#anyway back to my perusing my sketchbook

[socksandbuttons]

Eventually ill remember to share my traditional doodles from my sketchbook again cause um

I just wfound the cutest lunar in there

[steak-n-popotoes]

FFxivWrite '24 - 5

"You really drew all these yourself, kupo?"

Beef nodded. The top of his head barely peeked above the sketchbook he held up for Kupopo's perusal.

"Well, your landscapes are pretty good, and the flowers are even better - they should make for some powerful pictomancy!" the moogle exclaimed, wings fluttering and pom bouncing. "We could go over elemental pigments... but the basics are boring, kupo. Why don't we see how you fare with some other subjects, instead?"

The two relocated to their local striking dummy in order to practice a few tricks of the pictomancer's trade.

"You know kupo, I only had the one job crystal to give away anyway, so if you think about it, it's actually a bit of a blessing that you were the only adventurer interested in being my student."

Beef's only response was to stare at the moogle in silence.

"I can see you're eager to learn, so let's get started, kupo. How about we try weapons?"

After a few minutes of watching Beef stare at his beginner's palette, Kupopo thought it best to offer some more guidance. "It doesn't have to be perfect, kupo, just come up with something you can pound a few poms with."

The suggestion seemed to help somehow, as Beef snapped his fingers and began to paint, stroke by stroke. Once it had taken shape, he raised the finished piece aloft - a feat that would never have been possible were it truly a weapon forged in iron.

"A hammer, kupo? Kind of silly at that size, don't you think?"

"Dwarven decking."

"I have no idea what that means, kupo." Kupopo shrugged. "But I guess it's true what they say: when you have a kupo nut, all of your tools start to look like hammers, kupo!"

Beef didn't think he had heard that one before.

"How about we switch tactics, kupo? You could really fill any role on the battlefield, if you think about it. A pictomancer is only limited by their imagination, after all! You could draft up a shield, or even cure pain with... paint, kupo!"

Beef's face scrunched up in response. "Messy."

"Look, that's up to you and how you imagine it, kupo."

For a while Beef tried to conceptualize a depiction of healing, but the line that distinguished between these two uses of magic lay somewhere outside of his grasp. To his untrained eye, it was all just magic.

"Well, you passed the job interview, so I'm sure you've got imagination to spare, kupo." said the moogle. "If you can't visualize how casting a healing spell would look, why don't you try sketching a healer that will do it for you?"

Beef looked to Kupopo, then his brush, and then back again. After another dose of erratic encouragement from his moogle mentor, he gave his best attempt at painting L'kozu.

The resulting evocation defied all description.

"THE HAMMER, KUPO! GET THE HAMMER!"

In a panic, Beef hurriedly sketched up another hammer and scrambled to grip its handle.

"STAMP IT OUT QUICK, KUPO!!"

In a whirlwind of color and magic, he rapidly and repeatedly pounded the dissatisfactory piece until it was rendered across the V&C garden as little more than a painterly pulp.

After a few moments for the two to catch their breath, Kupopo fluttered past Gale to speak a little too close into Beef's face. "I changed my mind, kupo. Maybe we should work through the basics after all... then we'll consider building toward a living muse."

[critrolesideblog]

Some snippets from the Nein’s week at the Blooming Grove.

-----

There is a shadow of something between them. Something in the way their shoulders brush as they stand next to each other, in the way the Scourger's broad shoulders relax ever-so-slightly when Caleb is near, in the intensity with which he watches Caleb's face as he speaks, in the way Caleb's eyes travel slow, lingering paths up the Scourger's muscular arms when he thinks no one is watching.

Caleb has his back to Essek, standing over a desk, perusing a book the Scourger has lent him. The Scourger is next to him, arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against the desk with an air of ease and familiarity, as if he did not try to kill them all mere days ago. He is facing Essek, but not looking at him.

Until he is.

Brown eyes catch lilac ones in their stare, and a wolfish grin curls its way around the handsome features. He says something to Caleb in Zemnian, without breaking Essek's eye contact. It sounds like a question, to which Caleb replies casually.

It is foolish, Essek knows, to maintain eye contact like this. Any number of spells may be wrought thus, but he cannot find it in himself to look away.

The Scourger asks another question, his voice dropping an octave. He forfeits the staring contest to trace Caleb's form with his eyes, down then up, and there is still a wolfish edge to his playful grin as leans in past the boundary of Caleb's shoulder.

Without looking up from his book, Caleb places a hand on the near side of the Scourger's face and slowly but firmly extends his arm out. The Scourger, chuckling, allows himself to be pushed over far enough that he has to take a step away from Caleb to maintain his balance.

His eyes alight on Essek again. He says something to Caleb with a sigh, and then lopes out of the library, his eyes on Essek's all the while. Just before he floats down out of sight, he gives Essek a wink.

Once all is still, Caleb looks up, finally, toward the exit. His shoulder dips slightly as he turns to look at Essek, but Essek's eyes are already back on his own book.

------

"Anyway, it's a really good book, Essek. I think you'll like it."

"I am sure it is, but romance novels have never been my, ah, cup of tea."

Jester draws the small brush dipped in black laquer carefully across the final nail of Essek's right hand. "It's not just a romance novel, Essek. It's literature. You're missing out." She says the last part in a singsong voice as she leans back to survey her handiwork. "Are you sure you don't want me to put some little designs on them. I could make them very tasteful, you know, like some little stars or your favorite rune or something."

They are seated in front of the fireplace in Jester's room atop a make-shift bed of soft pillows and blankets. Fey cats sit among the pillows alongside them, some with tails holding aloft trays of milk, cookies, pastries, tea, and fruit, others merely there for their evening nap.

"I will likely be returning to Vurmas outpost soon, Jester. I do not want anything that will draw too much attention from the soldiers."

"Oh, alright," she says. Her tail sways slowly behind her like a disappointed shake of the head. "You do pull off the monochromatic look really well. Next time, through, we should try something different, just for fun, you know?" She gives him a bright, fanged grin.

"Yes, next time."

Essek thought, after a century of den politics, he could hide his heart from anyone (evidence shows even himself), but hiding it from Jester Lavorre is another matter entirely. She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.

"There is going to be a next time, Essek. You're so smart -- I'm sure you can figure out a solution for anything. So there is going to be a next time, alright, Essek? Promise me."

"Jester--"

"Promise!" She holds her pinkie finger out toward him imperiously. The logical part of Essek's mind whirs with explanations, caveats, problems, but Jester is looking at him with such determination, such faith.

Slowly, carefully, he loops his pinkie around hers.

"I promise."

-----

Essek observes, a little wryly, that it promises to be another beautiful sunlit day, when a small but bright flash of light catches his eye painfully as he walks through the Grove after breakfast. He winces reflexively, and when he looks back, the glimmer is gone. Curious. He pauses, waiting, eyes carefully scanning the mist-clung leaves and gilded treetops. There is a distant rustling, a whisper of breeze, and -- there it is again! A flash and gone, but he sees the direction of its source this time.

Diverting from his usual path, he strikes off in search of it. He drifts into one of the wilder reaches of the grove, skirting mounds and headstones, overgrown with flowers of every color, shimmering with dew. Finally, the tall brush ahead of him clears and he finds...Fjord?

Fjord is lying on the damp undergrowth, the dawning sunlight glinting off the metal buckles of his armor. His limbs are thrown aside at funny angles as though he had fallen, but Essek's keen ears tell him his breathing is normal. From what Essek can tell, he is awake and uninjured.

"Fjord?"

"Mm?" One yellow eye opens to survey him coyly.

"What are you doing?"

"I have been ... grievously injured," Fjord rasps with great melodrama, his left hand moving slightly to bring Essek's attention to a wooden dowell a few inches from his knee.

The puzzle pieces fall into place.

"Ah." Essek murmurs, "This is a trap." A toothy grin spreads across the half-orc's handsome features, but Essek is already scanning his surroundings, ears straining, for any sign to give away his hunter. He does not want to make it too easy for him.

There is a rustle of leaves to his left.

He turns toward it, casting Shield with a little more flourish than is strictly necessary, and -- twang--FWUMP! He hisses as a dowell hits him hard in the back of his right shoulder. An orange cat with familiar blue eyes pops its head out of the flowers in front of him. Catleb tilts his head playfully as victorious giggles erupt from the tree branches behind Essek.

Essek looks down at his shoulder as though surveying the damage. "I am not sure a shoulder wound is instantly mortal."

"The arrows are poisoned," Fjord supplies casually.

"Ah, of course."

"And if you don't die with enough gravitas, you'll be made to do it again."

Essek suppresses a sigh and a smirk. He supposes he cannot have enough practice faking his death.

-----

"Alright, man, that's enough for right now," Beau says as she closes her notebook. "I think we both need some food and some fresh air." She rises from her seat, stretches, and claps Caleb on the shoulder as she walks by. "Let's go, dude. Don't make me come back in here for you, 'cause you know I will." And with that, she walks past the shadow, out of the Clays' kitchen, into the sunshine.

Caleb rubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. Eins, zwei, drei...

Constance Clay is seated to his left. She is a calm, abiding presence, listening without judgment, a witness, an anchor. Caleb gives her a nod, and she nods back, as has become their habit in ending these sessions. Finally, he rises and walks past the other witness in the room.

"Caleb," the shadow calls softly as he reaches the door.

Caleb turns back.

There is a moment of silence as the apology dies in Wulf's teeth, and Caleb is not sure if expecting no different makes it hurt more or less.

"I know," he replies. Wulf does not flinch. He never has. He never will. "I know."

He walks out into the sunshine.

----

Caleb wakes up on a warm, sunlit patch of grass. He stares at the cloudless, blue sky for a moment before his attention is drawn by the skritch-a-scratch-scratch of pencil on paper to his left.

Jester is sitting beneath a peach tree, her sketchbook propped up against her knees. When her candy-pink eyes look up to peer at him over the pages, she grins and beckons him with a single, curling finger.

Slowly, after a nice, big stretch, he ambles up and over to her and crouches down at her side. She holds her book out at arms-length, so they can both survey her work: an orange cat fast asleep on its back in the sunshine. It's curled around on itself like a doughnut, its fluffy tummy exposed, a look pure feline bliss on its face.

"I think I got your good side."

-----

"A lee-tle more to the left," Jester says, motioning for Essek to stand closer-still to Caleb. He cannot get much closer without falling into Caleb's lap (he'll thank her later). He stares at her for a long moment, floats in just a nudge, and then shares A Look with Caleb. She considers this a small match-making success.

Gardening, truth be told, is not Jester's strong suit, so she has been spending her week in the Grove doing something much more important: drawing, drawing, and drawing some more. She draws until her hand cramps, at which point she pauses to eat a pastry or two and goes back to drawing again: Caleb and Essek conversing in the shade of an apple tree; Veth chasing Luc through the flowers; Yasha returning a baby bird to its nest; Fjord and Beau sparring amidst a shower of jacaranda petals; Constance and Cornelius Clay, each with an arm around Caduceus' shoulders, resting their heads against his in turns as they drink tea; Kingsley flirting incorrigibly with Eadwulf; Eadwulf and Astrid tending, with great care and concentration, to a plant that was half struck by the Blight; Sprinkle napping among the flowers; and a hundred other little moments, until her trusty sketchbook is almost entirely out of paper. And she knows exactly how she wants to use the final piece.

Fjord, Veth, and Caleb are seated in the garden on a motley assortment of chairs from the Clays' home, with Caduceus, Beau, Yasha, Molly, and Essek standing behind.

"You know, Blueberry, there is going to be a problem with this portrait." Caleb says, and Jester frowns, considering the composition and the lighting.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not in it.” Ah, yes, that tender grin is the exact one Jester wants to capture.

"Of course she is!" Declares Veth, tilting her head left then right to regard the rest of the Nein. "Look at all these smiles!"

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

A Piece of My Soul

Fandom: The Mentalist or rather the Marcus Pike fandom

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN! Artist Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Lots of fluff, but there’s that undercurrent of angst as the reader has been hurt before and made to feel less than important so if that’s too much right now that’s okay!

Summary: Marcus has always known that you protect your art, that it is a reflection of your soul and something you guard after being hurt one too many times. He never expects you to share your sketchbooks with him, assumes he will never have the honour and he’s okay with that because he’s happy to just have you. Until, one day, you show him just how much you trust him.

Notes: For me, I always feel like when I share my art with people they’re very meh about it or they are backhanded or even mean. I’ve not had the best experiences when sharing my sketchbooks or my work with people in my life and the idea of someone being so wholly awestruck just by the trust and openness of sharing something like that gets me. So here we go back on the Marcus Pike train because if I could ever explain what I want in a husband, he’s the man.

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Marcus had known of your love of drawing from the first date. You had been a little shy when he’d asked about your hobbies and interests, when you’d quietly and cautiously told him you liked to draw. When he asked for more detail, the mediums you used, the style you preferred, it had opened you up just a little more, his interest making you preen a little. Although still cautious, gauging his reaction to your answers. It had been like seeing a part of your soul that you kept hidden from people, it had made him simultaneously proud and angry. 

Proud because you trusted him, from that first moment, to take you seriously, to listen to your interests and passions and not dismiss them. Angry because at some point, at some time, it was clear someone had dismissed you, made you feel like you weren’t worth listening to, weren’t worth investing time in. It was maddening to think that anyone could make you feel like that, like anyone couldn’t see your worth. 

It was baffling because he found you captivating in all your passions and quirks. The way you ranted and rambled on for minutes, sometimes even hours, about something you were passionate about, never failed to draw him to you like a moth to the proverbial flame. The way you managed to trip over anything and everything, clumsy to a fault, was as endearing as it was concerning and he found himself eager to compensate, to pre-empt you going flying because of a step or a crack in the floor. He found the small things, not just the large things enthralling and enamouring, the concept that anyone might think different was just unfathomable. 

So he worked to cultivate that trust, to show you that he was interested in you and all the things that made you up. He listened when you talked, never told you he was bored or showed a shred of disinterest. He remembered things you mentioned or were interested in, brought you books on the subject or sent you a link to an article he’d seen. 

Watching the way that trust bloomed, the way you opened your heart and soul up to him in little pieces was nothing short of amazing. Still, he knew your art was precious to you, a piece of your soul. Your interests, desires, thoughts, opinions, and preferences are all laid out in pages and pages of thick white paper and red pencil marks. He never pushed it, never asked to see what you were working on or to show him your art, not because he wasn’t interested but because he respected the intimacy of it. You were not some famous painter who put their work on display for the world to see and scrutinise. You were just you, just someone who used art as a form of stress relief and self-expression, someone who guarded their work like they guarded their heart. 

So the little trickles of your soul that you shared with him were enough, it didn’t matter if you showed him it all or only select pieces, anything was enough to tell him you cared, that you trusted him, that you wanted his approval. Not because you needed him to give it, not because he was that fundamental or important, but because recognition from him made you smile, made you feel important. You were important whether he liked your work or not. 

He still remembers the excitement you exuded, happiness blinding and bright and so brilliant, when you’d finished a new painting and bounded to show him. You’d bundled it up safe and made the drive to his house, rushing up the steps so quick, he’d heard you trip before he heard you knock.

You’d been bouncing on the balls of your feet, painting kept within a folder, nondescript, the sort you kept your certificates in. The wide grin on your face, the shine of your teeth, and crinkles at your eyes had him smiling the moment he opened the door to you, leaning a shoulder against the door frame to watch you adoringly. 

“I finished it! It only took me 20 hours but I finally finished it!” You’d rushed inside, pulling him by the arm so fast he had to laugh as he nearly tripped over his own rug. You’d been so excited and so proud as you’d sat him on his couch and carefully pulled the A4 piece of watercolour paper from the folder, plain back to him. 

He’d been patient, watching you with the softest of smiles as your eyes flicked back and forth between him, sat with hands clasped between his thighs, elbows on his knees, and your painting. As you grappled with the gravity of showing him a piece of your soul and not knowing how he’d respond, how he’d behave. Patience was the least he could think to give you, and it had brought the best sort of ache to his chest when you’d shyly turned the painting around to show him. 

20 hours of work and you looked away, eyes focusing on a plant he had in the corner of his living room rather than on his expression or what he might think. You’d been so nervous to show him and he’d taken the time to truly look at your painting. The colours, the composition, the subject, it didn’t ultimately matter to him whether he truly liked it or not, although he did, because he’d love it anyway. He’d love it anyway because you’d chosen to share it with him, when you were oh so private and careful with your art. 

“Sweetheart…” You’d been prepared for rejection, to face the fact that your boyfriend didn’t like your painting, your art, that it was something you just shouldn’t share with him in the future. “It’s amazing! 20 hours? Can I?” He’d gestured to take it, to hold it and get a better look and you’d let him, a little stunned, but overjoyed that he liked it, that he wanted to look at it.

That had been the starting point for you sharing more little bits of your soul with him. You’d bring him finished paintings to look at, occasionally the odd doodle here or there that you completed at work. Not everything, and never your sketchbooks. Those were off limits, something he’d respected because he knew they were more than just a tiny piece of who you were, but quite a large one. Pages and pages of you sat for perusal and to have that rejected would hurt more than anything. So Marcus had been grateful for what little pieces of your art you did choose to share with him. 

He’d always made it a point to show how much he liked your art, to shower you in praise and to make you feel listened to, seen, important. Your art was amazing to him. He was an art history major, he loved art, hence his job, but he wasn’t an artist. He’d never had the patience to sit and develop the skill set and so he focused on the work of others, yours was quickly becoming his favourite. You had your own unique style, something he found hard to describe or explain, but that he’d know if he saw your work. He’s almost certain he’d know if someone tried to pass a fake off as your own and if anyone asked who his favourite artist was he’d probably change his answer to you. 

Still, he had hoped that one day you’d share that last bit of yourself with him. He hadn’t expected to actually happen, just a hope, a little dream, something he thought about at night before falling asleep. 

Certainly not something he expects on date night. 

He’s cooking dinner for the two of you, your favourite main and dessert, because he hasn’t had the chance to see you in a good week due to a hectic case, when he hears the tell tell sound of keys in the front door. He’d long since given you your own, letting you come and go as you please, with the excuse that when he was away on a case it meant you could keep an eye on the place and make sure he didn’t get robbed. In truth he liked having you around, liked that you came over just because you wanted to, that you felt welcome and at home and if he wasn’t so dead set on not scaring you off, he might have already asked you to move in. But, he wanted to take his time, not rush it. 

“Marcus?”

“In the kitchen, honey!” He’s wiping down the side quickly, hiding the fact he’s a messy cook, when you walk in a heavy looking tote bag over one shoulder. It peaks his interest and from the little laugh you let out you can see it on his face. 

“Are you busy?”

“No, it needs a good half hour before I have to check it again, why?” You watch him wipe his hands with a towel and brush at a small stain on his white t-shirt, the one that clings to his arms just right. 

You're nervous, you know he can tell from the way your hands grip the bag straps tight over one shoulder to how you bite your bottom lip. He’s always been able to tell. One of the beautiful things about Marcus was the attention he gave to people, not just people he cared about, but people in general. He learnt everything he could about them, stored it away in his mind, and used it to show them how much he cared, how much he knew them, really knew them. 

