#i think about that one date line everyday like sir whose fault do you think that is

[romance-rambles]

[modern] cael | should've said it to my face

After reading Cael's response to your comment, you eventually give into your impulsive thoughts and call him. It turns out to be a misunderstanding

2k, takes place during qixi event [minor spoilers for the card], misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none

DINNER TIME SEES YOU SCROLLING aimlessly through Lofter, in search of something to do.

You're sprawled across the couch on your back, knees bent, with a plate—stacked with airfryer dino nuggets and french fries—balanced precariously in front of you. The hand not occupied with your phone holds onto a half-empty soda can. When you remember to eat, you stick it in the gap between you and the sofa's backrest and pray it doesn't spill over again.

In the background, a movie you'd seen multiple trailers for in your spare time runs on the TV. For the first thirty minutes, it was rather entertaining, actually—for reasons beyond the absolutely stellar writing. It was, and is, filled with so many cliches, all dragged out and played entirely straight, that it makes you wonder if the writers had a checklist.

Then, your editor texted you around the time the couple had their first date and—well.

Though it turned out that the phone call she was asking for had nothing to do anything that would make a perpetually tardy artist quiver in fear, Beanie can attest to what a disaster the fifteen minutes before said phone call were.

Your shirt is still sticky from the spilt soda, and worse, the water you splashed on the stain has left you soaked. And on top of that, your shirt wasn't the only victim in this mess. Now, some of your nuggets carry with them a hint of sweetness—one that can't be attributed to the ketchup.

They're still good, you think stubbornly, glaring at someone imaginary sitting opposite to you.

You pull your legs closer, clearly disgruntled, and sit up straight. The artifacts of your makeshift party for one change positions with you, making you look less like a slob after work hours—even if that is what you were going for.

Because that someone imaginary looks suspiciously like Cael, with that close-mouthed smile that reeks of barely-disguised amusment. A menace with good publicity, though you'd take this Cael over the "old" one any day.

After all, this one is yours—to have, and to hold, for as long as you live.

You think of the characters in your latest manga, and of those last few pages; of the red dress the painter had picked out, and of where the spirit's—and yours—thoughts had gone. The ones you'd added as a bonus after dicussing a much happier ending with Cael. Frankly, it's the most self-indulgent thing you'd written since In Passing, except this time, you didn't bother holding back on your fantasies.

"Wait," you mutter, squinting down at an artwork from one of your mutuals on your phone. The poor dinosaur that gets offered up to your hungry belly this time is thankfully not one of the soggy ones. "Has he seen it yet?"

The answer to your question, once you regretfully pull your gaze away from the beautiful man you drew, and pull up your latest post on Lofter is yes.

hubby: This drawing is great.

A simple compliment, yet your spirits soar to never-before-seen heights. With your free hand, you cup your cheek; your pinkie finger can only partially hide the curved end of your lips. Then, like a thick veil, your hair falls over half of your face, prompting a small laugh from you.

As you tuck your hair behind your ear, you can't help but think it adds to the scene. The lovesick smile. His comment. The affection swelling in your fluttering heart.

You imagine the soft smile on his face when he saw your post and wonder why he isn't here to tuck your hair back for you.

Truth is, you'd never learned how to stop missing Cael, even after he'd returned to being a permanent fixture in your life. The only time you don't miss him is when he's in front of you—when you can wrap your arms around him, in a carefully struck balance of spoiled and loving, and hear his exasperated chuckle as he pulls you in closer.

Maybe that is why the words you write in response lack any double meanings.

you: @hubby But I feel that the person in the drawing is better than the drawing itself.

Tracing the silhouette of his hair, you think this is the Cael that comes closest to showcasing his ethereal beauty. All that practice through drawing the Silver Knight has left you as the most qualified person to make that judgement. It is with this thought in mind, and a puffed chest, that you wait for his response.

And Cael could be busy, for all you know. It could take a while for him to respond, for all you know.

Still, if you play your cards right, when you tell him how long you waited, he'll pat your head. And on your forehead, the heat from his loving kiss will linger for long after he pulls away.

You grin at the thought and scroll down.

hubby: Me too.

At first, you can only blink.

Me too, you repeat dumbly, tilting your head to the side. You must look like quite the catch, with three nuggets and countless fries stuffed into you face. ME TOO?

