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marketinsight1234 · 1 month

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Roasted Resilience: Navigating the US Coffee Market Landscape

The US Coffee is Expected to Grow at a Significant Growth Rate, and the Forecast Period is 2023-2030, Considering the Base Year as 2022.

The commercial and economic setting where coffee beans and related goods are purchased and sold is known as the "coffee market." It includes the production, processing, roasting, packaging, distribution, and consumption of coffee, among other facets of the coffee industry.

The coffee market in the United States is a booming, significant industry with a significant cultural impact. With a long history of coffee consumption, the nation has a wide range of coffee-drinking customs, from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan coffee shops to the convenience of single-serve coffee options in homes and workplaces.

The US has a vibrant coffee culture that is influenced by large chains of coffee shops as well as independent small-scale cafes and roasters that provide a variety of artisanal coffee drinks and seasonal flavors. For many Americans, coffee has become an essential part of their daily routines, whether it's used as a midday break, a morning pick-me-up, or a social beverage with friends and coworkers.

Due to shifting customer expectations and tastes, the US coffee market is always changing. The focus on fair trade, ecologically friendly processes, and ethical sourcing reflects the increased awareness of responsible coffee consumption. Exploration of new brewing techniques, flavors, and origins is driven by coffee connoisseurs.

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Leading players involved in the US Coffee Market include:

Nestlé SA (Switzerland), The J.M. Smucker Company (USA), The Kraft Heinz Company (USA), Starbucks Corporation (USA), JDE Peet's (Netherlands), Keurig Dr. Pepper (USA), Lavazza Group (Italy), Tchibo Coffee International Ltd. (Germany), Massimo Zanetti Beverage Group (Italy), illycaffè S.p.A. (Italy), D.E. Master Blenders 1753 (Netherlands), Jacobs Douwe Egberts (Netherlands), Strauss Group Ltd. (Israel), UCC Ueshima Coffee Co., Ltd. (Japan), Melitta Group (Germany), Eight O'Clock Coffee Company (USA), Luigi Lavazza S.p.A. (Italy), Farmer Bros. Co. (USA), Peet's Coffee & Tea, Inc. (USA), Community Coffee Company (USA) and Other Major Players

Updated Version 2024 is available our Sample Report May Includes the:

Scope For 2024

Brief Introduction to the research report.

Table of Contents (Scope covered as a part of the study)

Top players in the market

Research framework (structure of the report)

Research methodology adopted by Worldwide Market Reports

Moreover, the report includes significant chapters such as Patent Analysis, Regulatory Framework, Technology Roadmap, BCG Matrix, Heat Map Analysis, Price Trend Analysis, and Investment Analysis which help to understand the market direction and movement in the current and upcoming years.

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Segmentation of US Coffee Market:

By Forms

Whole Coffee Beans

Ground Coffee

Instant Coffee

Coffee Pods & Capsules

Espresso

Others

By Source

Arabica

Robusta

By Speciality Coffee

Single-Origin Coffee

Micro-Lot Coffee

Organic Coffee

Direct Trade Coffee

Cold Brew & Nitro Cold Brew Coffee Others

By Process

Caffeinated

Decaffeinated

By Flavors

Vanilla

Caramel

Hazelnut

Mocha

Cinnamon

Others

By Distribution Channel

On-trade

Off-trade

By End-Users

Individual Coffee Drinkers

Coffee Shop Patrons

Office & Workplace Consumers

Catering & Hospitality Industry

Bakeries & Dessert Shops Others

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We are technocratic market research and consulting company that provides comprehensive and data-driven market insights. We hold the expertise in demand analysis and estimation of multidomain industries with encyclopedic competitive and landscape analysis. Also, our in-depth macro-economic analysis gives a bird's eye view of a market to our esteemed client. Our team at Pristine Intelligence focuses on result-oriented methodologies which are based on historic and present data to produce authentic foretelling about the industry. Pristine Intelligence's extensive studies help our clients to make righteous decisions that make a positive impact on their business. Our customer-oriented business model firmly follows satisfactory service through which our brand name is recognized in the market.

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halcon-packaging · 2 years

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tennessoui · 3 years

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if you wrote obikin for #4 with anakin as a single parent and obi-wan as luke and leia's teacher i would simply die happy!!

here it is!!! thank you so much!

4. Teacher/Single Parent AU (modern!AU)(DinLuke shows up as little kids)(2.4k)(whoops)

Anakin stares across the table at Luke, who gnaws on a slice of grilled cheese, carefully leaving the crusts behind. Oh god, he’d forgotten to cut them off of Luke’s sandwich, had cut them off of Leia’s instead, even though she didn’t mind them. And of course they hadn’t told him either. He can’t tell if he’s been forgiven for his error or if it will come back to haunt him later tonight when he tries to put the twins to bed at eight.

“Luke,” he says carefully. “I think I’m just a little confused.”

Leia looks up. She loves when her father is a little confused because it means Luke is probably a bit in trouble and she gets to be the one to set the record straight for him.

Which isn’t to say Leia is a tattle-tale. Anakin’s seen her watch Luke hit another child upside the head with a toy train and then say absolutely nothing when questioned by the daycare instructor.

Daddy’s interrogations are just a special case where she can become a guilt-free turncoat.

“How did you get a Unicorn sticker in art class?” he asks.

The Unicorn stickers, of course, mean unsatisfactory.

He pays extra money for his children to be coddled and kept away from words like Fail and Unsatisfactory, even though that’s what all the parents know the stickers mean. As long as the children don't yet.

“And I don’t understand the rainbow sticker at all,” he continues helplessly, regarding the piece of artwork in front of him, where a handful of dried macaroni noodles are lacklusterly glued to the page.

“The Unicorn sticker means it was bad, but the rainbow sticker means that Mr. Kenobi forgives him,” Leia pipes up, leaning across the table to take the icky crusts from her brother’s plate and dipping them into her tomato soup.

“But it was dry macaroni,” Anakin says incredulously. Luke’s eyes start getting misty as he stares resolutely down at his plate. That’s the last thing Anakin wants. But he just doesn’t understand. Luke’s the most creative of both of his children, has seemed to take after Anakin in that way. Last Christmas, Anakin had given him a model train set that he’d put together inside of a week. If he can do that, he can do a self-portrait in dry macaroni.

“He gave Din all of his noodles,” Leia reports.

“Didn’t Din have any?” Anakin asks, feeling completely out of his element and also sort of like a detective trying to solve a cold case.

