miss-writes-a-lot

[miss-writes-a-lot]

I'm gonna post this twitter thread in the main tags because I think it explains everything of concern with the new game pretty thoroughly! I see a lot of people freaking out (I also did at first because of what I heard)

old information we have about Henry and William and the animatronics is basically untouched, they still made most everything, the new game just adds extra context and information to what was going on back when fazbear entertainment was getting off the ground. it makes sense for henry & william to not have made literally every single animatronic since fazbear ent. is a big chain of locations, but that doesn't mean they weren't responsible for plenty of stuff on their own still

[miss-writes-a-lot]

happy holidays everyone! have some various transparents I made!

[miss-writes-a-lot]

The House You Wake In

(Continuing on with cross posting fics from ao3 to my tumblr with my little one off thing with my jjba oc Viola who I'm pretty sure people are starting to get tired of, but I don't care. More to come probably.)

Synopsis: Viola wakes up and starts their day

Pairing(s): Minor Bruabba

Fandom: Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5: Vento Aureo

Content Warning(s):

-> Chronic illness

-> Mentions of past, intense violence and blood

-> Self loathing

-> Hospital Mention

Viola has always struggled to get out of bed in the morning.

At first, it was the disinterest and shame of the days prior keeping them chained to their bed The inability to go to school and face her peers and the judgment sneers of her teachers who would ask (or demand) how could they come into class like nothing happened when they just saw her actively skipping; carting around a little red wagon filled with knock off, do it yourself Botox filler kits around town.

She didn’t dare step outside her bedroom around dawn in fear of being sent right back for being wrong in every way imaginable. Too hunched, too messy, too angry-looking, too frizzy, too awkward – just too much wrong to have tried stepping outside in the first place.

Their stay in the hospital was not much better.

At most, they got a fitful 2 hours of rest. Sleeping becomes a daunting task when the last time you closed your eyes for longer than a second, you choked on buckets of your blood while your best friend clumsily tried to close your wounds.

The memory robbed her of her remaining sleep along with the last strings of her sanity. Pain anchored them to the bed–or, more often than not, the floor–and they hardly felt the need or had the energy to call for help, considering no one knew what was wrong with them and the funding for their stay started to run dry. The sunrises she once coveted so dearly became almost insulting, another aching reminder of what she stood to lose, and all that she had lost that night…

The only reason Viola started getting up early or trying to get any sort of sleep was –

Well…

They live with some loud ass boys.

With their room wedged between Narancia’s (who has a pension for blasting his music at the highest volume possible at any time of day) and Fugo (whi just as frequently comes out of his room to yell at Narancia about his loud music), and having a guardian who insists on dragging them out to appointments so. Damn. Early. Viola can’t bedrot the way they used to. The day isn’t allowed to get away from them, no matter how little interest Viola has in greeting it in the first place, especially on their bad days (that she doesn’t often tell the others about).

But recently, Viola’s been getting up and getting out without much fight or prompting. No longer did Buccellati need to come into her room and coax her out of bed, nor did Fugo and Narancia’s screaming matches startle her awake (not as often, that is). Instead, when the sun starts to wake and inch up the sky, Viola begins to stir and is up at 8:30 am on a good day.

Sure, being sick still makes most days difficult, but waking up has been less of a chore or necessity, but a genuine pleasure. Something to look forward to.

☼

 Today, she’s up at 7:30. A new record for them. 

Even when she was going to school, she didn’t get up this early.

And today, it’s a tension headache and an achy right knee and the ever-present fatigue that’s keeping them in bed longer than they like. Bru – Buccellati – is usually up at 6:30, sometimes even earlier than that, despite his late nights. So sometimes, before he leaves for a job or on one of his personal errands, they talk.

Nothing big, really. Most of the time, they just sit together in a comfortable quiet while having breakfast. It’s just another one of those nice things that gets Viola up in the morning.

So as not to miss out on this important part of their day, they reach over to the tube of lidocaine and a nearly untouched glass of water – Fugo must’ve left it there for them after they knocked out last night. Viola smiles, gulping down half of the glass and getting to work on her knee. She stretches out her leg a few times before applying the lidocaine to the aching area when the pain doesn’t let up. After that, they haul themselves out of bed and hug the walls to make their way to their bathroom.

They pass by their window, their hands lingering on their peach fuzz curtains. Giorno helped her grab (well, more like ‘reclaim’) them from her childhood home. One of the few things left of their old life that hasn’t been sold off, stolen, or stored away. Somewhere far from herself.

Viola brushes one of the curtains aside and spots Giorno crouched in the garden, pruning his rose bushes. The sun seems to favor Giorno. Even when it’s sweltering outside and he’s elbow deep in mulch, the sun strikes him and he instantly becomes as radiant as its rays.

Something about it is a little amusing to them – 16 and the big bad boss of a country wide crime syndicate still has to study for math tests and enjoys gardening at the ass crack of dawn. Not exactly what most people plan to picture when they encounter him, especially not after getting into a fight with the guy.

But then again, most people don’t survive long enough to see it.

After a quick piss, a “skincare session” (i.e., taking all of the crap Trish bought for them one time and just slapping it all on their face), and a fruitless search of their cloth knee brace, Viola limps out of their room and ever so carefully makes their way down to the kitchen with the help of some wall hugging and an iron clad grip on the railing as they descend the staircase.

It takes longer than expected to get to the ground floor than usual. Viola’s heart is pounding a little harder than usual, her head starting to get a little more throbby, and she starts to worry that she’s missed Bru – Buccellati, but the sounds of scuttling in the kitchen ignite a new determination that propels them forward on wobbly legs.

She’s hopping on her good foot, steadying herself on the nearest table of decorative knick-knacks and the wall until she gets to the kitchen doorway, her smile starting to blossom into a grin.

Buccellati’s there, setting down a wrapped tray on the kitchen table alongside a few large stacks of files and a half-full cup of orange juice, and a cup of espresso. As he sets down the tray, he glances up and catches her in the doorway. He immediately clocks how much more weight Viola is putting on their left knee as opposed to her right, and how obviously winded they are, and how much they are relying on the wall to keep them upright. Buccellati frowns.

“Violetta…,” he tuts, already coming over to help them. “You’re supposed to say something when this happens.”

Viola shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t want to wake you guys.”

Buccellati sighs, shaking his head, but a small smile plays at his lips.

“You’re too nice for your own good. Come on. I’ll lend you my shoulder.”

Viola gratefully reaches for his hand, and he wraps their arm behind his neck like a weird scarf. They awkwardly shuffle to the table while Buccellati crouches next to them in an attempt to steady them. He pulls out the closest chair and helps them sit down. They beam up at him.

“Thank you,” they say.

“I gave you a phone for a reason,” he replies. “You know you can ask for help when you need it.”

“I know. I just…forget sometimes, y’know?”

Buccellati hums, cobalt blue eyes filled with the knowledge that what Viola just said was absolute bullshit. He slides the cup of juice in front of them and taps the wrapped tray with his pointer finger.

“Juice. Brioche. All the other good shit. Pick whatever you want. Quickly, before the boys get up.”

“You sure?” they ask, already reaching for one of the cream-filled buns. “Shouldn’t the big boss get first dibs on this?”

“Perhaps,” Buccellati shrugs, setting down a couple of plates. He smirks. “But then again, you got here first. Didn’t you?”

Viola smiles, plucking a hazelnut chocolate brioche from the pile and immediately taking a giant chomp into it.

“So, what’s up with the leg this morning?” he asks.

“Hurts today,” they reply through a mouthful of chocolate cream. “I put the - the cream stuff - lidocaine! Doesn’t hurt that bad now, but it’s still stiff.”

Buccellati hums in response.

“What’s all this?”

Viola reaches their hand to grab a file from the pile, but Sticky Fingers’ ghostly hand smacks theirs away before retreating to Buccellati.

“No touching,” Buccellati says, not looking back as he grabs some strawberry jam. “I have some important business in the city today. I needed to do some…light research before then.”

“Yeah. Suuuure. ‘Light’ research…”

“I like being thorough. So sue me!”

“Mmhm. When are you leaving?”

“In an hour or so.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Ah. That I don’t know. It might take a while.”

“Oh…”

“Why? Do you need something?” he asks, turning back to face them.

“Oh, nothing. Just…just wanted to know, y-you know?”

“Okay? If you’re sure..”

Viola’s face burns red. It’s been so long, and yet, it’s still so difficult for them to say something as simple as ‘I just wanna hang out with you because I like hanging out with you because you’re like my dad except you actually like me.’

…Okay, maybe not like that. Something different and less weird and Freudian than that.

Mista’s overdramatic, old man yawn cuts through the awkwardness. He wanders into the kitchen, barefoot and only in boxer briefs, walking alongside a sleepy and stumbling Narancia and an already annoyed Fugo, who glares at Mista for his unnecessary loudness. Mista only smirks in response.

“Mornin’ guys!” he says cheerfully, giving the two a small wave as he pulls up a chair.

“Will you be quiet?” Fugo hisses, taking a seat across from Viola, and gives them a nod of acknowledgement. 

Narancia loudly flops down in the seat to Viola’s right, his tired chin hitting and shaking the table. It startles Fugo, and he sits up to start berating the other boy, but Buccellati gestures for him to leave it be. Fugo reluctantly swipes a brioche, bites a chunk out of it, and exhales deeply from his nose like a pissed off dragon.

Narancia groans. “Viviiii…Gimme a briocheee….”

“Why can’t you get it yourself? It’s right in front of you,” Viola says, her cultivated sass starting to slip from her tongue.

“Cause I’m tiiiiired…”

��Clearly not too tired to keep talking,” Fugo mumbles mostly to himself.

Viola playfully rolls their eyes and grabs an apricot brioche, setting it down in front of Narancia’s face. Narancia scoots his chin over and takes nibbles from his bread. He finally lifts his head off the table, only to plop it right down on Viola’s shoulder and presses his cheek up against theirs. Viola can feel him smile against their skin.

“Thanks, shorty!”

“You’re literally two inches taller than me,” Viola says, taking a swig of her orange juice.

“Still taller though,” Narancia teases, poking her cheek while snickering.

Some of the juice dribbles out of Viola’s mouth when he does this, and she covertly tries to keep the fact that she just spat her drink back into her cup by keeping it close to their mouth. This just makes Narancia snicker even more.

Ass.

The back door opens, and less than a minute later, Giorno appears, sweaty, dirty, with some hair sticking to his forehead, and with a handful of flowers cradled in his arms.

“Buon giorno, Giorno!” Viola and Narancia say in unison.

Giorno smiles at them, amused. “Buon giorno, everyone.”

“You sure were busy this morning,” Buccellati says, handing him a glass of water.

“Thought I should get some gardening done before we leave for the city.” Giorno plucks an odd purple flower and tosses it to Viola. “Here. Catch.”

Viola reaches out their hands but fumbles with receiving, and it falls into their lap. The flower ungulates around Viola’s right leg and forms into a fabric knee support brace. They whip around to say something – what it is, they don’t know – but he’s already engaged in hushed conversation with Buccellati, his blonde brows knit tightly together.

“I hate to bother you so early about this,” he says, setting down the flowers on the kitchen counter. “But you wouldn’t happen to have the intel on –”

“Don Affetai?” Buccellati finishes with a small smile. “Top of the pile to Narancia’s right. He’s meeting us down by Venree, so you’ll have plenty of time to look over it and your attached notes before then.”

Giorno sighs. “Thank you. Sorry, I just - these meetings are always so –”

“You’ll be fine. You’ve gotten this far, you’ve gotten through these before without needing to resort to G.E.R., and Abbacchio and I will be there to deal with any trouble that arises. Okay?”

Giorno nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll go see if Abbacchio’s awake so we can start getting ready and –”

There’s a loud thud, and the table shakes like an earthquake. The group whips their heads towards the other end of the table where Abbacchio has spontaneously materialized, fully dressed, long mane tied back in a ponytail, and face down on the table.

“Never mind then…Good morning, amore,” Buccellati says.

Abbacchio only groans in response.

“Might need to make that next cappuccino extra strong,” Mista whispers.

A muffled quiet is the only word that comes from the older man.

“Wow. Not even the old man's ‘get off my lawn’ fist shakes,” Fugo says. “He’s really out of it.”

“It was a bit of a long night,” Buccellati explains.

He turns back to the stove to make more cups of coffee. Viola carefully sorts through the pile of bread to give Abbacchio, since he doesn’t seem to want to move.

Or seem to be moving at all…

‘Oh shit.’

Viola almost jumps forward to check Abbacchio’s pulse. He violently gets up and bats her hand away. She pulls away soon after, receiving an annoyed glare from him.

“Huh. It’s almost the end of summer,” Buccellati comments, voice starting to drift somewhere else.

“Yeah, and? ‘S not like we have a summer break to cry over,” Narancia says.

Buccellati turns, smiling. “No. But, there will be something to celebrate soon.”

Everyone exchanges looks of confusion.

“What do you mean?” Fugo asks.

Buccellati’s eyes fall on Viola. “It will be a year since little Pizzelle joined us.”

Viola stops eating halfway. The others pause as well and look at her.

It takes a second for the statement to sink in. The words feel and sound foreign in their head. Once their brain has pieced the evidence together, pinpointing and stringing together every event, every almost death, every season that’s gone by, it all clicks.