The vision of his faint smirk transforms your previously lovesick demeanor in an instant. Swallowing your food down, you glare at the snarky comment, thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard without a reply in mind.

It would've been better if he'd said it to your face. You could tackle him—maybe kiss the smirk off his face. Countless letters are typed out and erased within seconds of each other, simply because you can't settle on anything to say. The scowl on your face deepens as you swipe out of the app.

And you're not sure what happens after that, but when you come to, you find yourself staring at half of an objectively terrible selfie you'd taken with Cael—

And Ringing... written underneath.

When he picks up, the first thing Cael says is your name.

"What a coincidence." Your boyfriend chuckles softly. "I was thinking I wanted to hear your voice."

You fear the psychological damage is irreversible. Why did you call him again?

Oh, rig—wait a minute.

"Did you miss me?" you ask, not so much curious as you are delighted. "Wait."

Never let it be said that you don't have your priorities straight. You're sure anyone in your position would do the same thing. So, with a giggle—both at your snarky comment and at the prospect of being missed by Cael—you pull your phone away from your ear and make your earlier wish of seeing his face come true.

"Let me—" You adjust your bangs, knowing well the futility of doing so. "—Let me turn my camera on."

When you finally catch sight of his beautiful face, as the camera turns on, Cael is smiling gently.

Upon catching a glimpse of your current, haphazard appearance—the pile of hair tied up in some kind of half-bun, half-ponytail, the ratty old t-shirt that's simply too comfortable to part with, and, you realize embarassedly, the ketchup stains and nugget crumbs plastered all over your mouth—he shakes his head. Out of habit, his free hand hovers in the air for a moment before he puts it down. Even before he shoots you a helpless look, you can tell he's wishing for the same thing.

"You should—" Gesturing at his own mouth, free of crumbs, he tries to help you out. "Mhm, you got most of them."

For a party of one, you didn't find napkins to be a necessity—so, instead, you have to make do with your oily hands. It's hardly the most elegant side you've shown him, but you also know he's seen worse. And if he can still watch you fondly, frankly, you don't think you have a need to be concerned.

With a grimace, you brush the fallen crumbs off of your lap and onto the couch. You're going to have to vacuum it, unless you want it to be teeming with ants. The thought makes you shudder.

Cael's lovely voice cuts through the horrific visions of an ant takeover and replaces them with much more pleasant imagery. "What are you thinking about?"

"Ants," you say, without skipping a beat, then laugh. "Well, that and I have a bone to pick with you."

He blinks, looking as though he's desperately trying to surpass a laugh. "Alright. What is it?"

Upon studying his expression, you find that it's rather reminiscent of the one that'd pushed you over the edge. This time—perhaps because of the way the amusement glittering in his violet eyes makes them pop—you smile softly. Laying back down on the sofa, with your head comfortably resting against the armrest, you grin and start describing your dilemma.

"The truth is, I was fishing for another compliment," you tell him, as if offering him a carefully-guarded confession.

Your voice is suitably dramatic, with a sliver of faux mournfulness coming through. Unfortunately, you're not particularly good at faking tears—so it is all you have in your arsenal.

Cael looks down at you from the phone's screen, clearly exasperated. You bring your arms down to a more comfortable position and adjust some of your bangs. With the plate of nuggets still on your lap, you can't bend your knees as you'd like. As a compromise, you cross your legs over one another.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

"I'll make up for it, but—" Your boyfriend hesitates. "Nevermind."

Even though the hamsters in your brain have started sounding the alarms, even though you're certain he's messing with you, you still fall for it—hook, line, and sinker. It leaves you incapable of saying anything beyond but.

With an elegance you might've admired at any other time, he ignores your minor break in coherency. But the smile on his face is, for all intents and purposes, a grin, genuine but unfortunately tinged with amusement, and you can't find it in yourself to be too upset. You still remember his lighthouse comment.

You wonder if he'd notice if you took a screenshot. He did say he didn't like to use his deduction abilities on you.

Humming a song you'd texted him without explanation, he begins to ask, "How would you like me to make up for—"

"But."

"I was talking about the girl in the painting," he relents finally, softly smiling at you. You like to think your glare broke him down.

But the person in the drawing...

True, you'd never specified who you were talking about. Neither had he. It really is true what they say about assumptions, you think, aware that you can't quite think of an accusation that won't backfire on you.