“I...I want to show you something.” 

You grab him by the hand, the same way you always do whenever you want to share something, and begin pulling him towards his living room. It’s cosy in here at this time of night, warm light from a couple of lamps, soft blankets thrown over his couch, the ones he’d brought after realising how much you loved a good blanket. It’s a calming thing, to be in here, with him, somewhere you associate with home. 

It often seems so silly to you, just how nervous you get about sharing something with Marcus, but you know it’s not. Know it’s not his fault either. Marcus has never given you any reason to doubt him, but other people have, so you push past the nerves because you do really want to show him and watch his face light up like it always does. 

You sit him down in his seat, and curl up next to him, kicking your shoes off and placing the bag on the ground. He’s so warm and for a moment you just lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the way he nuzzles a kiss into your temple, nose tracing little lines gently for a moment. He brings you peace and it is that, that gives you resolve and has you reaching down for the items in the bag. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that Marcus places his hands at your waist, worried you might take a tumble off the couch, something you’re prone to. It warms you inside, that he cares so much, that he’s so casual with his affection and so concerned with you and your safety. Even something as simple as making sure he can catch you if you start to fall. 

You come back up with a couple of books in hand, plastered with stickers over the front and a little dogeared at the corners. Marcus doesn’t remove his hands from your waist, just pulls you firmly back against his side and watches as you anxiously smooth your hands over the cover of one of them. 

“I..I wanted to show you my sketchbooks, or well...the two most recent ones anyway. I...I don’t really show people them...but I want you to see them.” Your eyes are so wide and earnest when you look up at him, that he can’t help but cup your cheek in his hand and rub his thumb across the apple of it. God, he never thought...he never thought you would. Always thought you’d keep this little part of yourself private, separate, guarding it like a dragon guards a horde of gold. But, here you are, so earnest, so nervous, so open, telling him that you want to share this piece of your soul with him and he can’t stop himself from pressing his forehead against yours. Can’t stop himself from the gentle nudge of his nose with yours or the slow press of his lips against your own. 

It’s a surprising reaction from Marcus, the way his nose presses into your cheek as he presses a firm but still tender kiss to your lips, the way his hand slides down to cup underneath your jaw, thumb pressing into the hollow there. It’s so surprising that it distracts you for more than a moment, to the point your eyelids take a little bit of time to flutter open after he breaks away, you leaning further into him. 

“What...what was that for?” 

“For trusting me.” He’s so warm and earnest, but still, he’s patient. He doesn’t grab for the books or open them himself, instead he waits for you to pull back and pick one up, settling it between the two of you. 

He waits as you find the courage to open the cover and turn to the first page and every breath leaves him at what he finds there. It is a sketchbook and so it is messy, that’s the nature of it, it is practice and experimentation and you enjoying yourself, and it’s so clear, as each page turns, that this is you in book form. 

Each page is either a confirmation of a fact he already knew about you or a new discovery. It tells him little things like how you prefer to draw certain subjects and the colours you lean towards when you reach for markers or coloured pencils. He’s reverent in the way his fingertips brush the paper and trace over the lines, in awe of the way your hands have worked in tune with your mind to put these things to paper and he can’t actually help the tears that start to well up in his eyes. Because you trust him so much, you’re opening the last part of your soul up to him with only a hope that he will not crush it or throw it back at you, that he will not abuse it. 

“Baby, why are you crying?” You’re so concerned for him, hands pawing at his cheeks, brushing the rivulets away and cupping his jaw to make him look at you. Brown eyes watery but so happy, so in love and he hopes that you can see that, see how desperately he loves you. “Are you okay? Did...did I do something wrong?”

It hurts him so much to know you assume that you’re at fault. That his tears are bad or that they are a product of you doing something wrong, when they’re a result of just how much he loves you and just how happy he is at the trust and faith you have in him, the love you have for him, that you’ll bare your soul. It’s those moments that make him angry at the people before him. Family, friends, lovers, people who took your trust and crushed it, bent it out of shape and tossed it back malformed and damaged. 

“Nooo, no, no, honey. Sweetheart, I'm crying cause I'm happy,” He covers your hands with his own, pulls you impossibly closer, “I’m happy because you trust me enough to show me this and I...I never thought I'd earn that.” 

“Oh...well, I love you.”

“I love you too.” It’s said with a laugh, but not at you, the sort of laugh that’s just a bit of a huff of happiness, that comes from being overwhelmingly happy. It’s enough for him that you come to his house, that you share little bits of yourself with him and that you love him enough to do that at all. 

While dinner cooks, you keep an eye on the time more than Marcus, he continues to flick through the pages. He comments, sweet little things. How something looks cool or how he likes the colours on a page. Each comment thrills you, fills you to the brim with pride and joy, to the point your cheeks ache from smiling. Perhaps to some people it seems understated, boring, the sort of date night that some would hate, but to the two of you it’s more than just date night. It’s a bonding experience, a sharing one. He feels impossibly lucky to look at your work, to have you there leaning on his shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck, impossibly lucky to have a piece of your soul right there in front of him. 

It’s that moment that he knows; you’re it for him. He’s certain. You’re the person he’s going to grow old with, with your sketchbooks in a dedicated bookshelf and he’ll die saying his favourite artist is you. 

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

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@charradelange @belfry-bat  @gabile18 @beccaboo929 

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@bdavishiddlesbatch​

[laynefaire]

Last Line Challenge/Sunday Snippet

I am only going back like 7 days (A- cause I’m pretty sure I’ve done one in here somewhere and B- Anything older than a week I probably won’t find)

So - I was tagged by -takes deep breath - @allwaswell16 @greenfeelings @crinkle-eyed-boo @sadaveniren @kingsofeverything (x2!) @lululawrence @runaway-train-works and @all-these-larrythings - PHEW - to post my last line. I was ALSO tagged by @jacaranda-bloom to post a Sunday Snippet. Since Dee has tried to tag me a couple times, and tumblr hates us both, here’s a snippet instead of a last line - 

From my Wordplay fic that posts tomorrow - 

“I don’t think-” 

“How about I-” 

Liam and Zayn began speaking at the same time, both stopping abruptly when they realized the other was talking. 

“Sorry.” Liam motioned at Zayn to continue. “What were you saying?” 

“I was gonna offer to work up a full color version. No obligation, free of charge.” Zayn looked back down at the drawing. “You’ve already done the hard part, anyway, so it’s not like you’re commissioning the art.”

“Oh… uhm…” 

Zayn looked back up at Liam, the corner of his lip quirking in a half smile that was more than slightly charming, and wholly disarming, leaving Liam speechless and aroused.

“I’m serious. If you hate it, no harm no foul. You don’t even have to leave me the original. I can print a copy of it and use that to work up the color.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

Tommo rolled his eyes at Liam’s reticence, and reached in front of Zayn to grab the sketchbook. Turning around, he slapped it on the copier and pressed the start button.

“There!” Returning the sketchbook to its owner, Tommo handed the copy of the drawing to Zayn. “Liam accepts your more than generous offer.”

“I mean, yeah, if you’re seriously interested, I’ll look at what you come up with.” Liam took his time closing his sketchbook, needing a moment to regain his sense of balance after Zayn’s unsettling perusal and seductive smile. 

“Cool. Give me a few days, yeah?” Zayn smiled again as he spoke, the upward curve of his lip practically begging to be kissed, and Liam felt certain all the blood in his body had migrated south of his waistband. “I should have something by the weekend.” 

Tagging back everyone above who tagged me and anyone else who’d like to share a snippet or last line! 

[mortemersgf]

serendipity

hot couture: hazel nguyen x f!mc (arden moore)

summary: months after paris fashion week, a chance encounter reignites arden’s feelings for her former boss.

warning: suggestive themes.

word count: 2.2k

@choicesficwriterscreations

a/n: happy valentine’s day :D

click here for part two

Arden strides into Cremona’s, bearing a polite smile as patrons cast discreet glances at her. She slides into her usual table, the one located in the snug corner by the windows. It gives her an excellent view of the whole restaurant, allowing her to pick out who’s a diner and who’s a paparazzi pretending to be a diner.

She peruses the extensive list of dishes Cremona’s has to offer, settling on an order of Cacio e Pepe and a glass of white wine and murmuring a quiet thanks to the waiter as he glides away to prepare her dinner.

Some months ago, her eyes would have bulged at the price of the pasta dish. Now, she only breathes out a quiet sigh, too worn out to be startled.

Arden started her own business after the events of Paris Fashion Week. Her success in the states led to the opening of another branch in Milan. Since then, she’s been spending time in this beautiful city, solely focused on the task of overseeing the whole process. Milan is stunning with its vibrant culture, but Arden is lonely without Luz or Marco by her side.

She feels especially lonely this evening being Valentine’s Day and all. When she takes a gander around the restaurant, she sees couples after couples. A table to her left is sharing a slice of cake waist giggling to themselves. Two tables down, a man watches with adoration as his lover nibbles on her dessert, affection practically oozing out of his lovestruck smile.

Arden exhales slowly and unpockets her phone, swiping through various social media sites to pass time. A small smile dimples her cheeks as she reads positive review after positive review regarding her new collection. Who needs love when you have public validation? … Okay, me, but still. Her designs are being featured on the front covers of a range of fashion magazines. So long was the starry eyed newbie who picked up modeling as a means to work at Hazel Boutique.

Hazel Boutique… That’s a name she hasn’t heard in a while. Arden sets down her phone, fixing her gaze towards the kitchen. She must really miss her former job because she swears she sees Hazel Nguyen seated in the far corner, unbothered and nursing a glass of red wine as the man sitting across from her stomps away.

It’s indeed her. She’s wearing a dark dress that hugs her soft curves at all the right places with a dangerously high slit that teases her leg. Arden always found her tantalizingly beautiful no matter what she wore, but under the dim lighting of Cremona’s where the yellow gleam casts an ethereal glow on her, she looks all the more bewitching.

Arden is moving before she can absorb the absurdity of the situation, a hopeful smile spreading across her face.

“Hazel,” she breathes in greeting, “Hi…”

Hazel Nguyen, just as alluring as Arden had remembered, looks genuinely surprised. Her dark eyes widen. Goosebumps appear on her arms, sending chills down her back, the good kind. The kind you get when you see someone who you’ve been longing to see for the better part of a year.

She sets the wine glass down, eyes moving up and down the length of Arden in careful scrutiny before her gaze finally settles upon her starstruck features. An amused smile blooms on her face.

“Arden,” Hazel finally says, “Hello.”

Arden looks to the empty seat, asking, “May I?”

“Please,” Hazel nods. “How have you been?”

Arden slips into the chair, clasping her hands on her lap to keep her leg from bouncing in elation. “I’ve been good. Haut Monde has been doing well, too.”

“I know. I’ve been following your work.”

“You have?”

“Are you going to tell me you haven’t been following mine?”

“... Touché,” Arden says, recalling the way her eyes widened when images of Hazel’s new designs emerged online. They were fashionably elegant to say the very least, but the real prize was the genuine smile on Hazel’s face in those photos. She was posed among a crowd of local designers in Majorca, completely in her element. It was more than delightful to see her fall in love with creating once again.

Arden glances at the plate of untouched food sitting in front of her and shifts her gaze to the nonchalant woman across the table, mustering a small smile, “So, was that a supplier? An exec? He looked pretty upset.”

“That was my sorry excuse for a date.”

A date. Arden brushes off the strained feeling that washes over her with a small smile, willing herself to not bristle. It’s not as if they were anything more than a flirtation no matter how badly she wanted to be more with Hazel.

“Oh, that’s—that’s good. It’s good to date,” she murmurs, biting back a grimace as those words leave her lips. ‘It’s good to date?’ Really?

“Not so much when he’s an egotistical imbecile,” Hazel says, noting the way Arden’s posture tenses.

She pauses, letting the moment hang for another second before a faint, mischievous smile spreads across her face, adding, “That was Darren, my production manager. I don’t go on dates with just anyone, and I much rather prefer your company anyway.”

A surge of confidence rushes through Arden at the remark. She relaxes into her seat, huffing out a small laugh of relief, “Is that your way of saying you missed me?”

Hazel hums lowly, eyes slightly narrowed as she considers her words. Finally, after a brief pause, she reaches for her wine glass, swirling the dark contents gently. “I did miss your enthusiasm,” she says, “What happened? You look drained.”

Arden fights to keep her composure intact. She wants to slump over the table, truth be told. Running a business is tiring. “I am drained,” she admits, “Been stuck in meetings all day.”

“That sounds all too familiar.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know a thing or two about running a fashion empire, would you? Any advice?”

“You have a team, don’t you? Utilize them, don’t pile everything on yourself”—Hazel pauses, noting the earnest look in Arden’s eyes—“Find the balance between leading and creating. Don’t get lost in the system, and don’t lose sight of what’s truly important to you.”

Arden nods, taking in her counsel with the utmost sincerity. “Thank you for that. I’ll remember it.”

As a waiter passes by, Hazel raises a hand, speaking coolly, “Another glass for my friend here, and clear this plate, please.”

“Oh, that’s…” Arden mumbles.

“Scared to share a meal with me?” Hazel questions.

“No, that’s not it,” Arden says. She bites her lip in thought, meeting Hazel's inquiring gaze. Something about her look coaxes Arden to straighten her spine, confidence filling her chest, spurring her on to speak her mind.

“I’m just still processing us, you know?” she says. “You said someday you could be convinced.”

An amused smile plays on Hazel’s face. She leans in and places her index finger below Arden’s chin, tipping the latter’s head upward. Arden swallows and pushes to keep her expression even, though her warming cheeks gives everything away. She catches the familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla wafting from Hazel being in such close proximity with the woman, and her heart drums with anticipation. It brings her back to Paris, back to the balcony.

“I did, didn’t I?” Hazel says, voice sultry.

Arden hasn’t got a clue as to what’s going on in Hazel’s mind. The woman is absolutely unreadable and she loves it, the mystery of it all, the unraveling of her thoughts. Right now, having her lips only a breath away, Arden doesn’t care to figure out Hazel’s intentions. Her legs feel weak. She’s sure she’d stumble if she were standing.

“Have you eaten, Arden?” Hazel asks, moving her hand to Arden’s cheek, grazing her face ever so lightly.

Arden’s face flushes with heat as she struggles to meet Hazel’s intense gaze. Her teasing touch leaves tingles in their wake, sending a thrilling chill down Arden’s spine. What is she suggesting?

“I—no, I didn’t eat yet,” she answers, “but I don’t feel like having dinner right now.”

“I don’t either. Come with me.” Hazel drops her hand, moving to stand. She places several hundred dollar bills on the table.

Arden follows suit and shoots an apologetic look at the waiter who’d just strolled out of the kitchen with her meal. He flashes her an understanding smile as if to say, It’s okay. I get it. It’s Hazel Nguyen.

They leave in a flurry with Arden tripping into the elevator. The ride down is silent, but there’s visible tension in the air. She waits with bated breath for Hazel to move, to push her up against the wall or even spare her a quick look, but the older woman looks straight ahead, face impassive.

Ping!

Arden follows Hazel out of the restaurant and into the darkening streets of Milan. The cold rushes at her like a swarm of bees, leaving her shivering. She wonders how Hazel is able withstand the chill having only a faux fur shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“So,” Arden begins, “where are we going?”

“Eager, are we?” Hazel answers, striding down the streets of Milan as if it were a runway, elegance laced in every one of her steps.

“Just wondering is all…”

After walking for another block, Hazel halts. They’ve stopped in the middle of a bridge that overlooks the canal. Arden breathes out a sigh of wonder at the sight of glittering lights reflecting off the water.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in vibrant colors of pink, yellow, and violet. It’s unbridled, bold, and stunning. The colors blend together so well, it tempts Arden to create an outfit, a new line, just something, based off of this sunset. She had been trapped in meetings that always ran long since she landed in Milan, which never gave her the chance to appreciate the simpler things the city has to offer. This scene before her envelopes her in serenity, and she wants to share that feeling.

Arden is inspired, but her trusty sketchbook is currently sitting on her nightstand in her hotel room to her utter luck. She didn’t expect to see such a sight nor did she anticipate running into Hazel, who is observing her carefully.

The sunset reminds Hazel of dusk time in Majorca. Half of the time, she worked in her beach suite with the setting sun as the backdrop. The other half, she was thinking about Arden, checking up on her work via social media whenever she had spare time. Hazel was invested, itching to message her a congratulatory text after her new collection sold out. Is. She is invested in Arden, and being away from the young designer has helped her realize that. Arden Moore is truly something else. She’s not just anyone.

“This is beautiful...” Arden breathes, “I bet I can do something with this color scheme.” She whips out her phone, snapping a couple of photographs at different angles.

“You haven’t changed after all,” Hazel comments. Her eyes trace over Arden’s beaming features before flitting to the water. The faintest smile graces her lips.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“It is.”

“Does that mean you still like me?”

“You are relentless, aren’t you?”

Arden pockets her phone, looking at Hazel with a playful smile. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Hazel trains her gaze ahead, studying the horizon as she speaks. “I said you couldn’t handle me once. You were inexperienced, new to the fashion world, to this life. That was nearly a year ago, and I see that you’ve grown exponentially as a designer and a businesswoman while retaining your authenticity. That’s certainly invaluable. I admire your passion and drive, Arden”—she finally turns, meeting Arden’s hopeful gaze—“I pushed away all thoughts of starting another relationship after my divorce, but I may have to reconsider that.”

Arden is flushing with her mouth slightly ajar at Hazel’s confession. To think Hazel Nguyen, her ultimate idol and former boss might actually want to pursue a relationship with her is something she didn’t see coming. It’s a delightful surprise to say the least, one that makes her heart soar with glee. She decides to play coy though, just to get back at her for the months of lack of contact.

“Hmph,” she murmurs, “You never did arrange a plane for me to visit you, you know. I could’ve helped you come to that conclusion sooner.”

“You would’ve been a distraction to the creative process,” Hazel simply says, “Being in Majorca, creating and refreshing my perspective, was what I needed to remind myself why I do this in the first place.”

“That makes sense,” Arden agrees. A crooked smile finds its way to her lips as she adds, “But you couldn’t have sent me a text? Maybe a letter?”

“I’m willing to make that up to you.”

“... How so?”

“You’ll find out soon enough...” Hazel says, leaning in so her breath fans over Arden’s ear, adding, “in my hotel room.”

Arden’s face splits into an incredulous grin. “Are you asking me to come home with you?”

“Depends,” Hazel answers easily, the hint of a teasing smile resting on her luscious lips, “Are you accepting my invitation?”

As if Arden needed to be asked twice.

[vannahfanfics]

RokuNami + “Queen Anne’s Lace.”

