the call, “I understand. Please try to help them out and I apologize for the inconvenience.”

He ends the call and stands up, tightening his tie. Despite him spending the night here, he still looked orderly and it’s so unfair because right now, you knew you looked like absolute shit with the alcohol and booze in your system.

“I have to take my leave now. I apologize for intruding.” he bows down formally.

You’re pretty sure you were the one who intruded, his actions makes you immediately stand up despite the throbbing headache which was definitely a wrong move because the moment you did, you felt your legs giving out.

Great.

“I-sorry, I would bow…” You tried to stammer out an apology, ears bright red once again, just how much could you embarrass yourself in front of this gentleman? “Sorry for the intrusion too Nanami-san.”

He leaves without saying anything much to your relief and as soon as you hear your front door close, you scream right at the pillow.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” You muffled at the pillow.

Thank God you wouldn’t be seeing him ever again!

“L/N-sensei.”

You turn to find Maki and Megumi standing there, they were members of a rather elite family in Tokyo, Most often you avoided bumping shoulders with Megumi’s father since he was, well, quite a tease and although you do admit that Toji Zen’in is a very good-looking and fine man from a very good background, you couldn’t look past the fact that you taught his kids mathematics and there was a good fifteen year age gap between you two, “Hi there.” A warm smile dances on your lips, “Is this about the earlier math problem again?”

The question was directed to Maki, Megumi wasn’t one to ask questions about his lessons since he wasn’t fond of academics.

“Actually, it isn’t. Toji-ojisan says you should come to his birthday.” Maki shrugged, “He says his 40th birthday wouldn’t be complete if you weren’t there.”

Ah, that’s why Megumi didn’t want to go alone. The young boy’s cheeks are painted pink, clearly embarrassed by his father’s antics, “Ah,” You laughed, trying to play it cool. Despite his father’s relentless teasing, he had never made you feel uncomfortable. If he hadn’t been asking you out a few times, you’d consider him a friend, “Your otosan does love to joke around a lot doesn’t he, Megumi-kun?”

“I could deck him for you if you’d like, sensei. I swear that old man needs to realize that you’re way too young and good for him.” He mumbles the last part, clearly annoyed.

“Oh have you gotten married, L/N-sensei?” Maki cuts her younger cousin off suddenly, clearly surprised, “I thought you never had a boyfriend..or girlfriend...or a lover…”

“I- excuse me?” You sweatdrop, “Married, where?”

“Am I mistaken? You have a silver band on your ring finger at your left hand.” Maki points out, “Congrats sensei! It seems like Toji-ojisan won’t be bothering you anymore!”

You were too much in a frazzled state this morning that you hadn’t even noticed the ring band on your finger. You weren’t married, heck, you haven’t dated since college but where in the hell did you get this ring?

“L/N-san?” You’re snapped back to reality by a coworker, “We have two new enrollees, would you mind handling them since they’ll be added to your section?”

“Right,” You smile, “That’s my cue to leave. I’ll get going now. Enjoy your snack time.”

Before Maki could say anything more about the silverband on your ring finger, you scurried away to the faculty room, shaking that weird feeling off since you had to get back to work.

Job first, ring later.

As you went in, two abnormally bleached pink hair stood out and you could immediately tell that they were going to be the new kids that you’d be teaching. You walk closer, realizing how much they looked alike despite the markings on the other.

“Hi, Good morning.” You greeted kindly, “You must be the new kids.”

“Ah,” the one with tattoo markings on his face gloated, “Aren’t you too bright?”

“Sukuna, shut up.” his twin frowned, “Sorry Sensei, My brother isn’t feeling so well since our ojisan had told us off before going to school.”

It seemed like the other twin would be a handful, nevertheless, you were still going to be his teacher so you let out a small smile, “It’s fine.” You waved off, “We all have bad days, don’t we? I’m L/N-sensei and I’ll be your homeroom and math teacher.”

“Hai.” The one without tattoos replied, enthusiasm leaking on his tone, “Itadori Yuuji and this is Itadori Sukuna, please take care of us.”

You watch Yuuji force his twin to bow down to show a sign of respect. For a high schooler, Sukuna and Yuuji’s parents seemed so lax, bleached hair and tattoos? That was definitely a first one on your list. You take a look at the data they passed and a small frown settles on your lips, it seemed like you had to take back the words you said earlier.