So, like a gaping fish—maybe one swimming in warmer weather, if your warm cheeks are any indication—you gawk at him.

"Is that surprising?" he asks.

Deliberately, you turn your head away. To make yourself feel like a productive person, you pretend you're searching for your beloved cat, who must've slinked away at some point. Then again, you're pretty sure bribery goes a long way with Beanie—and no one's better at it than Cael.

Maybe Beanie would side against you instead.

"Maybe I haven't said it enough. That you're the most beautiful person I know."

As your mind slowly registers the words, you blink. Clearly, Cael hasn't spent enough time staring at a mirror. If he'd said woman, you might've debated for a bit before folding. You might've even seized the opportunity he's presented you with immediately.

Instead, you squint at him.

Surely, he hasn't forgotten how the students of St. Shelter Academia hold his beauty in high esteem. Or the many, perhaps unnecessary, compliments to his beauty in In Passing, even after you'd returned to Godheim. Sure, he might not have registered your unsubtle crush on him back then, but surely, now—

Surely.

Maybe I'm the one who hasn't said it enough.

"That's right." You nod your head solemnly—as if you're unbothered by the thoughts running through your head—and hold up your pinky finger with a smug grin. "You should say it more. Pinky swear."

Despite the distance, he still holds up his pinky finger for you.

[oceanpenguin]

Marinette's No Good, Horribly Terrible Day

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Summary: Marinette has a bad day. Adrien's standing at her door with a gift. 

OR:

Bad days are horrible, but there's always something that can make it better. Companion to Girl on the Bus.

Rating: G

Pairing: Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

If preferred: AO3 I FFN

“Shoot!” Marinette flew across the street in horror, running across cars and past other students on her way to school, praying that the crosswalk light would remain white. When it chose to flash into a red hand instead, she sped up, barely stepping onto the other side before the first car drove into street.

Slowing down, she adjust her backpack as it attempted to hold her backpack as it threatened to fall off her back. It wasn’t her fault that her teachers chose to assign her so much homework that her bloated bag covered her back like her own turtle shell and slowed her down until she moved like a snail. It also wasn’t her fault that the police patrol cars decided to go out in full force today, pulling over no less than three cars on the mile-long stretch of highway, slowing down the usual crawl of highway traffic to the place of a sleepy sloth. And to make it worse, her first class was on the other side of school campus, the farthest it could be.  

Which also meant, then, that her tardiness to class wasn’t her fault either. Couldn’t class start at 8:30, not 8? And was it too much to expect decent traffic and a relatively light backpack? She lost weight from lugging around the ten-pound backpack everyday, back and forth from school every single day.

She prayed to the heavens above that the rest of the day would go smoother.

It didn’t. (Marinette swore she was never praying to the higher powers again.)

In her first class, English, there was an unplanned timed write. Forty frantic minutes of analyzing a speech and writing her own essay in illegible penmanship later, she was subjected to a stern talking-to from her teacher, a stick of a woman, about the sheer messiness of her handwriting. It was clearly affecting her grade, but she had to run before the talk could be finished. Lahiffe’s nostrils flared before she allowed Marinette to leave for her next class, calculus, where she had a pop test.

Clearly, the gods had it out for Marinette today. With a sense of relief, Marinette recognized most of the things the test was testing her on; it wasn’t too bad, she supposed, but then again, she wasn’t operating with her right mind. In hindsight, she may have missed a question or five that would plummet the test to a B (and ruin her GPA), but for now, it was acceptable grade. She pushed the notion out of her head before she could break down in tears.

Lugging her backpack to her next class, history, she pulled out a sheaf of highlighted handwritten notes, twenty pages long. This was why she woke up late this morning. Seven hours of note-taking on the weekend wasn’t enough, apparently, because it took her another hour and a half to finish highlighting them, not to mention the frustratingly difficult weekly tests the class gave on each chapter. She’d stayed up late the night before trying to finish the notes, because the teacher was also known for asking about ridiculously obscure facts from each time period.  

“Alright, class, here’s the president’s project!” The teacher brandished a stack of papers, cheerfully threatening the class that he could make it due at the end of the week which was in two days, but instead, was making it due a month later because of his sheer generosity. He demanded a round of applause, which the class half-heartedly gave.