“He wanted to save them for his puppy,” Luke mumbles. “They just got him and they can’t figure out what he eats, so Din thought he could try macaroni because I told him I like macaroni and cheese a lot.”

Anakin is on the cliff of despair, but he can’t exactly ask whether or not this Din knows there’s a difference between the dried macaroni from art class and boxed macaroni and cheese from Kraft. He’s not sure he even wants to know the answer.

“And then Luke didn’t have a lot left for his picture,” Leia finishes the story and her soup in one fell swoop.

“Couldn’t you have asked Mr. Kenobi for more?” Anakin asks Luke who shakes his head but doesn’t seem to want to elaborate. Anakin turns only slightly pleading eyes to Leia, who is the expert on anything her brother doesn’t want to say.

“Mr. Kenobi sits at the front, and Luke sat at the back today so it was really far.”

“But you always sit at the front!” Anakin says, appalled. Sure, he hadn’t managed to make it to the most recent round of parent-teacher conferences due to an unfortunately timed shift at the garage, but he knows where his kids sit in a classroom.

Luke mumbles something into his bowl.

“What was that?” Anakin asks.

Leia translates. “Din doesn’t sit at the front,” she says.

Anakin sits back in his chair and runs a hand over his mouth. Luke has a crush. His son, Luke, has his very first crush on a boy and he’s already doing stupid things in order to see the boy. Oh no. Oh god. Of all the things to take after Anakin on, it’s this one.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “It’s okay. Unicorns aren’t so bad.”

“Way better than giraffes,” Leia tells her brother bracingly, seeming to know instinctively that the gossiping part of this conversation is over. “And you got a rainbow, which means Mr. Kenobi isn’t mad.”

Anakin wonders, with the context, if that’s actually what the rainbow means, or if Mr. Kenobi isn’t just incredibly observant.

“TV time, kids,” he says, only feeling sort of bad about the screentime or whatever, as Luke perks up and runs with Leia into the living room.

After five minutes to make sure they’ve successfully turned on and found a child-appropriate show, Anakin gathers the dishes and loads the washer. Then he sighs as loud as he can without disrupting the kids.

Then he pulls out his phone and the school directory and finds the email for one Mr. Obi-Wan Kenobi, art teacher.

It takes him twenty minutes to figure out an email that doesn’t sound too judgemental, harsh, worried, skeptical, or angry. It takes another five minutes to figure out how to sign off on it. Kind regards? Best? Thanks? Sincerely? What is the etiquette for emailing your son’s art teacher to arrange a meeting because you’re worried your son will fail the class simply because he’s inherited terrible genes from his father?

It takes ten minutes, in the end, for Mr. Kenobi to email back, and he does so with a very straightforward message. He’s available to chat after school hours tomorrow, if it works for Anakin.

Anakin pulls up his work schedule. He’s supposed to work until five in the evening tomorrow, has already booked a slot at the after-care program for the twins. But.

He texts Ahsoka to ask if she could cover the last few hours of his shift. She texts back a string of rather offensive emojis, but settles down when he tells her it’s for his kids. Technically, he isn’t even lying. He’s just being overbearing.

He spends another fifteen minutes trying to compose a response email in between making sure the kids brush their teeth, wash behind their ears, and have their bags packed for the morning. He’s so stressed out by it that he’s not even sure he includes a signature at all before he hits send. God. Meeting Mr. Kenobi had better be worth all of this stress.

---

Finding Mr. Kenobi’s classroom is almost more stress than the correspondence from the night before had been. The only reason Anakin doesn’t sit down and cry against the garishly yellow brick lining the hallways is that he keeps telling himself that if his two seven-year-olds can do this, Anakin surely can.

The art classroom is tucked away in a forgotten corner of the school and it takes three wrong turns and one accidental entrance into a thankfully deserted first grade room for Anakin to find it. He knocks on the open door and then decides he should call as well to announce his presence. “Uh, Mr. Kenobi? I’m Anakin. Skywalker. We talked last night?” He takes a couple of steps into the room, which is lined in children’s art and paint-stained tables.

A man emerges from a backroom, dressed in a very loose and paint-flecked denim shirt over a white tank top and a pair of slacks. He’s wearing a pair of thick glasses that he takes off as soon as he sees Anakin. His beard is neatly trimmed and his hair, a sort of bronzed auburn, neatly combed.

He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand, and still, of course, Anakin’s dumb brain overrides the part of him that’s saying, This is clearly Mr. Kenobi in favor saying, quite politely, “Oh! I’m sorry. Is Mr. Kenobi back there?”

The man who could not possibly be more obviously the art teacher raises an amused eyebrow.

Look. No one told Anakin that elementary school art teachers could be so attractive. He’d not done anything to prepare for this.

“You must be Luke’s father,” Mr. Kenobi says, waving him forward.

“What makes you say that?” Anakin asks, a tad too defensively, thinking of his own self-deprecating thoughts last night about Luke taking after him when it comes to being sort of stupid around people they liked. He’s just being paranoid.

“The...last...name,” now Mr. Kenobi is definitely trying to hide his smile and Anakin wants to die. “Would you like to sit?”

Anakin does so rather graciously, given the circumstances. He even makes sure he keeps their chairs very far apart. Mostly in order to preserve his own dignity, but he thinks he should get credit for his self-control at this spur of the moment single-parent-hot-teacher conference.

“I’m sorry for my appearance,” Mr. Kenobi says, pulling the oversized button up closed over his tank top. “I must admit, I mostly forgot you were coming by. I was working on one of my own projects.”

“You paint?” Anakin asks.

Mr. Kenobi tilts his head slightly and flicks his eyes around the room as if in answer.

Anakin flushes but digs his heels in. “Well, I don’t know,” he mumbles mulishly. “Do math teachers do math in their spare time?”

This startles a laugh out of the teacher, which makes some long forgotten part of Anakin’s psyche sit up and preen. “I’m sure some of them do,” he says. “No, I do art mostly for the town right now. I’m working on a series of pieces for the public library at the moment.”

Anakin tries his hardest not to obviously melt, but Mr. Kenobi has not looked away from his face much so surely he can see it in his eyes.

“That’s quite. Nice,” Anakin says, coughing into his fist.

“And what do you do?” Mr. Kenobi asks in a way that’s just on the other side of polite. Anakin has the strange thought that if they had cups of coffee between them, he’d feel like he was on a very casual first date.

He has to shake his head to rid himself of that idea. “I’m a mechanic,” he says.