Both their parents had died a few years ago.

You cleared your throat and tried to put on the smile and enthusiasm from earlier, “I’ll be sure to introduce you to the class right after break and since it’s your first day I’ll be lax but please try not to go in late again.”

Yuuji’s grin remains the same as he agrees enthusiastically while Sukuna still looks mildly uninterested, something that you realize oh-so quickly that you’ll have to get used to.

After introducing the twins to the class, you settle on your desk at the faculty and peer at the ring on your finger. The only conclusion you could come up with was that this was from the older gentleman from the night before but why would he even give you a ring?

It didn’t even look cheap and it was surprisingly just your size, meaning it was definitely for you.

You inwardly let out a groan as you placed your hand on top of your eyes. God, you definitely needed to lay off the alcohol next time. You feel the phone in your pocket start to ring, peerlessly glancing at the unknown number. People really need to lay off the scam calls.

“Hello, I’m sorry I’m not-”

“Yo-ho, is this Y/N-chan?” The voice on the other line is so unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time.

“Uh, who is this?”

“Is your husband with you?” the voice sounds so playful and teasing that you almost ignore what he had just said earlier.

“E-Excuse me?” You sputtered out, cheeks turning red, “I don’t have a husband.”

“Huh…” the playful voice switches to disappointment, “Don’t tell me you forgot what happened with us last night, L/N-chan.”

You feel something bubbling on your stomach, oh no, this definitely didn’t sound good!

“I- wait, what? who are you? What do you mean? what happened?” countless of questions started to pile up in your head and out of your mouth, panic immediately engulfing you because for a prank call this guy sounded way too legit, confirming your irresponsibility the night before.

“Silly Y/N-chan. How could you ever forget me? I’m such an important person! I’m Gojo Satoru, your witness from your wedding!”

taglist (if crossed out, i cant tag u im so sorry ack ;-;)

; @coldbookworm ; @frankenstein852 ; @neavil ; @shephard17895 @kristineyoshaii ; @airybnb

@Kurok1717 ; @hcn421 ; @shinhiromi ; @airybnb ; ;

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you

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durgas · 4 years

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written for: @hprarepairnet & @slytherdornet - hermione challenge

title: ad meliora

summary: hermione receives an unexpected letter from astoria and it invokes feelings that she has never felt before.

chapter 1

Hermione found herself to be peculiarly busy this morning, swamped with owls and pieces of parchment strewn across her desk. Her hair was thrown up into some semblance of a bun, bushy ends sticking out, and a quill was balanced between her teeth. Frustration was mounting, she had only just started and she was being inundated with time-wasting pieces of work.

Another owl flew in, this one a snowy white that reminded her of Hedwig. She paid it no mind until it came closer, nipping her fingers.

“Ouch.” She sucked her finger and looked at it, it’s amber eyes seeming to stare right at her. “Fine, fine. What have you got for me?” A hiss of frustration was heard as she took the letter, anticipating more useless demands.

Dear Hermione,

Please would you kindly pick Scorpius up from school today?

I am indisposed and will not be able to look after him at present. I will collect him from you later in the evening if that is acceptable.

My sincere thanks,

Astoria.

She stared at the cream parchment with its delicate writing for a moment before quickly penning her response.

Of course, see you later.

Hermione.

It was unusual for Astoria to ask her for a favour, and stranger still that she said she was indisposed because Hermione had become accustomed to seeing her at the school gates. They had become somewhat friends, what with Rose and Scorpius’s own budding friendship although they had never interacted outside of school. Curiosity was spreading itself through her mind as she wondered why Draco was unable to pick his son up, or even why Narcissa could not. She sucked on the quill between her teeth, scrawling down her report whilst still thinking about Astoria’s circumstances.

This was shaping up to be a long day.

Several hours passed, each slowly creeping its way across the day with an air of immense tedium. Glancing at her watch, Hermione put aside the paper she had been working on and prepared to Apparate to collect Rose and Scorpius from school. She had been surprised the first time she saw Astoria with Scorpius at the Muggle school that she and Ron had settled on for Rose. It was one of the few times that she and Ron agreed on something in their short-lived marriage.

Arriving at the gates, she saw Astoria.