Hello, Anon! Thank you for requesting. Queen Anne’s Lace symbolizes sanctuary, which is a rather fitting topic, don’t you think? I hope you enjoy what I came up with! :D

Sanctuary

“No…” Roxas groaned as he tossed and turned violently in his bed, limbs tangled in the sheets that were damp with his sweat. His chest heaved with frantic breaths, his eyes scrunched tightly, and his mouth hung open in an agonized series of moans. “No, no…” he pleaded to the demons running rampant in his mind; he swatted the empty air in front of him, the thin sheen of sweat shining in the first rays of sunlight spilling in from the window. “No, please stop!” he screamed as he bolted upright in bed, his hand still outstretched toward something. The dream was already fading as he slowly became fully conscious, the nightmare fleeing into the recesses of his mind to haunt him once darkness fell again. 

He slumped back against his pillow with a heavy sigh. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms; they ached with phantom tears. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been crying about; he never did when he awoke with a shout, sweaty and breathless and afraid. He flopped his arms down on either side of him to stare listlessly up at the ceiling, watching the fan rotate slowly. The small breeze it generated wafted down onto his sweaty skin, cooling the salty water and subsequently his flushed skin. He grimaced at the gross feeling of the perspiration clinging to his skin and clumping his blond hair, but taking a shower was the last thing he wanted to do right now. 

He lolled his head to the window. The light of dawn was filtering in, golden rays and shadows playing across the wood of his bedroom floor. It spilled over the crumpled snack bags and discarded clothes and marbles strewn across the planks, slowly encroaching upon his bed. Dawn always chased his nightmares away; at this point, he’d probably seen as many sunrises as he had sunsets. What was one more? 

Grunting, he forced himself out of bed. Not bothering to change out of his pajamas, he just grabbed a hoodie and wriggled into it, then slipped on his sneakers, not even bothering with socks. He stopped outside the bathroom to check his reflection, prodding at the dark bags ringing his eyes and frowning at his disheveled state. Still, no one wandered about at the early hours of the morning, and at worst he’d be mistaken for a luckless vagabond. He shuffled out of the house into the cool morning, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, and started down the street. 

Normally, he’d trek to the clock tower to watch the sunrise. However, he found his feet traveling a different path. He knew of a small hill in the woods outside of town that overlooked a ridge, providing a lovely view of the horizon. He craved fresh air, the whistle of the leaves, and the smell of early morning dew— not the smoke and chug-chugging of the trams. Thus, he skirted around the business district, empty aside from the pigeons picking through the trash, to walk up the slope leading to the entrance to the woods. 

He lowered his hood as he stepped out of the alcove, smiling as the wind played with his disarrayed strands of dirty-blond hair. The leaves greeted him with shivering glee, deafening as they shook in the canopy. The birds were praising the dawn just like Roxas; the air was alive with birdsong like he’d never heard. The tunes of dozens of species melded into a harmonious melody of tweets, screeches, and warbles that was pleasant despite its chaos. He found himself smiling already as he walked along the well-worn dirt path snaking through the small woods. 

The dew deposited on the cotton of his pajama bottoms when he veered off the path to cut through the long grasses. He reached out on either side to skim his fingers over the swaying blades, relishing the cool droplets of water smearing over his fingers. He startled a squirrel sniffing curiously at a big brown mushroom; it skittered up the tree to peer down at him from the safety of the branches, tail and nose twitching. Aromatic wildflowers spilled pheromones into the air to waft up his nose, filling it with pleasant aromas. He wondered why he’d bothered with the clock tower all this time, when this had to be the most peaceful place on earth. 

He stopped when he heard gentle humming join the orchestra of whistling wind, singing birds, and quivering leaves. He cautiously edged over the crest of the hill to see someone sitting on the edge, her legs tucked underneath her and her back to him. Her platinum-blonde hair was messy and drawn up into a bun atop her head, baring her slim shoulders and neck to the sunrise. Her white dress hugged her fame, ending in little wisps of lace above her thighs. The clumps of Queen Anne’s Lace growing around her swayed gently in the wind to playfully kiss her skin and dress. Her arm moved in calculated movements, and though he couldn’t see what she was doing, he knew enough about Naminé to guess. 

“Drawing the sunrise?” he called and stepped onto the hill. She gasped and glanced over her shoulder at him, a faint pink blush on her pale cheeks. Her posture relaxed and she smiled as he approached, and when he looked down, he could see the bright magentas and oranges and yellows of the rising sun spilling over the page of her sketchbook. 

“That’s right,” she said as he flopped down beside her, stretching out his legs so his feet just barely hung over the edge of the bluff. “I usually get up early anyway, and that’s the best time to draw nature scenes, when the world is just waking up.” She flipped through the pages of her book, providing him glimpses of squirrels, birds, flowers, trees, mushrooms, and rocks. She then returned to her current sketch, adding more yellow with her colored pencil. “Why are you up this early, wandering around town in your pajamas?” 

“Nightmare,” he grunted, hunched over as he watched the bubbling semicircle of sun slowly inch over the horizon. He felt no need to lie. Naminé was such a gentle, nonjudgmental presence. Besides, he’d feel guilty lying to her. “Ain’t no use goin’ to sleep, so I figured I’d take a walk.” He sighed and hung his head. “The worst part is that I don’t even remember what the nightmares are about, so I don’t know how to get rid of them…” 

“I see,” she said, closing her sketchbook. Roxas felt his heart flutter; it was nice, knowing she was giving him her undivided attention. Her small hand slowly slid up onto his shoulder, a reassuring touch. “I understand.” Her hand skipped up to gently touch his cheek, her fingertips ever-so-light over his skin. It probably felt gross, layered with grime and sweat; yet Naminé stroked his skin like it was artwork, skimming over his cheekbone. Roxas leaned into her touch, her softness, her being that had always been so comforting to him. She didn’t even have to say anything. 

His cheek slid over her hand and down her arm as he found himself nestling his head against her shoulder. Naminé welcomed him, wrapping her arm around his head to tease her fingers through his messy blond hair. He inhaled deeply, and the scent of her flooded in, clean paper and vanilla and pencil shavings. The tension melted from his body as they sat in silence, the golden sunlight washing over them to chase the darkness that clung to them away. 

The darkness always came back when he least expected it, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lock it away for good for a long time. But that was all right, because whenever he needed it most, he could find sanctuary in the rising sun, in the quiet peace of the woods— in the gentle comfort of Naminé.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[elevenharbor]

DDN CHALLENGE SUBMISSION - COURT

This week’s DDN prompts, playlist, and banner was made possible by the amazing @cakeit0n​. Thank you for doing what you do and for being amazeballs! Already looking forward to next month’s DDN!

I’m so freaking tired, I didn’t get to complete Prompt 10. Will edit this (and add prompt 10) when I have a life again.

Also, these (along with my other drabbles) are posted on my AO3.

Without further ado, here are my drabbles. Enjoy!

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Guard

She wasn’t a bombshell— not particularly— yet Sesshōmaru couldn’t figure out why he felt compelled to watch her every time she walked through the doors of the coffee shop, sketchbook open and pencil in hand.

A hobby that he indulged himself with in-between pointless meetings and the humdrum of corporate life, he filled his sketchbook with a curious amalgam of the traditional and the modern. Dozens of breathtaking scenery, beautiful poetry, and still-portraits of everyday citizens, all frozen in time, littered the many pages of the unassuming gray notebook.

But of course, he kept this hobby as a guarded secret. No one in their right mind would believe he had a creative bone in his body, anyway.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Intent

The clean, crisp page of his sketchbook ached for a masterpiece, as it was the last page. Traditionally, he kept the last page blank, only breaking this cardinal rule if he deemed his subject to be special.

It began a month ago as a mere fancy - out of boredom, more than anything. He watched fellow patrons go about their mundane business from time to time, trying to draw some inspiration for his next sketch but finding none.  

Little did he know his muse would come barraging through the doors in the form of a woman - slender build, flowing midnight tresses, sharp wit, and striking cerulean eyes.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Ritual

“What toxin would you like today, miss?” The barista asked, with a wink and a smile.

“Erm… I’ll have my usual, when I’m in a mood. Cafe Guillermo, please,” she replied, grinning back. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“Coming right up! Go find a seat, I’ll bring it over to you.”

Sesshōmaru watched as the usually taciturn barista and the woman exchanged pleasantries and friendly banter.

She must be a regular, or an acquaintance outside this place, he noted.

As soon as the woman sat in her usual spot across from him, Sesshōmaru’s hand took a life of its own, as if performing a well-practiced ritual. Brushing the graphite tip across the fine, crisp page, he began capturing the small details that usually went unnoticed— like her heart-shaped face, softened jaw line, and the elegant slant of her petite nose.

Such delicate features, all contained in a beautiful face, he thought to himself.

The vibration from his phone broke his concentration. It was time to go.

Closing his sketchbook, Sesshōmaru glanced at the blue-eyed beauty once more before taking his leave. Until next time, my muse.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Rule

“Thank you, darling.”

“No problem. Rough day, huh.”

“Ugh, you don’t even know. That jerkface stood me up again.”

Sesshōmaru continued to work on his piece for a while, so engrossed in his design and his model. Half-listening to the conversation between his nameless muse and the barista, he quickly surmised that she came here to escape the unpleasantries of dating life.

Golden eyes perused the progress of his masterpiece before dragging his gaze back to his subject. The rays of the afternoon sun illuminated her face with such brilliance, he had to remind himself to blink.

Realization hit him like a sledgehammer. He was as equally invested in learning about her and hearing about her day, as he was in sketching her.

He was breaking Cardinal Rule number two. Do not get attached.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Rite

He continued his silent observation of her for another week.

Sighing, Sesshōmaru sat down at his usual spot after ordering his coffee. He needed a strong dose after the disastrous meeting at the company headquarters, halfway across town.

Placing his sketchbook on the table, a steaming mug of black coffee blocked him from accessing his work in progress.

“I know you don’t come here as frequently as you do because of our coffee,” the barista supplied, smirking. “Even I know it’s shit quality, and I make them.”

Sesshōmaru stopped his fussing, flustering at being caught. Had he been that obvious?

“Just go up to her. She’s been checking you out too,” he added, leaning over Sesshōmaru’s shoulder to steal a peek at his art piece. “Wow. I know she’s gorgeous, but damn you make her look like a goddess.”

Glaring at the man’s unsolicited advice and commentary, Sesshōmaru turned his back to shield the barista’s prying eyes. “I don’t even know her name.”

The barista’s eyes crinkled with mirth, smiling mischievously.

“Kagome. Her name is Kagome.”

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Noble

The noblest thing to do would’ve been to swallow his pride and introduce himself properly.

But, that also meant admitting defeat, at being caught ogling—no, ‘staring’—which was rude, and far below him.

Things were rather going smoothly, his sketch his best yet. He had momentarily broke contact with the notebook, only to find azure eyes locked on him like a predator catching its prey.

His heart threatened to burst out of his chest cavity at the sudden rush of emotion—whether from fear of being found out, or from something else…like finally getting noticed.

Ashamed at his intrusive thoughts, Sesshōmaru quickly turned away and put his sketchbook away, disappointed that he would most likely never finish his masterpiece.

He wouldn’t be surprised if she found him to be a creepy stalker and decided to walk away, never to return. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Lord

“Oh my lord! Is that me?!”

Sesshōmaru flinched at hearing her sweet, dulcet voice so close to his person. He wasn’t expecting her to make an approach, let alone bear witness to his pride and joy over the past couple of weeks. He had only heard her voice echo between the space that separated them. Hearing it up close was a different experience altogether.

I must be losing my mind. When did I become this pathetic? He mentally chastised.

Gathering the courage to look back up, he found her sitting across from him, a smile plastered across her cherry-tinged face. Her blush intensified the color in her eyes. They were as deep and as multifaceted as a blue sapphire, sparkling with curiosity and happiness.

Steepling her delicate hands together, she leaned forward some more, to get a better look. Happiness radiated from her, as a smile blossomed at his piece.

“Do you like it?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave lower.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Lady

“So, what’s your toxin gonna be today, darlin’?”

Sesshōmaru blinked at the barista’s odd question. In all the months that he paid his patronage to this little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, never had he been approached so…flirtatiously.

Had the barista been pining for him all this time?

Catching on to his confusion, the barista chuckled, before tilting his head up. “Not you. I was talking to your lady friend, behind you.”

As soon as the words left the barista’s lips, Sesshōmaru felt a pair of arms encircle his midsection, warmth and softness pressed against his back. He felt her trembling in laughter as she nuzzled her face in his free-flowing silver hair.

“I’ll have my usual, Cafe Guillermo, please,” she responded, her voice muffled. 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Prompt: Mark

Unlike his usual lackadaisical approach, Sesshōmaru strolled into the cafe shop, clutching a rectangular item wrapped in an explosion of colored paper. “Good afternoon.”

“Wow. Someone woke up on the right side of the bed today.” The barista piped in. “You look happy.”

Sesshōmaru smirked at the barista’s astute observation. “I suppose I owe you a token of my gratitude,” he said, sliding the wrapped object across the counter. “Consider it a gift.”

“What’s this?” Surprised, the barista took the proffered gift, gasping as his fingers unwrapped a photo frame.

“Holy shit. It’s the sketch.”

Unsure, the barista glanced back at Sesshōmaru. “Are you sure you want to let go of this? This is a masterpiece!”

Sesshōmaru contemplated his question carefully, before nodding his head.

“She left her mark here, like she did with me,” he finally replied. "Having my muse in the flesh trumps any sketch."

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

AND FINALLY....THE BANNER!

[ohshit-itsyagorl]

Four Dipshits and a Michelle

Part 7

Part 1, Writing Masterlist

Read on AO3 HERE

Summary: Michelle never believed in soulmates. But what happens when she turns seventeen and gets her mark? What happens when she inevitably finds the person with the matching tattoo? And what is she supposed to do with Peter Parker. Her best friend in the whole world. Her crush. Someone she feels drawn to for some inexplicable reason.

The next day was the first day of senior year, which meant Michelle had to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. She practically fell out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, dragging her feet with every step, and when she looked in the mirror, she cursed quietly under her breath. She looked like death. To be fair, she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. A few hours after Spider-man left, Peter had decided to take a shower, and his mark had flared again. She couldn’t really blame him—he did a pretty good job controlling it for the most part, and to be fair, it still happened to her, too.

She brushed her teeth and ran her fingers through her hair, deciding she would just leave it loose today. Throwing her clothes on, she went out into the kitchen and made herself a bowl of cereal.

She greeted Betty and Cindy when she got to home room. Home rooms were split by gender: girls in some rooms, boys in others, so there was never a chance that Peter or Ned would be in her home room. Thankfully, that also meant that there was no chance that Flash would be in her home room either.

Ms. Winninski handed out schedules to all the students, and MJ looked down at hers.

“What classes are you guys taking?” Cindy asked. She was already opening her messages to the group chat, furiously typing away under her desk as phones were not permitted in home room.

“Creative writing—I think Ned is in that class,” Betty said, blushing furiously. “AP Calculus is second period, which will be rough, but then I have theatre, so at least there’s a break. I opted to take dance/health instead of gym/health, and then I have lunch—god, I really don’t want to eat cafeteria food for the next nine months. After lunch I have French, then AP environmental science—oof, those are on opposite sides of the building—and I finish off with AP Econ.” She looked up from her schedule.

Cindy rattled off her schedule next. Then, they were both looking at MJ expectantly.

“Peter and I have AP Chemistry first period.” MJ looked up to find Betty waggling her eyebrows. “Shut up,” she said. “Then I have AP Calc with you and Cindy. AP great books, gym/health—I usually just read in that class anyway—then lunch, Spanish, art, and AP Psych.”

Cindy looked up from her phone and gave the report: “We actually have a few classes with Ned and Peter this year, not just PCB like in years past.”

MJ wanted to look and see but it was too risky with Ms. Winninski prowling around the classroom answering questions and confiscating phones. She sighed and pulled out her sketchbook.

Home room ended a few minutes later and soon Michelle was off to AP chemistry. She smiled at Peter when she saw him, then she remembered what he had done last night and her face reddened.

They sat down at the same lab table and sat in awkward silence, each not really sure what to say to the other.

On days like this, when they were just a bit out of sync, MJ just wanted everything to go back to normal.

Normal—what was normal these days? Michelle wasn’t really sure she knew anymore.

That entire day was exactly like every other first day of school, with teachers taking attendance, going over the syllabus, playing name games (seriously, they weren’t in kindergarten anymore),  and every teacher assigning the same getting-to-know-you packet for homework, which meant that MJ had to talk about herself seven times.

She guessed that part was normal, but everything else? She was part of the 0.02% of the population that had a true mate, she knew who he was, he didn’t know who she was, she loved him, he didn’t love her, they both had this annoying habit of getting aroused at the worst times, and neither of them could shower in peace ever again.

When she got home, she quietly opened the door in case her mom was sleeping in the sitting room. The light filtered in through the windows in a way that basked the room in a golden glow, she thought maybe she would paint it sometime.

Her mom was, in fact, asleep on the couch. MJ tiptoed past and flopped onto her bed. She groaned thinking about all the homework she had—none of it even remotely knowledge-related. She knew she should get started, but she really didn’t want to.

She pulled her bag toward herself anyway.

——————————————————————

Two hours later, Michelle was done with all the getting-to-know-you questionnaires and was perusing her bookshelf. She had quite a few new books checked out from the library, she just didn’t know which one she wanted to read next.

Tap tap tap.

Her head whipped toward the window. There was a masked face hanging upside down outside, red hand tapping on the glass.

MJ rolled her eyes, walking over to the window and opening the latch. She heaved the frame up enough for Spider-man to crawl in and drop onto the floor in a crouch. He stood up. “Fancy seeing you here, Michelle.”

“Hmm, I wonder why that would be,” she quipped. “What do you want this time?” She went back to looking at her bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines until she grabbed one randomly.

“I read The Assistant,” he blurted, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through hair that wasn’t there.

Michelle raised her eyebrows. “What did you think?” She hadn’t much liked the book, to be perfectly honest, only reading it because it was a critically acclaimed story about a jewish deli.

Spider-man shrugged. “I don’t know. It was okay, I guess. I had a really hard time getting behind Frank. There isn’t a sequel, but if there was I don’t think I would read it.”

She looked at him. “You’re a superhero.”

There was a long pause. “…Uh, yeah?”

“And a high schooler.”

“That is also true,” he said tilting his head to the side. “Are we making observations now? Because if we are, that shirt looks good on you.”

MJ rolled her eyes. He was either a shameless flirt in general or the mask made him cocky. Either way, she wasn’t interested. She thought of the way Peter’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled—no, she was definitely not interested. “How do you have time to get through these books when you’re always off saving people—helping the little guy, or whatever the fuck you call it.”

He shrugged. “I read them between ‘helping the little guy’” he said, waving his arms dramatically. “On rooftops and billboards and stuff. Or at school when I’m bored.”

She hummed. “Well, I need to choose another book. Want to help?”

He nodded vigorously, and practically tripped over himself trying to get to where she stood by the bookshelf. For a superhero, he wasn’t very graceful. She smiled to herself, shaking her head, and turned to look at the pile of new books again.  

He pointed at a thick, grey one and said, “This one looks cool.” MJ pulled it from the shelf and read the title Six of Crows followed by the description on the back. His white eyes narrowed at her. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fantasy reader.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to branch out a bit,” she muttered, cheeks glowing red. She didn’t know why she was embarrassed—she had no reason to be embarrassed—but something about him threw her off. For some reason, she wanted to impress him, and somehow reading a young adult fantasy novel, highly rated or not, seemed like a weak choice after A Secret History or The Assistant.

