Ladybug Stole My Phone?

Here is your (unfortunately very late) @mlsecretsanta gift, @nkvictory! This wound up going a little longer than I expected, but I hope you enjoy!

Thanks very much for the idea that led to this and for looking it over @ladyserendipitous. Thanks also to @agrestenoir and @panda013 for idea bouncing so much!

A floating woman might be cause for concern in any other city in the world but Paris. After all, months of Hawkmoth’s unusual brand of attempted larceny had long since rendered most Parisians numb to the sight of akumatized victims. Rather than panic, they planned their days around the sites of attacks. Unsurprisingly, most of the reactions consisted of calling or texting friends to avoid a certain street until Ladybug and Chat Noir had taken care of things or worrying about how they’d manage to pick up lunch if an akuma temporarily smashed the restaurant.

Ladybug arrived on the scene shortly after the floating woman was reported to the Ladyblog. One of the perks of being Alya’s best friend was learning about Ladyblog alerts ahead of even her readers. So, when Alya told her to take a different route to school, Marinette knew she’d be late for her first class.

Chat Noir arrived on scene seconds after her, already scanning the area for signs of anyone who might have been affected by the floating villain. “Any idea what she’s doing?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell,” Ladybug answered, still watching the woman. “The Ladyblog says she hasn’t moved since she flew up there.”

“So, what’s she waiting for?”

Violet eyes locked on theirs, and the woman grinned as she flew down to meet them, landing an arm’s length away.

“Us, apparently,” Ladybug answered as she straightened and readied her yo-yo.

“Welcome, heroes,” the akumatized woman spoke. “Hawkmoth asked me to pass along a message.”

Chat Noir frowned. “Message?”

Before either of the heroes could react, the woman moved forward and placed a palm on both of their foreheads. She whispered something low and quick, too brief for them to understand.

Ladybug jerked away first. The woman shot up into the sky, barely avoiding Ladybug’s yo-yo. Chat Noir rubbed his forehead and scowled. “What was that?”

He looked up and briefly gave chase, but by the time he leapt up to a higher vantage point, the villain was long gone. Ladybug landed beside him. “She’s gone.”

He sighed. “Yeah, it looks like it.”


He turned to look at her. “It does look like she’s gone.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She raised a brow. “Any idea where she went?”

He shook his head.

“Wonder what that hand thing was.”

His eyes widened. Somehow, he’d heard Ladybug’s voice, but her mouth hadn’t moved at all. While he assumed she hadn’t become a ventriloquist overnight, he couldn’t manage another idea that made any sense.

“I’m not a ventriloquist, kitty.” She’d watched his lips carefully, and when his wonderings bled into her thoughts, she knew exactly what the akumatized victim had done to them.

“You can hear my thoughts?” he asked, aloud this time.

She nodded. “We need to find that akuma. Now.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Imagine Claire finding Ellen Fraser's portrait on the National Gallery on a visit with Brianna.

She’d been there many times before and knew exactly where it hung––which corner of which gallery, the portraits that hung around it, the number of steps to the closest bench. She knew how it looked in the various lights the museum curators allowed to reach the delicate, time-worn canvas in an attempt to protect it from fading. She had combed through every other painting they had and spoke with various members of the staff in search of other pieces she might recognize from among those that had hung at Lallybroch but the self-portrait was unmarked––they didn’t even know it was a self-portrait, made a point of correcting her on that possibility. She found no other canvases that had been painted by the brush of Ellen MacKenzie Fraser in all her trips to the National Gallery.

Claire took a deep breath upon walking through the doors before taking hold of Brianna’s hand and telling her, “This way.”

She thought about telling Brianna that this wasn’t, in fact, the first time that she had been to visit her grandmother’s portrait. There had been a week she and Frank spent in London before their move to Boston; a week in which Frank had appointments at consulates and embassies while he straightened out visas and the other necessary paperwork that would allow him to work at Harvard University, allow them to live in the United States for at least a year before a new round of paperwork would descend upon them. She found that wandering the various museums the city offered were as good a distraction as any and that the small snacks available in the gift shops were among the few foods that didn’t trigger nausea. She had stumbled across the portrait that first time––stood staring at it for over an hour before one of the staff approached her and asked if she was all right; she had been crying without knowing it. She went back every day until they left London.

“Mama, you don’t have to hold my hand like that,” Brianna objected with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m not seven; I won’t get lost in the crowd.”

“Sorry,” Claire said, relinquishing her grip. She wiped her sweaty palm against her thigh. “It’s through this door here.”

There had been a number of medical conferences Claire attended overseas over the years, many of which included layovers in London; Claire always pushed for at least a night there when possible, claiming it helped break up the trip, reduced jet lag. She always found a way to visit the gallery––had even bribed a security agent once to let her in after they had stopped admissions for the day. He had asked her what was so important about getting in when the gallery was closing so soon and she had no chance of seeing even a fraction of what the walls held. “I’m not here to see everything,” she had told him, “just one.”

Her breath caught the way it did every time. The hair––the same shade as Jamie and Brianna, unfaded by time or the accumulation of dust; her brow and nose were softer than Jamie’s, more like Brianna’s; the eyes were greyer MacKenzie eyes as opposed to the vibrant Fraser blue, but they sat like Jenny’s did.

“Holy…” Brianna exclaimed before trailing off speechless.