Mr. Kenobi looks interested, of all things. Most people don’t. Most people make some sort of assumption about him, about his life, his ability to parent his children, as if they’re not the ones rolling into his shop at 5:54 pm because their car is “making a funny noise”.

But Mr. Kenobi just looks interested.

“Oh?” He says. “That makes sense. Leia is always talking about how her father can fix anything.”

“Well,” Anakin blushes and looks away. “You know kids. Turn it off and turn it back on usually blows their minds.”

Mr. Kenobi smiles indulgently before clearing his throat. “You wanted to talk about Luke?”

“Oh! Yes!” He had come here with the express desire to talk about Luke with Mr. Kenobi. Not secure a date with Mr. Kenobi. “I saw that Luke got a... unicorn...and a rainbow on his last project, and it made me worry.”

It sounds very, very overbearing coming out of his mouth. This is an elementary school art class. Why did he think that he should come in and talk to a teacher over his son’s bad grade? Especially when it was pretty clear Luke deserved it.

Mr. Kenobi tilts his head in confusion. “Well, yes, I suppose I usually give Luke two suns on his work, so I understand if the change was upsetting to you.”

“And we’re saying that two suns are good?” Anakin checks, feeling very out of his element here.

“Oh, yes, very good,” Mr. Kenobi assures him. “But his last project wasn’t. Well.”

“He says he got distracted,” Anakin mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Over a boy.”

“Haven’t we all been there,” Mr. Kenobi murmurs, sounding very amused. Anakin peeks over his fingers at this declaration.

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “That’s sort of exactly what I thought.”

Mr. Kenobi clears his throat again. “Well. That’s why I gave him the unicorn then. It was a bit of bad work, but a very rare showing of it. And the rainbow, to signify that I know he’ll be back to normal again next time. You shouldn’t worry about this one project either, Mr. Skywalker. I do give final grades holistically, not weighted by any one assignment. This is, after all, a children’s art class.”

Anakin wants to thunk his head on the table in front of him. “You do know that all the parents think unicorn means unsatisfactory, right?”

“Why?” Mr. Kenobi has the nerve to look shocked.

“They both start with U, I don’t know,” Anakin says, waving an agitated hand through the air.

“Well, sometimes parents can be quite stupid,” Mr. Kenobi says primly and then looks horrified at himself. “Please don’t tell them I said that.”

Anakin laughs and gets to his feet reluctantly. His worries over Luke have been dealt with, but he finds himself very reluctant to leave.

“Well,” he says slowly, eyes firmly looking only at Mr. Kenobi’s face, “Thank you for meeting with me. I guess you don’t get many frantic parent-teacher conferences over a unicorn sticker.” He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck with his hand in embarrassment. He can admit now that perhaps he had overreacted.

Mr. Kenobi places his hand delicately over the hand Anakin still has on the table, just for a second, squeezing it with enough pressure that Anakin has to look up at him again. “Only the best parents,” he says with a half-smile.

Anakin finds himself grinning back, unwilling to move his hand now that Kenobi’s touching it. “And, um. If you ever take the kids on an art museum tour or something, and you need chaperones….give me a call.”

“Would I have to wait that long?” Kenobi asks innocently.

Anakin’s never shaken his head no so quickly before. “Any time,” he tells the man very seriously, already backing out of the room. “Before you think too much about it and decide not to would probably be preferable.”

Mr. Kenobi laughs. “I’m sure I’ll think about it a lot,” he says as he turns to go back to his art studio. He calls over his shoulder. “In bed, tonight.”

Anakin trips over a child-sized easel with a loud clatter and an even louder curse, and he can’t decide which of the two should be more thankful school is out for the day. Probably Mr. Kenobi. Yeah. Probably definitely Mr. Kenobi.

#asks #my fics #obikin #just fluff #also omg re: my last tagged fic prompt and my gyoza #i was so excited about my gyoza i forgot to add a keep reading cut #so it looks SO long #and i went back and i added it but im also very sorry #i also had three gyoza which was a bit too much for 12:45am #and now it's 3:15 but i finished another prompt bless #prompt fill #art teacher obi-wan au

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jack-rose1 · 3 years

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esabri · 4 years

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instant Markt market Grad degree besiedeln populate küken chick liebe dear Feind enemy antworten reply Getränk drink auftreten occur Unterstützung support Rede speech Natur nature Angebot range Dampf steam Bewegung motion Weg path Flüssigkeit liquid protokollieren log gemeint meant Quotient quotient Gebiss teeth Schale shell Hals neck Sauerstoff oxygen Zucker sugar Tod death ziemlich pretty Geschicklichkeit skill Frauen women Saison season Lösung solution Magnet magnet Silber silver danken thank Zweig branch Spiel match Suffix suffix insbesondere especially Feige fig ängstlich afraid riesig huge Schwester sister Stahl steel diskutieren discuss vorwärts forward ähnlich similar führen guide Erfahrung experience Partitur score apfel apple gekauft bought geführt led Tonhöhe pitch Mantel coat Masse mass Karte card Band band Seil rope Rutsch slip gewinnen win träumen dream Abend evening Zustand condition Futtermittel feed Werkzeug tool gesamt total Basis basic Geruch smell Tal valley noch nor doppelt double Sitz seat fortsetzen continue Block block Tabelle chart Hut hat verkaufen sell Erfolg success Firma company subtrahieren subtract Veranstaltung event besondere particular viel deal schwimmen swim Begriff term Gegenteil opposite Frau wife Schuh shoe Schulter shoulder Verbreitung spread arrangieren arrange Lager camp erfinden invent Baumwolle cotton geboren born bestimmen determine Quart quart neun nine Lastwagen truck Lärm noise Ebene level Chance chance sammeln gather Geschäft shop Stretch stretch werfen throw Glanz shine Immobilien property Spalte column Molekül molecule wählen select falsch wrong grau gray Wiederholung repeat erfordern require breit broad vorbereiten prepare Salz salt Nase nose mehreren plural Zorn anger Anspruch claim Kontinent continent

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tysonrunningfox · 4 years

Text

Two Night Stand AU: Part 6

Ao3

I’m...chasing the ever illusive feeling of accomplishment upon finishing things. Heard it’s possible.

“How was…how was that?” Hiccup asks, flopping back onto the bed with more force than his skinny shoulders should be able to produce.

They’re a few experiments in, a couple of failed hypotheses closer to the truth. Her hands are shaking, her skin twitching when he pulls the sheet up her chest, a fond gesture that she should tell him to stop. But they’re being honest, and she honestly likes it, enough that she scoots sideways to rest her head on his shoulder.