His eyes followed the blush down to the top of her chest, then flicked back up to her face, which only made her flush more deeply. “Sounds like a great read,” was all he said. “I’ll check it out from the library.”

She looked down at her bare feet, flexing her toes against the soft carpet. When she looked back up, Spider-man was looking around her room. “Nice room. Lots of books.”

She felt herself flush again. God, what was going on with her today? “Yeah, it’s my safe space. You know, I don’t actually let anyone in here—you’re the first person besides my mom or me to set foot in here in years." There was a long pause, then, "What does your room look like?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “just another normal room. Bed, desk, closet, bathroom—the works.”

“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” Michelle asked. She didn’t know what made her say it, but for some reason she wanted to know—maybe it was a way to make him seem more human, less… other.

“The left, why?” He glanced over to her bed which she realized, somewhat belatedly, wasn’t made and had a lacy bra strewn across it.

“No reason,” she muttered. Then, “I sleep on the left too. So does my best friend, but when I sleep over I kick him to the right side.” She chuckled. “His side of the bed smells like him.”

Spider-man coughed, and rocked onto the heels of his feet. He tilted his head to the side. “I have to go,” he said, moving to raise the window again. He slipped out and crawled out of sight.

MJ looked at her bed again, at that black lace bra, and cursed under her breath.

[quickspinner]

Second Chance - Ch 1 The One That Got Away

Hello friends! Continuing posting my backlog of work that was posted to AO3 but not Tumblr. You can filter the backlog tag if you don’t want to see these fyi.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Summary: 

It's been years since he last saw Marinette. He's a successful rock star and she's been traveling the world chasing her dreams. Luka thought he had grown up and moved on, but when Marinette lands back in Paris and seeks him out, it takes about ten seconds for him to figure out he can't resist a second chance.

Aged-up, total self-indulgent Lukanette fluff. There will be some implied sexual content later on but nothing explicit. 

The beginning of this first chapter comes from the last chapter of I Will Give You the Stars, and while you don’t have to have read that one first, the two stories do go well together.

Luka tossed his sweaty hair back from his face and looked out at the blinding lights. “Okay guys,” he said into the microphone, picking idly at his guitar. “I think we’re gonna take it down a bit for this next song. But first, can we bring the house lights up please?”

Used to his quirks, the lighting crew responded quickly, dimming the lights in his eyes and turning up the lights on the crowd in the packed stadium.

“That’s better,” Luka said, skimming the crowd of fans waving and screaming wildly. “I know this might be kinda weird if this is your first show with me, but I just like to see you. Put some faces to my audience. This is a two way street, you and me, and I don’t wanna forget that.”

A small crowd of girls off to his right screamed in rehearsed unison, “WE LOVE YOU LUKA!” 

He grinned toward them and winked. “Love you too, sweethearts.” As they shrieked excitedly he looked at the banner they were holding up, decorated with birthday cakes and glittery letters. “Seventeen huh? Nice. Happy birthday, babe.” The girl in the middle of the group wearing a sparkly tiara put her hands over her mouth, eyes huge, while her friends practically mobbed her. Luka chuckled and returned to his perusal of the crowd, meeting as many eyes as he could. Somewhere a group of fans screamed for Juleka and out of the corner of his eye he could see her raise a lace-gloved hand to blow them a kiss. 

Suddenly he locked eyes with a familiar sapphire gaze and the rest of the stadium disappeared. 

“Well hey there, beautiful,” he said softly, ignoring the several ladies in the line of his gaze who swooned or screamed. She knew who he was talking to, a slow smile spreading over her face. “I didn’t know you were back in Paris.” His grin widened as he took in the faces around her. “Wow, check it out Jules, looks like a bunch of old friends came to see us tonight. Awesome.” 

He tore his gaze away with effort, and looked up to the balcony. He couldn’t see faces up there as well, but he let his gaze rake across slowly before nodding. “All right. Now that we know each other, let’s get back to the music, shall we?”

The lighting crew recognized their cue, and the blinding lights were back as the stadium went dark. Luka stepped back from the mic for a moment to take a deep, centering breath, focusing on the vibrations of the stage that he could feel even through his heavy boots, the feel of his guitar in his hands, and the song he could still hear ringing in his mind even though he couldn’t see her anymore.

Then his fingers began to move, and he stepped back up to the mic.

***

They didn’t get to meet their friends that night, which was just as well as far as Luka was concerned. He wasn’t ever at his best right after a show, sweaty and sore and exhausted and he definitely didn’t want to see her looking like he’d just been run over by his tour bus. But Rose—bless beautiful, sweet, romantic Rose—Rose had his back. When Juleka wasn’t looking, Rose slipped a piece of paper in his hand that had a phone number, a time, and the name of his favorite café. “I knew you’d be free in the morning,” she whispered. “I figured you wouldn’t mind missing out on the sleep.”

“You’re the best,” he whispered back, slipping the paper in his pocket as Rose glanced anxiously at Juleka.

Marinette was already waiting outside the next morning as he walked up, looking like she’d walked straight out of his dreams. She caught sight of him and smiled, turning to face him as his heart skipped a few beats.

He was a grown-ass man and a legitimate rock star, and that smile still did things to him. 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” Luka grinned, opening his arms. “It’s been a long time.”

“Hi Luka,” Marinette smiled, coming into his arms to hug him and then rising on her toes to exchange cheek kisses. “The show last night was great.”

“It was great to have you guys there,” Luka said, letting her go and opening the café door for her. “I have to admit, I’m getting kinda sick of big shows. I miss connecting with people the way I did when I was playing smaller venues.”

“The price of being a famous rock star,” she said as he pulled out a chair for her at his usual table.

“Not that famous,” he protested, sitting down across from her.

“Pretty famous,” she grinned, leaning her elbows on the table to look up at him. 

He shrugged and grinned at the ground. “Yeah, okay, maybe.”

Marinette smiled. “I’m glad it hasn’t changed you, Luka.”

“So when did you get back in town?” Luka asked, ready to be done talking about himself. 

“Two nights ago.”

“And the first thing you did was come see my show? I’m flattered.”

“Really, I was lucky,” Marinette admitted. “The others got tickets ages ago, before I knew I would be here, but Mylene’s at that stage of pregnancy where she’s falling asleep all the time, so she gave me her ticket. I think Ivan was relieved, actually.”  

Luka picked up her hand. “Marinette, any time you want to come to a performance you know you just have to ask.”

“Says the man who’s changed his number four times in the last year,” she teased. 

Luka winced. “Yeah this whole fame thing really puts a crimp in my social life sometimes. I have a whole new appreciation for what Adrien went through in school. At least not that many people recognize me like this.” He gestured to his casual outfit, black jeans and a plain grey tshirt that were a far cry from his elaborate stage costumes and makeup. “Sometimes people recognize the hair and the ink but mostly I get left alone as long as I keep a low profile.” 

Marinette rested her chin on her hand and smiled up at him. “I like the hair. Must be cooler on stage this way, and it photographs better. Your eyes are too nice to be hidden all the time.”

“So my agent told me,” Luka sighed, running his hand over the short hair beneath the blue tinted locks falling from the top. “And you’re right, it is cooler. I like yours too,” he added, reaching out his free hand to tweak a loose strand on her shoulder. “You look good with it long. Anyway, I’m sorry about the phone thing. I’ll give you my assistant’s number before we leave, she can always put you through if I have to change it again. I don’t want to lose touch with you over something so stupid.”  He realized suddenly that she was blushing, watching his thumb move over her fingers. Fortunately the waiter approached just at that moment, giving him an excuse to let go of her hand casually. 

Luka was a regular here and he chatted easily with the staff as they came and went with water and menus, but he had a hard time keeping his eyes off Marinette. Damn, after all this time she still affected him the same way, drawing him in like a magnet. Like him, she was dressed casually, in jeans and a fitted shirt with a wide neck that left a distracting amount of her freckled shoulders and collarbone bare. She was everything he remembered, just matured, mellowed, more. He’d known in his gut that he was on a high-speed train to heartbreak the minute he’d locked eyes with her in the show.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing since you left,” Luka said as soon as the staff had left with their orders. 

“So many things,” Marinette breathed. “Luka, it was amazing, I learned so much and I got to see and do so much.”

“Tell me,” he murmured, leaning on the table, already entranced by her passion. God, he needed his guitar, he could write whole albums on the look in her eyes right now.

She brightened, pulling out a battered sketchbook. Luka moved his chair around the table to be next to her and propped his chin in his hand, letting her voice wash over him as she took him on a tour of her dreams.

“I’m not boring you, am I?” she asked suddenly, looking up at him with slightly wide eyes that reminded him of the nervous girl who’d walked into his room all those years ago.

“Not in the least,” he told her and he knew he must be giving her some kind of look because her blush spread down to her neckline. 

He was saved from doing something reckless by the arrival of their food. Clearing his throat, he moved back to his end of the table and asked about her parents. 

They talked about their families as they ate, the crazy things Anarka got up to that Luka had to bail her out of (sometimes with the police, once literally when there was a mishap on the boat), how Marinette’s parents had coped with her two-year absence, what their mutual friends had been up to. 

And she told him about the things that hadn’t been so great about her trip, the jet lag and the long hours, picking up from one city and moving on just when she’d finally gotten comfortable, the frustrations of frequently having conversations in English when it was neither conversant’s first language. 

“Every time I’d get depressed I’d feel ungrateful,” she told him, idly picking apart what was left of her food. “Like, so many people entered that competition and out of everyone they chose me to have this fantastic experience in all these different design houses, and there I was acting homesick and lonely.  And...meeting so many new people made me realize how rare and precious my true friends are...and how maybe there were some I didn’t appreciate enough.” She glanced up at him through her lashes, biting her lip, and he swallowed hard and tried to think of something to say. 

Before he could, she pushed her plate away and abruptly changed the subject. “So, when are you going to put out another calendar?” She ginned.

Luka groaned and put his face down on the table. “Please tell me you didn’t see one of those.”

“Oh I very much did,” she laughed. “If I can find it once I’m unpacked maybe you’ll sign it for me. October was my favorite, though July was probably the most...hmm...inspiring.” She laughed as he put his arms over his head, partly to cover the brilliant red that he was sure covered his neck and ears. “Luka Couffaine, are you actually embarrassed?”

“Thoroughly,” he said from beneath his arms. Sighing, he forced himself to sit up, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I try really hard to pretend that whole thing never happened, honestly. I felt like such a—“ He shook his head.

“Was it really awful?” She asked, her amusement turning to sympathy.

“I hated every minute of it,” he said bluntly. “I didn’t want to do it but a bunch of things happened at once right then and my family really needed the money. And I figured, better me than Juleka, who knows what they’d have wanted her to do and her fans are way scarier than mine.” He made a face. “Don’t tell her I said that, she’ll get all pissed at me for getting all big brothery on her.”

“I’m sorry, Luka, I didn’t know.” Marinette reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I won’t tease you about it anymore.”

“Thanks.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “October, huh? That was the black and white one, right? That one wasn’t so bad. At least it was artistic. And I got to wear actual pants.”

Marinette giggled. “And you made them look good. It was a good picture. Sexy, but soulful. And with the guitar and the ripped jeans, it felt like I was seeing you, and not a stranger who kinda looked like you, you know.”

“Thank you,” he smiled. “Honestly it wasn’t the pictures I minded so much, my agent kept the really embarrassing ones out of it and we made sure they were destroyed, just I could have lived without being treated like a doll without any feelings or dignity.” 

“Mmm, I see that a lot. A lot of designers and stylists stop seeing models as people. I guess knowing Adrien for so many years made it hard for me to think that way. The designers I was shadowing got really frustrated with me because of it.”

“Maybe I’m hopelessly optimistic but I think your way will pay off in the end.” He winked at her. “I can guarantee that if I ever have to do anything like that again, I’ll be calling you to be my stylist. If this tour weren't already under contract I’d hire you on the spot.” 

Marinette kicked him under the table. “You’re biased, Luka.”

“Always have been when it comes to you. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Luka,” she began and then hesitated. He waited patiently, though curiosity was eating him alive as she licked her lips and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Listen I know you’re really busy and your schedule’s kind of crazy and it was already super nice of you to make time to have lunch with me—“ Luka had to cover the smile tugging at his lips with his hand at this very Marinette ramble. “But I was wondering, if you might want to have dinner with me, um...as a date.” She swallowed and looked up at him and he could not believe that she thought for one second he might actually say no.

“Hell yeah,” he grinned, reaching out to take her hand. “I mean I do have to check my schedule, but I’ll make time. I’ll call you? Probably not tonight, but no later than tomorrow evening, I promise.”

His phone alarm went off in his pocket before he’d even finished speaking, and he sighed, pulling it out.

“You have to go?” Marinette smiled crookedly.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, silencing the alarm and putting his phone away. He reached across the table and took her both hands in his. “It’s been great seeing you again Marinette. I’m so glad we’ve been able to catch up.” He kissed her hands as he stood up. “I’ll call you soon, okay?” 

“Was everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Couffaine?” 

Luka turned, grasping the hand offered by the suited man behind him. “Fantastic as always, Gerard, and how many times do I have to tell you to call me Luka?” Gerard smiled under his mustache but didn’t reply. “Please let the lady have whatever she’d like for dessert on my tab, okay?” 

“Of course, Mr. Couffaine.”

Luka rolled his eyes and smiled back at a Marinette one more time with a quick wave, her own smile warming him as he turned to go.

The minute the studio's car service picked him up, his phone was in his hand.  “Lucille,” he said when his assistant picked up, hoping she couldn’t hear the idiotic grin on his face. “Yeah, I’m on my way, but have you got a few minutes? Can you run me through what my schedule looks like? I need you to free up an evening for me in the next week.”

It took more than a few minutes, and he had to cancel three meetings and move back a rehearsal, but he could not bring himself to care. 

Because when the one that got away suddenly walks back into your life and asks you out, who gives a crap about meetings?

[bumblebeug]

Felinette. Nothing Bad Ever Happens To Me Pt.3

Hey everyone! Part 3 is finally here! I went camping with my cousins this weekend and didn’t have time till now to post. Welcome to school day two in

Nothing Bad Ever Happens to Me Pt.3: Why should I care?

Felix arrives early with both map and schedule in hand, determined to learn his route perfectly – sleep be damned. The empty hallways echo with his self-assured steps. Yesterday, he had found out that while he and the student representative shared the same class, he had not been seated next to the student representative in most of his subjects. He was unsure why his homeroom went out of its way to place them together.

‘Probably so she can shepherd me from class to class.’ Felix thought with annoyance, glancing occasionally from door number to paper route. By tomorrow, he was confident that he wouldn’t need to look at the map at all for the first portion of the day. But, he walked back some of his aggravation over the seating placement, he had to admit – it wasn’t like she had babied him in any way on his first day. After each bell, she barely glanced back at him as she walked to the next period. That had suited him fine, after all, he was perfectly capable of reading and the school was fairly straightforward. It lacked the labyrinthine twists whoever the architect of his old school seemed so fond of. Yes, he was perfectly capable of doing this on his own. All he had to ask for were the notes for each subject – it would seem that this school’s curriculum was ahead of what he had been learning in his previous.  He wanted to correct this gap in knowledge as soon as possible and Marinette had readily agreed to make him copies starting from where his familiarity ended till now. Judging by her attitude, Marinette seemed to be an organized individual, so he expected that she would have everything ready for him today. He checked his watch and decided that he should head back to homeroom. A whole bookshelf sat behind him there and he wanted to peruse the titles in peace before class started.

~~

Typical, he scoffed to himself, good reading was scant. Hopefully, the library would hold more interest for him. Students began to filter in from the courtyard with the sound of the first bell and he idly watched them fill their seats. Even though the back row wouldn’t have been his first choice, he enjoyed the fact that he could observe without being easily observed himself. Also, he was pleased that the slight elevation would likely discourage visitors. Confident in his anonymity, he languorously gazed at each incoming student. Back in England, everyone had been required to wear a uniform; here, it was an explosion of colour and styles that Felix rarely saw outside of the runway.

There was a short pink girl talking animatedly, gesturing with both hands despite one being occupied with a tall goth girl’s hand who was listening with a soft expression.

There was a boy clutching a sketchbook to his chest, with a look of excitement.

There was another one bobbing his head to whatever music was flowing through his over-large headphones.

And there were the bright green eyes of Agreste looking straight into his – Felix stiffened and promptly shifted his gaze to the thermos in his lap. Maybe if he pretended like he hadn’t noticed…?

“Good morning Felix!”

Shit.

“Agreste.” He replied tersely. Of all the ways to start his second day, he let out a sigh.

“I hope you like school so far. What brings you to Paris anyways?” Adrien bounced on the balls of his feet.

How could he have so much energy so early? Felix wondered as he flipped the top of his thermos open. Tendrils of coffee leaned out and caressed his nose as he waited for it to cool.

“Not here to steal my job as Paris’ top model, I hope?” Adrien said in a strained joking tone.

Ah. There it was, Felix thought as he blew lightly, the sunshine boy was worried about his position. Felt threatened by Felix’s arrival. He was tempted to role his eyes, like actual talent would replace nepotism. Of course Agreste’s position was safe – but that didn’t mean that Felix was above making him sweat a little.

“Hmm.” Felix stalled as he took a sip of coffee and assumed a smug expression, “You never know. My reasons for coming here are my own.” And didn’t elaborate further.

“…Right” Adrien said leadingly and momentarily stopped fidgeting. A chime sounded from Adrien’s back pocket. Whatever he read caused him to perk up further. “Oh, well,” he stowed his phone away, “Maybe you’ll catch my father’s eye during Fall Fashion Week and I can put a good word in for you” He said with a breathy laugh and continued blithely, “You always did wear fall colours better than me.”

Felix’s knuckles turned white against his thermos. How dare he mock him like this? As he opened his mouth to say something cutting about  he was interrupted by the bell.

“Agreste. Take your seat – you are holding up the class.” He said as harshly as he could instead. Go away.

“Nah,” Adrien waved his hand, “Teacher’s policy. We start class a couple of minutes after the bell to let late students have a chance to get here.”

“Why should I care – ” Felix’s words died in his throat at the sight of the frazzled looking class representative running pell-mell up the stairs to their shared desk.

“Marinette!”

Said girl jumped about a meter in the air from surprise, “Adrien!”

No longer the subject of Agreste’s attention, Felix took another sip of coffee and, with a raised eyebrow, observed Marinette stutter.

Apparently Adrien could translate what she said into a comprehensible sentence faster than he could.

“Oh same old, same old. Lila is out sick today. I wanted to know if you wanted to sit at your old seat today!”

Marinette flushed a bright red and glanced at Felix much to his confusion. Why was she staring? He took a sip of coffee as he pondered. Maybe she was weighing her duty to the new student against her desire to sit with her friends. Possible. He didn’t really care either way.

Wait.