It simultaneously does and does not feel like a year has gone by. Some days, it feels like she’s just arrived and moved her little things into a too-big room in a seemingly all-consuming house with Buccellati and the boys, fear, apprehension, and a tight knot of anxiety in their chest and lingering in every one of their footsteps.

Other days… It’s as though they’ve been here since day one. Whenever Giorno bought this estate and stepped through the threshold, she was there. Lonesome Town is a million miles away in their head, and it’s just…them. 

It's just Bruno dragging them all out of bed and getting them breakfast. 

It’s Fugo getting frustrated at them and Narancia not understanding math problems, only to get them ice cream and tell the pair that he’s proud of them for keeping at it for so long. 

It’s Giorno teaching her how to garden and the names of different plants, and in return, she shows him how to text, and they talk about simple, dumb stuff because Giorno needs a little bit of simple, dumb stuff.

It’s Abbacchio icing her swollen under eye after training with a slab of veal that he cooks into a stew later that night that tastes like Kale’s mom’s cooking–like care and kindness and warmth–which are not the words someone often uses to describe Leone Abbacchio.

It’s Mista’s old man who yawns and grunts at 19 when he wakes up, and their day trips into the city to have pizza on their bad days.

It’s Trish when she comes by after school and teaches her how to do ‘girly’ things without rolling her eyes or getting annoyed when Viola fumbles with a mascara wand and nearly pokes their eye out with it.

She’s had dinner with these people nearly every night – hell, she has every meal with at least two of them at least once. She’s celebrated Christmas and Halloween and their birthdays, and her birthday in this house with them. They are no longer ‘just’ her guardians, stuck with her until she either got back on her feet or until they found someone else to dump her off on. They are no longer just “the weird dudes in the funny suits” or just “Buccellati and the gang.”

They are Bruno. And Leone. And Pannacotta and Guido and Giorno and Narancia and Trish and Alina and Blanca. They are Mr. Ris and his boys from La Squarda, but not just “La Squadra”. They are family. Not ‘The Familgia.”

Family.

“Hey! Look at that!” Guido says with a joyous laugh, smacking Viola on the back. “A whole year without cracking! That’s an accomplishment!”

Panna kicks Guido’s leg underneath the table.

“Ow!”

“I believe what Mista is trying to say is that we’re happy that you’re still here with us. It’s been a pleasure having you here,” Panna says with a small smile. “Any idea on what you want to do to celebrate?”

“Uh, I..I don’t really know. I didn’t even realize that…”

“Ooh! Ooh! We should go to that good pizza place near the colosseum!” Narancia exclaims.

“It’s their anniversary, Narancia. She can choose what she wants to do for it,” Buccellati says, looking at Viola. “You have a few weeks to figure it out.”

“If I do, can I invite Kale and the others?

Giorno shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

“And…maybe Mr. Ris?”

There’s a pregnant pause right after the words leave their mouth. Giorno and Buccellati exchange anxious glances.

“...Maybe. Definitely a maybe,” Buccellati finally says. “We’ll see what we can do.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll have to see what he says–”

“I know,” Viola says, deadpan.

Buccellati nods, a bit awkwardly. “We’ll see…”

Viola nods again, taking gentle and awkward nibbles from their brioche.

‘Probably shouldn’t have brought it up now,’ they think, doing their best to avoid Buccellati’s eyes.

They hear him sort of sigh out of his nose and reach out a hand, ruffling the top of Viola’s head.

“Giorno and I are going to prepare some things upstairs before we leave. Leftovers are on the stove and in the oven. I’m leaving the card in the main office just in case – and only just in case. Call us before we leave if you need something.

“Okay,” Viola and the rest of the boys reply in unison while Abbacchio lazily throws up a thumbs up.

“Good.”

Bruno and Giorno leave quickly after. They watch the doorway for a minute and listen until their footsteps fade away and they hear Giorno’s office door shut.

“You guys wanna slam the shit we got so we can get deep fried pizza later?” Narancia asks, glancing at the others.

“If you don’t throw it all up first…,” Leone mumbles into the table.

“Challenge accepted!” Narancia and Guido say.

Pannacotta sighs deeply. “That wasn’t a challenge…”

“Hey guys, do you think I made Buccellati and Giorno mad with what I asked?”

“Huh? No,” Guido says. “It’s not like that. It’s just…things are still awkward, y’know?”

“Issues such as these aren’t as easily resolved as you think,” Pannacotta says. “Especially under circumstances such as ours…”

“What do you–?”

“Why do you wanna have him around, anyway!?” Narancia exclaims.

“Those losers tried to kill us first! They don’t got the right to be pissed at us! Makin’ our lives harder ‘nd shit! Just because they –!”

Pannacotta swiftly smacks Narancia in the back of the head.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“Just don’t worry about all that right now, okay, Zelle? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, yeah?” Guido says. “Those two’ll figure it all out!”

Viola nods, starting to rise from their chair. “I’m gonna head up to my room for a bit.”

“Do you need one of us to help you upstairs?” Pannacotta asks.

“I think I’ll be alright. I’ll call if I need anything,” they say.

“Okay! You be careful!” Guido says, already snatching up their unfinished brioche.

“Don’t forget about our lesson later,” Pannacotta says.

“I won’t!” They call back as they stagger out of the kitchen.

The pain has mostly subsided thanks to the lidocaine. Their knee is still stiff, and she’s still wobbling, but she’s not relying on the wall as heavily. She makes it up the stairs well enough. The door to Giorno’s office is still shut, and it seems he finally installed that reinforced door because as she hobbles closer, she cannot hear a single word.

She decides to actually head back to her room and get ready for the rest of the day.

After a long trek to the other side of the house and their bedroom, Viola stumbles through the door. Their bottle of anti-inflammatory medication that was definitely sitting in their bathroom – possibly spilled across the countertop – is now sitting upright on her desk with her refilled glass of water. Right next to them is their phone.

And it’s ringing.

Viola dives for the phone, fumbling to open it and almost dropping it (again) before she finally answers.

“H-Hello? Viola Pi-Pizzelle speaking –”

“Dude, you don’t have to be so formal every time you answer the phone.”

Viola’s heart leaps, and her mouth breaks out into a wide grin.

“Kale!”

“Heeeey! What’re you doing tomorrow? Kale asks with just as much excitement.

Viola starts kicking their feet. “Hmm, nothing I don’t think. What’s up?”

“Wanna hang out?” They pause. “Are they cool with you hanging out tomorrow?”

Viola chuckles. “You don’t have to say it like that. They’ll be fine with it, though Narancia might have to tail us with Aerosmith. Just in case.”

“That’s fine. As long a he doesn’t almost shoot me again,” they say.

“Alyce finally got her license, and I got an end-of-summer bonus from work, so the others and I were thinkin’ why not drive up to Napoli and see ya!”

Viola’s eyes start getting bleary.

“You…you didn’t need to –”

“Yeah, well – I wanted to. We all wanted to. We miss you.”

“I…I miss you guys, too. I really do.”

“Y’know, we’re gonna be seniors soon. You think you’re going to be coming back for school with us? Finish off the year together?”

Viola’s smile falters. Her neck starts burning, and her left hand instinctively goes to scratch all over. She stops before the tips of their nails can even graze the skin. She forces a small smile.

“I think I might,” they say, glancing at their full corkboard of photos taken over the past year. A looming shadow stalks every one of them, a vice grip around their throat.

Only she knows it’s there.

“I just need to sort some stuff out with…with her, y’know?”

“Yeah…yeah, I know. I know.”

“Hey. What’re you guys doing in a couple weeks?”

“Uhhh, I - I don’t know yet. Need to check, why?”

“I’m thinking…thinkin’ about having a party.”

“You? A party?”

“Yeah…a party.”

[miss-writes-a-lot]

local bisexual disaster afraid of vulnerability & being close to others ( too bad he's touch starved!!!!! )

[miss-writes-a-lot]

First Night, First Light: 'Together' For The First Time

(And here's another one, but with the gradient title I was trying to do but could not and I still can't figure out what wrong but I did it!)

Synopsis: Still, it was quite obvious that Nathaniel didn’t want Marc to know anything about his home life. He had even taken to pretending not to hear people when they questioned him about something as small as what his parents did for work. Someone – Kim, maybe – eventually discovered that his mother was well-known in the architecture world, but that was about it, and even then, Nathaniel refused to comment on it, simply giving a passive shrug.

Nathaniel made it clear that that door was meant to remain closed, and Marc, despite his intensifying curiosity, did not dare to open it.

And in fact, he didn’t have to.

Because Nathaniel opened it for him.

(Or, Marc stays over at Nathaniel's place for the first time, and boy, do things get awkward fast.)

Pairing(s): Pre slash/ Pre relationship Marc Anciel/Nathaniel Kurtzberg

Content Warning(s):

-> Implied Homophobia

-> Toxic Family Dynamics

-> Injury

-> Yelling/arguments

Marc could remember all the times he’d visited Nathaniel at his place, mostly because he could easily count each time he’d been willingly invited over to the Kurtzberg residence on one hand.

Nathaniel rarely, if ever, discussed or shared any information about his parents or home life outside of the brief tidbits he provided during some of Ms. Bustier’s community-building activities. 

Marc never minded this–not in the slightest. They had only just started working together on their fan-made Ladybug comics and had barely started to cross the line into friendship, which, for Marc, was an especially daunting task after his little “Reverser” incident.

But, as the months went on and their texts back and forth became less about the plot points and comic proofs for the next installment of the Ladybug comic, and were more casual conversation and questions like what other things they liked doing besides drawing and writing, and what each other’s favorite rom-com movie was (they’re both pretty into 10 Things I Hate About You) or what their favorite boba orders were (Nath’s more of a fruit tea person. Going for strawberry hibiscus most of the time from his favorite and only kosher boba cafe), Nathaniel never spoke about his parents. Not in depth, not brief mentions in passing conversation, and he never once invited Marc over, not even for a couple of hours.

When they did start hanging out outside of the art room and outside of school in general, they went to one of their five usual haunts: the Seine, Maya’s dad’s cafe, Wang’s art shop, Marinette’s place, and Marc’s place. 

Marc didn’t mind this either – he never cared about where they went, he was just glad they were together and being themselves. Plus, Marc’s parents loved Nathaniel! Adored him, even. They would have him over every day if it meant seeing their work and talking his ear off any chance they got.

Still, it was quite obvious that Nathaniel didn’t want Marc to know anything about his home life. He had even taken to pretending not to hear people when they questioned him about something as small as what his parents did for work. Someone – Kim, maybe – ended up finding out his mother was big in the architecture world, but that was about it, and even then, Nathaniel refused to comment on it and simply gave a passive shrug.

Nathaniel made it clear that that door was meant to remain closed, and Marc, despite his intensifying curiosity, did not dare to open it. 

And in fact, he didn’t have to.

Because Nathaniel opened it for him.

꘎♡━━━━━���꘎

Marc got the call during lunch period one Thursday in the spring.

His grandfather, out in the countryside, had fallen pretty high from a ladder while trying to tend to a leak in the roof, and since they lived much farther from Paris and any big hospitals, Marc’s parents had to meet him and his grandmother halfway at whatever was closer.

They had tried to call Marc earlier in the day, during class. His phone had been on silent the whole time, and when he was finally about to check what had passed his ‘Do Not Disturb’, Ms. Mendeleiev stepped in front of him and led him to the front office. Nathaniel followed and stood by him while he called his parents. Ms. Mendeleiev stood guard by the door.

“We’re so sorry about this, mon coeur,” his mother said, her voice quivering like she had been sobbing for hours, and on the verge of bursting into tears again. “We weren’t really thinking when we left the house. We had only gotten the call from your grandmother a little bit ago, and we –”

“N-No, mom – it’s okay. I-I understand. I’m so-sorry they didn’t pick up sooner,” Marc replied, struggling to mask his shaky voice. 

His free hand grabbed one of the desk’s corners. Nathaniel reached down and pried it free, taking it in his hand and squeezing it as tightly as he could. The gesture managed to coax a small, brief smile out of Marc.

“We might need to stay the night,” Marc’s father said, sighing. “Just to make sure that he’ll be alright.”

“O-Oh, um, okay…”

“Do you have anyone you can stay with? We don’t want you staying at home all by yourself…”

“Could you ask Nathaniel?”

“Uh, well…,” Marc turned to his friend.

“My parents aren’t cool with me staying over without adults around…” Nathaniel whispered, shaking his head.

“That’s okay,” Marc pulled away from the phone. “I’ll, um, I-I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it. Mom, Nath can’t–”

“W-wait!”

Marc whipped his head back to Nathaniel, who gnawed at the corner of his bottom lip, face scrunched in contemplation.

“Let me…let me see what I can do!”

He let go of Marc’s hand and hurried out of the office. Ms. Mendeleiev shot Marc a look of confusion. He could only offer her an equally confused shrug in response. His hands started to tremble. His emerald green eyes scanned the floor, searching for…something. Something and nothing all at the same time, the reality of everything crashing down on him like a glass chandelier. His vision grew blurry at the edges, and his chest started to grow heavy, like a cinder block had landed on his chest and knocked the wind out of him.

‘I should’ve picked up the phone. Why didn’t I pick up the phone? They needed me and I didn’t pick up the stupid phone –’

“Marc? Is everything okay?” His mother’s voice crackled through the phone, pulling Marc back to his senses and back to the receiver.