His hand finds her hip, stroking in a lazy, exhausted way that makes her chest throb even though it’s somewhere beyond the middle of the night and there’s no way they’re doing that again. Because there’s no way they have energy to do that again.

Maybe if he did all the work.

“That was good,” she adjusts to get comfortable, her temple against a sweaty collarbone that doesn’t quite do the trick. He’s the close kind of bony, like he has less of a buffer, and she can see why his personality is as oversized as his hair.

He might kiss the top of her head. She’s not sure. She should ask, in the name of honesty, but she doesn’t know how much she cares about honesty if he’ll touch her again in the morning.

Like there’s a limit, obviously if he started spouting racist slurs or required a pledge of allegiance first, that would be a no-go, but a little hair kissing? Forgivable.

Corny, but forgivable, given the circumstances. Given how if she thinks about it, it feels like there’s no one else on the planet.

“I’m…” He trails off, nose in her hair. Nuzzling her hair. And Ruffnut said no one would bang her pre-shower. Ruffnut just doesn’t have a mind for the science of it all. “I’m…”

“You’re…” She half-asks, half-ignores, eyelids feeling heavy as his warm palm settles on her waist.

“Hungry.” He laughs, stubble evident on her forehead.

Her stomach growls.

He laughs. He kisses her head. She should ask why he keeps doing that and also ask if there’s a pizzeria in the basement that she didn’t notice in either her haste to get up here or her haste to leave. A 24-hour pizzeria. Open during a blizzard.

“We should go figure that out.”

“I was thinking take out,” he laughs, voice still low, kissing her head again, and his boniness shouldn’t be so soft. This shouldn’t be so ok. “Or we can eat here.” His hand migrates down, tickling her stomach, and she twitches at the memory of the last hour even as she grabs his fingers.

“I’m literally hungry,” she laughs, “for calories. Not jokes.”

His stomach growls. And he earned it, and that makes her laugh, which makes him laugh, chest reverberating like it’s bigger than it is. Big hand on her waist. Lips in her hair.

“Me too.”

“Well, let’s go do something about it.” She sits up, taking the blanket with her, and he has the audacity to be groggy as he sits up slowly and fumbles for his leg. Before his boxers. It feels intimate. And he looks up at her through his eyelashes, adjusting his stance, everything out.

And penises are weird. And she feels like she can’t look at anything else. Maybe it’s allowed though, for science.

It looks hungry too. Not for calories, necessarily, but it has also driven the show for the last few hours, so maybe it’s someone else’s turn.

“Here,” he tosses her the shirt he’d been wearing before pulling up his boxer briefs and it’s easier to pull it on than it is to emotionally fund an archaeological expedition to the site of her strip tease that wasn’t a tease.

It was an appetizer.

And he ate.

And they’re still hungry.

Because scientific endeavors don’t have any calories.

“Food?” He looks at her like it’s really a question. Like her answer isn’t ‘forget the food and get back here because I’m cold’.

Her stomach gurgles and he grins, holding out his hand and pointedly ignoring her eye roll. He pointedly ignores a lot of things, among them, how obvious it is that there is no food. He lets her look through every cabinet and find mustard, a pack of gum, vitamin C supplements, and a single packet of fruit snacks.

And it’s snowing.

And she’s wearing his shirt and nothing else and she knows what she can do with his hands and she swallows hard as she turns to face him.

“We have to ration the fruit snacks. Who knows how long they have to last?” She tosses the packet at him. He drops it. He bends down to pick it up and his ass is right there. She wonders if she’s allowed to tell him that his ass is more distracting than his leg, but even asking that of herself ruins the game. “Also why don’t you have food?”

“I did, until we got high.”

“Fair.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Fair.”

“Why…why don’t you just go back to bed?” His voice dips as he asks the question and she wonders how asking him to do all the work would really come across as his fingertips glance across her thigh. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Are you weighing the fruit snacks?” She backs into the doorway and pauses, elbow on the doorframe, “because as the person who just got off more, I could make a concrete argument for getting the bigger half of the fruit snacks—”

“You can have the whole packet.” His lip twitches like a warning he tries to squelch and she takes it, for once, shuffling out of the room. Badly moonwalking, almost.

His awkward is contagious.

She has the feeling there’s a vaccine, and she should have acquired it socially at some point, but she didn’t. And she’s here. Badly moonwalking out of a kitchen over a fruit snack victory.

Sometimes rock bottom isn’t so hard. Sometimes it’s padded with expired fruit snacks.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she mumbles before turning and shuffling off, refusing to hold the shirt down.

The longer she sits in it, the more comfortable Hiccup’s bed becomes. His bedroom is homey in a way hers never has been, disorganized enough to feel lived in, the blanket well-worn and soft around her waist. Her bedroom was always so clean, everything in its place, until the last few months. And even now, it’s not really comfortable, it’s more just…messy. Like she lost interest in everything before it made it back to its place. It feels like lethargy, like sleeping until three, and staring at a computer screen until her eyes burn and she’s forgotten all that she didn’t get done.

She likes Hiccup’s room. She likes thinking about last night, about being tangled together in a web of constant communication. She flushes when she remembers that she probably shouldn’t be thinking about it, adjusting Hiccup’s shirt around her waist and curling her knees to her chest.

Hiccup comes in a moment later, holding a suspiciously laden tray, the all too familiar smell of Kraft macaroni and cheese wafting towards her.

“Where did you get that?” She shifts, accepting the tray as he slides back into bed next to her, quickly thumbing his prosthetic off and hiding his leg immediately in the blankets. There’s a full, expired packet of fruit snacks on her side and she wonders if feeding anybody anything has ever been sexy and if that’s enough of a concept to turn into an experiment.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Astrid takes one of the bowls from the tray and frowns, because where Hiccup’s skin is touching hers it’s warm, and he didn’t go outside and—

“This is your neighbors’ food, isn’t it?”

He avoids her eyeline just enough to prove her point and she grins, “you were such an asshole about me breaking that window, and now you’re breaking into their apartment and stealing their food. Hypocrite.”

“They will understand,” he shrugs, stirring his food and taking a bite. “I’ll tell them it was life or death, that if I didn’t feed the crazy girl I met online, she was going to go all Donner Party on my ass.”

“I still might,” she’s suddenly too aware that it’s his shirt warm and soft on the back of her neck. “You did witness me breaking and entering, I probably shouldn’t let you live.”

“But I fed you,” he elbows her, shifting slightly closer to her in a magnetic way she wishes she didn’t notice. “And for the record, I thought it was pretty badass when you broke that window.”