Does she resent him for taking her away from her friends by making her sit in the back? He had no clue what the seating arrangement was before he came along so he supposed it was possible. Could this be why she acted the way she did yesterday? Or was that just how she was usually? Thoughtfully, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. If she left, it would be a good opportunity to observe her without being an influence on her behaviour. Decision made, he flicked his wrist to indicate she could go if she desired. Adrien noticing the dismissal, wasted no time in grabbing her wrist and dragging her down to the second row before she could voice her own decision.

‘Interesting,’ Felix thought, ‘I wonder how – wait.’ He paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. ‘My notes!’

He groaned. Today was already shaping up to be a dud.

——-

Adrien wasn’t surprised to see that Felix was already seated, waiting for class, when he walked through the door. In all his time knowing him, he was always punctual. He was surprised, however, that when he met Felix’s gaze, Felix looked at the empty space beside him intensely. This was the first time Felix had ever given him so clear an invitation to talk. Maybe he finally wants to be friends! Adrien thought as he practically leapt from the front of the classroom to the back.

“Good morning Felix!” He exclaimed brightly, missing the quiet sigh from the other boy. “I hope you like school so far. What brings you to Paris anyways?” Adrien bounced on the balls of his feet. He knew that logically, it wasn’t so they could become better friends, it had to have something to do with modeling. A wonderful thought struck him. Maybe Felix was told to come here to become the new top model? If Felix was here to take over his duties, then maybe Father would grant him more free time.  But how to probe without arousing suspicion?

“Not here to steal my job as Paris’ top model, I hope.” Adrien joked hopefully and watched Felix closely. Please give me a hint.

He saw Felix’s smug smile as he answered, “Hmm… you never know. My reasons for being here are my own.”

Adrien could sing for joy, Felix was being coy! “…Right” and pulled out his phone from his back pocket when it chimed.

Won’t be in class today- feeling really sick. Please tell Miss Bustier for me. –Love, Lila

This morning was really shaping up to be one of the best mornings in recent memory for Adrien – if Lila was sick, that meant that Marinette could sit with everyone. Just like old times. He decided to wait for Marinette here. Distractedly, he picked his conversation with Felix back up wondering when Marinette would appear. Adrien was vaguely aware of trying to show that he supported Felix taking over his role and that there were no hard feelings.

“-You always did wear fall colours better than me.” Adrien found himself saying as he kept his eye on the door, maybe it would be better to catch her as she came in it’s the first time she’s been this late in a while…

“Agreste.” Adrien was shaken from his thoughts, “Take your seat – you are holding up class.”

“Nah, teacher’s policy. We start class a couple of minutes after the bell to let late students have a chance to get here.” So they don’t become akumatized went unsaid. After-all, there was no reason to worry Felix who was still so new to Paris with something like that. If he knew how easily someone could be akumatized, he might move away.

“Why – ” Adrien immediately tuned out the rest of the question, Marinette was running up the steps. ‘Oh, she is going to be so happy,’ Adrien thought.

“Marinette!”

She jumped about a meter upwards, “Adrien!”

‘Did she not see him standing there?’ He wondered. She attempted to say hello and ask him how he’s been doing with little success. He smiled fondly, “Oh same old, same old. Lila is out sick today. I wanted to know if you wanted to sit at your old seat today.”

Adrien watched as she glanced down at her old row fondly and then quickly to where Felix was sitting. Poor thing. She was probably conflicted over leaving Felix alone. He felt a flush of warmth – that’s why she was his Everyday Ladybug. With the exception of Lila, she always selflessly put others ahead of herself. He knew that she wouldn’t go if Felix indicated that he wanted her to stay close by. Adrien held his breath at Felix’s bored expression over Marinette’s clear anxiety. Finally, after what felt like ages, Felix gave a wave of dismissal so reminiscent of his father that Adrien had to stop himself from thanking the other boy before taking Marinette.

Today was already such a good day.

—–

Footsteps pounding on concrete, Marinette rounded the last corner – the final bell had just rung. She was disappointed in herself, she had promised that getting to school on time was going to be a problem of the past. But she had stayed up so late last night typing up as many notes as she could for Felix, that she slept through the alarms she had set.

Just because she wasn’t really ready to make a new friend didn’t mean that she was going to shirk her responsibilities as student representative. He was counting on those notes – his success depended on her right now. As she bounded up the steps, she felt relief that she wasn’t the only late one. Still, she thought worriedly, it wasn’t like Adrien to be la-“Marinette!”

“Adrien!” she yelped, unprepared for his sudden appearance and tried to compose herself, catch her breath, and ask how he was at the same time.

“Oh same old, same old. Lila is out sick today. I wanted to know if you wanted to sit at your old seat today.” He asked with a twinkle in his eye. He wanted her to sit with him them? She tried and failed to contain a blush, of course, she wanted to sit with him them! But, she thought, shoulders sagging slightly, she wasn’t sure. It seemed every time she tried to re-connect an argument would break out where she’d be the bad guy. Plus, she needed to give Felix the notes he asked for – and found herself being tugged down the steps before she could decline the offer.

Today was already not going to plan.

——

1950′s announcer voice: Ah, when will people ask Marinette what she wants? Why is Felix in Paris if not for taking Adrien’s role. Is Lila actually sick? Find out the answers to some of those questions in Part 4! (audience cheers)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4 

Part 5

[themalhambird]

50. “Why does anyone have to be naked?” for Richard and Bolingbroke? That prompt seemed very "them" when I read it.

“Why is everyone naked in this? Why does anyone have to be naked?”

Richard barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes as Henry flips through his sketchbook. “It’s not my fault classical statues are scarcely ever more than scantily dressed,” he says, “and I didn’t say you could look, anyway.” He makes a grab for it. Henry dances out of holds out of reach, still perusing the pages. Richard scowls, hands itching to take back his stuff, or possibly to punch Henry in the face.

“But why draw a bunch of naked statues?” Henry persists, and Richard wants to scream.

“Because my teacher suggested it! Because our topic at the moment is myths and legends, and because I happen to like looking at statues of naked people now will you please-!” He makes another grab for his sketchbook, and Henry throws it down on the bed. Richard picks it up and cradles it protectively, still scowling.

“My dad says that art is a waste of an a-level.” Henry says. Richard’s scowl deepens.

“I’m well aware. My mum says that if your dad’s going to insist on me doing three a-levels I hate then I should get the fourth one to enjoy myself with. Anyway, art’s a waste of an a-level? What about music?”

It’s Henry’s  turn to scowl. Incapable of forming a response, he stalks off and leaves Richard in peace. Richard sighs with still lingering annoyance, opens his sketchbook where he left off, and tries to recapture his train of thought.

[justlookfrightened]

The Sting of Love

From @thesaltqueen​: Not really an prompt but a timeless classic au: flower shop/tattoo artist

This is more beekeeper Jack and tattoo business owner Bitty -- I hope you like it anyway!

Jack couldn’t help but sneak peeks at the man standing in front of his booth, perusing the jars of honey, then burying his nose in the vases of echinacea he’d put out this week.

It was his mother’s idea to sell the flowers along with his honey at the market.

“At the very least, it will add some color to the booth,” she said.

Jack wasn’t sure he should really be selling flowers that you could pick wild in a lot of places, but they were pretty, and there were more than anyone could ever need in his gardens. So he kept the prices of the flowers low, and often threw in a bunch for free if someone bought more than one jar of honey.

It was all in the name of educating people, he decided. If he could get more people to grow bee-friendly flowers in their own gardens, so much the better for everyone.

The man who was looking at the honey had been in the market before; Jack had noticed him looking at the table. He had honey-blond hair (really -- it would almost exactly match the light amber of his blueberry honey, although he wouldn’t have any more of that until later in the year) and deep brown eyes.

There were tattoos on his arms, and on his lower legs, and Jack had almost followed him to get a closer look one week. He’d never bought anything, or lingered this long before.

Jack turned back from the display hive he was packing up to take home to find the man looking at him.

“Can I help you?” Jack said.

The tattoos on his arms were plants, Jack could see now. A branch of a lemon tree on one forearm, a delicately colored lavender spring on the other. And there points of more leaves poking above the neckline of the man’s black T-shirt.

“How much for two jars of the this honey?” the man said.

“They’re $15 each, or $25 for two,” Jack said. “And if you buy two, you can take that bunch of coneflowers as well.”

“I couldn’t do that,” the man said. “They’re marked at $10.”

“Sure you can,” Jack said. “I really just bring them to make the booth look better, and I’m closing up soon anyway.”

“If you insist,” the man said, sliding a debit card across the table.

“What you’re buying there is wildflower honey,” Jack said, trying to keep conversation going. “Later in the season, after we take the bees to pollinate different crops, we’ll have blueberry honey and apple honey.”

“Good to know,” the man said. “Too bad we’re so far north. Peach honey is something special.”

Jack looked at the card after he ran it through the machine.

“I’m sure it is, Mr. Bittle,” he said. He wondered if the man was from Georgia, between the drawl and the talk of peaches.

“Mister -- I’d say Mr. Bittle is my dad, but no one ever called him that either,” the man said. “My friends call me Bitty.”

“I’m Jack.”

After that day, Jack saw Bitty at almost every market day. He didn’t buy honey every time -- how could he, after buying three pounds the first day? -- but he always stopped to chat, and often took home a bunch of flowers.

Jack took took to making up special bunches combining some of his favorite summer flowers: yarrow and bachelor buttons, ox-eye daisies and cosmos, sage and hyssop. He kept them separate from the flowers he had for sale until later in the day, when the man -- Bitty -- came to the market.

He never marked them with a price, and usually tried to give them to Bitty. It wasn’t hurting Jack any to give them away -- bees and the honey they made were his main business -- and they seemed to make Bitty happy.

Not that he wasn’t happy anyway. Bitty usually had a smile for everyone, and he talked with several of the vendors and other customers as he wandered among the stalls. He was always alone, too, which pleased Jack, even though it shouldn’t. Why should he want his favorite customer to be lonely?

Then he appeared one day with someone else, an Asian woman even smaller than him, and even more covered in ink. They weren’t holding hands or anything, but the way they laughed and talked made it clear they were close. Maybe Bitty was taking the flowers Jack gave him (that he tried to buy) and giving them to her? Well, even if he was, Jack couldn’t really complain. Why shouldn’t Bitty try to make his … person he was close to happy?

Jack’s suspicions were confirmed when Bitty led the woman to his stall.

“This is Jack,” he said. “He always has these gorgeous flowers, and he’s the one who makes the honey.”

“No,” Jack said.

“No?” The woman raised a pierced eyebrow in his direction.

“I don’t make the honey,” Jack explained. “I harvest it, but the bees make it.”

She nodded, and said, “Can I look at your hive there?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “That’s why I bring it.”

“Jack,” Bitty said. “This is Lardo, my partner.”

Jack’s heart sank an inch or two further -- as though he needed further confirmation of their relationship -- while his mind caught on the name.

“Lardo?” he said stupidly.

“Nickname,” Lardo said, without looking up from where she was studying the hive. “This is really cool,” she said. “I could make some interesting things out of this.”

What?

“The hive’s not for sale,” Jack said.

“No,” Lardo said. “I was thinking designs. Drawing it? The honeycomb pattern, and the way the bees look.”

“Lardo’s a tattoo artist,” Bitty said. “She designed everything I have on me, and most of what’s on her.”

Bitty seemed to be standing straighter, almost preening, so Jack could see the tattoos that weren’t covered by clothes. It might be as close as Jack ever got to touching Bitty, and he let his eyes wander and linger.

Nearly all of the art was botanical, he realized, and most of it had to do with plants that were food sources: the lemon and lavender, of course, and a band of rosemary around his bicep.

There was a new one, on his left arm, an intricately detailed coneflower. Jack wondered if it was based on the first flowers he had given Bitty.

The tattoo on his right ankle was different. Silhouettes of a figure skater, male, captured in stop-motion as he moved through a jump, circled the ankle.

“Did you skate?” Jack asked.

The question seemed to startle Bitty, until he followed Jack’s eyes down his own leg.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. That was the first design Lardo did for me, when we were in college and I was talking about how much I missed it.”

“I know what you mean,” Jack said. Because while he didn’t regret leaving the hockey world behind -- the stress and anxiety were not good for him -- he missed the feeling of gliding across the rink, the scrape of his blades on ice, even the chemical tang of the air.

“You skated?” Bitty asked.

“I played hockey,” Jack said.

“Seems like a big jump,” Bitty said, “from hockey to beekeeping.”

“Let’s just say after some of the checks I took a couple of little stings didn’t scare me,” Jack said.

“If you say so,” Bitty said.

Lardo straightened up and said, “Do you have a card? Can I call you and maybe come out and make some sketches when you’re not busy here?”

“Uh, sure,” Jack said. “Right here.”

He handed her a card from the stack on the table, then remembered his manners. It wasn’t like Bitty had betrayed him by having a partner, after all.

“Did you want to take some flowers home?” he said, picking up the bunch he’d made especially for Bitty that morning.

Bitty gave Jack his sunniest smile and said, “Of course. They’re lovely. How much do I owe you?”

“No charge,” Jack said. “I’m closing up soon anyway.”

Two days later, Lardo called, and three days later she was in the barn on his property, working away with a sketchbook and pencils. She came to find Jack in the honey room before she left.

“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know if you have any ink, but if you wanted one, I’m sure Bitty would be happy to do it on the house.”

“Ink?” Jack said. “You mean a tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Lardo said. “Maybe something like a bee, or a bit of honeycomb. Or some of those flowers you keep giving Bits.”

Jack shrugged.

“I can’t say I’ve ever really thought about it,” he said. “Does Bitty -- does he also work with you?”

“Chyeah,” Lardo said. “We own the tattoo parlor on Park together. I make most of the designs, but he can follow a stencil well enough. And he handles a lot of the business stuff. He’s much better at making the customers feel comfortable than me. Especially the newbies.”

“LIke me?” Jack said.

“I guess,” Lardo said. “Look, I probably shouldn’t say anything, but he really likes you, y’know?”

“Okay,” Jack said.  “I like him too. He’s a real nice guy.”

“Right,” Lardo said, and sighed. “A nice guy. That’s all you’ve noticed about him? Because the first time he came back with honey, he went on and on about how blue your eyes were and how broad your shoulders were and … well, you get it. Then with the flowers and everything, I thought he’d be planning a wedding by the end of the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said.

“No need to apologize, dude,” Lardo said. “But if you aren’t interested, maybe stop with the flowers and the flirting? It’s mean to string him along.”

“I haven’t been flirting,” Jack said. “Wait, you two aren’t married already?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Lardo said. “First, I saw you at the market this week. If you look up flirting in the dictionary, they have a video of that. The way you looked at him. And no, we’re not married. Bitty doesn’t date women, and even if he did, he’s not my type anyway.”

“But he said you were partners?”

“Business partners. You thought, like romantic partners?”

And then Lardo might have been laughing at him, but Jack couldn’t help laughing too. Bitty was single, and even better, Bitty liked him.

“Here, let me give you his number,” Lardo said. “I promise he’ll be happy to hear from you.”

The next market day, Bitty stayed and helped Jack pack up his stall, waiting for him to get coffee and have a proper date.

Jack learned that Bitty had always assumed he would be some kind of a baker, and still loved baking and food of all sorts, but found it easier to make a living in the tattoo industry.

“I’m not a real artist,” he said. “Lardo is. But I’m good at the easier stuff, and she gets bored with that.”

Jack explained that he took up beekeeping as a hobby after a near-disastrous overdose and stint in rehab, and Bitty did not flinch away. He talked about how the company of the bees soothed him, and the time outdoors quieted his mind.

It was near dark by the time he got home.

Bitty stayed late again the next week, and this time rode home with Jack, preparing dinner in Jack’s kitchen and chirping him about his lack of cooking supplies.

“Except honey,” Bitty said. “There’s plenty of honey.”

The honey peach pie Bitty brought drew an indecent groan from Jack, which drew a hooded, smoldering look from Bitty. It may have led directly to Jack seeing Bitty for the first time without a shirt, tracing his fingers and then his tongue over the tattoos he hadn’t seen before, nibbling at the peach that hung from a branch right over Bitty’s heart.

“Because you’re from Georgia?” Jack asked, looking up.

“And I don’t really go home,” Bitty said.

Jack filed that away to ask more later.

A month later, Jack found himself on Lardo’s bench, Bitty holding his hand. Lardo was inking his first tattoo -- two tiny bees on piece of honeycomb -- on the back of his left shoulder. He had just watched Lardo ink the same design into Bitty’s skin.

“Are you coming home to mine tonight?” Jack asked, when she was applying plastic wrap over the area.

“Of course,” Bitty said. “There’s a new honey pie I want to make.”

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 3/?)

In which there is much ado about camping.

(Chapter length: 9k. Link to ao3 version)

“Ugh. How long does this river go on for?” Rayla groaned, in the tones of a rhetorical question, as she slumped somewhat dramatically all over their bags, her flower-crown lopsided, but held conveniently in place by her horns. And, whether or not she expected a response, Callum found himself thinking of an answer. Pensive, he sat down and brought out his sketchbook, holding it with particular care to avoid the risk of losing it overboard. He flipped through to the map he’d drawn, and inspected the line he’d sketched for the Lune, raising charcoal to trace along the edge of it.

He had a good memory for anything he saw. When his instructors had figured that out, his cartography talents had soared, and it served him pretty well now. Callum drew along the river in a little more detail, mapping out a little circle, and then shuffled over to show it to Rayla. She eyed him, looking vaguely taken-aback by his sudden manifestation at her side with a sketchbook.

“Look, see?” He pointed out the line. “This is the Lune. And the Lodge is there. If we keep going along this river, we’ll get to a small lake - it’s called Kalsa. And if you follow the river out of there, you get to the town of Kalsanis.”

Rayla glanced at the map, and pushed herself up a little, somewhat more alert. “So, your point is…?”

“The river goes through Kalsanis. So, we should ditch the boat a while before that, since we don’t want to be seen in the town, right?”

Understanding dawned in her eyes with an accompanying spark of relief. “You’re saying that once we get to this lake, we won’t have much longer on this thing.”

Callum nodded, lips quirking upwards, and drew in a little dot on the map for Kalsanis. “Pretty much, yeah.” Ezran, who had been sitting with one hand in his bag on the egg for a while now, opened his eyes and looked up at them, curious. He was the only one of them without a flower crown now, since Bait had eaten his about half an hour ago.

“Thank goodness.” Rayla sighed, head falling back onto the boat seat behind her. “So, how far away is the lake?”

“Er.” He frowned down at his map, and then shrugged sheepishly. “Don’t know, sorry. It’s hard to judge how far along the river we are, without any landmarks or anything.” She groaned, so he hastened to add “I’m pretty sure there’s a tributary that flows into the Lune around, er, here?” He traced it onto the map, around three-quarters of the way between the lodge and Kalsa. “So once we pass by that, it’ll be easier to tell.”

She raised her head to inspect the new mark, and then looked up at the sky again. “…It’s getting late-ish in the afternoon now. If we don’t pass this ‘landmark’ in an hour or two, we stop for the night.” She seemed decidedly relieved at the thought.