“Y-yeah, Mom. I-I’m okay. Nath’s just, checking on something, is all. Um…do we know how Grandpa Noe’s doing?”

“The last thing we heard, Grandma Lea was on the road with him in the back seat. He was apparently complaining the whole time – ‘I’m fine! You’re worrying them all over nothing! I’ve had worse!’”

Marc’s dad chuckled a bit. “If he’s still arguing like that, I’d say he’s doing just fine.”

Marc tried to force out his own breezy laugh, but it came out as wrong as it felt leaving his mouth, all heavy and bitter on his tongue. His free hand grabbed the desk again as he and the rest of the room started to tip to one side.

“Y-Yeah, definitely,” he choked out in an attempt to feign brevity.

“Marc, my dear – don’t worry too much. Like your father said, your grandfather is strong. And stubborn. The man could lob off an arm with a saw, and he’d still try to…”

Marc’s stomach grew cold at the inclination and, probably sensing his emerging upset, quickly backpedaled.

“He’ll be fine, my love. We’ll be sure to keep you posted if anything happens, okay?”

Marc grabbed the strings of his hoodie, biting his lip to keep tears welling up in his eyes from falling.

He nodded. “Ye-yeah. Okay…”

Nathaniel stumbled back into the room, making Ms. Mendeleiev and Marc jump. He returned to Marc’s side, face flushed as red and as bright as his hair, and panting.

“H-Hey,” he wheezed, leaning against the desk to catch his breath.

“Uh, hey? What’s –”

“Do you want to sleep over tonight? At my place?”

Marc blinked in surprise.”What?”

“I just talked to my mom –” Nathaniel gulped down some air. “-I told her about the stuff that’s going on, and she’s cool with you coming by and staying the night!”

Marc’s mother sighed. “Oh, thank you so much, Nath! We truly appreciate it!”

“Ah, are you sure? I don’t want to impose or anything…”

Nathaniel shook his head. He grabbed hold of Marc’s hand, cradling it between his own. Marc’s face lit up like a wildfire.

“You’re not imposing at all! I…,” Nathaniel paused, briefly closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose. “I want you to come over. Plus, my parents have been wanting to meet you for a while now, so it all works out! So, whaddya say?”

The news short-circuited Marc’s brain. He stared dumbly at Nathaniel, thoughts ping-ponging in his head and making him dizzy.

Nathaniel wanted him over…

It shouldn’t have been the most important thing circulating his mind, yet he couldn’t help but pin that thought to the corkboard in his head.

Nathaniel wanted him over…

His parents wanted them over…

His parents have been talking about having him over…

He was going to stay at Nathaniel’s house….

‘Oh shit.’

“Marc?” Nathaniel squeezed his hand and gave his arm a slight tug. “You still with me?”

“Yes!” Marc exclaimed, shrinking immediately after catching how loud he was, but he started to smile again. “U-uh, I mean, yes. I’m still here. And, yeah…If it’s cool, I’d love to come over.”

“Alright!” Nathaniel cheered. His azure eyes finally dropped down to his hands, and he quickly let go and shoved his hands into his pant pockets. “I mean, cool. Nice. That’s…that’s really cool.”

He pretended to clear his throat and turned his head. That got Marc to chuckle a bit.

“You both get that?” Marc said into the phone. The realization of the whole exchange being heard by Marc’s parents caused Nathaniel’s face to shift into a deep vermilion shade.

“We did! Thank you so much!” Marc’s mother exclaimed.

“Yes, thank you, Nathaniel. We really appreciate this. And, thank your parents for us as well! We promise to send them a gift once we’re back in town,” his father added.

“D-Don’t worry about it,” Nathaniel said sheepishly, pulling up the lapels of his blazer to hide his face. “It’s the least I could do.”

Marc mouthed a ‘thank you’ before he turned his attention back to his parents. Nathaniel smiled sweetly back, his hand inching its way back to Marc’s.

They stayed intertwined for the duration of the call.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Word travels fast around Françoise Dupont, and by the time lunch ended and Marc and Nathaniel returned to art class together, their classmates started treating Marc differently.

Not poorly. Most of their classmates were kind or tried to be kind or at least nice to some degree, but they tended to take that kindness to a whole other level whenever something bad happened to one of their own – almost to an extreme degree, which Marc could not bring himself to complain about since he had been guilty of going overboard as well.

Every minute, someone came up to him to offer well wishes to his grandfather and help with whatever little thing he was doing – from doing his assignment for him so he could take it easy, to giving him a hefty pile of snacks, drinks, and anti-stress trinkets to keeping Choke far away from when she started catching on that attention wasn’t being placed on her, and began overflowing with annoyance.

Alix tried her hand at helping with that aspect, but given her more “aggressive” methods, Mr. Monlataing needed to separate the two and eventually sent Alix to Mr. Damocles' office.

Still, they did their best to support Marc in the weird ways they knew how, with Nathaniel being his one, silent and solid rock throughout the day.

He glued himself to Marc’s side, but never felt the need to hover over Marc constantly or take over whatever he was doing. Anytime Marc did find his mind starting to brew worst-case scenarios, or his eyes started to drop down to his phone more and more, Nathaniel gently took one of his hands and mouth, ‘Are you okay?’ as not to draw attention to them.

One squeeze meant yes, two meant no. The few times Marc squeezed ‘no, ’ Nathaniel shooed everyone away and made up excuses so Marc could slip away to the bathroom or outside to recollect himself.

Once school ended, the two boys left for Marc’s house to pack up some things and make sure nothing was left on or wide open before leaving for Nathaniel’s place.

Their journey to Marc’s place was oddly quiet. It wasn’t unnatural for them to be in silence; they could be working in the same room and go hours without speaking to each other, yet still feel connected. Comfortable. Like a million words were being exchanged despite never once opening their mouths.

However, this was different.

After leaving and changing course for Nathaniel’s apartment, this thick blanket of silence started to suffocate Marc. Nathaniel’s face grew tight and tense. He hardly glanced Marc’s way as they walked, his brilliant blue eyes cast down to the sidewalk, and a small, somewhat familiar frown affixed to his face. He only ever made that face when he hit a wall, usually with his art, with the wall so thick that every little flaw he could find in his piece had a vice grip around his head. Except this time, there was apprehension in his stare; brows knitted in concern, and mouth moving ever so slightly as though he was confessing his thoughts to the ground.

“Hey, is…is everything okay?” Marc finally asked after a good 30 minutes of dead quiet.

Nathaniel’s head snapped up, and he finally turned to look at Marc.

“Y-Yeah. I’m good. Just…thinking, is all,” Nathaniel replied, somewhat wistful.

“You sure? You seem a little stressed…”

Nathaniel came to a stop, his hands squeezing into fists. Marc swore he saw some of Nathaniel’s teeth sink into his lower lip.

“Nath?”

“A-Actually, there’s…there’s something I need to tell you before…before we get to my place,” Nathaniel choked out.

“Okay…? What is it?”

Marc sucked his teeth and turned his whole body to fully face Marc.

“So, my mom. She’s kinda…weird about stuff like this?”

Marc raised a brow. “About what? About me staying over?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Kind of? She doesn’t let me have a lot of sleepovers. Especially not one one-on-one like this.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. The only other person who’s stayed the night at my place is Alix, but her dad knows my mom, and she just crashed on the couch that night.”

“So, what? Does she want me to do the same thing?”

“No, no,” Nathaniel shook his head. “I talked to her about that. She’s…okay with you staying in my room. My dad’s even setting up a sleeping bag for you.”

“Oh,” Marc said, his mind lingering on how Nathaniel said ‘okay.’

“What I’m trying to say is…she can be a bit much? A little mean, sometimes. She doesn’t mean to be, I don’t think? She’s –”

“Nath–”

“Agh! I just don’t want her to be mean to you, you know?” Nathaniel ran his fingers through his hair. “Especially since you’re already having a rough time with the stuff with your grandpa –”

“Nath,” Marc grabbed both of Nathaniel’s freckled hands and gently ran a thumb over his larger knuckles. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay, really. I’m not that fragile, you know?”

Nathaniel sighed. “I know you’re not. I just mean…I want you to have a good time. I don’t want you to hate it there. Or, hate me for bringing you over –”

“Nath, I could never hate you. Not over something like me not liking your place or something. Whatever happens, we’re in it together. Good or bad, like always. And even if your mom hates me or something, I’ll suck it up and deal with it.”

Nathaniel sheepishly glanced up at him, managing a small smile.

“I don’t think she’ll hate you. I just want to make sure you have a good time…”

Marc chuckled a bit. “I know. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, or if she says anything that makes you feel bad –”

“Nath.’”

“I’m just saying. I wanna make sure you feel safe…”

Marc’s smile grew, and his face started to feel warm.

“Thank you.”

Nathaniel nodded, turning forward to continue walking. “‘Course, Marc. Anytime. How are things with your grandpa, by the way? I heard you calling your parents back at your place…”

“Oh – he’s doing okay! He dislocated his hip, but other than that, he seems to be okay. My parents are still staying the night, just to be sure.”

“That’s good, though. Glad to hear he’s alright.”

“Yeah. Me too…”

The boys’ hands stuck together for the rest of the trip, right up until they entered the elevator threshold in Nathaniel’s apartment complex.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Nathaniel’s apartment sat on the top floor of an elegant but somewhat short, cream colored building. The apartment itself was something picked out of a catalog you find on Gabriel Agreste’s glass coffee table. Hell, you’d probably find a room like it in Gabriel Agreste’s house.

Everything was some shade of either white, black, or brown, with only a few pops of green from the strategically placed potted plants. The few family photos they had were relegated to the hallway. The rest of the walls were dressed with minimalist paintings and architectural sketches with Nathaniel’s mom’s name stamped red at each page's corner.

 Nothing was out of place. Nothing was left lying around or about when it wasn’t supposed to be. Even the books sitting on the workspace’s shelf were all arranged and standing abnormally straight.

Marc almost didn’t cross into the living room because of his fear of tracking in dirt or desecrating the sanctity of the space. He hugged his book bag to his chest and waited in the doorway as Nathaniel set his satchel down on the dark sectional. He glanced over his shoulder at Marc and raised a brow.

“What’re you doing? Come and put your stuff down,” Nathaniel said, nodding towards the couch.

“A-Are you sure? Everything’s so nice…Should I take my boots off? I don’t want to get your things dirty or anything…”

“What? No, you’re fine. I mean, unless you want to. We won’t be staying here for that long anyway. I’ll just introduce you to my parents, and then we can head to my room.”

“O-Oh. Okay. Cool…,” Marc replied.

He carefully crossed into the living room and took a seat on the edge of the section, setting the book bag on his lap. He watched Nathaniel go through the cabinets in his family’s seemingly empty kitchen, calling out, “Dad! Mother! I’m home!”

“One second, Nath!” A man’s breezy voice called from the far end of the hallway.

Nathaniel came back with a small bag of popcorn and sat down beside Marc, offering him some of the popcorn.

“Want some?”

Marc shook his head, hugging his bag tighter to his chest. “No, thanks. I’m – I’m good.”

Nathaniel put a hand on Marc’s trembling shoulder. “You’ll be okay. My dad’s a little more laid back than my mom. You’ll have time to prepare.”

Marc nodded, hiding a shudder.

Footsteps clicked down the hall along with some hushed back and forth between Nathaniel’s father and a staticy, somewhat shrill voice. His footsteps stopped short of the door. The boys could glimpse his shadow stretching across the opposite wall.

“Yes, yes. I know. But it’s only for tonight!” his father said. “Yes, I brought out the sleeping bag. It’s all set up in his room…I’m about to meet with them now…Oh, come now. I’m sure he’s a nice boy!”

Nathaniel’s fingernails dug into Marc’s shoulder at that sentence. Marc hid a wince and gently patted the top of his hand, half out of reassurance, half to keep him from breaking Marc’s bones.

“We can talk to him about it tomorrow. We’ll see you later…Okay. Okay. Bye.”

His father sighed. He finally rounded the corner and greeted the boys with a warm smile and open arms.

“There they are!”

The first thing Marc noticed about Mr. Kurtzberg was his hair – styled into a wild updo with curls flaring out in different directions and in the same shade of red as Nathaniel’s. The second thing Marc noted was how he made Nathaniel smile.

“Hi Dad,” Nathaniel said, springing up from the couch and jogging to hug his father.

Marc took a second before standing himself and trailing behind his friend. Mr. Kurtzberg patted Nathaniel’s back a few times, laughing a bit before he turned his attention to the wary Marc.

“And you must be the famous author Nath’s been going on about,” Mr. Kurtzberg said.

Marc’s cheeks flushed pink. Nathaniel turned beet red and groaned.

“Dad!”

His father laughed. “What? It’s true! He just goes on and on about you and the things you two cook up in the art room.”

Marc let out a nervous laugh. “O-Oh, um, re-really?”

“Don’t worry, Marc. They’re all good things!”

Marc flashed a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Mr. Kurtzberg.”

“No need to be so formal, my boy. You can just call me Aton.”

“Just don’t do it in front of Mom,” Nathaniel added. “Where is she, by the way?”

Mr. Kurtzberg flashed an anxious grin at them. “A-Ah, she got pulled into a meeting. She’ll be home a bit later. Hopefully, before you and Marc head off to bed later tonight.”

Marc could see Nathaniel unclench, his shoulders relaxing and breathing a small sigh of relief.