“I agree,” she takes a bite, and Kraft has never tasted so good. The muffled moan at the taste of fake cheese is embarrassing and she clears her throat, “I’m glad you came to your senses. It was badass.”

“I have to say,” he slows down, stirring his mac and cheese and looking at her, eyes narrowed. His eyelashes are ridiculously thick, dark in the half-light of the room, and she wonders what she would have thought about him if she’s met him anywhere else, in any other way. “I really don’t get you. Like, one moment you’re unemployed, looking for a booty call online at midnight, and the next you’re just…this go-getter, take-no-shit-even-from-windows-or-laws rebel. Which is it?”

Astrid should be angry, and some remnant of who she used to try and be stirs in her chest, offended at the idea of being a rebel. The rest of her is…well, she’s flattered he asked. That he noticed.

“I don’t know, both?” She takes another bite, mulling it over for a while. “I was valedictorian in high school. Graduated college at the top of my class. I had not the requisite three, but six letters of recommendation ready to be sent off to medical school but…”

The way he’s looking at her makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to remember that she’s damaged goods, doomed to keep that never-healing injury close to her chest until it scabs over and becomes some knotted whorl of scar tissue.

“I was engaged once,” she can’t look at him as she says it, and her hands suddenly look like they should be attached to someone older. Like they’re her grandmother’s knuckles. “Sounds like I’m writing a memoir. I was engaged recently, up until a few months ago.” She shrugs, “he cheated. I wanted to work it out, he didn’t. You know, typical…whatever, bullshit, but…” It’s hard to talk about in a way she can’t explain, hard to form the words on her tongue even while they’re surging through her brain.

Harder when he looks at her, more curious than sympathetic, chin tilting to the side.

“I thought…” She swallows, thinking about rebellion, and how maybe after months of listening to the reality of her shit situation, she needs to push back against it. “I thought that maybe getting back out there, getting back on the metaphorical, dick-shaped horse might make it sting less and maybe that’s stupid, but—”

“Did it work?” He’s too quiet to really cut her off but she was so hoping to hear him talk that she pauses when he does.

And he has those earnest eyes.

She shrugs, wishing she’d grabbed her own shirt while also being glad that she didn’t. His is softer. The kind of shirt a girlfriend would love to steal, and she’s never thought of being that person again. All paths forward were cul-de-sacs to be walked alone in fits of depressive pacing.

She bites back a smile. She feels tired. A bit sore. Her stomach more than the rest of her, because it was hilarious when he tipped backwards off of the bed. She’s lost, but no more than usual, in fact she might have re-discovered the concept of North, as an idea. A theory. A constant that exists separate from whatever direction she’s facing.

“I don’t get how someone could be there through…I mean, it used to feel like everything. Like life stopped at college graduation and everything since has been limbo, but anyway, I don’t get how someone could see what I was working towards every day for years and then suddenly, it was too much. I was too much.”

“You?” He raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the bedframe with a snort, “never.”

“Apparently he just couldn’t take me ‘obsessing’ anymore. That was the word.” She hasn’t told anyone this. Not her mom, not Ruffnut. She’s held it close like an infection, fearing a diagnosis that would require an emotional surgery so invasive it would be more exorcism than excision.

“Obsessive,” he nods, “I’ve heard that one a few times too. Mostly from people who think I’m in the way or I will be soon.”

“The thing is, I was always like that. I was the twelve-year-old with a five-year plan, I was the eighteen-year-old with a plan for my second promotion at forty, it didn’t show up out of nowhere. You think he would have told me my ‘obsessiveness’ was a deal-breaker before he bought a ring.” She sighs, “like he never did anything else he was ‘supposed’ to, why did he suddenly start? And who told him that I thought he was supposed to propose?”

“No, I—the way I see it, people need to realize that refusing to make a decision is a kind of decision.” Hiccup’s fork clangs against his bowl as he drops it on his lap, freeing his hands up to talk, “people spend their entire lives either trying to avoid the flow or completely immersing themselves in the flow until they freak out at the lack of decision in their lives and it’s the same on both sides.” He gestures at one corner of the room, eyes bright, “you’re either thirty or forty or fifty, flitting between random part time jobs or you get a job straight out of college and then you have to get an apartment and you can’t lose the job because of the apartment, and then you have to keep houseplants alive to prove you’re an adult because the standard is impossible—”

“I don’t really know where you’re getting your standards—”

“And ‘obsessive’? As an insult, it’s—being a little obsessive is the only thing that cuts across it, so of course people hate it. Because it makes them realize that they’re either drifting down the lazy river of life, or they’re fighting the current just to brag about it. And that they’ve never actually thought about what they want, versus what they’re supposed to have by now, on some imaginary timeline.” He looks at her, cheeks red like he forgot he had an audience for his rant. “And really people are just jealous that they never thought of wanting something that hadn’t already been sold to them, so then it’s your fault for making them realize it.”

She doesn’t think that ended up where he wanted it to. She’s not sure it ended up at all, it just spiraled higher and wilder, but she liked it. The limitless-ness of it, the fact he found the energy for it.

“Wow.”

“Blacked out for a second there,” he tries to put the energy away but it crackles between them, “high on my own dulcet tones.”

“We should go like…write to our senators or something,” she laughs, punching him in his skinny arm.

“Right,” the cynical mask doesn’t fit under his bed-head and she nudges his shoulder with hers, taking another bite of stolen mac and cheese.

“No, you’re right, it’s…he couldn’t care about anything enough to decide on it. It’s not just me. He liked the concept but the reality of choosing what his forever looked like didn’t sit well.”

“I feel bad for him, honestly.” He laughs and she tries to resist the cold fingers that curl in her chest as she raises a judgmental eyebrow.

“What about this story makes him seem like the one who should be pitied?” Except she doesn’t want his pity either, but she knows she doesn’t need to tell him that from the way he smirks at her. With her. Conspiratorial, not confrontational.

“Because he’s so stupid and he doesn’t even know it.” He finishes his food and sets the bowl aside on the bedside table next to an empty condom wrapper that didn’t make it into the trash. Because this isn’t the environment for a heart to heart and he’s not the person she should want one from, but here she is, watching the snow fall outside the window over his shoulder. “He thinks you’re just one example of some milestone girl and when he thinks he’s ready, he’ll find another one, but that’s not—you’re not. You’re—of all the girls I could have met on that dating site--”

His face softens, and the hazy potential in his expression amplifies the energy that she doesn’t want to name. To name it is to acknowledge it, and to acknowledge it cements her place on top of the podium for ‘worst one-night-stand-haver’.