Astoria who normally was so prim and so immaculate from head-to-toe. Astoria whose soft blonde hair was normally so sleek and glossy. Astoria who only wore fashionable silk dresses to pick up Scorpius. Astoria who today had red rimmed eyes, hair thrown up in a messy ponytail and who was wearing a faded black t-shirt with baggy grey jeans. Hermione didn’t think she had ever seen her with unstyled hair and unfashionable clothes before, she didn’t even have her customary makeup carefully applied.

“Astoria.” She approached her from the side. “Are you alright?” She asked, noting how Astoria seemed to shake like a willow in the wind.

Astoria flinched, a look of panic crossed her face before she realised it was Hermione. “Apologies, I am here now.” Her voice was hoarse as if she had been crying. Injecting a little strength into herself, she forced herself to stand taller. “Thank you for offering to pick Scorpius up, I very much appreciate it.”

“You don’t seem like yourself.” Hermione impulsively put a hand on her shoulder, feeling some strange instinct to comfort the woman stood before her.

“It’s kind of you to offer your concern.” Astoria felt her throat choke up with unshed tears. “However, I am quite well, thank you.” She attempted to paste her signature smile upon her face but her mouth dropped within seconds.

“How about a cup of tea?” Hermione offered, her mind whirring with the possible circumstances that could have led to Astoria looking so upset. She had also never noticed previously that Astoria had blue eyes, a soft cornflower blue, until she noticed them brimming with tears. “Two minds are better than one when it comes to solving problems.”

Astoria longed to take Hermione up on her offer, to have a sympathetic shoulder but she knew that she could not yet disclose her problem. Draco would be most unhappy if it were made public before his announcement. “Truly, Hermione, I am well.”

“I can’t force you to tell me what’s the issue.” Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. “But, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Astoria, even in her haze of sadness, noticed how Hermione didn’t phrase it as a question and was surprised by how it made her feel. She had never known unconditional support. “The children are coming out.” She quickly rubbed at her eyes, making sure there was no trace of sadness for when Scorpius saw her.

“I wonder what argument they’ll have had today.” Hermione narrowed her eyes searching for Rose’s distinctive red hair.

Hermione noted how Astoria had changed the subject, how quickly she put away her sadness so that she could be happy for Scorpius. It hurt a little, watching her with a false smile, knowing how distressed she had been mere moments ago. She was careful to keep the levity that Astoria was working so hard to maintain but that didn’t stop her mind wandering even with Rose’s constant chatter. They had never really interacted before but now Hermione felt like she was drawn to Astoria. It was no doubt a mixture of curiosity and pity and maybe something that Hermione couldn’t put into words.

“See you tomorrow, Rosie.” Scorpius waved as Astoria took his hand to lead him away.

“Goodbye, Hermione.” A flicker of pain washed across her face as she made a half hearted wave, unwilling to depart from Hermione’s soulful brown eyes that appeared to be peering into her soul. “Goodbye, Rose.”

“Bye, Scorpius.” Hermione crouched down to his level with a smile before straightening up to look Astoria in the eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, remember what I said.”

It was only after Astoria left that Hermione realised the scent of spearmint had also departed with her leaving only the smell of ordinary air. She sniffed, hoping to catch a final smell, but it had wafted away with its owner.

It had been a singularly odd day.

read on ao3 here :)

#hprarepairnet #slytherdornet #hp #hermione x astoria #astoria x hermione #hermione granger #astoria malfoy #astoria greengrass #marthesff #sarisfamily #usertejal #myedits #myfic

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sammyspelledwrite · 6 years

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A Royal Affair

It’s AU August so here’s ch 1 of my new Ladybug fic

Summary: Marinette is a Chinese princess, sent to France under the cover of diplomacy to recover the stolen Miraculouses. She soon discovers one of the Miraculouses, held by a musketeer named Chat Noir. He agrees to help her find the rest if she helps him stop the akuma. Meanwhile, le Dauphin Prince Adrien has unexpectedly stolen her heart. AO3

Marinette may have been ill at ease in her royal qipao, with bright red tassels dangling from her ornamental headpiece, but it did not show on her face. She surveyed the silly French court with a look her grandfather would have been proud of. Any one of these people, she thought. Any one of them could have stolen them.