“Why don’t I get dinner started, and I’ll call you when it's ready. Sounds good? Then you both can take turns telling me about those stories you’ve been coming up with?”

“Yup!” Nathaniel said hurriedly.

He snatched his satchel off the couch, took Marc’s hand, and started pulling him down the hall.

“C’mon. We can hang out in my room.”

Just as they were about to take off, Mr. Kurtzberg shouted, “Nath!”

Nathaniel stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Keep the door open, please.”

Nathaniel huffed, rolling his eyes. “Fiiiine….”

Nathaniel nodded towards the right of the hallway and continued pulling Marc in the direction of his room.

“It was nice to meet you!” Marc called before they turned the corner, and Nathaniel pulled him into one of the rooms on the right.

Marc briefly glimpsed it on his way inside the apartment but assumed it was the guest room, or maybe Nathaniel’s parents’ room, given how its style closely resembled the rest of the space – modern, muted with industrial style lights that were vaguely shaped like Angel’s Trumpets. It wasn’t until his eyes landed on the desk, cluttered with brushes, ink pens, colored inks, and various other art supplies scattered around it, did it sank in that the room belonged to Nathaniel.

“So, uh, this…this is it!” Nathaniel said, gesturing out to the rest of the room, before instinctively grabbing his left arm and rubbing it up and down vigorously. “It’s not a lot. My mom doesn’t really like things that clash too much with…everything – Look, I know it’s lame –”

“No, no!” Marc interjected, waving his hands. “It’s not lame at all! It’s just…not what I was expecting. It’s all so…”

“Prissy? Stuffy? Pretentious?”

“I was gonna say more… modern? And big. Really big,” Marc commented, eyes drifting to the expansive window with a clear view of Notre Dame and most of Paris.

Nathaniel shrugged, “Yeah. My mom – she’s kind of a big deal in the architecture world. Guess she wanted a place to match that.”

“I’ll say…” Marc’s eyes wandered back around the room and landed on something – well, two things – hanging just a few centimeters from the desk. “Are those…our storybook pages?”

Displayed in two large, dark photo frames facing Nathaniel’s swivel chair were the two key colored storybook pages from the day Alya recruited them to concoct some sort of simple plan to finally put an end to the long and arduous journey of trying to get Marinette and Adrien together; explaining it concisely and colorfully and leaving no room for overthinking or over complicating a single thing (something Marinette was and is still prone to doing. She’s prone to a lot of misfortune, it seems). 

The proposition came during the first mention of branching off from their Ladybug comics for a bit and trying their hands at something new. Nothing concrete yet; just spitballing ideas at their table towards the back of the art room. They only had a handful of ideas between the two of them at the time – spoken aloud, that is.

Marc always had a million ideas flying around his head, but they always gummed up his mouth, and he could only spit out bullet points or vague images of said ideas with a good half cup of hesitation.

Nathaniel seemed to be holding back some of his own ideas as well, offering up the same limp beginnings of a story but with an almost excited edge to his voice, and his eyebrows arched when he threw out an idea he particularly liked.

So, when Alya approached them with the idea and off-handedly threw out the concept of a fairytale, their interest was piqued.

Marc immediately got to work thinking up tropes that best fit Marinette and Adrien’s little “situation”, and when he found that it was a classic damsel-in-distress tale, Nathaniel went straight to work.

He busted out his mixed media pad, slapped together a Pinterest board full of references, thumbnail scenes based on those references with near identical art styles and coloring, and by that afternoon, they were presenting their work to Marinette and the rest of the girls.

Two days later, Nathaniel texted Marc the question during his math class:

Nath: what about knights?

Nathaniel didn’t often do a lot of ‘big’ illustrations other than comic covers and big spread, but from how his big blue eyes became saucers anytime he flipped the drawings back towards him and how he rattled off all of the drawing techniques he used for the pieces, Marc could tell how proud Nathaniel was of them.

And from how bright his toothy grin radiated off of him when Marc mentioned the illustrations, he still was.

“Yeah!” Nathaniel exclaimed. “My mom saw them the night I brought them home, and she liked them – surprisingly! She even bought the frames from them.”

Marc smiled. He walked over to the desk and crouched to get a better look at the pieces. The knightly Marinette with Adrien in a beautiful ball gown, riding off into the sunset on a white horse. He and Nathaniel as little fairy godmothers trying to bring the two together.

Marc chuckled. “They are pretty great…You did a great job on these.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Thanks, but I don’t think they would’ve come together nearly as well if you hadn’t talked me into going in the knight and princess direction.”

Marc scoffed. “As if you weren’t thinking the same thing!”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, smirking. “Suuuure…whatever you say.”

Marc shook his head. “So, what’re we doing until dinner?”

“Uh, I don’t know…Is there something you wanna do?”

Marc straightened, turned around, and strode towards Nathaniel’s bed, smirking.

“Uh, Marc? You good?”

Marc did not reply. He slid off his boots as he arrived at the head of the bed, and, without saying a word, slid off one of Nathaniel’s pillows.

Nathaniel took a step back, inching his palms up in preemptive surrender.

“Marc…,” he warned. “Think about what you’re doing…”

Marc raised the pillow, making intense, unbroken eye contact with him.

“Marc. I’m giving you one last chance – Put. The Pillow. Down.”

Marc glanced down at the pillow, lowering it ever so slowly back down to the bed. Nathaniel let out a long sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said.

Marc nodded, holding a pleasant smile for all of 5 seconds before it shifted into a sinister grin, and he sprang onto the bed and toward Nathaniel, armed with the pillow.

“Marc!” Nathaniel yelped, laughing as he ran in a circle around and on his bed. He snagged the second pillow as Marc continued to give chase.

“Face me like a man, Kurtzberg!” Marc shouted, swinging his pillow at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel spun around and started smacking Marc on his sides and around his head. Marc retaliated with a few good whacks to the top of Nathaniel’s head. The two took turns hitting each other and trying to run away.

Marc noted Nathaniel’s newfound athleticism during their fight, with the redhead climbing onto the very few pieces of furniture with an ease and upper body strength he did not possess three months prior. He was faster, too. More agile, too, as he dodged most of Marc’s attacks with such intense seriousness, you’d think they were in a serious fight and not a pillow fight.

Though Marc couldn’t really say too much on that front – he was getting a little too into their battle as well, weaving past Nathaniel and striking him the same way he would if he were an akuma. There was no way he could blame his old soccer days for how he flipped clear over Nathaniel’s head and knocked him on his ass in one fell swoop.

“Ow!” Nathaniel exclaimed, laughing. “You didn’t need to go that hard!”

“I was just trying to keep up with you,” Marc replied, twirling his pillow with one hand and smirking. “You’re not half bad. Have you been taking gymnastics classes or something?”

“Eh. Something like that…”

“Hmph,” Marc bent down a little bit and offered his free hand. “Here. Truce.”

Nathaniel slowly reached his hands towards Marc’s…before reaching over and smacking Marc across the face with his pillow. Marc fell on his side, and before he could get his bearings, Nathaniel fell on top of him and pinned him down on the floor. Marc roared a laugh as he squirmed under Nathaniel’s strangely strong grip.

“Gotcha now!” Nathaniel exclaimed as Marc struggled against his strength.

Marc squealed, giggling. “Okay! Okay! I yield! I yield! I –”

“Nathaniel Kurtzberg!”

Marc’s laughter was ripped from his throat. Both boys froze for what seemed like hours, but could have been only a few seconds at most. They snapped their heads toward the door. Nathaniel turned as white as a sheet of paper.

His mother stood there, tall even in her red-bottom heels, and her face pinched by a deep frown that bordered on a scowl.

“Mother!” Nathaniel exclaimed, scrambling to stand up. Marc followed suit, clenching his sweaty hands and his heart knocking against his chest at lightning speed. “Y-You’re home! We didn’t hear you come in…”

“Clearly, since you were too preoccupied destroying your room to notice,” she said, crossing her arms. Her dark eyes ran up and down Nathaniel’s room, which had been mussed up during their little tussle; art supplies scattered across the floor, the bed sheets and covers half falling onto the floor from running across it, the pillows beaten up and slipping out of their cases.

Her eyes finally fell on Marc, and she might as well have killed him right there with that dagger-sharp stare of hers, and that stare took him up and down, scrutinizing every single inch of him. The more she picked at him, the deeper her scowl sank into her features. Marc fought the urge to turn his head away.

Nathaniel glanced at Marc, then looked back at his mother. He swallowed hard. “Mother, this is my best friend, Marc. The one I told you about.”

“Yes. The writer…,” she said, considering each word on her tongue.

Nathaniel nudged Marc with his elbow and nodded towards his mother.

“Oh! Uh,” Marc whipped his sweaty hand on his jeans and stuck it out to her. “H-Hello, Mrs. Kurtzberg! Th-Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your home for the night. And I-I am so sorry for messing up your son’s room!”

“Marc…”

Mrs. Kurtzberg eyed his outstretched hand for a long time, so long that it started to tremble, though all of Marc was trembling at that point, and he could not confidently say it was simply from standing too long.

After a painfully long time, Nathaniel’s mother limply took his hand and lifted it ever so lightly before she pulled her hand away and returned her attention to her son. Mr. Kurtzberg appeared in the doorway behind his mother, scanning the room and the carnage the boys created.

“Oh, wow…,” his father said. “Never seen this before.”

“This is what happens when you don’t pay attention to them!” Mrs. Kurtzberg exclaimed, not once looking back at Nathaniel’s father. “Look at this mess!”

“Shirel, they’re just being boys –”

“They’re behaving like little girls!”

“Shirel!”

Marc winced, curling into himself. Nathaniel grabbed his shoulder, fingernails digging into Marc’s hoodie.

“Hey, it…I was the one who talked into it,” Nathaniel said. Marc snapped his head to shoot him a look, mouth agape. “I wanted him to have a good time while he’s here. Cheer him up a little.”

“Nath –”

Nathaniel shot him a quick look from the corner of his eye. Marc fell silent.

Mrs. Kurtzberg kept her eagle eyes locked on her son, picking him and his answer apart, bit by bit. Nathaniel held her stony gaze with a challenging glare, and Mard wanted to cry and beg him to stop digging a deeper hole for himself.

However, Mrs. Kurtzberg seemed somewhat satisfied with her son’s answer and pulled away, starting back towards the door.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she said with her back turned to them. “Clean up this mess. It’s rude to have guests sleeping in such horrid conditions.”

Nathaniel chomped down on the corner of his lip. “Yes, Mother.”

She nodded, still not looking at them, and continued down the hallway. Mr. Kurtzberg only offered them a heavy sigh and a headshake, following after her. He left the door cracked open. The boys waited until their footsteps faded into the other room to start talking again.

Marc took the opportunity to ask, “Why did you do that?”

“Marc –”

“You shouldn’t have lied for me. I was the one who started it. I made you –”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Nathaniel said, deadpan.

“I should have stopped when you told me to. Should have just asked to watch a movie or something –”

“Marc,” Nathaniel said firmly. “Don’t…Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? She would’ve gotten pissed at me about something, whether it was because of you or not. At least now, we won’t have to worry about it for the rest of the night. Hopefully, she won’t find anything else to complain about…”

Marc’s eyes traveled around the room and settled on a collection of colored pencils they knocked off the desk in their scuffle. He snagged them off the ground and offered them to Nathaniel with a shaky hand.

“Let me help you, then. It’s the least I can do.”

Nathaniel sighed, smiling. He reached for the collection of colored pencils in Marc’s gloved hand. His fingertips lingered on Marc’s palm, trying to trace the length of the lines on his hands. He slipped the pencils out of his hands and nodded towards the right end of the room.

“Come on. We can start by unfucking your sleeping bag.”

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Dinner that night was largely spent in silence at the Kurtzbergs’ glass dining room table.

The clinking and scratching of silverware against porcelain plates were offered as the only reprieve from the oppressive quiet that came over the four of them. Marc picked over his plate of chicken and rice pilaf, hardly finding the courage to even pretend to have an interest in eating. There was still a small chunk of food in his mouth from one of the three bites he had taken the entire night. He couldn’t bear to look up from his bleary reflection on the table, because every time he did manage to glance up from his plate, he’d almost always meet Shirel Kurtzberg’s sharp stare.

Each time only lasted a few seconds, but a person can say a lot with their eyes, and in those few seconds of accidental eye contact, he figured out every little thing Shirel thought about him.

And none of those things were positive, or instilled much confidence in him.

Nathaniel’s dad cleared his throat around the 45-minute mark, shifting slightly in his plush, cream chair to face the boys.

“So, Marc,” he began. “Nathaniel tells us that you’re both working on a new story together.”

Marc jumped. “A-ah, ye-yeah! We’re, um, we’re –”

“We’re in the drafting phase right now,” Nathaniel interjected, soft eyes looking at Marc. “We’re still trying to piece together a plot, but we’re getting pretty close to something. Marc’s been working hard developing the characters and coming up with plot ideas.”

“Is that right? And these characters are –?”

“Knights,” Marc finished, his cheeks turning pink when he realized he had cut off Mr. Kurtzberg. “S-sorry, I-I…they’re knights. Rain Piercer and Sun Heart. Nath was actually the one who came up with their names while he was designing them.”

“Wow,” Mr. Kurtzberg said, turning to Nathaniel. “That’s impressive. Nathaniel’s usually terrible at naming things – did he ever tell you about the time he tried to name his hamster Spongey?”