Marinette looked at her classmates, who sported dark circles and bags under their eyes, just like her. She muffled her groan and buried her head into her arms, fighting off the lure of sleep, but she couldn’t go to sleep now. At least, not in this class. With a burst of effort, she pulled herself up and out of dreamland, only to find the teacher staring straight at her.

“Marinette,” he asked frostily, “who was the instrumental Supreme Court judge in the Supreme Court case Brown v. Board of Education ?”

She stared back, mute, before she realized that she’d just taken notes on it in the early hours of the morning. “It was Earl Warren, Mr. Rossi.”

“Justice Earl Warren, to be precise. Take care that you won’t fall asleep in class again.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, injecting as much sincerity as she could. Rossi nodded and moved on to torment her classmates, shocking people awake with questions and random facts.

It was then she realized that she had developed a headache. The pain throbbed from the base of her neck, reaching outwards to the entire back of her head and down to her shoulders. She reached for her drugstore painkillers, and then remembered that Rossi fervently prohibited eating and drinking, even of water, in his classroom.

She resolved to suffer in silence until class ended.

The rest of the day went smoother than her morning, if only because lunch had made her feel human again. The painkillers didn’t hurt; her headache went away within half an hour of ingestion, and her last two classes were predictable, if boring.

It was with a happy bounce in her step that she went to wait for the bus after school. She checked the bus arrival time on her app - the line 321 would be coming in two minutes! In twenty glorious minutes, she would be at home, relaxing in her bed with 3:25 staring at her from her clock.

Except, when 321 came to the stop, it just drove past. The empty bus passed in front of her and the dozens of classmates standing with her. She stared, floored, as the driver took one glance at the horde of students and pushed down hard on the gas.

Of course. Just when she thought her day was about to look up, it went down again. By the time the next bus came, she managed to develop yet another headache which she couldn’t even take painkillers for (instructions said to take a pill every six hours and it had hadn’t even been three hours since she took the pill. No amount of rolling or rubbing her neck would make it go away.

The next bus came in forty minutes.

Marinette collapsed on her bed, tired and frustrated, when the doorbell rang.

“God, what is it?” she groaned as she pulled herself out of her bed. She didn’t bother changing clothes; her lazy outfit would be good enough for whoever was at the door. It was just the mailman or the Amazon delivery guy, not her crush.

She should’ve known by the way the her day was going that Adrien was the one standing at the door, with a lavishly wrapped box and a card on top. He looked nervous and sweaty, if the sheen on his forehead was anything to go by. He also kept flicking his eyes between her face and her doorway, almost as if he wanted to run, and - wait.

What was he doing here? When did she ever give him her address? Christ almighty, did someone hack into her Facebook account? Did he hack into her Facebook account? Was the person she liked a stalker ?

Oh, and she was wearing the rattiest pair of sweatpants and hoodie that she favored. Great, now she looks like a hoodlum. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind before it could add to her headache.

“Hi,” she said dumbly, at a loss for what to say. “What are you doing here? How’d you get my address, anyways?” Huh. Apparently, she had something to say.

“Hey, Marinette. Um, Alya gave it to me.” His eyes finally focused on her, and a nervous smile appeared on his face.

“Yes, hello.” Hadn’t they gone over this already? She just wanted him to state his business and then leave. She wanted to go lay back down on her bed.

“How are you?” he ventured. Great, Adrien was one of those chatty ones at a house call, wasn’t he?

“I’m good, thanks.” Hopefully, he’d take the short answer for the hint it was, do what he came here to do, and leave.

He didn’t. “Oh. That’s nice to hear.” Adrien shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I was wondering if you’d-if you’d-.” He cleared his throat.

She suppressed a sigh and leaned against the door, tilting her head to relieve the tension from her neck. “Sorry, I have a strain in my neck today,” she apologized when she caught him looking. “Must have slept in the wrong position last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he ventured. There was a pause. Then, he opened his mouth, and said in a stream of words, “Iwaswonderingifyou’dliketogoonadatewithme.”

She blinked. “Sorry? Could you repeat that?” Marinette thought she had heard something along the lines of dating him, but that would’ve never been possible in any universe.

Adrien’s face and neck flushed red. “A date. Um, with me. If you were interested, that is.”

“Oh.” Well, that was unexpected. She thought there had to be someone coming out of a bush and yelling, “Ha! Loser!”, but there didn’t seem to be anyone like that around.