She unconsciously raised a hand to the black gems that swung from her ears. Now, with their magic dormant, she couldn’t sense the Miraculouses around her. But she knew they were there.

“Princess,” snapped Madame Bustier. “You must be more approachable! How will China ever establish trade with France if no one speaks to you?”

Marinette held her tongue. On the surface, this was a diplomatic mission. It chafed the emperor’s pride to send someone abroad, rather than wait for the other country to admit China’s superiority. But something valuable had been stolen from the emperor, and it was imperative that no one knew the true purpose of her visit.

“Will I be presented to the king soon?” Marinette asked in Chinese.

“En Français,” Madame Bustier hissed. “The king hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“Oh god,” someone said. “What is she wearing?”

“Highly unfashionable,” another agreed.

Marinette turned slightly to see two French ladies of the court, around her own age. One wore makeup in that distasteful French way, accentuating every corner of her face. She had blonde hair done up in a large bouffant, adorned with pearls. Her dress was bright yellow, something Marinette had to remind herself was not reserved for the king here. The other had orange hair, rather short, and wore a pale lavender dress that Marinette actually liked.

“I’m sorry,” Marinette said, smiling a little. “Who are you?”

The orange one squawked. “How dare you! This is Dame Chloé Bourgeois! The future reine of France!”

“Oh?” Marinette frowned. “You’re engaged to the prince?”

Chloé gave her friend a smack with her bejeweled fan. “Sabrina, be quiet.” Then she sighed heavily. “Yes, everyone knows that I will soon marry le Dauphin, Adrien. It’s simply right that the two most beautiful people in France be joined before God.”

Marinette took this girl in again, from her bedazzled fan to the pearls in her hair. She wanted to tell her that what her grandfather wore on one hand was worth more than her father’s French fiefdom. But she did not. Instead, she said, “That’s nice.”

Chloé gave her a strange look, then harrumphed and left her in peace. Her friend Sabrina hurried after her.

“You see?” Marinette said to her teacher. “I am making connections.”

Madame Bustier did not have time to scold her, for the music stopped and everyone turned their attention to the end of the great hall, where the head butler stood. “Mesdames et messiers, the butler announced. “Le Roi de France et de Navarre, Roi du Soleil, Gabriel.”

The men bowed, and the women dropped into deep curtsies. There, at the entrance to the mirrored hall, stood a tall man with a serious face. Atop his head he wore a great, powdered wig, in his hand a pearl-topped cane. His suit was powder blue and embroidered in gold.

“Monseigneur le Dauphin, Adrien.”

A young man stepped into the hall. The prince. She had been shown his likeness on the voyage, but it did not compare. They called his father the Sun King, but surely they meant his son. Absolutely radiant, with hair blond as wheat. Even from here she could see his eyes were green like imperial jade. He stood tall, straight-backed, and looked over the heads of his people.

Chloé had been right on one thing, at least. This man was beautiful. But Marinette pushed that thought away. He was but another prince. Marinette was the daughter of the eighth princess of Emperor Qin, and she alone had been chosen amongst her cousins to wield the power of the Miraculous.

King Gabriel took his seat in his throne, and the members of the court lined up to pay their respects to him.

After a dull half hour, and the people were back to mingling, Madame Bustier walked Marinette to the throne. King Gabriel sat rigidly, a servant beside him holding a bottle of champagne for when le roi’s glass ran dry. On the other side, in a fine powder blue suit only slightly less extravagant than his father’s, was Prince Adrien.

“Monsieur le Roi,” said Madame Bustier, curtsying. “I present to you Princess Mei Ai Nuo, or Marinette, of the Qing Dynasty.”

King Gabriel gave her a look that made her feel ice in her heart. Then, with an air of dismissal, raised his right hand to her.

Marinette’s eyes widened. Did… did he expect her to kiss his ring? She glanced at Madame Bustier for help. Her teacher gave the tiniest nod.

Oh god. This wasn’t covered in her training. Was she expected to actually kiss his ring or the air above it? Should she grab his hand to do so?

“Allez-y, child,” King Gabriel said.

Marinette felt her cheeks turn pink as she bowed low and kissed just above the ring. King Gabriel withdrew his hand and waved at Adrien. “My son,” he said. “Prince Adrien.” He nodded. “He will dance with you.”