“'Cause she looked like one of those little dish sponges!”

Marc failed to hide his laughter behind his hand. Mrs. Kurtzberg remained still as stone.

“Nathaniel,” she said, slowly setting down her silverware. “Are you planning on publishing this…Sun Piercing, Rain Heart story like you did with those silly Ladybug comics you scribble out?”

Nathaniel’s face burned a fiery red. “Y-Yeah, actually. We are. And…we’re thinking about asking our art teacher to get us a meeting with one of his publishing friends to see if we can get this project off the ground. Maybe into a bookstore or two?”

Nathaniel’s father let out an airy laugh and clapped Nathaniel on the back. That’s amazing, boys! Absolutely –”

Mr. Kurtzberg clipped his enthusiasm short, catching the silent ire from Mrs. Kurtzberg’s pointed look. His smile disappeared, and his mouth hung open slightly as he leaned back in his seat. Mrs. Kurtzberg turned her offense to both of them, mainly setting her sights on her son.

“Nathaniel,” Mrs. Kurtzberg said, though it sounded more like a demand. “We’ve talked about this – you need to focus on more serious art! If you want to make silly drawings for you and your friends, that’s fine, but don’t waste a man’s time for something you haven’t even put together yet!”

“Shirel, please – there’s nothing wrong with exploring their career options. And, who knows? This could be their chance to get some good advice from a real professional!” Mr. Kurtzberg tried to argue, but it did nothing to sway Ms. Kurtzberg, who scoffed in response.

“All he’s doing is wasting his time! He has such a unique style – he could do anything! Printmaking, architecture, and commercial art! Yet, he’s making silly comics during class instead of focusing on important things!”

Marc’s chest grew tight. His hands gripped his knees, fingernails digging into his skin. He looked at Nathaniel, but he avoided Marc’s eyes. His gaze remained stuck on the floor, and from the little Marc could see of Nathaniel’s face, that were largely obscured by his long bangs, he bit down on his lower lip so hard, he drew blood.

Marc swallowed hard, his ears buzzing as Ms. Kurtzberg continued her tirade against her son’s choice of visual art. His whole face and neck were on fire, and the dam of tears behind his eyes threatened to break if he didn’t do or say something.

He shot up from his seat and steadied himself on the table, legs shaking like an earthquake.

“A-Actually! Mrs. Kurtzberg!” He stammered, throat tight and mouth desert dry. “Everyone really enjoys Nath and I’s comics. Especially Nath’s drawings! His comics have been featured a lot in our school’s art magazine and online. Our teachers really like them and have been pa-passing them out to other teachers and classes, an-and they like them a lot too and have been showing them to their friends! And, I like them a lot too, and um…uh…”

Marc’s heartbeat was back in his ears. His mind went blank, and his mouth went numb. He tried looking to Nathaniel and Mr. Kurtzberg for an answer, but they both remained silent and a bit stunned. Nathaniel’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and he shook his head vigorously while Mr Kurtzberg avoided looking at any of them altogether.

Mrs. Kurtzberg’s pinched face remained deadpanned. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head.

“I…appreciate your input, Marc,” she said. “I do. And I’m sure you’re as good a writer as they say you are. But, Nathaniel cannot keep wasting his time on silly doodles that he does for you and his other friends. He should be focusing on real art –”

Nathaniel’s hands slammed onto the table, his chair scraping harshly against the dark wood floor. The plates and the opposing wall shook. Marc opened his mouth to say something, anything, to him, but Nathaniel sprinted out of the dining room and into his room, slamming the door shut and rattling the rest of the apartment. It made Marc wince. Mrs. Kurtzberg groaned and rolled her eyes.

“Ugh, that boy. He can never listen! He always has to make a big show out of everything!!”

She got up from her seat with a huff and marched out of the kitchen, though instead of going out after Nathaniel, she disappeared into her room and shut the door.

Marc collapsed into his chair, sinking into its stiff suede.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he mumbled to Mr. Kurtzberg. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to make it worse, I –”

“Relax, Marc,” Mr. Kurtzberg said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “This here is…it’s old news. Tale as old as time with those two. I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. Though next time, I’d suggest leaving it to family.”

He patted Marc’s shoulder a few times, pushing himself up and casually striding to his room once he was on his feet.

Marc sat there, still.

Still staring at the untouched food sitting around the table.

Marc stayed in his seat until the sun set, and a blanket of darkness settled over the apartment.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

The Kurtzberg did not yell.

They did not scream or shout or swear at each other. They didn’t call each other names.

Mrs. Kurtzberg got loud, but never crossed the line into shouting.

Marc could not discern what they spoke about. He had to assume that it revolved around the incident at dinner, though from how flat and flaccid Mr. Kurtzberg sounded in his responses to Mrs. Kurtzberg’s blunt and matter-of-fact tone, you would have thought they were just blathering on about their day.

He didn’t hear from Nathaniel until he came out into the dining room to find him.

His eyes were rimmed red and puffy, cheeks stained with streaks of tears, and yet, he abandoned all of it at the door when he found Marc in a similar condition.

“H-Hey. Are…are you okay?” Nathaniel choked out, switching on the light.

Marc swallowed a big gulp of air. He patted around his face and found his cheeks were damp. He blinked away some of the tears out of his bleary eyes, but when that proved to be useless, he started roughly rubbing his eyes, forcing a smile on his face.

“N-Nothing, Nath. I…I’m worried about my grandpa, that's all! You know? B-But I’m okay!”

“Marc –”

“What about you? Are…are you okay?”

Nathaniel didn’t reply, and when it seemed like he was about to, his parents appeared behind him, and he clammed up.

Marc fed them the same limp lie about being concerned over his grandfather and feeling overwhelmed because of it. He didn’t care whether they bought it or not. They simply sent the boys to bed early, under the guise of needing to get up early for school the next morning.

Neither of them had the energy to argue.

They largely got ready in silence; a noticeable distance between the two right until Marc got into his sleeping bag and Nathaniel into his bed. Mrs. Kurtzberg was there at the door to bid them a good night.

“Don’t waste your time talking,” she said bluntly. “I don’t want to be dragging you out of bed tomorrow morning because you were up all night. Understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kurtzberg,” Marc replied immediately, glancing toward Nathaniel.

Nathaniel did not try to meet his or his mother’s eyes. He gave a limp shrug and a flat “sure.”

“Have a good night then, boys.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Kurtzberg.”

“Night…”

Mrs. Kurtzberg switched off the light and started to shut the door, but she stopped halfway. Her pointed stare lingered on the boys, specifically Marc, for a solid 30 seconds before she finally shut the door.

Marc waited until the click of her heels disappeared into the other room to feel comfortable enough to lie down on his side, his back facing Nathaniel. Marc could hear his racing heartbeat in his pillow, and he could feel the trench between him and Nathaniel grow wider.

He had seen Nathaniel angry – hell, before they became friends, Marc was on the receiving end of Nathaniel’s flavor of offense and anger.

But this…whatever this was made Marc dizzy and made his heart want to shrink and shrivel up into nothing. Despite the expansive room, the walls seemed to inch closer together. The floor began to rise to the ceiling, threatening to crush the two until they were reduced to nothing.

“H-Hey, Marc?” Nathaniel whispered, voice raw. “You still awake?”

Marc waited a few beats to reply, bringing his head over his shoulder slightly. “Yeah. I am…what’s up?”

Nathaniel was still sitting up in bed, facing the opposite wall dead on. He started to sniffle, his bottom lip trembling. Tears flooded down his face, and he choked out a quiet sob that later became a barrage of sobs.

“I…I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean…I–”

Marc jumped out of his sleeping bag and scrambled to Nathaniel’s side. He snaked his arms around Nathaniel, planting his chin on top of his head. Nathaniel buried his face in Marc’s hoodie and cried as quietly as he could, occasionally letting slip whimpers of “I’m sorry, Marc…”

Marc hushed him. “You don’t have to be sorry, Nath. Not one bit. I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for you more, or harder than I had back there.”

Nathaniel was so lost in his crying, he couldn’t form a retort or a reply. Marc simply held him in his arms, rocking him gently, back and forth. Sometimes, his fingers would card through Nathaniel’s sunset locks. Other times, he’d hum a slower version of one of Kitty Section’s songs, or a tune his mother would sing to him when he was small, or when he’d fall into the thralls of a panic attack.

Nath seemed to like the melody a little more, even though Marc was certain that he was terribly off-key. Nathaniel’s sobs regressed into sniffles at some point. He pulled out of Marc’s chest, dragging his arm across his eyes and rubbing the remains of tears and snot from his nose and upper lip.

“Agh. Sorry,” he said with a snort. “Got snot ‘n stuff all over you.”

Marc chuckled, running a hand up and down Nathaniel’s right arm. “It’s fine, Nath. Are you feeling better, though?”

Nathaniel nodded. “Yeah. A little…”

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

Nathaniel turned his head away, chewing in the same, beaten-up corner of his lower lip as his eyes searched his room for something.

He nodded slowly.

“Okay,” Marc said. “I’m all ears.”

Nathaniel drew in a long breath. His head found its way back to Marc, and he swayed towards the head of the bed. Marc inched down with him until their heads hit the pillows, and they could meet each other face to face, for the most part.

Nathaniel’s eyes remained cast down, and away from Marc’s. Marc’s hand remained on Nathaniel’s right arm and cradled his elbow.

“My mom. She…,” Nathaniel began. “She’s never been…great with me making comics. She’s never really been great with me doing anything, to be honest. She’s…she’s ‘okay’ if I’m just doing it for fun and I’m not trying to make a big deal about them.”

Marc bit back a grimace. “But?”

Nathaniel sighed. “...Ever since I started getting more serious about comics, since we’ve started hanging out and working together, she…she just keeps going at me. Always has to say or complain about. Always trying to get me to talk to her ‘serious’ art friends to ‘get my head straight.’ Whatever that means…”

“Oh, Nath. I’m so sorry…”

Nathaniel shrugged. “I wouldn’t have cared if she’d done it any other night. Well, actually – I probably still would’ve. I just…I didn’t think she’d do all of that in front of you, you know? I…I wanted you to like something about this place, so maybe…maybe you’d come back. You’d come back and maybe…things wouldn’t be so bad.”

Marc sighed. He moved his hand from Nathaniel’s elbow to brush the hair from his face. His fingers lightly brushed against Nathaniel’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, Nath. I’m sorry that she’s…,” Marc paused to rack his brain for a nicer word than the ones wanting to jump from his tongue. Ultimately, he decided to rephrase it. “I’m sorry she doesn’t support you. And that she feels the need to be so brutal about it…”

“That’s one way to put it…”

“Your comics are great. All of your art is great, but your comics are…fun! Light and expressive – they make everything that’s going on more… palatable.”

Nathaniel grew misty-eyed. “You’re…You’re just saying that –”

“I’m not! Even before we started working together, I would refresh the art page like a million times to see if there was a new update of your Ladybug and Mightillustrator comics, because it made hiding in closets and under desks more bearable. Easier, too. Especially after I got akumatized, it…it made me feel less like a shitty person and like…Like I could be a hero, too.”

Nathaniel’s eyes softened, a smile finding its way onto his lips.

“You’re not a shitty person, Marc,” he said. “You’re the farthest thing from it. You’re so sweet and nice…Heck, sometimes you’re too nice. Even to people who don’t deserve it…

Marc shrugged. “Maybe…”

“Definitely,” Nathaniel took Marc’s hand, their fingers interlocking. “You’re a good person, Marc. Someone just found you at a bad time and used it to take advantage of you. That’s it.”

Marc smiled warmly. “Hey, we’re supposed to be trying to cheer you up here! Not me!”

“We’ve talked about me a lot tonight. I wanna talk about something else. No more sad stuff.”

“We can’t, Nath. We’ve got school tomorrow.”

“But I’m not tiiiiired,” Nathaniel whined a bit too loudly. He clamped a hand over his mouth after, trying to suppress his laughter.

Marc started to giggle too, but he tried to shush them both. “Stop! Stop! They’ll hear us!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Nathaniel snickered.

Marc sighed. “Great. Now I can’t sleep either…”

“Sorry…”

Marc shrugged, smirking. “It’s fine. Not like I was going to get much sleep anyways…”

Any exhaustion Marc might have had was overpowered by the refusal to leave Nathaniel in his possibly dark headspace, his need for certainty staving off the need for sleep.

“So…what do you wanna talk about?”

“I dunno,” Nathaniel shrugged, propping his head on his hand. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“Is comic talk off the table?” Marc asked.

Nathaniel hummed. “Maybe…just for tonight? It’s still kind of a sore spot?”

Marc nodded. “You got it.”

“But don’t think I forgot about you keeping those stupid names for our knights.”

“They’re not stupid! They’re nice and endearing!”

“Oh please, I named them after vibes and the crap we threw in our Pinterest boards!”

Marc waved it off. “They’re cute! And if worse comes to worse, we’ll make ‘em codenames or something – like Ladybug and Chat Noir!”

“Fiiine. We can keep the names. For now.”

“We’ll circle back to it later, then.”

“Sure, sure,” Nathaniel said. “How’s your grandpa doing, by the way?”

“Last I heard, he was trying to get his neighbor to check on his cow and irrigation system. So, I’d say he’s doing alright, all things considered.”

“That’s good.”