“What are those?” But she’s never been good at keeping quiet. And maybe sometimes, at the end of a long, winding losing streak, any win counts as a win.

“What are what?”

“Those mushy, lovey-dovey eyes you’re looking at me with right now.” She punches his arm again, lighter this time, then jokingly points her thumb over her shoulder. “Get those out of here.”

“It’s like three in the morning, my contacts are dry.” He’s not wearing contacts. She knows because she tore apart his bathroom looking for a plunger. She knows because he’s close, like he’s going to kiss her again, and she can see every fleck and striation in his eyes. “So, this is really your first one-night stand?”

“Yes, I told you that,” she tucks her hair behind her ear, “why would I lie?”

His shrug verges on an attempt at confidence as he leans to half-whisper in her ear, “they usually don’t last this long.”

“Well,” she bites her lip and lets it go slowly, glad there’s no one here to assess the optics of the move, “that’s too bad.”

“I’m going to go destroy the evidence of my…grocery run,” he takes her empty bowl and stands up.

“And deal with your contacts?” She just wouldn’t be herself if she let him have that inch, and she feels more like herself than she has in a while.

He blushes and rubs the back of his head with his free hand, “yeah, contacts, I don’t need reminding. Not with how…itchy they are right now.”

“Whatever,” she stands up to size up his closet, trying to determine where something warmer would be. Probably in the back, and he’s left-handed, “it is actually cold in here, so I’m going to grab a sweatshirt.” She opens the left door, “I promise I won’t steal it, I don’t need any souvenir aside from the psychological trauma of…Stockholm Syndrome.”

Her words trail off to nearly nothing. Words not worth saying, because they don’t apply anymore. None of this applies.

She’s staring at a closet full of women’s clothes. Young clothes. The kind of clothes she might wear if she wore more black and if she went anywhere. Aside from this apartment on a whim.

This one-bedroom apartment where a young woman clearly lives.

“Astrid,” Hiccup’s voice skips and she turns slowly to face him.

“Those aren’t your grandma’s coats.” She states. Accusing isn’t necessary. “You may have played me for a fool, but I’m not one.”

“I didn’t—” He practically drops the bowls onto a desk and gets between her and the closet, like if he’s in the way she won’t remember what she’s seeing, “look, Astrid, I can explain—”

“I don’t need to hear this side of the story!” She can’t look at him anymore, not with the stack of picture frames staring at her from the closet shelf. He covered his bases, hid anything suspicious. Made sure to offer his guest use of the back-stabbing knife. “I’m familiar enough with the other half, I’ve put this one together pretty well.”

“Astrid, please, it’s not like—”

“Who is she?” She hates that she just said that. She hates that she’s said that before, when she was crying more than yelling and watching her carefully registered future fall apart. “No, never mind, I don’t care. I just—thought I was better than getting roped into this, but I guess not.”

“Can you please just listen to me?” He follows too close as she retreats to her pile of clothes, hurling his shirt at his face as she gets dressed. “It’s—her name’s Heather. She’s a DJ. The storm cancelled her flight back—”

“Not my problem,” she sits on the edge of the bed, tugging her socks on and hating herself for wondering what Heather looks like. For knowing that Heather is going to spend hours thinking about the same thing. For how petty and small she is because even now, in the moment, she knows that this is better than being on the other side of this coin.

“Let me explain myself,” he fumbles through a dresser drawer. A dresser drawer full of bras and underwear, and if Astrid didn’t have a vendetta against that stupid toilet, she might throw up. “Here. Just—read this, please.”

He holds a letter out to her. Written in girly handwriting on college rule.

Her hand hovers above it for a second before curiosity wins over and she snatches it from him with a glare.

Hiccup,

Being direct in a letter feels ironic, I guess, but I don’t know how to say this any other way.

It’s not working out.

I know we just got the place, and I know that I met your Mom, and I love you but I just don’t see where this is going. I don’t know if it’s living together or if I’ve just been on tour too much, but the connection is I feel like I’m pretending when I’m with you.

I think we’re just growing apart. Or we already grew apart. I don’t know.

I’m on the lease, but maybe you can stay with my brother. You have a cousin in town, right? I should know that. We live together, I should have met your family. I’m not trying to get rid of you, I just need some space on my own right now. Have for a while.

Heather.

“See?” Hiccup asks, voice quiet and husky as she carefully folds the letter back along its worn seam.

“I—no, I don’t see, if she gave you this Dear John letter and asked you to leave, why are you still here?” She hates that she asks, that she’s still sitting on his bed, that she’s wondering how hard it would be to find Heather on social media.

Not hard, probably. But she doesn’t think the comparison would accomplish anything.

“She hasn’t given it to me yet. I don’t know when she wrote it.” He wrings his hands together, knuckles white, and he looks familiar in a way she shouldn’t have let happen.

“You snooped.” Another not-an-accusation.

“I didn’t—ok, it fell and I picked it up and saw my name but—”

“What does this have to do with me?” She asks even though she knows the answer. Which is ‘nothing’. This has nothing to do with her, and her involvement is her mistake even if it’s not explicitly her fault.

“I didn’t think it’d be you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“I wanted…I wanted something to hold against her when she finally gave it to me. I wanted an a-ha, I thought—I didn’t think,” he looks at her, green eyes wet and pleading, “I went on a dating site to have something to throw in her face when she dumped me with a note after we’d moved in together—”

“And I fit the bill?”

“Yes.” He says it like he means it, reaching for her hand with both of his, and she jumps to her feet. She shouldn’t feel betrayed. She used him too. She used him first. Using him was her idea at every turn but the way he’s looking at her makes her feel like she clicked Accept before she read the Terms and Conditions.

“Well that’s—”

“Astrid,” he says like he hopes her name is a balm, but it doesn’t really work, and she hates that they’re out of sync even though he’s awful and she hates him. For real this time, on purpose. Not just an imagined, convenient hatred. He’s everything that hurt her and more. In fact, he put in the effort to make her believe he was different before he ripped the rug out from under her. “She’s right, ok, it hasn’t been working. It’s not—I thought I was getting some preemptive revenge but instead it’s you and—”

“So, I messed up your revenge for you?” She snorts, stalking out to the living room and grabbing her jacket. She checks for her phone, her keys, her purse, because no one could pay her enough to come back here. “Good, it’s what you deserve. I hope it’s…sweet,” she scrambles, “sweet and sour, actually.”