Marinette was taken aback. She looked at the prince, who gave her a most breathtaking smile. “Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing slightly, “may I have this dance?”

Marinette curtsied like she’d been taught. “I would be honored, monsieur.”

Prince Adrien took her hand lightly in his and led her onto the dance floor. Marinette felt that people were staring. The red tassels in her hair swayed in and out of her vision. Adrien placed one hand behind his back and his other arm against hers. He stepped, and she followed, like she had been taught during the voyage to France.

“Was the journey long, mademoiselle?” the prince inquired.

“Yes,” Marinette said. “But I am happy to have come. Establishing trade between our nations is so important.”

“Indeed,” the prince said, and Marinette resisted rolling her eyes. “Tell me, where does your French name come from?”

“Ah. My father is French.”

The Dauphin smiled. “That would explain why you’re so beautiful.”

Marinette missed a step, and stumbled into the prince. He caught her easily and righted her, but Marinette could have sworn she heard that Chloé girl scoff.

“I understand that you will be staying with us for some time,” Adrien went on, his steps perfectly on rhythm.

Now that Marinette had made one mistake, she couldn’t remember how to keep going. She was a step behind, then one ahead, then the wrong foot, then another. She felt flustered. “Um, I, yes. My emperor, the China of grandfathers—I mean! Um. My father—no. I… ambassador?”

Now the prince laughed. “I think it’s wonderful our countries are trying to establish trade.” He leaned close and murmured, “And I’m glad you’re not another unsubtle attempt of my father’s to find me a bride.”

Marinette bristled at the prince’s attitude. Did he think every woman presented to him wished to wed him? She halted. “No, Dauphin, I am a diplomat here to further my country’s economy, not a concubine sent for the pleasure of the French house.”

Prince Adrien blinked at her, his expression regretful. “I-I’m sorry, mademoiselle, I did not mean to offend.”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” she said. “It matters what you said. The future ruler of a country should know that. Now, excuse me.” Marinette folded her arms into the sleeves of her qipao and walked away.

Marinette saw Madame Bustier gaping at her, so she changed directions and headed to the mostly vacant seats on the far side of the hall. She dropped into one with a huff and thought longingly of China.

“Is he that bad a dancer?” someone asked.

Marinette looked up. A beautiful dark-skinned lady was seated only a few chairs away. She had the most incredible dark hair, and she wore a striking orange dress with pearls stitched into the bodice. She held, instead of a fan, a golden rod with a pair of eyeglasses on top. “I mean,” she went on, “le Dauphin is certainly has to be bad at something, right?”

With a snort, Marinette folded her arms. “Bad at talking to foreign dignitaries,” she said.

“Such as yourself?” The woman raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you before. Dame Alya, of House Césaire, from Avignon.”

Marinette smiled politely. “Princess Marinette, de Chine.”

Dame Alya’s jaw dropped. “China?” she said, incredulous. “That’s amazing. I have been desperate to leave France, and see the world. I’ve written all there is to write about our great country. It’s time to learn from others.”

“They allow women to write?” asked Marinette.

Alya smirked. “Only the good ones. In China, women have little privilege, non?”

“Women have plenty of privilege,” Marinette said. “I just… assumed Europe was more restricting.”

Alya said, “Then we both have much to learn. Princess Marinette, I would be delighted to meet with you during your stay at Versailles. I have a lovely apartment in the west wing, you must come visit me.”

Madame Bustier had told her to make connections, thought Marinette. “It would be my pleasure,” she said.

There was the sound of glass breaking. Marinette and Alya turned to see two ladies of the court all but fighting. “What are they doing?” Marinette cried.

“I’m not sure,” Alya said, frowning. “I’ve never seen Aurore so angry.”

Marinette stared, but she could practically hear Madame Bustier’s disapproval, so she turned away. And, was it her imagination, or was it growing dark in the palace?

Suddenly someone screamed.