“He’s been talking about me bringing you over one of these summers. He and Grandma have been begging me to bring you over.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I…I talk about you a lot cause…you’re my best friend, so obviously I would. They seem to like you a lot. Granny wants to see if you’ll help her with this mural she’s been trying to get started on her kitchen’s ceiling –”

“Your grandma paints?”

“Oh, yeah. She does. Did I not mention that?”

“No…”

“Oh, well – yeah. She does. Well, she does now. She used to do more pottery after she met my grandpa. She actually made him an entire dining set after their first date. They still have it. They only take them out on extra-special occasions. Said they might bring it out if you come over.”

“I guess I should hurry up and get over there then…”

“Yeah, you should.”

Nathaniel chuckled.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll figure something out…”

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Marc couldn’t recall how long they talked that night, nor could he remember when they ended up falling asleep in the same bed together.

One minute, they were exchanging fanfic recs and trying to coordinate a guys’ movie night with the other boys in their class, and the next…

The next, Marc’s eyes gently fluttered open and, despite their conversation carrying into the a.m., he roused from his slumber feeling refreshed. He nearly gasped aloud when he found that he was still curled on his side on Nathaniel’s bed, their hands still clasped together, fingers intertwined.

Marc swallowed his surprise, his face burning a familiar shade of scarlet.

Nathaniel slept only a few centimeters away from him. His bangs cascaded over his face more naturally than his usually curated “bitch curtain” as Nathaniel so lovingly put it. The gentle morning light pouring in from the large window illuminated Nathaniel’s features, specifically the freckles speckled across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He was peaceful, his face relaxed and his breathing steady.

Marc’s heart went wild. His hand His hand tightened its grip around Nathaniel’s and urged him to bridge the gap between; to get tangled up together and hold each other. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t so already. 

The frequent hand holding, the lingering hugs outside of school, the soft touches, the loaded looks that held and said more than any amount of words could in a single second. Marc’s heart ached for Nathaniel.

It searched for him in every crowded room, lunch period, and school field trip when their classes took separate buses, and one of them showed up later than the other. His heart always pulled him to Nathaniel; it made a home in his partner’s hands, and despite his better judgment, despite the doubt that always crept into frame and grabbed hold of the shaky ground of his mind, it was safe with Nathaniel. Marc was safe with Nathaniel.

With Nathaniel, Marc could finally feel safe with someone. With him, Marc could finally be sure of something.

And he was definitely sure Nathaniel was not just a friend.

Nathaniel was his everything…

A soft grunt soon escaped Nathaniel, and he began to stir.

Marc kept steady as Nathaniel started to open his eyes with a yawn. A small smile worked its way onto Marc’s lips as Nathaniel’s eyes settled on his. Nathaniel’s brows arched in surprise.

“Hi,” Marc whispered.

“H-Hi,” Nathaniel said, hoarsely. “How long have you –?”

“Only a few minutes! S-sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be weird…”

Nathaniel shook his head, finding a smile of his own. “No. It’s…It’s okay. I –”

Their alarms both sounded at the same time. They both jumped, and it wasn’t long before Shirel Kurtzberg’s heels came clacking their way.

“Nathaniel! Marc! Time to get up!” she called.

The color drained from Marc’s face. Nathaniel’s eyes became pindots. Marc scrambled to switch off the alarm and feel off the bed, hitting the floor hard.

Nathaniel sucked his teeth and winced sympathetically. “You okay?”

Marc nodded, cradling his bruised arm. “Mmhmm!”

Ms. Kurtzberg came right up to the door. Marc scurried into his sleeping bag and sat up straight just as she popped the door open. Both boys flashed too toothy grins once she appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Ms. Kurtzberg!” Marc chirped.

“Morning!” Nathaniel said, parroting Marc’s performative cheeriness.

“Come now. Breakfast is on the table. Your father will be taking you both to school today on his way to work, so be quick.”

The boys nodded.

They got up and got ready for the day. Most of the morning, they carried on in silence, but it was the more comfortable brand of quiet they were used to. At the breakfast table, the boys would catch each other staring while they ate and would quickly dart their eyes away while giggling every time.

Mr. Kurtzberg had asked them what got them so giggly that morning. They both said nothing.

They went on like this as they finished up breakfast and got ready, sharing subtle glances and giggles with pink-tinted cheeks.

Marc bade Ms. Kurtzberg goodbye at the door. Her face remained stony, but she offered him a serviceable goodbye, offering a plate at their apartment whenever he needed it (she put a lot of emphasis on need.)

Marc greatly appreciated the offer regardless.

They piled into the back of Mr. Kurtzberg’s Renaut Clio and went off to school.

Both boys kept their gazes outside of their opposing windows, smiling.

Their hands remained intertwined until they got out of the car and walked up the school’s steps.

[miss-writes-a-lot]

Would You Mind If I Asked You On The Phone? (A Marcaniel Fic)

(While I'm currently busy with my other bullshit, here's a fic I posted to ao3 after watching the ruler and letting it and Marc and Nathaniel from Miraculous Ladybug consume my life.)

Synopsis: Marc’s panic attacks are no one else’s problem, so he can deal with himself.

That is, until he can’t and Nathaniel comes to his rescue during a particularly bad one.

Pairing: Marc Anciel/Nathaniel Kurtzberg

Content Warning(s):

-> Panic attacks

-> Anxiety

-> Trauma

-> Intrusive Thoughts

->Blood and injury

-> Kinda shit writing ngl

Marc is not a stranger to panic attacks.

Panic has been built in his bones since birth and his tumultuous time in primary and his old secondary school only stoked its flames, leaving him with a ticking time bomb that blows up at damn near everything.

From a particularly perilous patrol that narrowly resulted in him getting impaled by an akuma and crushed by building debris while moonlighting as Rooster Bold to getting back a test with not so great marks, a rogue wave always sat on the edge of the horizon threatening to roll into shore full force and pull him under.

And when it does, he drowns.

He thrashes around, gasping for air, only to choke on the heart in his throat and suffocate on a sea’s worth of self-doubt and certain doom. All that’s left for him to do is sink until someone comes along to drag him out, which more often than not means his parents coming to pick him up from the nurse’s office or hiding out somewhere on school grounds, far away from people, until the attack ends. He could drag himself back to class with a carefully constructed excuse to explain his absence and/or tardiness, depending on how suddenly it comes on.

He rarely tells people when they happen – in fact, he’s pretty sure no one in his class is even aware he has anxiety issues this bad. They just see him as another awkward, bumbling mess, like Marinette, who probably has some minor social anxiety, struggles with talking to people, and expressing himself.

And, as he surmised, it’s better this way.

He gets to keep his friends and not seem like the unstable weirdo he was back in primary school, who drew attention away from the teachers just to throw a little hissy fit over the smallest of transgressions.

Is it lonely? Yeah. Can it scare and shake him to his core at times? Of course.

But everyone has a battle to fight, and sometimes those battles are fought alone.

Marc’s panic attacks are no one else’s problem, so he can deal with himself.

That is, until he can’t.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It's a week after Aurore's akumatization into Climatiqueen.

She's stuck with the typical cloud of shame and embarrassment that hangs over the victims of the new butterfly miraculous holder, tip-toeing on eggshells around her classmates and being a lot more stiff and withdrawn than normal.

Everyone tries their best to be kind and patient with her. It's hard to fault akumatized victims, considering most of them don't intend to hurt those around them.

Monarch – or, Chrysalis, now – just take their pick of the pile, who's the saddest or angriest that day, and everything starts to roll downhill from there. 

The words from the chorus of voices sound a lot sweeter, and every promise of relief and retribution becomes a lot more titillating and closer than they are in any one person's hands–or, any one Monarch’s hands.

Marc and the others try to be nice. 

They do their best to remind her that she's not the destructive person Chrysalis created last Tuesday, that she didn't mean it, and that everyone was fine in the end, but despite their reassurances and pretending nothing happened, Aurore spends her day walking a tightrope. She's on edge, even around her best friend, Mireille, whom she spends all her time with. When her head's not in the clouds, when she's not re-running events in her head about what she could've done differently, how she could've been different, her nose is buried in her phone. She blocks and unblocks people, deletes her social media accounts only to reinstall them, and cooks up excuses that something is wrong with her phone or her account is being hacked. She drafts a million apologies in her notes app that she never posts or sends when Marc happens to catch a glimpse of her screen during class or break, when she’s too busy playing with her charm to notice.

There’s always a hand on her charm at all times, and it’s more apparent during study hall in the library right before lunch.

She’s sitting next to Marc, paying no mind to her homework or even the meteorology magazines that sit between the two. Her eyes are on her lap, staring blankly at her phone’s black screen. Marc tries to keep his curious glances to a minimum and keep his eyes on his projects.

The bell rings, and everyone quickly rises from their seats to hurry off to lunch.

Everyone except Aurore.

She’s stuck in her chair, head looming over her phone. Marc remains in his seat, reaching a hand toward her.

“Aurore? Are you okay?” he asks, waving his hand a little.

Aurore blinks in surprise. Her head snaps up, and Marc fails to hide his flinch.

“Sorry!” They say in unison, sharing awkward smiles afterward.

“Ah, I’m sorry. That was a little rude of me…,” Marc says. “I just wanted to see if you were doing okay.”

“O-Oh, don’t…worry about it. I ’m–I’m okay,” she says, her small smile wobbling until it completely disappears again.

She starts packing away her things at a slow pace, carefully considering each item as she places it in her backpack. She stops when she comes upon a worn issue of National Geographic. The cover is a collection of dark heliotrope and gray clouds, lightning flashing across the sky and seemingly striking into terracotta rocks. Her free hand instinctively flies up to her charm hanging around her neck, twirling it between her thumb and her pointer finger. Her other hand clutches the magazine tightly, her thumb running up and down the beaten-up spine.

“That looks interesting,” Marc says.

Aurore whips her head to him. “O-Oh. Yeah, it’s…it’s kinda old. I’ve…had it since I was five or something. Can’t really remember…”

“What’s it about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Aurore shrugs. “The usual weather and climate change stuff. Rising temperatures, ice caps melting, the plant dying – you know, all the fun stuff.”

Marc chuckles a bit. “I bet.”

“I mean, there are other things in here, too,” Aurore starts thumbing through the pages. “I think there’s a whole ‘Beginner’s guide to reading weather patterns’ somewhere…”

Marc’s brows arch in surprise. “Wow.”

“I was thinking of making a video about it,” her sky blue eyes started to dull in real time. “Maybe make a series based on everything I've learned from things like this and the news, and try to teach people about what's going on–”

“Why don't you? That sounds really interesting!”

Aurore scoffs. “Who would want to watch anything I make? Especially after everything I did…”

“Aurore, that wasn’t y–”

“Yes. It was,” she says. It’s so blunt and matter-of-fact, like it’s undisputable knowledge. “You know it was.”

Words are lost on Marc. His mouth sits agape while his emerald eyes search the library for something to say, but he comes up empty.

“How long has it been since you were akumatized?” 

The question falls over Marc like a bucket of ice water. He continues to stare dumbly, his throat tight as he tries to swallow the lump lodged in it, and both his hands grab the underside of his chair.

“Wha…what?” he asks after struggling to get the words out for at least a minute. 

“How long has it been? When was the last time you were Reverser?” Aurore asks again, her tone even and flat.

Marc's heart knocks violently against his chest. His body rattles, his stomach twists Into knots, and his mouth becomes sandpaper as he tries to form the answer to what should be a relatively simple question. 

“...A-A year, I think?” 

“Do you remember how it felt? When Monarch sent his little butterfly your way and picked you?”

She's staring dead at him with her blank eyes, so gray and devoid of light and focus, almost as if she's looking through Marc instead of at him.

Marc shudders.

So far, he's thankful to have only been akumatized once and almost re-akumatized twice. ‘One of the lucky ones’, some say, one of the lucky few who haven't fallen back in the clutches of the Butterfly's holder without needing Ladybug to bestow a protection charm on them to keep them from turning into villains. 

Though that doesn’t mean his mind never drifts back towards the day Monarch found him, and from him, birthed Reverser. 

The lingering guilt carved a permanent spot in his brain, and a lump of fear stays stuck in his chest. 

Now and again, he'll reach for his journal only to pause for a few seconds, eyeing it to make sure it hasn't shifted into an oozing violet and ebony sludge, or if a new voice enters his head that isn't his own, or his characters’, Nathaniel's, or Maël's, prodding him and echoing all of his anger and anxieties and sadness back at him and warping it and his body into something that drips with vengeance and an endless well of rage. 

He’s not sure how he’s managed to stay off of both Butterfly Holders’ radars for so long. Nearly everyone he knows has been akumatized at least three times, sometimes into the same villains, sometimes into newer ones with just as little self-control.

He really has been lucky so far…

“So–Sometimes,” he chokes out after realizing how quiet he’s been.

Aurore seems to smile at that, but it’s so…hollow. Like a doll’s face. Even the small chuckle she lets out sounds so foreign, almost as though she’s trying to force out some sort of brevity.

“Monarch could be so bossy, you know? He never cared about any of us…just about his stupid Miraculous…,” she sneers. “He didn’t even ask me my name…”

Marc clears his throat and forces a nod, humming in an equally compulsatory understanding. “Yeah, he, uh…he never asked me my name either.”

“He just kinda tells you who you’re supposed to be and what to do…yells at you and makes your head hurt if you don’t do what he says…He was such a dick.”

“Y-Yeah. He…He was.”