The opposite of bittersweet. Or maybe adjacent on the color wheel. He doesn’t get to feel bitter, either way, he gave that away.

“You—I don’t want her—”

“Clearly,” she glares at him and she wishes it worked, that he hadn’t seen how easily removable her outer layer is. Plate mail rather than greaves. Something that holds its shape no matter how long you leave it alone in the dark.

“I didn’t even know you existed, Astrid.” He says her name like it has value, like it’s a coin under his tongue that will curry favor in the afterlife and she wishes she couldn’t see his leg right now. She wishes that his vulnerability didn’t feel like trust, or that she didn’t want the trust. “If I had I would have ended it so long ago, before I got the note, before—I thought she was—we were—If I’d known about you—”

“You would have what?”

“I—you’re the one I want to be with.” He was probably high school class president. Or worse, runner up who bet on something lame like saving the world instead of getting everyone a new vending machine.

She would have voted for him.

The lump in her throat feels like it’s going to explode.

“Astrid, the last forty-eight hours—I,” he swallows hard, risking one hand against her jacketed arm as he steps between her and the alarmed front door. And she believes him. She’s seen him vulnerable enough to recognize his honest face. And it doesn’t matter, it can’t, because he lied. Systematically. While making it feel like he didn’t lie at all. “I—last night, tonight—sometimes I forgot that other people even existed.”

He reads her mind like a stolen book and she feels the loss of proceeds.

“I’m leaving.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge anything up—”

“You’re just some funny guy who knows how to write a dating profile,” she clears her throat and stands up straight, shoving his front door open with enough preparation that the alarm doesn’t make her blink, “I think I’ll live.”

“Astrid—”

She races down the stairs and to the door. Against who, she’s not quite sure. She doesn’t think he’d follow her in boxers at four in the morning and she wouldn’t let herself care if he did. Because emotions are that easy, right? When they’re big and confusing and stupid, you can just turn them off until you’re equipped to handle them.

You can just pause.

She’s so sick of being paused. She’d rather fast-forward at this point, through the tears and confusion and the listless hours of staring at the ceiling and trying to finagle herself into being blamed for other people’s shitty decisions.

But it doesn’t work that way.

She feels every shove of her shoulder against the door in real time. Feels the heavy snow shift inch by inch, tumbling onto the walk that someone managed to plow at some point in the last two days.

They were a pause, in a way, the long, lingering moment that stretches out before disaster.

The walk home is freezing. Her hands are numb as she fumbles with her key, opening the front door and barely noticing the scene on the couch.

“You’re home!” Ruffnut fumbles with a blanket, slapping at something suspiciously firm where the gap between her legs should be. “Ah! N—how was it?”

“Is that from my bed?” Astrid doesn’t wait for an answer before yanking the blanket and revealing Snotlout, scrambling to cover himself with a pillow that Ruffnut tosses him.

“You’re back!” He yells, like it’s normal for him to be naked on her couch, and she realizes all at once that it would be if she hadn’t camped out here for months, feeling sorry for herself.

Which she does. Still. Maybe more than ever, but admitting it is different than spending all of her energy trying to hide it.

“You two are impossible.”

“So are you!” Ruffnut calls after her, “it’s been two days, quite an extended sexcapade, I’m proud of you—”

She slams her bedroom door so that she doesn’t have to hear anything about pride from someone so happy and pulls out her phone before she can think twice about it, deleting her profile from that stupid dating site. She’s done waiting for her mistakes to blow over, at least this one is shallow enough to shower off and be done with it.

#two night stand au #httyd fic #modern au #hiccstrid fic #the big whiplash chapter #with the drama

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yamayamawrites · 4 years

Text

The Way You Said “I Love You” - #2

For once I’m quick to update! With classes moving online, I’ve had a whole lot of time to catch up on some writing, and I actually feel productive for once. I decided to make this an ongoing fic rather than separate one-shots because I felt like it worked well that way. Thanks everyone for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy! You can read it here on my AO3 page!

Chapter 2: With a Hoarse Voice, Under the Blankets

Marinette perhaps had the worst luck ever.

Just two days into the winter semester, she managed to get very incredibly sick with a fever she just couldn’t kick. And wow, did Adrien think that maybe she’d changed her mind and was embarrassed to admit that she just wanted to go back to the really close friends they were – until she FaceTimed him.

Marinette and Adrien FaceTimed rather often even before they started dating, but now it was at least once a day that one of them was calling the other – occasionally just following dinner dates or lunch dates – because they thought of one other thing they hadn’t talked about. But Adrien hadn’t heard from Marinette for a few days, and he was beginning to believe Marinette was avoiding her problems like she tended to do, but then she called.

Her face was flushed. Her cheeks were bright red, and sweat beaded on her forehead, but she lay covered in a mountain of blankets. She wore a loopy smile and bobbed her head to the noise of the phone ringing, and her head continued to bob as Adrien answered. “Oh my God, Marinette, are you alright?”

“Heeeeey,” she sang, giggling a bit. “I’m a little sicky,” she mumbled.

“You’re a lot sicky, it looks like,” Adrien’s heart softened. Marinette never stayed sick for long from what he knew, but she looked awful and he guessed that she wasn’t getting the proper care she needed. “Do you want me to bring you some medicine, sweetheart?”

“No!” Marinette pouted. She puffed out her lip and everything. If she didn’t look on the brink of death, Adrien would have thought it was adorable. “Bring me…aminal crackers.”

“You mean ‘animal’ crackers?”

“No!” she pouted again. “Aminal. With the frosting.”

He chuckled softly. “Okay, okay. I’ll be there in a bit. Make sure the door is unlocked for me, okay?”

“Climb in the window,” Marinette mumbled back, and she promptly fell asleep.

Adrien hung up the phone and left campus – despite having another class before the end of the day – and walked to the nearest corner store. Surely they would have both frosted animal crackers and flu medicine, right?

He was unfortunately mistaken. Four stores later and he finally found some animal crackers, and he’d be damned if he didn’t buy every single package they had. So what if Marinette had been drowsy and out of it? He was going to spoil her with the only thing he knew she wanted right now.

Before he left the store, he also grabbed a few more sweets, some Kraft mac and cheese boxes, and a case of water. Couldn’t hurt, right?

When he arrived, he was grateful to find that Marinette had indeed made sure the door was unlocked and he wouldn’t have to climb through the window. He set down his grocery bags on her kitchen counter and shivered; the temperature in the apartment had been turned down to a cool sixteen degrees Celsius (61 degrees Fahrenheit). He turned the temperature up a bit and walked down the hall, being careful to not step on the various blankets and clothing that had been carelessly tossed around.