There were so few pieces of the life she’d led then with him that were left to her in this time. Brianna, of course, was the biggest and most important piece––a living reminder, constantly changing and growing but also entirely her own, a product of the twentieth century. The portrait––like the pearls she could hold in her hand––were something else, something unchanging and concrete. In those years between she knew she would never be able to stomach a visit to Culloden Moor and that going to Lallybroch itself would, likewise, be too painful; but Ellen’s portrait was something she could manage. It was a marker of the life she’d lost where she could visit and mourn without becoming a spectacle, without losing her grip on the twentieth century entirely. She could look at the mother-in-law she’d never met while wearing the same necklace of pearls and just about feel Jamie’s fingers brushing back her hair to fiddle with the clasp.

But this time she didn’t look at the portrait; she looked at Brianna.

“I want you to have these,” she said, pulling the pearl necklace from her pocket.

“What?” Brianna’s eyes widened then darted from Claire’s hand to the portrait and back. “No. I can’t take those from you––he gave them to you.”

“Yes, he did. Family heirloom. This is what you do with heirlooms, you know,” Claire said with a smile as she moved to stand behind Brianna. She brushed the curtain of red hair aside so the clasp wouldn’t tangle. “You pass them on to the next generation. Your father would want you to have them.”

Color flooded Brianna’s cheeks as her fingers gently touched the delicate roundels between the pearls.

“You look like your grandmother,” Claire said quietly and watched the color deepen further.

She turned back to the portrait. She would see it again, she was sure, but it wouldn’t be here; it would be where she’d seen it first––proudly mounted on the wall at Lallybroch.

Ellen’s eyes stared back at her the same way they always did––with sympathy, comfort, and approval.

Urban Outfitters Uses A Curvy Model To Sell A Size It Doesn't Carry
One step forward, one step back.


I think I saw a size 14 at Urban once. Maybe. I could have dreamed it.

But also…Urban Outfitters has long been confirmed as a lazy front for an organization of super-villains…………so I don’t know why people are surprised………….


Comic dub of an Overwatch fancomic by @dogtit​ - featuring the voices of @hnilmik​ as Sombra, @totalspiffage​ as Tracer and Widowmaker, and myself as Reaper! There’s a big difference between hitting on someone and putting a hit on someone, Widowmaker…

If you enjoyed that, why not watch some of my other Overwatch comic dubs?
Children of Overwatch
It’s Over, Isn’t It?
You Wanna Know How I Got These Scars
Nerfed This

Or check out the full playlist here!

I just remembered kindergarten & school where little girls used to bully me for my eye shape.Silly me actually cried about that.

I sometimes wonder what kind of people these bullies end up being? It’s so outlandish to me to bully people? Who or what teaches them to do that. Does that make them feel better?? Even if I hated a person I could never ever bring myself to actually attack them I would rather just avoid them. Idk this whole concept of bullying is so strange to me.

Unidentified Woman Strikes Angel Grove

By: Marilyn Flores & Jake McCormick

Blurry security footage from the local jewelry shop displays a mysterious woman laughing maniacally.

The recent outbreak of mayhem in Angel Grove, including the horrific events at the Angel Grove Fishing Dock, has the city reeling on edge. No information on the expected suspect has been released but rumors are surfacing about a mysterious female spotted at the scene of the crime by a deckhand staff member earlier that night.

According to tight-lipped sources, the silhouette appeared to be not quite human. To make the investigation even more unsettling, sources tell us the woman appeared to be on some sort of witch hunt in Angel Grove. Sophomore Kailee Duncan saw the mysterious woman walking towards town and claims she appeared to be muttering to herself and seeking some very specific items in the area.

This woman has been spotted running amuck all over town via social media. Here are some first-hand sightings from members of the student body here at AGHS.

While walking down the boulevard, senior Tracey Collins reported the below:

“I was shopping with my mom just before chaos broke out. Glass shattering and horrified screaming came from the shopping center on the corner. A crowd of panicked people came pouring out into the streets followed by a crazy lady!”

Freshmen Charlie Hounslow caught some haunting footage on social media of the suspect and provided a screenshot:

“I work at the Fishing Dock during summer break so I follow majority of the staff on social media. A Snapchat Story from one of my colleagues captured a contorted female body being pulled from the water. Initially she appeared to be lifeless, later in the video the figure suddenly jumped onto its feet with glowing green eyes!”

Sophomore Jenna Powell was eating lunch on Cinema Cafe’s terrace two blocks from the shopping center and captured the image below:

“I was at lunch with my family when we saw a strange woman walking in the middle of the street. We thought she must have been fleeing the mental institution because she was talking to herself in a strange voice and dressed like some sort of alien creature.”

We’re itching for more sightings so keep those smart phones handy, Tigers! Everyone is eager to see this ghoulish woman up close and behind bars. Good luck to whoever is responsible for taking down this lunatic and putting an end to the terror once and for all.


While her brothers receive the new, glossy books of Gilderoy Lockhart, Ginny herself is thrown old, discarded books that symbolically embed a very dangerous diary. It is in this diary that Ginny pours her rage, her disembodied voice, that disrupts the school and conjures the immortal boy Tom Riddle, the boy who is really the dark lord himself.

Ginny’s writing communicates things the aboveground world silences. When we discover that Ginny’s writing has transgressed the boundaries of the diary, appearing in blood on the very walls of the school, we realize that the target of a victim’s rage grows. The diary is, like the chamber, a very old vehicle for unleashing repressed feelings, also for Tom Riddle, the abandoned boy haunting Hogwarts. 

Together, the parseltongue of Ginny and Tom runs riot in the school.

             -    Holly Blackford, The Myth of Persephone in Girls’ Fantasy Literature