#fanfic #miraculous ladybug #ml #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #royal au #my writing

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ilakumar-blog1 · 6 years

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A New Style of Immigrant Story

When my grandmother, my father’s mother, died in January of 2014, in Bihar, I was here in New York. My father was on the next plane to India. I remember the night, he walked down the stairs that evening, slower than usual. He told us that he was going to India because she was unwell. And he felt he should be there. And that night, I was ten years old, barefoot on the kitchen floor completely uninterested in commiserating with my father. A child’s first exposure to death is a tragically hopeless and confusing time. And in the case of my grandmother, she wasn’t dead yet. It was a matter of jet fuel which determined whether my father would be with his mother, his hand in hers, when she died. He knew this, and I did too.

By the time my father had packed his shaving kit, clothes and notebook, I should have been asleep. I was brushing the curls, which I get from my dad, out of my hair. From my bedroom window I saw him climb into the taxi. Needing somewhere else to focus my energies, I then, baked a cake. I labored over it, for like three hours. Carefully, I piped small pink flowers placing one of those pearly sprinkles in the middles. This cake served as my nagging problem through the night. It was this perfectly vanilla cake, a simple or impossible task, to which my mind insanely clinged to avoid its real trouble. As I tried to move it from the counter to the plate, it crumbled in my hands like clay that’s been under pressure for too long. I began to cry, between the sorrow and guilt the jack-in-the-box inside my skull finally escaped my control and flooded the entire house with tears.

I could not bear to imagine my father, alone in that dark plane. You see, his sisters who were already in India, knew their mother had died. To save their brother from the most uncomfortable and saddest plane ride of his life, they didn’t tell him. It was a cousin, on FaceBook, offering condolences right before he was boarding the plane that really screwed the whole operation. Sixteen hours of torture and despair all suppressed in an illusion of composure for the flight attendants and the man sitting next to him. He might have been flying above the world, his heavy heart must have been the only thing tethering him to the world.

When my grandmother died I realized that I had hardly ever spoken to her. I am realizing, now, if her husband, my grandfather, was to die today, I would still be writing the same sentence. I haven’t learned from my mistakes, I have made no effort to know my grandfather. Nevermind that, my mother, who stayed with us--didn’t tell me or my brother what happened. The idea was that when my father returned, we would all talk. That night, I lay down to sleep. My mother didn’t tell me my grandmother had died, so was it even true? Had it even happened? Maybe she really was alive, breathing the same air as me. My grieving heart did not care for logic.

And my dad and I didn’t talk. When he finally came back home his head was shaved. Curls gone. He brought gifts- toys for my brother, dresses and jewelry, silver coins, a gold statue of a young girl reading a book from his mother’s bedroom. I remember the night he came back, he was jetlagged and I just couldn’t sleep. He came into my bed and I lay in his arms, trying to sync my breathing to his. We lay there, for hours in the dark, neither one of us falling asleep. He spoke once, he asked me if I had any questions, about anything. Of course I did. But I would never ask them.

My father and I didn’t spend evenings in a treehouse talking about boys, he was never my lacrosse coach or whatever most dads are for their daughters. The mornings we share together are silent. I wake up disturbingly early, but he wakes up earlier. The heat is on, the house is warm. Breakfast and tea is waiting for me to finish my mascara. He waits for me. And we leave our warm grey house to stand outside. Just us in the cold. He likes to listen to writer’s almanac and drink his coffee. I don’t like it, but this day, I did. Robert Hayden’s poem, a tired one, my father had read to me so many times, played.

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

My bus hasn’t come yet. We stand in silence as it nears 7am and more and more cars drive by. “It always reminds me of my mother,” he says. “Did I thank her enough?” The bus came. There was a kiss on the forehead and that was it.

I found my answers almost a year later, in London on Christmas day. That sounds misleadingly glamourous. There was a party, everyone was outside in the lavish backyard smoking cigars. I was in an awfully crappy mood. It was the smoke, that really was the cause for my drama. My father does not smoke, as in cigarettes, as in regularly. But the occasional cigar is an attractive idea. It’s a stylish thing-- an accessory, a fetish object, something to help pass the time, a communication tool. It’s selfish, if he only knew it bothered me. But anyway, this night is only relevant because as my father was distracted, outside, doing what he does so perfectly--he left a book inside, on the kitchen counters. It was the mock-up of his forthcoming book of essays, including “Pyre” about his mother’s death.

All I desired was a simple medical diagnosis--but that is not what was given to me. I didn’t want to feel sad, there was no need to, we barely knew each other. And then, I read. It was my grandmother's life, suddenly revealed to me-- her wonderful charitable life, and then what happens to my father after her life.