“Mari?” Adrien called out. “Hey, I brought you animal crackers, and some medicine.”

A grumble came from the bedroom, and Adrien pushed open the door. Marinette was under a hefty pile of blankets, with just her head poking out. Her face was still flushed but her eyes were open now, and she looked around the room with a vacant sort of expression. Her eyes settled on Adrien and she smiled a bit. “Oh, honey bunches!” she said excitedly, reaching out towards him weakly. He sat down on the edge of her bed and brushed the sweat-slicked hair away from her face.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured softly. “How do you feel?”

Marinette thought about this, her brow furrowing in concentration as she tried to determine how she felt. Finally, she settled on: “Quaint.”

“You feel…quaint?”

“Yes!”

“Okay…well, are you hungry? Thirsty? I got you those animal crackers like you asked.”

Marinette made a noise of pure glee and clapped her hands together under the blankets, then breathed heavily, as if the effort of clapping had exhausted her. Adrien watched in pity; he’d never seen Marinette this sick, and he wished a thousand times it could be him and not her. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then went back to the kitchen to retrieve some animal crackers.

Before coming back, he also grabbed the medicine he’d brought and rifled through Marinette’s bathroom cabinet for a thermometer. He wasn’t sure the last time she checked her temperature, but he was genuinely worried that she might need to go to the hospital. He knocked on the door before entering again, and when he did he found Marinette limply throwing blankets off of herself and onto the floor.

“You too warm, Mari?” Adrien asked softly. She nodded pitifully and threw another blanket, then another. Adrien wondered how she had so many blankets. He set down the items he’d grabbed and helped her peel off the remaining layers, finding the girl in just a tank top and short shorts beneath it all.

Before they’d been a “couple”, Adrien had seen her dressed in less; a few times they had utilized their campus pool’s open swim hours as a way to cool off during the abnormally warm fall months. However, now that they were a “couple”, he felt a blush creep to his face and he looked away. Marinette, of course, didn’t notice.

“Aminal crackers?” Marinette asked quietly, and Adrien quickly passed her the bowl of animal crackers, still avoiding eye contact. She happily munched on one, chewing very deliberately.

“When’s the last time you took your temperature, sweetheart?” Adrien asked softly, glancing over at Marinette carefully.

Marinette contemplated this with a full head-tilt and chin-tap. “Oh!” she raised her finger to the air finally. “I think it was…one…thousand!” She laughed giddily and put another animal cracker in her mouth. Adrien sighed and pressed his hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes and scrunched her nose at him.

“I’m going to take your temperature, Marinette. Is that alright?” he asked, reaching for the thermometer. Marinette nodded and continued eating animal crackers while Adrien tucked the thermometer into her armpit.

Marinette giggled that the thermometer tickled, and Adrien urged her to hold still. Finally the thermometer beeped and he quickly looked at it. 38.6 degrees Celsius (101.5 degrees Fahrenheit). “Oh honey,” Adrien frowned. “You must really not be feeling good…”

“I feel great!” Marinette chirped back, then grabbed at her head. “Well, I feel quaint.”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh a little at his disoriented girlfriend. “Okay, okay. Can you do something for me?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to take a pill, okay?”

Marinette’s lip puffed out into a frown. “Is it big?” she asked.

“Oh, no no no,” Adrien shook his head. “I grabbed the smallest ones I could find.

“Okay, I guess,” Marinette huffed. Adrien carefully helped her sit up and put the pill in her hands, then gave her a bottle of water.

Adrien stayed there and spoke softly to her while she finished her beloved animal crackers. He refused to leave until she finished her water, as well, to which she whined and complained but eventually complied. Soon after that her eyes began to droop, and no matter how much she insisted she was awake and a functioning adult, each word dripped off her tongue more slowly and sweetly. Adrien pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead once more, tucked her in with two blankets (the rest he folded neatly and placed nearby in case she needed them), and left her to rest.

Adrien hadn’t meant to spend the night at Marinette’s apartment. Yet, he woke up on her couch in the clothes from the day before, shivering a bit because he didn’t have a blanket (Marinette had taken literally every blanket in the apartment). He got up and stretched, wincing as he felt a soreness that came from sleeping on such an uncomfortable couch. He wandered his way into Marinette’s kitchen and began making breakfast for both himself and Marinette.

Adrien crept sleepily down the hallway, carefully pushing open the door to Marinette’s bedroom with his back. In the night, Marinette had kicked away the two blankets Adrien had wrapped her in and instead grabbed three others, then kicked one of those away, as well. Adrien set the two plates on Marinette’s desk and gently pushed the hair away from her face, pressing a soft kiss to her exposed cheek. “Hey, princess,” he cooed in a gentle voice. “I brought you breakfast.”

Marinette’s breath hitched softly and she rolled over to face Adrien, her eyes slowly opening and her brow furrowing at the light coming in through her bedroom window. “Mm, what is it?”

“I made scrambled eggs and toast,” Adrien beamed proudly. Marinette smiled and let her eyes drift closed again.

“Ten more minutes,” she whispered in a groggy voice.

“Your food will get cold,” Adrien replied gently.

“Mm,” Marinette whined in response. Adrien left the room, taking both plates with him, and he placed Marinette’s plate in her microwave to hopefully keep it somewhat warm. As if on cue, ten minutes later, Marinette called to him from her bedroom. “Adrien?”

“Just a second, dear,” he replied, putting his own empty plate in the sink and taking her plate to her. Marinette was sitting up, now, with her blankets pulled to her chin. She looked much better than she did the previous night, but she looked frail, like if Adrien touched her she would crumble in on herself.

“I love you,” Marinette croaked from her spot in the blankets. “I love you,” she repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“And I love you,” he responded, bowing cheekily and extending the plate of food to her. “It’s no animal cracker, but I think you’ll like it all the same,” he teased.

She laughed a little and winced, grabbing at her head. She responded to Adrien’s look of concern with, “Headache.” Adrien nodded and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Don’t forget to take your medicine,” Adrien murmured. “I’ve got to go home and change for class. Call me immediately if you need anything, okay?”

“M’kay,” she murmured back. He left her breakfast on the bedside table next to her, insisted she remember to stay hydrated once more, told her again to call him if she needed him, and reluctantly, he left.

#adrinette #marinette x adrien #marinette cheng #adrien agreste #miraculous ladybug #tumblr prompt

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