Ezran perked right up at that, foot tapping excitedly. “Ooh, does that mean we’re gonna put up the tent?” He asked, eager, and leaned forwards to await her answer.

“Uh…” Rayla looked a little bemused at his enthusiasm. “Well, maybe. It depends. The humans I took the boat from will probably have sent out messages about it. If there’s any towns or roads nearby, not sure it would be safe to put the tent up.” She glanced questioningly at Callum.

“Kalsanis is the closest town, and that does have a direct connection to the road to the capital.” He said, pointing out the large line he’d already drawn for the capital’s road. “But this part of the river sorta – bends around quite a long way? So if we do stop at, or before, the tributary – we’ll be pretty far from any roads, and still a long way from Kalsanis too.”

Rayla narrowed her eyes, glancing indecisively between Ezran’s pleading eyes and the map, and sighed. “Alright, we’ll put up the tent.”

Ezran punched the air triumphantly. “Yes!” She watched his enthusiasm and smiled, in a reluctant sort of way, as if she’d been trying to keep the smile contained.

“Why are you so excited about a tent?” She asked, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“It’s like camping!” He tried to explain, waving at Callum as if to get a supporting statement that it was, indeed, like camping. “Before we were just kinda, sleeping on the ground outside? And that’s not really fun, that’s just uncomfortable. And the grass is always wet in the morning. But if you have a tent it’s like you’re camping!”

“So if you add a tent, it’s suddenly fun.” Rayla said questioningly, raising an eyebrow. She glanced at Callum as well, as if waiting for an explanation.

“Probably my fault.” Callum admitted with a laugh. “I used to read him stories, and there was one with this family that went on a camping trip, and they met some wolves – anyway, Ez went through a bit of a camping obsession. Made blanket tents in our bedroom. Kept trying to sneak into the forest to camp.”

Ezran fixed him with a grumpier expression at that, but didn’t try to deny any of it. Rayla laughed, a somewhat surprising sound after how long she’d spent as an unhappy and nauseated ragdoll at the bottom of the boat. “Well, I’m glad you’re excited.” She said, plainly amused, and pushed herself up to sit cross-legged. “I’m sure the novelty will wear off after the first few times, so enjoy it while it lasts – I’ve still got to figure out how these human tents work, anyway.”

That roused his curiosity, and he settled into the bottom of the boat next to her. “So what, are elf tents different?”

She reached out and patted the tent pack, as if to demonstrate. “The material certainly is. Haven’t had a chance to get it all out and look properly, but seems like leather. My tent used a different kind of fabric. And this one’ll be bigger, too.”

“You had your own tent?” Ezran asked, eyes practically sparkling, and he pulled Bait into his lap to listen.

Rayla smiled, just a little awkwardly. “Well, yeah. All of – all of us in the team had our own. They weren’t big, but we had them to ourselves, at least.” She shook her head and quickly changed the subject. “Ours is made for soldiers to share, so it’ll be bigger than mine was. Not sure how much. I think it’ll probably be a two-person tent.” She made a face. “Might be a bit of a squeeze.”

Callum shared a look with Ez and shrugged. “Eh, it’ll probably be fine. Ez is only ten, and it’s not like either of us are full-grown soldier-size either.”

“Suppose.” She sighed, and looked at the tent pack again. “We’ll find out later, I’m sure.”

“Guess so.” Callum said, and after a second, flipped the page of his sketchbook back to the in-progress dragon egg and resumed drawing. He had to pass the time somehow, after all, and he already had his book open.

Rayla’s eyes went to the drawing and stayed there, but she didn’t comment. She didn’t look away either, though, and sort of…settled in, gaze laying idly on the page, watching him draw. It prompted a mild prickle of discomfort along his spine – Callum was by now completely unselfconscious about drawing in front of Ez, and didn’t mind other people watching him draw, but it still wasn’t completely comfortable either. He didn’t really feel the need to object, though, and he was the one who’d started drawing right next to her, so.

He ignored the minor flutter of self-consciousness and settled in for a good, long, careful study of his memory of the egg.

  As it happened, they didn’t reach the tributary in the approximately two hours specified. Rayla seemed a little less wrecked by the boating than earlier in the day, and pretty much just sat watching him draw the whole time – and while he wasn’t sure if those two things might be related, he wasn’t going to ask, either.

After a while, when Callum was putting the final touches on the egg drawing with shadows and a sense of a glow around it, Rayla looked up at the sky and said “We’d best be looking for a good spot to stop.”

“Really?” Ezran asked, looking up from the egg-bag he’d had his hands sitting in silently for like an entire hour. He was a funny kid like that. “Isn’t it still kind of early?”

“Sun will be starting to go down soon.” Rayla said, blinking at the horizon with a sort of narrow-eyed focus. “And while I don’t mind doing camp-things in the dark, I’ve been told you humans don’t see too well at night-time.”

Ez considered that, and nodded. “You were told correctly.” He informed her solemnly. “Are we going to make a campfire?”

“We most certainly are.” She confirmed, and scanned the river banks. After about ten minutes of looking while they drifted placidly downriver, she identified a shallow-looking silty bank next to a small grassy clearing at the forest’s edge, and directed them to get the boat over to it.

Callum and Ezran obediently stepped up to the oars and manoeuvred them over, with some effort. The river was quite wide and fast here, after all. Once they got into the shallows it was easier, and Rayla jumped overboard with the rope to lodge it in the ground with one of her weapons, as before. “Should probably find some sort of stick to hold it instead, really.” She commented, as they began the process of unloading all the bags (and the bunch of cattails) from the boat. She wandered over to the nearest tree and perused the various twigs underneath it until she found a piece of wood that seemed to satisfy her, and brought the fallen branch over to tie the boat down properly.

“So, what now?” Callum asked, settling the last of their bags in a pile a short distance from Rayla’s boat-tether, which she was even now beating into the ground with the sheathed form of one of her weapons.

She stood, hanging the weapon at her side. “Now, we figure out this tent.” She announced, and strode forwards to sweep the tent pack from the ground.

“Yessss.” Ezran cheered, quietly, and skipped up to watch her from close range. Callum stood nearby, watching, uncertain if she’d want any help or not.

The first stage of figuring out the tent, apparently, was to upend the contents of the tent pack onto the ground. There was a large folded leather-looking thing, dark brown in colour, and another large folded thing that seemed more like treated cotton, like Callum’s light travel cloak. A pouch about as long as his forearm also fell out, tied with a drawstring at the top, and then some weird looking metal rods. This last thing apparently caused Rayla great interest, because she picked one up at once, revealing that they were sort of….thin, hollow metal poles with a string running through the middle, which meant as she picked up the first part a load of other sections trailed after it.

“Now that’s different.” She said, intrigued, and backed off to pull the thing out to its full length. Experimentally, she reached out and took two of the sections, pressing them together at the ends, and managed to slot the second into the first with very little difficulty. “Huh.”

“…Different to what?” Callum ventured to ask, made curious by her own clear fascination, and Ezran peered forwards to look at the trailing metal segments, backing away a little when Rayla matter-of-factly started slotting each section into the whole.

“To what I’m used to. These? Are tent poles. They make the sort of…bones of the tent. Hold the shape up. Moonshadow elves have ways of making things that retract and extend, so our tent poles just sort of collapsed into themselves when we packed them up – but this is a pretty good solution too.” She explained, working her way along the tent pole until she had a large and fairly solid-looking metal rod, maybe a centimetre wide at any given part, and lightly curved along its length. She set it down and picked up the next one, setting about assembling that one too.

“That’s neat.” Ezran said, clearly thriving with all of this exciting tent-construction going on in front of him. “Can I try?”

Rayla smiled at him, expression open and easy, and gestured at the poles still on the ground. “Feel free.”

After a moment of watching Ezran work at his, Callum knelt down to have a go on the fourth pole, which seemed to be the last. It was easy to slot the pieces into each other – the metal seemed slightly rusty at the edges of each section, and a bit dented in places, but in relatively good condition. The sections seemed to each have a deliberate curve to them, characterised by a mild bend in two places along each. “This is the last one, I think,” he said as he finished, setting it on the ground next to the others.

Rayla hummed thoughtfully and lined them up next to each other. There seemed to be two different lengths, with two being a fair bit longer than the other two. She bent and investigated the drawstring pouch next, opening it with interest, and grinned at what she found inside. “Now that’s good to see.” She said, pulling one of the items inside out. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at. It didn’t seem like another tent pole – it was too short, maybe only a hand and a half in length, and hooked at the end.

“What is it?” Ez asked, and took it from her when she held it out for him, looking over it with interest. Most of its length seemed sort of dull, and even had a light layer of dry dirt on it in some places.

“Tent peg.” She answered, dropping the pouch lightly back on the ground. “Keeps the tent grounded if there’s wind, or if you’re on a slope, or loose earth. The tent probably has lines at the edges to put them through.” She picked up the big leather folded bundle now, and stepped back gratuitously, clearing a good amount of space before she started unfolding it.

It became very clear, very quickly, why the tent pack had been so heavy. The full unfolded thing was big, and vaguely rectangular – a good couple metres long on the longer sides, at least. Rayla straightened it all out and walked around it, kneeling to inspect and pull at certain parts, of which there were a lot. All around the edges there were leather loops, and there were reinforced leather strips hanging off in places too, each with their own loops on the end. In one section, there seemed to be a large semi-circular flap secured in place by a number of wooden toggles. And, peculiarly, there seemed to be…tubes, sort of, sewn all along the tent material, two running cross-wise from nearly corner to corner, and one each straight across the width near either end.

Callum bent down to poke his finger into one of them, peering at it. He inspected it for a second, then looked at the tent poles on the ground, and guessed “Are these for the poles?”

“Seems that way.” Rayla agreed, looking satisfied with the state of affairs. “Pass me a pole, would you? One of the longer ones.” Ezran pushed one of them over and Callum conveyed it to Rayla, who took one end and started pushing it carefully into one of the diagonally-running tubes, pausing occasionally to reach over and un-crease the leather, or get the pole unstuck. Once that one was done, she repeated the process with the other cross-ways pole, and then the two on either end of the tent.

“Now what?” Ezran inquired, fascinated, and Callum had to admit to being curious too. While the poles had been lightly curved, and they did arch the tent and give it very slight shape while flat on the ground, it still looked more like a flat rectangle of leather than an actual tent.

Rayla surveyed the shape of it thoughtfully, and beckoned Callum over. “I’ll need your help for this, I think. Grab the other end of this one, would you? And brace it against the ground.”

“Er.” He pressed the end of the tent pole uncertainly against the soil. “Like that?”

She sighed at him. “It’ll do. Just hold it steady while I try to-“ She braced her own end against the ground, and – he wasn’t completely sure what she did then, maybe pushed up on the pole? – but the whole thing sort of arched outwards in a way that seemed like it should have bent the pole horribly, in an astonishingly sudden movement.

“Whoa!” Ez said, flinching back reflexively. Callum, who was much closer to the tent, recoiled similarly, finding half of a tent structure suddenly up in front of him.

Rayla jumped clean over the tent to land next to Callum, showing him a part near the end of the pole which he apparently needed to – click in, or something? It took a surprising amount of force to get it to go, he really needed to push at it, but she seemed satisfied enough once he’d done it.

“Now the next one.” Rayla directed, pointing him over to the other diagonal pole, and he did as he was told. It did the outwards-contorting thing as readily as the first one, but unfortunately, Callum did not manage to secure the clicky-bit at the end properly and it collapsed a second later.

“Sorry!” He called, and she rolled her eyes.

“Just try it again.”

In the end, it took a few missteps and a bit of practice, but he and Rayla (mostly Rayla, really) got all four of the poles arching properly, and all at once their tent actually looked like a tent. It was surprisingly satisfying to stand back and look at it – Rayla was giving it an appraising once-over while Ezran scurried around inspecting every corner delightedly, like she was marking all the various dangly bits and the loops all over the bottom.

“What are you thinking?” He asked, curiously, and she snapped out of her briefly-held reverie.

“How the inner-tent is going to work, mostly.” She said, and then stepped around to where the front seemed to be, unhooking the several toggles around the edge that held the ‘door’ in place. “These are going to be a pain to hook up from inside.” She commented, as she went, the front ‘door’ of the tent flapping out limply onto the ground as she dropped it.

“I’ll…take your word for it.” Callum said, shuffling forwards to look as Rayla crouched and went into the tent.

“Huh.” She expressed, a second later, with a sort of bemused surprise, and he peered in at her.

“Is something wrong with it?” Ez asked immediately, waiting with bated breath. She looked out, an odd look on her face, and shook her head.

She ducked out of the tent and went to get the other material part, picking it up to inspect the edges. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why do you seem all…surprised?” Callum prodded, raising an eyebrow.

“Probably because I am, in fact, surprised.” She said, with a dry edge of sarcasm, and pulled the remaining bit of tent inside the main bit. “Give me a minute, will you?”

Callum shrugged. “O-kay.” He stepped over to Ez and sat down, watching with his brother as Rayla ducked around here and there inside the tent, seeming to….hang the inner bit around the insides of the outer bit? It definitely seemed to be suspended in there, somehow, maybe from some sort of hook or toggle?

Eventually, she seemed done, and ducked back out of the tent again, straightening up. She surveyed the whole thing from outside again, still with that strange look on her face, and then ducked in to open what was, apparently, a second door-flap on the inner part. That complete, she backed up, and planted herself on the ground next to Callum, staring into the interior of the tent with an almost comical nonplussed expression.

Ez leant forwards to look in, foot bouncing with excitement. “Is it done now?” He asked, eager. “Can I go in?”

“….Yeah. Yeah, it’s done.” Rayla confirmed after a minute, and shook her head slowly. “Just – if you’re going in, take your shoes off, alright? We don’t want to get our inner-tent all muddy.”

Ezran immediately set to work pulling off his shoes faster than Callum had ever seen him accomplish before, staggering into the tent with a hilarious amount of enthusiasm to sit inside, lay down, and roll around the interior with delight. Callum huffed with amusement, and then glanced at Rayla, who…still looked like she’d swallowed a lemon, or something.

He folded his arms. “Okay, what is with that look on your face? Does the tent smell bad or something?”

“Smells fine to me.” Ez reported happily from inside. Making a series of doubtful croaks, Bait hopped up to the tent and stared inside.

Rayla huffed, and shook her head again. “No. It’s just…a pretty decent tent. The poles work well, it’s got a full inner-tent instead of just a ground-sheet, it has storm-lines and a full set of pegs…it’s a good design.”

Callum blinked at her. “And…that’s surprising, why?”

She shrugged, looking vaguely sheepish; the first time he’d seen such an expression on her. “Suppose I just didn’t expect humans to make things as well as elves do.” She admitted, folding her own arms as if to defend herself from rebuttal.

Ezran poked his head out and offered her an unimpressed look. “Well, that’s not very nice.” He told her, though he sounded very mild about it.

“It’s…maybe true, though?” Rayla suggested, pulling one of her weapons from her side to demonstrate. It clicked out into blade-form with an easy motion. “See this? These are made magically. The blades are longer than should be able to fit in the handle, but they all fit together anyway. And you must have heard of Sunforged weaponry.”

Callum frowned. “I think so? Maybe?”

“Not me.” Ez reported, beckoning Bait towards him. After some very dubious looks, the glow toad obligingly hopped into the mouth of the tent, and then again into the internal section.

“Well, anyway…” Still looking somewhere on the verge of embarrassed, Rayla shrugged. “Humans definitely can’t use magic to make things, right? Unless it’s dark magic.” She scowled at that, as if newly reminded of how much she disliked the idea of it.

Callum narrowed his eyes at her, arms still firmly crossed. “Well, I bet you don’t make everything with magic, right? Are elf tents magical?”

“…Not that I know of.” She conceded, flipping her sword away.

“Then why shouldn’t humans be able to make non-magic things as well as elves?” He demanded, a little more insistently. He wasn’t…annoyed, exactly, but…it still felt important to point out. Defending the honour of his species, maybe.

She looked away. “…No reason, really.” She admitted, with a small sigh. “Guess humans aren’t the only ones who have wrong ideas about the other side.”

He eyed her, just a little suspiciously, but felt considerably mollified now that she’d admitted it. He let his arms drop, and offered a conciliatory smile. “Well, it’s a whole lot less insulting than thinking the other side drinks blood, so I can’t really hold it against you.”

She snorted with laughter, very abruptly, and the mild tension broke in a second. “Well, that’s certainly true.” She chuckled at that, and stood up, moving forwards to the tent. “So: I admit it. Humans can put a good tent together. This journey might not be so bad after all.” She looked in, and made a slight face. “…Though it is a tad small.”

Callum blinked, and shuffled over to poke his head in properly. With Ezran and Bait in there, it was easier to see that…yeah, actually, it was a bit cramped-looking. The tent seemed deceptively large on the outside, but that was just the outer-part. The inner section was quite a lot smaller. “…Eh, we’ll manage.” He predicted, semi-confidently. “Better than sleeping outside anyway. We get a lot of rain in Katolis in springtime. Storms, too.”

“A lot of storms.” Ezran emphasised, and he would know, given how thunder always woke him up.

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.” She stood to run a hand along the material of the outer tent. “This leather has been treated. Should be pretty good against rain. The inside…” She felt at that, now, looking uncertain.

Callum checked it himself. “Feels a bit like my travel cloak.” He said, after a moment. “It’s probably rain-resistant, at least.” He stepped back and inspected the whole of the tent critically. It looked….well, it looked like a tent. He wasn’t exactly an expert. But Rayla said it was a good tent, and she probably had a lot of experience with them at this point, so he was inclined to believe her. “What are those….long dangly strap things, all over it?” He asked, reaching out to flap one of them around. They were sewn, very firmly and securely, to near the roof of the tent, and seemed exceptionally long.

“Storm lines.” Rayla said, stepping over to point out the loop at the bottom end. “Extra place to put more tent pegs if it’s windy, basically ties the tent to the ground. Elves use ropes instead of these long straps. Makes it easier to repair if they break. But these are probably fine.” She then tutted, and went to gather the strap up, looping it in on itself and tying it quickly. “Whoever put this away last time was lazy. You’re meant to tie them up.”

Ezran poked his head out curiously. “Should we be using any of the pegs today? Or is it bad-weather only?”

“Usually a good idea to have a few in. Come on out and I’ll show you how you’re meant to do them.” She smiled at him, and he hurried to put on his shoes and come out for the demonstration. Callum watched with his own small smile as she walked Ez through the proper way to do it – at an angle, apparently, with the hook part of the peg kicked into the ground at the end. And all of this, done while still wearing her flower-crown.

She was good with Ez. Patient, happy to show him how to do things, seemed to like him. It went a long way towards warming him to her.

He watched as she tied up the storm-lines and Ez went around putting in every tent peg he could, full of eagerness for the novelty of it, and found himself feeling unusually optimistic about this whole trip. It was a long way, yeah, and would probably be stupidly hard at times, and maybe they’d all be grumpy whenever the weather was bad….and, yeah, Rayla was an elf, which would have been a deal-breaker a few days ago….but, all at once, he really felt like it could all work out. Like maybe they could take this long journey together and get the egg to Xadia without arguing every step of the way, or getting to hate each other, or getting completely sick of the whole thing.