“Chrysalis is a lot nicer, you know?” she says, almost wistfully. “They’re all so nice. They really…really make you feel…like a person, like you can give you what you want. Like you’re…like you’re in control of it all. And I…I think I really was. And I…”

Aurore falls silent for a long time, her eyes becoming pindots. Marc contemplates reaching out to her or running. His heartbeat explodes in his ears and through his body. He noticeably shakes and starts to inch away and out of his chair, but he cannot bring himself to rise and get away when Aurore needs someone’s help, and if he needs to be that someone for his struggling classmate, then he’ll do it.

Aurore’s eyes burn holes into Marc’s head. His gaze starts to linger elsewhere to withstand her intensifying eye contact. Marc opens his mouth to offer her comfort, but she beats him to the punch with something far more unsettling:

“I did it on purpose, Marc. I know I did. I hurt those people on purpose because I wanted to. Chrysalis just gave me a good enough excuse…”

Marc’s heart sinks into his stomach. The library is dead silent except for the whine between Marc’s ears as Aurore slowly rises from her chair, wordlessly gathers her things, and walks away and out of the library. 

Marc stays stuck in his chair for what seems like forever, his mouth agape and his racing heart threatening to burst out of his body. His gloved hands are drenched in sweat and shaking. Everything shifts out of focus, doubling and blurring in Marc’s vision. He whips his head around until his eyes land on the window behind him, and his breath is ripped from his lungs as his eyes settle on a butterfly, sitting on the windowsill right outside the glass.

He cannot tell whether it’s one of Chrysalis’ corrupted critters or a normal butterfly, but he doesn’t care. He manages to grab his things and bolts out of the library. He stumbles into the hallway, sprints past the cafeteria, and keeps running until he finds himself in the rooftop garden. He darts inside the supply shed, tripping over some gardening tools left strewn across the floor. 

He faceplants into the floor and lets out a ragged gasp. The floor is smeared with his blood, so is his shirt, and the tips of his trembling fingers. Tears spill from his eyes, further obscuring his already distorted vision. An orange and yellow dot materializes in front of his face, nearly bumping into his aching nose.

“Marc!” Orikko shouts urgently. “Marc, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Marc tries to force out a reply, but all that comes out are his ragged breaths. His head whips around, and the room spins and is speckled with white stars. Or butterflies – oh god, the butterflies.

They swarm the outside of the supply shed, slamming into the windows in droves. Marc chokes out a sob as he swears he sees cracks form in the glass of the building. 

He tries to shout the words to transform out, but all he does is sob and gasp and gulp for air. He can’t send his thoughts to Orikko, though, given how scrambled his mind is, he doubts he can form anything concrete as of now. He scurries under a table, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in his knees. His breaths are ragged, his lungs burn, his throat is tight, and everything has been knocked off the Earth’s axis. Tears and blood stain his face and his jeans. Orikko’s pleas are a million miles away, while all of the butterflies sit right outside of the supply shed.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Nath: hey, you coming?

Nath: your class is over now, right?

Nath: I’m in the cafeteria.

Nath: Rainbow?

Nath: hey, are you okay?

Nath: marc?

Nath: are you okay?

Nathaniel’s scrutinizing cerulean eyes remain down on his phone as he passes through the hall and into the art room to search for his partner. It’s been almost an hour since he’s heard from Marc, and while he didn’t want or like being as overbearing as he is, this isn’t like Marc.

They know each other’s schedules like the backs of their hands. If either of them is running late or can’t show up to their planned meetups, they let each other know right away. This is especially true for Marc, who updates Nathaniel every 5 seconds when he accidentally takes a wrong turn in the newly renovated building. But he hasn’t even opened any of the messages, and considering it’s already 30 minutes since his class ended and lunch started, Nathaniel’s concern is steadily rising through the roof. 

The library’s empty, and so was the spot underneath the ground-floor staircase. He enters the art room, eyes traveling across the tables with only a handful of students working on their projects, but there’s no Marc in sight.

He chews the left corner of his lip. His eyes drop back down to his phone. He refreshes the chat, but no new messages from Marc appear. 

“C’mon, Rainbow…Where are you?” he mutters to himself.

“Nathaniel!” Diane calls from one of the easels, waving him over.

Nathaniel smiles wryly at her, returning her wave as he approaches her.

“Hey, Diane. Have you seen Marc at all today?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve been here all day working. Can you believe I spilled a can of yellow paint on my canvas and it made a replica of the Mona Lisa?”

She gently takes her canvas and turns it to Nathaniel, grinning from ear to ear. The image is almost a one-to-one replica of the original Da Vinci in a soft, dandelion shade. Nathaniel can only offer his wavering smile as a form of acknowledgement.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and his head drops down to his hand. Marc’s name flashes on screen. Nathaniel picks up within milliseconds.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you –”

“Na..Nath…?”

Nathaniel’s heart plummets into his stomach. His face drops, and his hands get ice-cold. The voice on the other end is strained and crumbling as each syllable leaves their lips. He turns and starts rushing for the door.

“Marc? Hey, what’s wrong? Where are you?” he urges as he darts into the hallway with his head on a swivel.

“Nath, I ca– I can’t move. They-They’re outside…”

“Who is outside? Marc, where are you?”

“Th-The Butterflies…They – They’re outside. They’re outside, Nath –!”

“The storage shed!” Another, much higher voice exclaims. “On the roof!” 

The call quickly disconnects. Nathaniel races out of the art room and up the staircase to the rooftop. He doesn’t stop after he knocks into some of his classmates or when they shout after him in concern. His heart pounds a million miles a minute, and his ears ring as Marc’s ragged voice bounces around his head. 

The transformation phrase is on the tip of his tongue, but with all the people around, he risks potentially outing himself as Caprikid to his entire school, meaning he can’t contact Ladybug or Chat Noir or any of the other Miraculous holders to help deal with the situation, so he’s going in with a messenger bag, a portfolio, and no powers.

Still, he keeps running.

He forces the rooftop door open, bracing himself to face a swarm of sickly purple butterflies or, more likely, an akumatized Marc.

The midday sun blinds Nathaniel for a few seconds as it floods into the dark stairwell. When his eyes finally adjust to the light and land on the storage shed, there’s nothing. The door is ajar, so Nathaniel races inside and throws the rest of the door open. No butterflies in sight, but droplets and a small puddle of blood on the floor 

Marc’s gasping breaths and chopped-up sobs lead Nathaniel to a table covered in gardening equipment. Marc is hiding underneath, curled in a ball with dried blood on his fingers and knees and taking labored breaths. His entire body is trembling.

“Marc,” Nathaniel breathes.

He falls to his knees beside Marc. He reaches out his hands but pulls them away as soon as Marc violently flinches the moment he catches sight of Nathaniel from the crook of his arm.

“Hey! It’s just me!” Nathaniel exclaims, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It’s me!”

Marc’s head perks up. His bruised nose and the top of his lip are stained with dried blood. His eyes are an angry red and puffy, his cheeks streaked with tears. 

Nathaniel’s face drops, and his stomach goes cold. “Oh, Rainbow. What happened?”

“I-I – I–!” Marc stammers with short and harsh breaths in between.

“Marc, honey, you need to breathe –”

“I-I ca-can’t!” Marc exclaims. “Chr-Chrysalis – Th-Th-They’re looking for me! Th-They’re outside! All of them.”

“Honey, nothing is outside and nothing is looking for you. You’re safe!”

Marc continues to shudder and sob. Nathaniel scans the supply shed. His eyes widen as he catches sight of an approaching akuma fluttering towards them. Marc doesn’t notice Nathaniel’s fearful expression; he’s still struggling against the sea of doubt and terror.

Nathaniel sucks a breath. He plants the balls of his feet firmly on the ground and his hands on Marc’s shoulders. Marc’s head snaps up again, and Nathaniel keeps his gaze steady, his face softening.

“Nothing is coming to get you,” Nathaniel states. “Nothing is coming to get us, and even if anything is – which there’s not – I’ll protect you, okay? I’m here to protect you.”

Marc manages a small nod.

“Focus on me and try to follow my breathing, okay? Like this,” Nathaniel inhales big but slow, holding his breath for about five seconds before steadily exhaling through his mouth. “Can you do that for me?”

Marc shakes his head. “I don't – I don't know –”

“Come on. Try it with me. Like this.”

Nathaniel draws in a slow breath, and Marc tries to follow alone as best he can. Marc draws a shuddering breath, struggles to hold it in, and eventually lets it go as a gasp.

“That's it. Just keep following me, okay?”

Marc nods.

They continue in this manner, taking deep and slow breaths in unison while maintaining eye contact with each other, despite Nathaniel’s needling urge to keep an eye on the approaching akuma. Marc slowly begins to come back to himself. His body relaxes, his breaths even out, and his tears become few and far between, only coming one at a time rather than spilling over his emerald eyes like a tidal wave.

Nathaniel starts to smile as Marc finds his bearings. He takes a final breath, free from Nathaniel’s instruction, and with the final exhale, Marc’s face softens into a serene expression.

“Are you still with me?” Nathaniel asks.

Marc nods slowly.

“Good. That’s good. We’re gonna do one more thing, okay? This one’s a little quicker, promise.”

Marc nods again.

“Okay, so – what are 5 things you can see right now? It can be anything. You don’t even have to think too hard about it. Just whatever you see, and tell me what it is.”

“Uh,” Marc glances around the room before his eyes return to Nathaniel. “...You. The cute silver hair clips you’re wearing. Your sketchbook —”

“Okay, they can’t all be about me.”

A smirk plays at the corners of Marc’s mouth. “Hey, you said they could be anything.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes playfully. “Fine. Keep going.”

“Your freckles…The gardening tools on the tables.”

“Good! Now, what are 4 things you can feel right now?”

“Your hands on my shoulders…The rips in my jeans. My face kinda feels…sticky?”

“You were crying a lot…”

“And the blood, too. I feel it on the top of my lip.”

“Okay. 3 things you can hear?”

“Your voice. My voice. I think…birds?”

“Good, good! 2 things you can smell?”

Marc sniffs. “Uh…mostly my blood? Can kinda taste it too…”

Nathaniel sighs. “Well, that covers the last one on the list. How are you feeling?”

Marc lowers his head, one hand going to grab his other arm. “Honestly? Kind of a lot, still. A lot embarrassed. Face hurts. A lot.”

“Yeah. We should probably take you to the nurse’s office. Maybe a hospital. Think you can stand on your own, or do you need my help?”

“I think…I might need a hand.”

“Okay,” Nathaniel says. He stands and offers Marc his hand. Marc grabs it gratefully, and Nathaniel lifts him to his feet. 

Marc stumbles a bit, colliding with Nathaniel as his wobbly legs struggle to keep him upright. Nathaniel takes one of Marc’s arms and slings it around his neck while one of his free hands settles on Marc’s hip.

He slowly guides Marc out of the supply shed, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder and check for the butterfly.

It circles above the building, bobbing up and down but never entering the building.

Nathaniel shoots a glare at it as he and Marc leave for the nurse’s office.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Marc can hardly bring himself to speak as the nurse examines his swollen nose, gently prodding it with her fingers. Marc winces and sheds a tear each time, regardless of how careful she tries to be. Nathaniel is right at his side the entire time, irrespective of his prolonged silence.

It’s obvious that his nose is broken– to what extent, none of them know, though from the amount of pain and blood–so, so much blood–it can’t be good. 

Suppose he manages to get a moment alone. In that case, he can transform and grant himself the power of healing, or maybe reconstruction to reset his nose back into place enough so his parents won’t be too worried or suspicious when they inevitably race over to pick him up. So he won’t have to go under the knife at the recommendation of the doctor they are going to drag him to.

 Though by how tightly Nathaniel’s grabbing his hand and how he’s missing class just to sit by him as the nurse calls his parents, he might not get the chance to until he’s at home and alone.

The nurse finishes talking to Marc’s worried parents and hangs up the landline, handing Marc another ice pack with little frogs printed on it.

“Your mother is on her way,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “You can wait for her until she gets her. But, I suggest your friend here head back to class before Mr. Damocles gives him detention.”

Marc hides a chuckle at her calling Nathaniel his ‘friend’. Nathaniel rolls his eyes.

“I think he knows,” Marc replies with a small smile.

“Remind him for me, then. Seems he’s got cotton stuffed in his ears.” The nurse gets up from her chair and heads for the door. “I’ll let your teacher know what happened. Be back in a minute!”

“Thanks, Sissy,” Marc says as she leaves, giving her a small wave with his free hand.

When the door shuts, Nathaniel scoots as close to Marc as physically possible. He takes the froggy ice pack from Marc’s hand and gently applies it to one side of Marc’s swollen nose. A sharp and throbbing pain shoots through the middle of Marc’s face, and he lets out a hiss.

“Sorry,” Nathaniel says, offering a sympathetic wince and letting Marc hold the ice pack on his own.

“Thank you,” Marc whispers.

Nathaniel gently rests his head against Marc’s, a hand sliding onto Marc’s shoulder.

Marc gnaws on the inside of his cheek. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes burning into his skull, trying to pry the answers to the questions he’s been stacking in his mind since he found Marc in such a horrible state almost an hour ago.

When Nathaniel can’t coax anything out of Marc with his puppy dog eyes, he defaults to what he knows to work the best – just asking.

“So…you wanna tell me what happened up there?”