I have not yet learned how to properly, live and talk and write about my very peculiar relationship, my limited understanding of where I come from. The drift began at the age of 6, when I became aware of my thick hair and big lips. It was not so much being aware of the large lips, but knowing what they meant--it was a symbol of difference in power, I felt like a clown. What is more, is I had a feeling, not being white, meant I was inferior to the rest of their world and the rest of my life would just be so exhausting.

I can cannot help that those inaccurate portraits of Indians on TV make me sick, I cannot help the bitterness I feel whenever I stumble upon the inescapable stereotypes these shows have burned in our brains. I need you to understand, the images of the Indian in America have impacted my early life in such an influential and very dangerous way. At least, I now know why I have made no progress in accepting my public identity, and why one should not serve, or give into national taste. What has ruined me, is the most subtle form of oppression-- how one thinks about itself.

The story of an immigrant child in this country could be written a million times better and sadder and more eloquently. But that’s not the point and I don’t care. My fight for a seat at the table was based on how fast I could look or become like the table. Yet, I remain trapped and despised within this republic--and my situation is unique because I have not been kept in bondage for three hundred years. I have only been held together by my future, unwilling to accept my past. I have drowned in my past. As it was deemed unfashionable, so I hoped it cracked and crumbled under the pressures of drought.

No one is in the position to tell me that my only problem, Indian people on TV, is not a valid complaint. It’s a recipe for murder, really. I know mostly only white people, they have no intention to exploit me, and I love them for that. But their own glorification, their place in the sun and on the screen--has forced me to endure a great deal of pain and festor some anger and jealousy. These shows had told me I had a very specific place, socially. My dignity was just a character to the very ill people creating the illusions on of the screen. Of course, the sick illusions do not stay on the screen. The accents, of course, follow one around. The goal, is to separate yourself from that. And perhaps I have made a mistake, because in my separation of “Indian in America” I look back, as a stranger to “Indian.”

My mother is Muslim, my dad is Hindu. They got married when their two countries, India and Pakistan were fighting a war. Ila is a Hindu name; it is the opposite of my mother's last name, Ali (a Muslim name) Ila Ali. It forms a palindrome. It mirrors my mother’s, yet keeps its difference.

My father had written about the marriage between a Muslim and Hindu, and got himself on a hit-list. Far-right India was not happy about his news. But still he went to meet the man who put him on the hit-list, for lunch.

And what is worse, is it was the death of my grandmother that had brought me back to where I had started. No one told me she died. It was a text I saw on my mother’s phone, from a cousin, offering condolences. Really, it was my father’s essay, “Pyre” that I only saw because of the liking Franzen took towards it, gave me the scraps of information of her death. What is interesting, is his own drifting from what used to be his world.

“I left India nearly three decades ago, and would see my mother only for a few days each year during my visits to Patna. Over the past ten or fifteen years, her health had been declining. She suffered from arthritis and the medicines she took for it had side effects, and sometimes my phone rang with news that she’d fallen asleep in the bathroom or had a seizure on the morning after she had fasted during a festival. I knew that one day the news would be worse and I would be asked to come to Patna. I was fifty years old and had never before attended a funeral. I didn’t know what was more surprising, that some of the rituals were new to me, or that they were exactly as I had imagined. That my mother’s corpse had been dressed as a bride was new and disconcerting, and I’d have preferred a plainer look; on the other hand, the body placed on the bamboo bier, its canopy covered with an orange sheet of cotton, was a familiar daily sight on the streets of my childhood. In my notebook that night I noted that my contribution to the funeral had been limited to lighting my mother’s funeral pyre. In more ways than one, the rituals of death had reminded me that I was an outsider.”

In my school, we have been learning about India. Do you remember, in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, the chilled monkey brain for dessert? That desire to exploit other worlds using film, again, is not only in TV but documentaries too. The supposedly “accurate” or perfectly innocent or good and straight parallels that are supposedly drawn in documentaries-- they are a false and biased look into the lives of others. Lives, that colonial powers have no place in, yet they do. I blame film, which is the most was the influential weapon old colonial power has, for my drift with India. That is my confession of to desire to be in that burning house seated at the broken table.

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