Callum usually tended to overthink and worry too much about everything, so the sudden optimism was a nice change.

He reached up to absent-mindedly straighten his own flower crown, and went to go pull the rest of the bags over to the tent. He could be wrong, but he was fairly sure that the reasonably large space between the outer-tent and inner-tent would be a better place to keep them than by the river. Ez would probably take the egg inside the tent with him to sleep, anyway.

Though she’d been amused at Ezran’s enthusiasm for something as simple as assembling a tent, as the evening went on, Rayla couldn’t help but start to enjoy the process of camp-making herself. Maybe it was just because Ezran was so excited about all of it, or because it was obviously completely new to Callum too, but either way their simple enthusiasm was unexpectedly contagious. She couldn’t help but laugh as the two of them, plus Bait, crowded around the quickly-constructed campfire to watch her demonstrate the use of the spark-rocks.

Making a campfire wasn’t exactly difficult, when you were in a forest and it hadn’t rained for a couple of days. All she needed to do was gather up some twigs and dead leaves, and a few larger bits of rotten wood, and they were good to go. She built it closer to the river and a good distance from the tent through long experience – she’d been taught to never leave anything flammable that you didn’t mind catching fire within a few metres of a campfire, and intended to hold to that teaching.

The sun was dipping low now, with the sky bleeding the clouds into an attractive blend of pinks and pale yellows. And, as much as she hated water, she could appreciate the way the river reflected those colours as she bent over the firewood, spark-rocks in hand.

The first spray of sparks drew a chorus of appreciative ‘oooh’s from her human audience, and caught on one of the dry leaves. She struck them again, and once more for good measure, and then bent to gently breathe life into the fragile embers.

“And that’s all there is to it.” She announced, a little more grandly than was necessary, sitting back to gesture at the fire. “It’ll burn merrily once it takes off properly. We’ll keep adding wood, and that’s that.”

Ezran applauded politely, little hands clapping, and shuffled closer to the fire. “What happens if it rains?”

“Then you lose your fire. If there’s no shelter.” She smiled and went to go root about in the group’s bags while the princes watched the growing flames, picking out the bits she needed as she found them. Jar of greens, yes. Cooking pot, yes. Waterskin, also yes. She located the now-wilting cattails and brought those with her as well, balancing the lot on her arm as she walked back to rejoin the boys.

“Oh, the green stuff.” Ezran noted, blinking curiously up at her as she settled beside the fire, laying everything out, and uncapping the jar. “How are you going to cook it?”

“Just by boiling it, I’m afraid.” Rayla said, apologetically, and they both….didn’t seem to have that much reaction to that. Hm. Did they just….not have any experience with what was done to food to make it taste good? She had no idea how human princes grew up. “It’ll be a bit bland. No spices. But I found some rosemary at least, which’ll give a bit of flavour.”

“Well, at least it’s not more fruit.” Callum said pragmatically, shuffling over to inspect the various bits of greenery she extracted. It was a bit of an eclectic mix, admittedly. Burdock, chicory, cattails, sheep sorrel, and dandelion didn’t really share much of a taste profile other than ‘green’, or maybe ‘leafy’. Some of it was pretty bitter too, which didn’t help.

“I like fruit.” Ez said, frowning, and Callum shook his head at him.

“Fruit tastes good, but it doesn’t really fill you up that well. I’ve been feeling a bit weird after eating nothing but fruit for days.” He pointed out, reasonably, and Rayla glanced at him sharply.

“Weird?” She repeated, eyes narrowing, and stared at him expectantly. “Weird how?”

“Er.” He looked at her, taken-aback. “You know, sort of…jittery? Like when you’ve eaten nothing but sugar all day and you need to find a sandwich, or something.”

She filed away the word ‘sandwich’ to investigate later, and focused on the important thing, which was that she now had confirmation that humans probably weren’t meant to live on fruit alone. She’d guessed, based on how she knew humans ate meat and ‘bread’ and other non-fruit things, but it’s not like she had a lot of first-hand experience with humans. “…Right.” She frowned, and didn’t say anything more.

She considered whether she should say that, technically speaking, she had no idea if these plants she’d picked were edible for humans as well as elves.

…Probably the responsible thing to do. “I should probably mention.” Rayla said, indicating the plants. “These are all safe for elves to eat, but I don’t know if humans work the same. I think they should be fine, but…” She shrugged.

Callum and Ezran exchanged a vaguely alarmed look. “Uh.” Ez offered, a little nervously, and then didn’t seem to know what to say from there.

“…Maybe we should mainly just eat one of a thing each? So if something makes us sick we’ll know what it was.” Callum suggested after a moment, which was actually pretty sensible of him.

“Sounds good. You can start off eating a little bit and waiting a while to make sure, then have the rest of it?” She recalled her lessons on how to identify poisonous plants that she wasn’t familiar with. The basic principles probably still applied to humans.

“…Yeah, sure.” Ez said after a few moments, expression a little nonplussed, but relatively resolute. “What tastes best?”

“Probably the cattails?” Rayla said after a second’s pause, looking over the assemblage of plants. “They’re early growth, which means the heads taste a bit like corn.”

“Neat.” The little prince nodded. “I’ll have those then.”

“Er.” Callum glanced over the plants, then shrugged helplessly. “I’ll have the stuff with the little purple flowers, maybe?”

“Sheep sorrel.” She informed him, amused.

“Yeah, that.”

She inspected the state of the fire, and reached for the pot. “Alright then. Let’s do the cattails first. I think they take a bit longer.”

The daylight gradually ebbed away, leaving the campsite lit by nothing but the fire under the bubbling pot, and the light of the waning moon above. Ezran tried the cattail heads and pronounced them moderately tasty, and Callum made a face at his sorrel but ate it anyway. Half an hour later neither of them were vomiting or experiencing stomach aches, so she felt relatively safe giving them the rest of it.

It was…oddly nice. A friendly atmosphere. Less business-like and serious than she was used to from months of travel with fellow assassins. Though…maybe that wasn’t a good thing? Their mission was a serious one. They had to get the egg home, and stop an entire war. Maybe they should be as serious about everything as the assassins had been. She frowned, feeling oddly guilty for the levity of the camp, and not certain if the feeling was justified or not. Surely it didn’t do any harm to be cheerful – keep morale up?

She couldn’t help but wonder what Runaan would think, of all of this. Making camp with two human princes, testing out new plants on them and watching while they laughed and pelted each other with bits of grass whenever they got bored of waiting for the next batch of greens to boil. What would he think, to look at her here? Would he still call her a fool, for daring to trust them? For daring to think that maybe humans and elves could get along?

She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d think.

….She couldn’t help but wonder if he was alive to think anything at all.

You let him live, but you’ve killed us all, she remembered, and shivered, arms wrapping tightly around her sides.

“Rayla?”

Her head jerked upwards in the direction of her name, and she blinked at – Callum, right. “Oh, er, yeah?” She attempted, in some small hope of disguising that she’d been utterly lost in not-particularly-happy thoughts.

No such luck. “Are you okay?” He asked, his expression all occupied with that sort of…friendly concern again, like when she’d been having a distinctly unpleasant time on the river.

She offered a half-smile to placate him. “Yeah. Just thinking. Nothing important.” She said, and looked up at the dark sky full of stars. “…When is it humans usually go to bed, anyway?” She added after a moment, in a not very subtle effort to change the subject.

Callum looked up at the sky as well, and shrugged. “Ez usually goes to sleep about eight. Me, it depends, but later. I have no idea what time it is now though, but I could probably get to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” Ezran said promptly, a statement somewhat undermined by the yawn he produced a mere second later. Callum huffed with laughter, and reached out to pat him on the shoulder.

“Sure you’re not, Ez. That must have been a yawn of awakeness and energyhood, right?”

Ezran opened his mouth to answer, but it turned into another yawn.

Rayla’s lips quirked, and she glanced up at the position of the moon, feeling its progression through the sky as keenly as she might the wind on her skin. “It’s somewhere between eight and nine now, if that helps.” She offered.

Callum ruffled his brother’s hair sympathetically. “Bedtime, bud. Come on, you’ll get to sleep in the tent, right?”

That did brighten the boy’s face, and he nodded contemplatively. “That is very tempting.” He admitted.

“Let’s go get set up, then.” Callum stood, helping his brother to his feet, and looked down at her a second later. “…Rayla? Will you be staying up, or…?”

She stared up at him for a few seconds, and slumped. “Actually, I’m exhausted. I didn’t exactly get a full night of sleep, if you remember.”

“I did wonder.” He smiled lopsidedly, and held out his hand to her. She stared at it for a second, then reached out and took it, allowing him to pull her upwards to standing.

“We can use the cloaks as bedrolls, now. It’ll make the ground a bit more comfortable.” She offered, leaving the fire smouldering lowly behind them as she walked in-step with the two princes, Bait hanging from Ezran’s arms.

“Sounds good to me.” Callum inspected the open front of the tent, squinting at the toggles. Was it too dark for him to see, this far from the fire. “So what, we close the outer door-thing first?”

“Once you’re inside the tent, yes.” Rayla agreed dryly, and turned to sit inside the inner-tent with her feet out, to take off her boots. Ezran flopped down beside her to do the same, and for the first time, she started to feel a bit weird about all of this. She’d got so used to having her own tent to sleep in, and have at least a hint of privacy in, and that…just was not going to be a thing, here.

Attempting not to show any sign of the mild discomfort that prickled at her neck, Rayla set her boots next to her bag, in the between-section of the tent, and then untied the cloak to set about assembling her sleeping space.

Then she paused. “Who’s sleeping where?” She questioned, and both boys stopped where they’d been divesting themselves of footwear.

“Er.” Callum said, intelligently.

“Depends on if you’d rather get kicked or talked at.” Ezran told her, cheerful, and laughed at whatever it was her face did in response. “I move about a lot in my sleep. Or Callum says so anyway.”

“Ezran has a talent for kicking me in the shins when he’s sleeping.” Callum nodded, solemnly. “Or sometimes slapping me in the face. That’s happened too.”

Rayla stared, increasingly discouraged. “Erm….”

“And Callum sleep-talks sometimes, but he doesn’t kick so much.” Ez added.

Slowly, she brought up a hand to rub at her forehead, unsure whether the incipient headache was from tiredness or the sudden discomfort of thinking about sleeping arrangements. “…Ugh, whatever, Callum in the middle then.” She sighed, and pulled out her appropriated fur cloak to the right side of the tent.

Ez pulled in his own makeshift bedroll, and Bait, and also the egg of the Dragon Prince. Its glow was more noticeable than usual, in the dark of the tent.

“Your shins will probably thank you for that decision.” Callum said, amused, and shuffled into the tent as well, rolled-up cloak behind him. “Er, do I shut the tent now?”

Rayla sighed again. “That would probably be a good idea, yes.”

All told, it took a good ten minutes of shuffling about and arranging things and closing tent-doors before Rayla could finally think about attempting to sleep, and even then…

Ezran flopped down facing his side of the tent without any apparent care in the world, an arm slung around the incredibly precious dragon egg as if it were a cuddly toy, and Bait settled near his head. Callum didn’t seem to have any compunctions about being squashed up against his brother in the middle either, but-

The tent was small for three. It was very small. They weren’t completely squished in, maybe, but when Rayla finally got herself to lay down – well, her shoulder was brushing Callum’s, and…it was weird. It was weird, and new, and uncomfortable, and she didn’t have her own space and she had no experience whatsoever with being up in other peoples’ space like this, and it was making her skin half-crawl with nerves.

“Night, guys.” Ezran announced, clearly with no compunctions about the close quarters at all, and sounding downright cheery.

Callum…well, he didn’t look as uncomfortable as Rayla felt, but he didn’t look completely relaxed either. His eyes flickered over to her a couple of times, and she was abruptly aware that her own eyes would be visible to him in the dark even if nothing else was, so she turned away on her side and tried not to feel so unreasonably bothered about the sudden proximity.

She lay there, tense, face pressed close to the fabric of the inner-tent, and exhaled slowly. She could feel the light pressure of Callum’s clothing brushing against the shoulders of her own. She could hear the breathing of other people, close to her. When they shuffled and shifted, the fabric of the tent shifted as well, and she felt – directly or indirectly – every small movement they made. She was so, so intensely not used to this. How did people ever share beds without waking up every time the other person moved? Didn’t they feel uncomfortable, sleeping that close to other people? Was it just a matter of getting used to it, like Callum and Ezran seemed to have done?

Moon and stars, but she hoped it was just a matter of getting used to it.

She stayed on her side, still and quiet, and tried to relax. She heard the shift in breathing when Ezran fell asleep, soonest of any of them. She heard the same shift, ten or so minutes later, when Callum relaxed into sleep.

It took her quite a bit longer to manage the same.

  Gren breathed, careful and slow, to keep his composure where it belonged. Even though he was horrified, too. Even though he was upset, and angry, and wished that there weren’t other people around that he had to keep a level face for. He had a job to do. And he would do it.

They hadn’t expected the contents of the letter. They’d been wary of the delay, having expected a missive from the detached forces reporting the arrival of the princes a half-day ago. But they hadn’t expected the message that had come instead. They would never have expected something like that. They couldn’t have.

General Amaya had barely finished sitting the vigil for King Harrow when it came. The loss of a King – a step-brother – was bad enough, but this? He could only imagine how she was feeling.

She’d taken the letter into the command tent, Gren at her side as always. He’d watched her break the seal, unroll it, watched her eyes run over the text. Watched her go pale, hands trembling, eyes widening, face emptying of blood at shocking speed. He’d been signing a question before she even finished the letter, but she hadn’t answered. Not then.

No, she hadn’t answered.

The contents of the command tent had been quite thoroughly wrecked in the outburst the letter had incited. She’d screamed, full of rage and grief and awful despair. He’d never heard her scream before. She hardly ever made any sound louder than a huff of breath – but under the circumstances, he understood the exception. She’d crumpled the letter in her hand enough that it had been hard to read, when she finally passed it over. Her fingernails had dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood, staining the paper with the blood its words carried.

King Harrow was dead. And now….now, it seemed like the princes were, too. Those sweet boys, always so happy to see their aunt, and so kind to Gren, too. They were so young. They didn’t deserve this.

When the letter first came, there might have been some shred of hope remaining. Some hope that the presence of the assassin didn’t necessarily equate to the deaths of the princes. But then the second report had come, solemnly confirming that the boys had still not arrived at the lodge, and were assumed killed.

They didn’t deserve this, he thought again, bitterly, harsh upset rising like acid in his throat at the thought. They were just kids. Lord and Lady, they were just kids.

Still, though, he breathed. He kept his composure. He relayed General Amaya’s orders with every edge of anger and vengefulness that the tense movements of her hands and the storm on her face belied.

They were just kids.

Where were they now? What had the assassin done with them? Had she thrown their bodies off the battlements, to be swallowed by the river? Had she done worse?

“Captain Fen and his unit are ordered to return to the Breach at once. A crow will be sent ordering a reinforcement of the border guard, with additional patrols to be held along the regions where elves are suspected to cross over from Xadia. It is absolutely imperative that the border hold.”

Fen knew enough sign that he probably didn’t need the benefit of Gren’s interpreting. It was a boon for his soldiers, though, who all snapped to attention with the order.

He glanced back at the General every second, well-accustomed to his work, but couldn’t help but hurt at the sight of her face. She often looked determined, yes, and sometimes frustrated, and frequently there was an indomitable sense of will to her that heralded nothing but misfortune for anything that stood in her way. The look on her face now…it was a little like that, but twisted, transformed from inspiring to a tragedy. Her lips turned sharply downwards, pain and fury living in every inch of her, burning out of every movement she made. It was awful to look at.

“Corvus,” Gren said, with the same abrupt and commanding clip to his voice that the General’s sign had. He straightened attentively at the sound and sight of his name, watching intently for orders. “You will ride out ahead of us and proceed as quickly as possible to the last known location of the assassin. If she went to such trouble to steal a boat, she’ll be taking the river, but she can’t hope to take it through Kalsanis without being seen. Find where she moors, and track her from there.”

Corvus bowed his head, face solemn and dark. “I hear and obey, General. I will find her.”

Amaya nodded, sharply, and resumed speaking.

“I know that you will. And when you do, you’ll secure her, and bring her to me.” Gren suppressed a shiver at the look on his General’s face, but didn’t miss a beat. “Ultimately, your priority is to bring her to justice. If you feel you’ll be unable to hold her for long enough, then do what you can to find out what she did to Prince Callum and Prince Ezran, and where she left their bodies, and execute her immediately thereafter. I’ll settle for her corpse if I can’t have her alive.”

“I understand.”

“You’ll send reports as often as you can. I want to know where she’s been and where she’s going. If you lose the trail, you’ll report that too.”

“Of course.”

Amaya exhaled, very slightly, and nodded again. Her next words were signed a little more slowly, with a bit less vicious energy. “I’m trusting you with this, Corvus. You’re the best tracker in the kingdom, and if you can’t find her, I expect you to tell me in time to arrange alternatives.” She waited for his acknowledgement, and finished. “Go. All of you. I’ll have written copies of your orders sent out by dawn.”

Corvus saluted, and so did Captain Fen, and all the lines of soldiers in his unit. General Amaya didn’t stay to see them leave, but whirled on her feet and swept back into the command tent like a hurricane. Gren followed hastily in her wake, sweeping the front aside.

Unlike the loosely wedge-shaped tents assigned to the infantry, the command tent was propped up on all sides, tall enough to stand in. It took a fair bit of assembly, but it was what was afforded the most renowned General in all the Pentarchy.

It was a space that afforded her the loss of her composure.

She collapsed to her knees on the ground and, with hissing, uneven gasps of breath, drove her fist into the earth with an awful, inconsolable force of grief. He hesitated, uncertain what to do, and stepped forward. It was his privilege and his responsibility to remain by her side.

Her face had changed, now. Still angry. Still at the mercy of unrelenting grief. But the expression had fallen open, vulnerable, teetering on the edge of despair.

When her hands moved, they were trembling. “Her boys,” She said, lips pressed tightly together as though to retain some vestige of composure, and he watched her speak in silence. “My nephews. They’re gone.”

He couldn’t help but react to the force of that grief. His shoulders shook as he signed back to her. “I’m so sorry. They were such good boys. They didn’t deserve this.”

Her teeth clenched along with her fists, that terrible fury running wild on her face. “They’d done nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve dying. Harrow, I could understand, but the boys – I can never forgive it. Never, never, never.” She signed this last word three times, increasingly agitated, increasingly vehement, rage bubbling up in every movement.

He bowed his head. There wasn’t a lot he could say that wouldn’t be meaningless.

When she resumed speaking, it was slower. Almost ponderous. He might have thought her calm if not for the black, vengeful hate that was growing on her face, second by second.

“If I have to die to see it done, I’ll catch that vile murderess. Even if I have to follow her to the heart of Xadia, you understand?”