Marc picks a pencil on Nurse Sissy’s desk – a glittery pink one with a little pompom on the tip of the cap – to focus his attention to further avoid Nathaniel’s stare.

“Not…really. It’s…It’s embarrassing –”

“Oh sure. Because finding your boyfriend with a busted nose, covered in blood, and having the worst panic you’ve seen since you had your own in front of Alix’s mirror after Chloe tries to get you in trouble with your parents and the cops over a stupid, knock-off bracelet is suuuper embarrassing. Real cringe shit, I’m sure.”

Marc glances Nathaniel’s way. “I…didn’t know you got them too.”

Nathaniel shrugs so nonchalantly and matter-of-factly, like Marc just found a fork in the kitchen. 

“They don’t happen often. Like, once every couple of months? It was before I met you and before I started seeing someone for my…issues. Guess this time it just slipped my mind. It’s not like I never have them anymore, but I’ve kinda learned to deal with them better. Kinda have to with all of this Monarch, er – Chrysalis crap goin’ on, you know?”

Marc shrugs with a small shrug. “I guess that’s how you were so good at helping me through mine…”

“Yeah, well, I…you were scared, I was scared, and I…I hate seeing you suffer like that, so of course I’m gonna do whatever I can to help you.”

The faucet behind Marc’s eyes starts up again, and a few tears well up and spill over.

“Oh, Marc.”

Nathaniel pulls Marc into a hug, rubbing small circles into his back. Marc cries against Nathaniel’s shoulder, clinging to his overall straps.

“I-I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean to lie to you!” Marc sniffles.

Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, Marc. It’s okay. You didn’t mean it. And besides, I want you to feel comfortable telling me things when you feel like it. Yeah, I wish I had known sooner, but if you didn’t want to tell me, that’s your choice. You don’t have to force yourself to open up with me.”

“I do,” Marc protests. “I do because you’re one of the only people I feel I can be open with. It’s just…I…”

“Deep breaths,” Nathaniel says, and Marc slowly draws in a breath and exhales as he starts digging at the box he’s been trying so hard to bury since primary school.

“It’s…It’s hard for me to talk about them. They started from a place that wasn’t…the greatest. I was pretty much alone for all of them because when they happened in public, people thought I was just trying to get attention. There were some rumors about me when I was still trying to figure myself out, and hardly anyone wanted anything to do with me. My parents are one of the only other people who know, but even then, I don’t tell them how often I have them.”

“How often do you have them?”

Marc shrinks a bit. “...A lot. Sometimes over little stuff. Sometimes it’s big stuff. Sometimes it’s the big stuff trying to pretend it’s little stuff.”

“And what was it today?”

Marc hesitates. “It…was something Aurore said. Made me paranoid. Made me think too much until I started to spiral…”

Nathaniel sighs. “Oh, Rainbow…I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone.”

Marc shrugs. “It’s what I’m used to. It’s how I kept myself safe for this long…”

Nathaniel pulls away, taking Marc’s hands in his and holding them tightly. 

“You don’t have to do that around me,” Nathaniel says, eyes dripping with sincerity as he stares Marc right in his eyes. “If you don’t want to talk about it with anyone else, that’s cool. But if there’s any way I can help you or make you feel better, I wanna do it. I wanna be someone you can rely on. Someone you trust. Someone you feel safe with…”

Marc starts to get bleary-eyed again, the tornado of nervousness whirling around in his chest being replaced by an explosion of warmth. He cups Nathaniel’s face in his hands and presses a soft and slow kiss to his lips. Nathaniel’s brows arch in surprise, but he quickly falls into it, reaching up a hand to cradle Marc’s cheek. Marc melts into his touch, lighting up like a wildfire despite the throbbing pain radiating from his nose throughout the entirety of his face.

The door opens again, and the boys break from the kiss, both of their faces beet red as Nurse Sissy and Mr. Damocles enter.

“Marc, your parents here,” Sissy says.

“O-Oh, okay. Thank you.”

“Need me to walk you out?” Nathaniel asks.

“Oh no, my boy. You’re coming with me,” Mr. Damocles says. “You’ve missed far too many classes this afternoon. Nurse Sylvie can escort Marc outside.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. He pulls Marc into a quick hug.

“Call you later?” he asks.

Marc nods, smiling against Nathaniel’s cheek. “Definitely.”

Marc slides off the bed and follows Nurse Sissy out of the office. He glances over his shoulder at Nathaniel, who’s trailing behind Mr. Damocles in the middle of lecturing him. Nathaniel smiles, which Marc returns before heading down the stairs to the first floor. Orikko pops up on his shoulder and hides among his dark locks of hair.

“Good to see you’re in better spirits,” they say, smirking.

Marc jumps a bit. “Ori, not now.”

“What? I’m just saying that it’s good to see my holder in a better condition than earlier.”

“While I appreciate your concern, I can’t talk to you like this right now. Especially when you almost exposed yourself to Nath earlier!”

“Did you say something, Marc?” Nurse Sissy asks.

“Uh, no! Talking to myself, really.”

Nurse Sissy nods and keeps walking.

“I was trying to help you,” Orikko states.

Marc sighs. “I know. Thanks. But, be more careful next time? Please?”

“Hmph. I could say the about you.”

Marc rolls his eyes, but he cannot deny the statement, nor Orikko and Nathaniel’s concerns.

It’s been years since he’s been able to feel somewhat safe making friends and getting close to people at school, let alone getting a boyfriend so willing to stick by him through the maelstrom of his emotions. 

And yes, with this world of superheroes and super villains running around and causing chaos in more ways than one, he might not be 100% safe all the time, it’s a little nice to know that there are people with him who are willing to help him feel safe, and who are just a phone call away.

[miss-writes-a-lot]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66408112

So...I did it again.

[miss-writes-a-lot]

Dreamy mel

[miss-writes-a-lot]

🎪 cute carnival prompts (planning on doing a haunted carnival next!) 🎪

pink and blue cotton candy fluff

a stuffed animal prize hanging from a hook

popcorn kernels wedged in between teeth

smudged face paint

familiar faces blending into the crowd

laughter from groups enjoying the night

calloused hands gripping a game rifle

carousel music melting into the night

the stick of soda on concrete

balloons bobbing toward the stars

a scream swallowed by the roar of the ride

the closeness when sitting on a Ferris wheel

Neon lights and loud music

a line of people waiting for funnel cake

crude jokes involving an innocent corn dog

the whiff of diesel from a generator

laughter and screams echoing from inside the funhouse

a sugar rush crash on the ride home

a longing that the summer never ends

[miss-writes-a-lot]

ㅤ DOMESTIC FLUFF ✶ PROMPTS . . .

SCENARIOS . . .

i  , sitting on the bathroom counter while their partner gently dries their hair with a towel after a shower, murmuring sleepy compliments

ii  , holding the other steady while they stand on tiptoes to reach a high cabinet, hands resting firmly at their waist

iii  , fixing their collar or hoodie drawstring before they head out

iv  , pressing their cold cheeks against the other’s warm ones and giggling when they flinch from the sudden coolness

v  , tugging the other’s oversized hoodie sleeve back into place when it starts slipping over their hand too far

vi  , pressing a kiss to their shoulder as they pass by in the kitchen, not even thinking about it, just muscle memory

vii  , slipping thick socks onto their partner’s cold feet and pressing a soft kiss to their ankle before pulling the blanket back over them

viii  , pulling the other’s hood up over their head before they leave the house together into the cold

ix  , one cooking, the other perched nearby on the counter, lazily kicking their feet and stealing ingredients from the cutting board

x  , tracing gentle shapes on the other’s back while they lie on top of them

xi  , noticing their partner’s hands are cold and immediately sandwiching them between their own without a word

xii  , brushing their partner’s eyebrows into place with their thumbs while lying face-to-face in bed, just…because

xiii  , sharing headphones in bed, both of them curled under the covers, softly humming along to the same song

xiv  , helping them zip up a dress or jacket from behind and pausing to press a kiss to the back of their neck

xv  , giving their partner's cheeks the gentlest little squish while brushing crumbs off their face after a snack

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

[miss-writes-a-lot]

🤕🩹rp prompts for broken hand vs helping someone with a broken hand

🤕 For the one with the broken hand:

Holding their injured hand close, but always letting the other person adjust the sling

Wincing when they move the wrong way

Struggling to tie their hair back, only for it to fall in their face again… and again

Leaning their head on the other’s shoulder, quietly frustrated

Smiling tiredly when their partner kisses the cast

Sitting silently while the other wraps the hand, but never breaking eye contact

Nudging the other with their cast, playfully demanding attention

Trying to button their shirt one-handed, letting out a sigh, then looking up for help with quiet pleading

Angrily tugging at a stuck zipper with one hand

Spilling a drink all over themselves

Trying to open a bag of chips with their good hand and their teeth

Knocking over a bottle, watching it roll away, and dramatically giving up on life for a second

Balancing items precariously in their arms and refusing to admit they need help

🩹 For the one helping:

Gently adjusting the sling, fingers brushing against their collarbone

Writing or drawing something cute on their cast

Helping them put on a jacket, whispering “I’ve got you” as they guide the sleeve

Carefully braiding their hair or tying it up so they don’t have to struggle

Tracing the edge of the cast absentmindedly while they talk

Resting their forehead against theirs while checking the swelling

Unscrewing the cap of their water bottle and handing it back without a word

Holding their toothbrush steady while they apply toothpaste with their good hand

Opening stubborn jars or snack bags

Gently wiping their glasses clean for them, holding them up to the light to check

Carrying their bag/equipment without being asked, just casually slipping it over their own shoulder

Helping them dry off after a shower 😏

[miss-writes-a-lot]

How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fuck you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈

[miss-writes-a-lot]

June Prompts 🌼

Word prompts to use for doodling or writing

fairytale

garden hose

fruit stand

radio

block party

tattoo

ice cream

postcard

festival

skating

barefoot

night walks

pride

fries

stream

flower crown

outdoors

cocktail umbrellas

playing cards

sailboat

karaoke

dandelions

buttons

pearls

midsummer

universe

neon sign

dragonfly

birch tree

peaches

[miss-writes-a-lot]

legs tutorial

a female-centric tutorial for legs <3

we start with bones.

as you can see, the femur juts out, and there's a gap between it and the iliac crest-- this forms what ppl know as "hip dips". some women don't have them.

here's some legs with different fat and muscle contents for comparison

but why are they *shaped* like that? (I hear u ask). well, muscles. muscles can Bulge or Wrap. Think of it as a garter on a thigh-- the thigh bulges, the garter wraps. the thigh then bulges gloriously around it.

here are some simplified representations of the important muscle groups in the leg.

the gracilis/abductor magnus is the "inner thigh". it bulges.

the rectus femoris is a part of the massive bulges we see on muscular legs. it's the middle one

the vastus medialis and vastus lateralis are muscles on the lower inside and outside of your thigh, and are the other bulges you see on muscular legs

the sartorius originates at the hip and wraps around the rectus femoris to terminate at the medial femur (inner knee-ish). it's the garter in this example-- it causes those bulging muscles to squish in the inner thigh.

the anterior tibialis and some other muscles wrap around the shin area.

the gastrocnemius is what we know as the calf. it's the meat of your lower leg, the bulging muscle we all think of when we think "calf"

[miss-writes-a-lot]

june prompts ˎˊ˗

1 ⭑ beach date

2 ⭑ pina coladas

3 ⭑ mexican food 

4 ⭑ dancing around a bonfire

5 ⭑ kissing during fireworks

6 ⭑ travelling for the first time

7 ⭑ music and cuddling under the stars 

8 ⭑ house warming party

9 ⭑ new friends

10 ⭑ teaching someone how to swim

11 ⭑ volleyball and pizza

12 ⭑ berry picking

13 ⭑ hot tub make out

14 ⭑ losing a ring in the beach

15 ⭑ baby blue flowers

16 ⭑ marbel design skirts

17 ⭑ pink flip flops 

18 ⭑ slow dances 

19 ⭑ being reborn

20 ⭑ bikini top on the door knob

21 ⭑ bedazzled driving license 

22 ⭑ friends to lovers

23 ⭑ first time drinking

24 ⭑ road trips with a broken a/c

25 ⭑ four birthday parties in one week

26 ⭑ white nights

27 ⭑ yoga mat

28 ⭑ strawberry matcha

29 ⭑ blue passion redbull mojito

30 ⭑ classic novels half-read

[miss-writes-a-lot]

chronic pain hurt/comfort prompts

༊*·˚ as someone with chronic pain

• buying them a self-care bag of ibuprofen, compression socks, scalp massager, and icy hot

• non-pained partner driving late at night to pick up pain meds because chronic pain partner tearfully called and said they ran out and want to be held

• reading a book on how to give massages to give their partner a full body massage during a flare

• non-pained partner wears a fanny-pack all the time to carry little things that help with their partners pain, pained partner thinks it's sweet and endearing

• doing the chores around the house or apartment during a flare-up because their partner is having a hard time leaving bed

[miss-writes-a-lot]

June 2025: Monthly Prompts

Sunrise

Fresh

Wander

Lemonade

Flip-flop

Glow

Adventure

Picnic

Drift

Coconut

Carefree

Seashell

Horizon

Splash

Breeze

Barefoot

Radiant

Escape

Sunbeam

Freedom

Solstice

Firefly

Skylark

Coral

Tide

Daydream

Wildflower

Icecream

Sunset

Open