“Um….” How was she supposed to formulate her answer? Yes, I’d love to go on a date with you? Please? Pinch me, I’m dreaming?

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be good.” She smiled weakly at Adrien, whose eyes widened in horror.

“Oh, no, Marinette, you don’t need to say yes if you don’t want to. It’s okay, really, it is.” He shoved the box and the card into her hands. “Anyways, I just wanted you to have this, and-” Adrien ran a hand through his hair, sticking it up all over the place, and then frantically patted it back down. Marinette thought it was cute. “You probably wouldn’t want them, what am I thinking, why would you want something I gave you when you don’t even like me? Anyways, I’ll just get going, why are you-mmph!”

Marinette threw her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder. She had heard the words “go” and the “don’t want” and, well, she didn’t want him to leave. This seemed to be the most effective way of getting him to stay, so she pulled him into her hug. He seemed to be frozen in place. Good.  

“I’m having a bad day,” she said into his shoulder. Wait, that probably wasn’t the best thing to start with. She pulled him closer in case he decided to run away. “I’m just tired right now, and when I’m tired, my smiles look like grimaces, but rest assured that I will never say yes to something I don’t want.” She picked up her head and looked at him in the eye. “So before I lose all of my confidence, I’ll just tell it to you straight. I like you, and I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“Oh. That’s great.” He tentatively wrapped his arms around her, warm weights resting on her back. She sighed, comfortable, and snuggled into his shoulders. Her headache had gone away.

They stayed still for a few seconds before he cleared his throat. “Marinette, as much as I’d love to stay here with you-”

“You’re comfortable,” she interrupted.

“You are, too.” Was he smiling? “It’s just that my dad expects me home at five, and I’d love to spend some time with you that’s not out here on the doorstep where everyone can see us.”

Humiliation burned bright through her mind as she imagined her nosy neighbors poking their noses into her business again.

“You can come in. Remember to take your shoes off at the door.” She tugged him through the doorway and set the presents down on the table near the entryway. “Water? Tea?”

“Just water, thanks.” He stood by awkwardly as Marinette filled two glasses of water, one for him and the other for herself. The cold liquid was like a shock to her system, and it brought all of the events that had occurred in the past few minutes to the forefront of her mind. Had she really just clung onto Adrien like a koala bear and refused to let him go?

Her cheeks heated up as her embarrassment grew, and she ducked her head, unable to speak. “I’m not usually so straightforward,” she said eventually, rolling the glass cup in her hand. “I guess that’s what a lack of sleep does to me.”

A warm hand covered hers, gently prying it away from the glass. “I don’t mind,” he said softly. “I like you any way I can get you.”

“Me too,” she mumbled. Had she really just said that?

“Good to know I’m not the only one feeling this way.”

She winced when the headache grew and pulsed in her head. Apparently, only Adrien could make it go away. She opened her mouth to ask when Adrien broke in, “Could I hug you again?”

Marinette bit her lip, pleased, and nodded. She drew him to the sofa and curled up next to Adrien, sighing in pleasure when one of his hands wrapped around the back of her neck. “You just make the pain go away.”

“Oh, that’s good. Are you feeling better? You mentioned you had a bad day earlier.”

She shook her head, sleepy and content. “No, just tests and traffic lights and buses that won’t stop.”

There was a chuckle above her. “Seems like a lot to me.”

“You’re here. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her words seemed fuzzy, even to her. There was a light brush of pressure against her hair, and she drifted off to sleep.

Marinette woke up a few hours later, refreshed and alert. Her headache was gone. She would’ve thought the entire thing was a dream if it wasn’t for the note in front of her, written in Adrien’s distinctive handwriting.

You fell asleep, and since I didn’t want to wake you up to tell you I had to get home before five, I guess a note would do. I really do hope you feel better soon! -Adrien.

She grinned at the note when a ping from her phone alerted her to a new message. Attached were photos of her sleeping that Adrien took, all of them featuring her sleep mussed hair and closed eyes. Just thought you should have these, read the caption accompanying the pictures. You’re adorable when you’re asleep.

Thanks, she sent back. I’m feeling a lot better now.

Well, she reflected, although her day was bad, things were looking up. And if the gods that be decided to bring her Adrien, well, it looked like that plea hadn’t gone to waste after all.

A/N:  Bad days are horrible, but there's always something that can make it better. I like ice cream and sleep. You?