Silent, he signed back: “yes.” He understood. He didn’t know that these were deaths she could survive, without revenge and justice to soothe the void they left. Her family was gone, her family on whose behalf she’d fought so fiercely all these years. Her defence of the kingdom had been unwavering, unfaltering, and her renown had grown with every year. But he knew where that strength had been anchored. He feared what would become of her, now that she was cast adrift.

He watched her as she scowled, eyes staring off somewhere far beyond and removed from the edge of the tent, as if searching for the elven murderer already.

Gren couldn’t even pity the monster, not really. Not given what she’d taken. But he could recognise, grimly, that there was no force in the world that he believed capable of holding General Amaya from her justice now….and that if it were him, fleeing an Amaya driven to this extremity of rage? He’d probably just kill himself and be done with it, rather than suffer finding out what she’d take as the blood-price for the princes’ deaths.

He couldn’t find it in him to pity the assassin for what was coming to her.

But he could regret, deeply and truly, how much this loss would hurt Amaya.

  End chapter.

Notes:

This chapter takes place on 14.05, day 4 since start of canon. Subtract two days to determine how long the kids have been travelling.

Key canon divergences: Amaya is now quite sure that her nephews are dead, and is on a mission of revenge.

On camping: Look, I recognise I dedicated a whole lot of words to tent-assembly this chapter, but like…while future tent-assembly will be considerably less gratuitously described, if you’re not a fan of reading about the kids going about camping/travelling adventures and misadventures, you may have the wrong fanfiction. I’ve been feeling super nostalgic about my own long-haul hiking experiences lately, and by god I’m going to express it.

I’m going to wipe my trekking experience all over this fanfiction, and none of you can stop me.

On the tent: I’m writing their tent as being functionally the same as the tents my trek group used, which were explicitly designed for harsh weather and temperature conditions and terrain, and in its general shape was reasonably similar to the Moonshadow elf tents. The materials are different and I made the tent poles work differently too (mine aren’t bent along the shape, they just….are weirdly flexible), but honestly there’s so much variance in how tent poles work that I don’t really care much about the details there. The main points are: this tent is going to be a fair bit heavier and somewhat less waterproof than a modern tent would be.

On sleeping arrangements: Rayla is not comfortable. She is not comfortable at all. I’m going to have a great time with the progression of her sleeping situation throughout this fanfiction. Callum and Ezran, who are heavy sleepers, will be mostly oblivious to her plight.

Afterword: Chapter 6 is about 30-50% done at this point! I’ve actually written a fair bit the last few days but it’s mainly been far-future scenes, so I am running out of chronologically-arranged prewritten content here.

If you’ve read and at least somewhat enjoyed this, please show it by boosting my story stats in some way. The anxiety when new chapters go up is intense, and good reception of the chapter can mean the difference between me writing 4k the next day or not managing to write anything at all.

[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — the season of giving 1/1

Summary: He remained on the floor as he sorted his thoughts. Marinette told him to make himself at home, yet prior to this moment she had always made it clear that he wasn't to touch her stuff. Was he really going to betray her trust and disobey her direct and concise command, all to satisfy his indomitable curiosity?

This time, he did not hesitate.

Yup!

Words: 3.1k

Rating: General Audiences

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

For Selina, who saw me—the good and the bad—and still, chose to stay. 

"Marinette?”

Chat Noir called hesitantly as he dropped in from her unlocked skylight and onto her bed. He’d been out on a solo patrol when he received a message through his baton from her, asking he come over as soon as he was able and that she'd leave the door open for him. Not 15 minutes into his patrol but deciding Paris was safe just then (or, as safe as it could be with Hawkmoth still at large after two years of measly Akumas), he set his course for her home.

Her missive had been far from urgent but Marinette was his friend. When it came to them, to her, there was no such thing as too secure. He found it was with good reason, as a quick examination revealed that she wasn't in her chambers. His heart kicked into overdrive. Though nothing appeared disturbed nor was it suggested that there had been a scuffle or a break-in, it was still with heightened suspicion that he took in her room and noted her trap door was ajar. But then—

“Just a second!”

Her sweet, nightingale voice wafted from beyond her entryway and the sound—so crisp and sonorous and alive—had him breathing a hefty sigh of relief.

“Everything okay?” he returned, if only to quiet the little doubts that festered his mind (and would undoubtedly remain till he could see her and touch her for himself).

“Yup,” she continued. “Just, make yourself at home!”

Oh, he mused. Now that he could do—and with almost embarrassing ease. The thought of being alone in this particular place might have filled him with tension if he hadn't all ready been tasting the remnants of his satisfaction of knowing she was all right. And maybe… maybe he was brimming with excitement—a little mischief too! Though visits to Marinette's were frequent occurrences whether he was Chat Noir or Adrien (admittedly, he came over as Chat Noir more often than the latter), an overture to her room was an uncommon privilege indeed, and even then, without exception, he was consigned to her chaise (because you unfurl a whole basket of yarn one time and suddenly you're forever branded a naughty kitty, sheesh). It was kind of a bummer, really. He may have been the one with an apartment for a room but Marinette's was spectacular in that, it was a perfect reflection of her beautiful mind—cluttered sure, but charming and lovely and creative, too. He could tell as much from his banishment place on her lounge and without closer perusal.

But now, she had left him here without supervision, which basically meant he had carte blanche, which basically meant he could look and touch which basically meant he planned to take full advantage of this rare stroke of luck—wasn’t there something about curiosity and cats, after all?

A perk of an ear towards her doorway had him surmising she was rummaging for something in the kitchen, and ascertained she wouldn't be coming up any time soon. On habitually silent feet, he descended her loft and prowled first to her dresser beneath, where most of her possessions lay.

(At the foot of her steps sat the elusive basket of yarn. The temptation to unwind the tightly woven, flaxen thread was compelling enough to stop him in his tracks. He dropped beside them and bit his lip. “Later,” he promised the glistening, colorful, spun wool as he ran a gloved finger lovingly carefully over the nearest roll)

Lingering on his crouch, he clambered closer to her desk till only his eyes were visible over the wooden ledge. He scrutinized the contents of her workspace with the same intensity as a detective in a crime scene, which may have been stupid but would he have discovered such a gem as this, if he hadn't? The gem, of course, being—

Her sketchbook.

It shouldn't have been so peculiar as to pique him. Marinette was a fashion designer and had no such qualms showing her designs (although, she was usually cautious about whom and where she showed it after the whole Hat Contest Debacle). But this was not just any one sketchbook, too. It was the sketchbook. The one bound in black leather—the smell of it so lemony and new and, well, leathery that he felt his knees weaken when he took a big whiff; he did so love leather—with the thickset drawing paper. It was the one she only ever brought out when she was around him, Chat Noir him, and yet never permitted him to see.

He reached out a hand to touch it.

Then just as quickly used the other to hold it back, the force of his clutch so dominant he knocked himself flat on his back.

He huffed a frustrated breath—though with whom it was directed to was anybody's guess.

He remained on the floor as he sorted his thoughts. Marinette told him to make himself at home, yet prior to this moment she had always made it clear that he wasn't to touch her stuff. Was he really going to betray her trust and disobey her direct and concise command, all to satisfy his indomitable curiosity?

This time, he did not hesitate.

Yup!

He rose and meandered to her table once more, affecting an unhurried amble if only to declare he wasn't too eager a kitty in case someone happened to catch him unawares. Which she wouldn’t, of course, because he was a professional. And he was dignified okay? He wasn't a wild animal! He had class and self-respect and self-contr—

He slammed the pad open.

And was robbed of all breath.

He turned the paper, and another and another, and like a sucker punch to the gut, he was struck by the images before him every time.

What…?

“You found it.”

Startled, he spun and tripped over his feet, his bottom landing sharply against the edge of her desk.

(So she had caught him)

“I-I'm sorry,” he stammered, panting as if he had run a marathon mere seconds ago. “I'm so, so, so sorry, Marinette—”

“Hey,” she murmured, placing the tray he failed to notice she had been carrying on her chaise before approaching him. A frown marred her delicate features and his panic escalated at having been the one to put it there. “I wasn't, I mean, I was but I-I didn't—I didn't know—”

“It's all right, minou,” she soothed. She rubbed circles in the space between his shoulder blades and he closed his eyes. With her simple touch, so lambent and familiar, she drained him of his tension. It shouldn't have surprised him. Her presence had the natural ability to bring him such warmth, it was powerful enough to melt even his most frigid anxieties.

With a final deep and cleansing breath, green eyes peered at her and found a sheepish smile stretched across her lips. He thumbed gently at an upstretched corner, before gliding smoothly to the dip of her chin where he stayed.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated more calmly though no less sincere. She shook her head.

“Don't be,” she insisted, withdrawing the hand at his back so she could wrap it around the wrist that cupped her face. She gave a genial squeeze. “If anything, I should be sorry. I should have made it more clear, I'm relieved you found it.” It was her turn to breathe in deeply. With her eyes closed and her nose scrunched, she was utterly adorable. He wanted to hug her and he would have, if his nerves hadn't returned tenfold at the intent way she beheld him when she pronounced her next words.

“I wanted you to find it.”

His arms fell limp at his sides, perplexity making a rag doll of him. He found it incomprehensible that she would want him to seek it at all, and a million and one questions spun in his brain—why had she done this? What for? Why did she want him to find it? Why here? Why now?

But a simple, “Why?” was all he managed to splutter.

A blush filled her cheeks though for once, she did not tear her gaze away.

“You know how, when most people give gifts, they like to wait for the receiver's reaction?”

She didn't wait for an answer as she barreled on, not that he could have given her one anyway, seeing as his brain was stuck on the word gift.

“Yeah, I'm not one of those people,” she tittered nervously. “I didn't have the courage to hand it to you directly so I left it and a couple of meaningfully crafted words in the hopes that your curiosity would do the rest. It's actually nice,” she teased, levity trickling into her articulation, “how that one's without fail.”

“Me-owch,” he quipped, though a crooked grin still stole across his lips.

She rolled her eyes even as she laughed. “Those terrible puns, too.”

“Like you can do any better!”

“I'm a-pawlled you think I'm not claw-ver or punny enough to deliver the purr-fect lines—”

He gaped. “Oh my god.”

“Purr-haps you should consider the paw-ssibility that my litter-acy in the art of puns is purr-etty paw-esome—”

Two in a row! He was laughing so hard, he had to grasp her shoulders to keep upright. “Marinette.”

“And if you were my real furr-end you would sup-pawrt me with a better cat-titude than that. Don't you find me hiss-terical?”

Without quite knowing how, his arms had twined themselves around her shoulders and waist till his body was a perfect extension of hers, his tremors echoing through her as his laughs dwindled into sobs. Marinette bore it the way only Marinette could, with an understanding that negated the need for words... with that soft and quiet comfort only she could provide, as she knotted her arms around him in kind and became home. Because as he had lately come to realize, home was so much more than an incomplex word, it was a feeling, and it wasn’t so much a place but a person and this—she—was it.

She was what truly made a home.

“Merry Christmas, Chat Noir,” she averred mellifluously into the damp skin of his neck. “Or Hanukkah or, you know, whatever it is you celebrate. Happy holidays, from me to you.”

He held her to him tighter. “I don't even know where to begin thanking you.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me if you liked it?”

He pulled back just enough so that he was but half an arm's length away, limbs resting firmly on her shoulders. He shook his head, and her face fell. Then, with a knuckle, he tipped her chin up so that their gazes collided, green eyes brimming with unmistakable clarity.

“‘Like’ is… it's too small,” he whispered vehemently. “I just—thank you. A hundred, no,” he pecked her cheeks, “a thousand times,” he kissed her neck and she squealed, peels of laughter rumbling from her chest to his, “a million times,” he whispered as he framed her hips and kissed her forehead, “a billion, billion times,” and tinkling giggles gave way to heated sighs of indulgence, “a trillion times,” he soughed, making pathways of her face where he found respite on her chin, and rest on the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you,” he asserted.

I love you.

The words writhed and slithered in his brain, between the spaces where his impulses thrummed from one neuron to another, because his body was fuelled and Marinette was the fire that ignited his senses, little sparks of longing spiraling the length of his spine and blooming along the muscles of his arms so that they pulled her flush to him before he could even catch up with the direction of his mind.

I love you, he thought, unbidden. And though he was very much in love with Ladybug, when it came to Marinette—he found he quite meant it, anyway.

I love you, the intimation burned his throat.

“I love it,” he affirmed instead, tongue laden with blacken soot and the taste of ash in his mouth.

He bit his lip. Some brave lion he was! But it wasn't fair anyway—he couldn't give away parts of himself when both Marinette and Ladybug deserved more. They deserved the very best parts of someone, no matter if it were with him or another, so long as they received everything.

So he cupped her face and spoke with his eyes instead, in the hopes she might hear that which he could not yet find it in himself to say—that she might feel what he so badly wanted to reveal.

“I'm glad,” she hummed, palms molding to the curve of his own cheeks as she wiped away the remnants of his liquid emotions. Then the smile slid from her lips as a concerned frown took its place. “But something tells me you're… bothered?”

“I just…” the tips of his ears sunk into his head as he tilted his head down, silken strands brushing the bangs that lined her forehead. He struggled to grasp at the words. “I don't—”

So of course Marinette would seamlessly evince the painful right ones.

“You think you don't deserve it.”

“It’s too much.”

And it was. Marinette had given him more than a gift, it felt like she had given him freedom—she had given him life. A sketchbook with page upon page of images of him in various, almost intimate, occasions. An amusement-invoking portrait of him doubled over in laughter—so life-like—he felt the giggles reverberating in his belly. There was a depiction of one of his battles so precise in its likeliness that impossible though it may have been, it was as if she was by his side when it had occurred—a testament to Marinette's genuine talent, of that he had no doubt. Then there were the pictures that made him blush, not because it contained any scandal or debauchery, rather for it's innocence—a delineation of his profile in saddened thought, his whole face downcast from his limp locks and trodden eyebrows to the decline of his mouth. There were illustrations of his form in quiet repose just as there were of him in agitated slumber, naps he had taken in the periods when he'd visit but collapse beneath the weight of his exhaustion because he trusted her enough to let his guard down. There were sketches of his hands, his eyes, his mouth… and through it all were traces of Marinette—from her subtle signatures, to the way every line or curve was purposely done and to the evident consideration for each drawing. Because she had taken him in, had looked her fill and inspected all of him, from the literal and figurative mask he wore to the deepest, darkest, ugliest fragments of him and still, she hadn't found him lacking. Still—

She had made him beautiful.

“Why?” he asked again, voice hoarse with the aching need to know.

“Oh, minou,” she cooed, yet the vehemence with which she spoke thrummed forcefully through his veins and straight into his heart. “Because you do deserve it. Because I don't think you realize how wonderful you are. Because I believe not enough people appreciate you but I hope you know that I do. Because I wanted to,” he was hyperventilating, he was dreaming, “but above everything else—it's because I see you, Chat Noir. Here,” with one hand, she brushed feather-light fingers along the length of his forehead, “and here."

With that same artist's hand, she outlined him, from the side of his face to his neck, digits charting filigree across his collarbones till she settled on the space above where his heart lay, and every point in which she touched him felt engraved into his very soul.

“I see you,” she blazed, “and you're magnificent,” passion in her words and fire in her caress. “You. are. good.”

His tears streamed afresh. It made waterfalls of his face and splashed onto Marinette's skin as he closed his eyes and rested his forehead atop hers.

“If I am good,” he confessed, “it’s only because I have you to remind me.”

“You give me too much credit,” she giggled even as her face transformed into a rose.

“Not nearly,” he shook his head, gazing at her solemnly. “Not enough.”

She conceded with a gratified purr and again, the words boiled at just short of his lips.

“I—” he tried, choking at the efforts. But he wasn't ready, and like smoke, it had gone.

“I know.”

(And though he shouldn't have been surprised, it was any wonder how she heard it at all)

She nuzzled his nose with her own and for more than a couple heartbeats, they remained. It was as if time suspended just for the two of them, that they might have this quiet moment and have it be prolonged in its perfection.

“Can I show you through it?”

“Again and again, till you tire of it, Princess,” he returned. “And even then, once more.”

They took the forgotten mugs of hot (now cold but no less scrumptious) chocolate and a couple of blankets up to her rooftop where they settled onto her chaise, his back against the lounge and hers to his front. She weaved stories of her experiences for each etching—what they had been doing and what they had been speaking of. Some he remembered (his favorite being that of her gorgeous rendering of the landscape from the balcony he had taken her to the first time he sought her out for no other reason than to bask in her presence), but most were lost in Marinette's private recollections and from her own unassuming observations, in the moments when he allowed his vulnerability to cloud their time together—because he had been tired and because he had been sincerely happy.

When she had finished, he made himself a haven as she fell back against his shoulder and slumped over in exhaustion. He wrapped the blanket tighter around her svelte frame, and from its place by their knees, he regarded the sheepskin book. Honestly, it was a work of art. But it left him exposed, and he felt naked at her scrutiny but—strangely strong, too. Because if Marinette had stripped him, it was only so she could build and shape and forge him anew.

“Merry Christmas, Marinette,” he whispered, as he pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head.

So though the gift had been a culmination of his portraits, he couldn't help but feel—watching the steady and reassuring rise and fall of her chest, sleep-warm skin seeping through his suit and into the marrow of his bones… the sunset casting a halo around her raven locks and breathing embers onto her flesh—

The true gift had been her.

AN: Happy holidays everyone!

[jj-was-here]

#rivalschools20art . . Funny story... Back in the day a fighting game came out called Rival Schools. It was a fighting game and all it took for little JJ to want it was one character from Street Fighter was in it. . So i buy this game, it’s a good game, and played it pretty consistently for a few years. Anyway, time went on and i don’t have my original PlayStation or this game any more. Very sad. . So a week or so ago I’m surfing the Instagram and i type in #rivalschools so i can look at some art. Just some nostalgic perusing. I see this post that says 20 Year Tribute at the very top of my search. ALL ENTRIES DUE MARCH 31. I was pretty excited. I thought maybe i could get into this tribute. So i started thinking about ideas and when i came up with one i set to work. . It didn’t take long, but long enough. I added little elements as i went to give it depth. I wanted it to be a different piece as i figured the entries would be littered with drawings of the sexier characters of this series. So i pulled back and tried to show the drama from afar. This piece actually evokes feelings of junior high for me. Awful time. . So, pleased with my work now finished, i went to Instagram to make sure i got all the info for the contest. I scrolled through the post, jotting down all the info until i got to the bottom..... . . ALL ENTRIES DUE MARCH 31, 2018 . . Son. Of. A. Bitch. So all of this work, all of these old dredged up feelings (you know how i am with feelings), all of this time and it is all for naught. Booooooooo. . . Now, it’s not really all for naught. At least i beat the deadline (i finished on Friday) which is something i have not done with great frequency. And i feel a little refreshed like maybe i can move onto these other projects with greater motivation. Who knows? . . A year late. That’s a personal best. . . @rivalschoolslegacy #streetfighter #capcom #videogames #drawing #sketchbook https://www.instagram.com/p/BvtvdDRBejA/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=133e8xkr46lr2