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mcnuggyy · 3 years

Note

As a white person and budding artist (that sure is. An intro) I'm always super careful to try and avoid harmful cultural and visual stereotypes in my art and practice sketches. I was wondering if you have/have posted any tips for drawing mexican people? I always do research before drawing anyone from a different culture or of a different race but it can be tricky to find things written by theae minorities themselves and I am always hesitant to take tips from another white artist on drawing other races 😅 (I also apologise if I worded anything badly here, I'm autistic and struggle to word things sometimes! Please feel free to correct me if I did!)

Heyo! I think the biggest reason there isn’t or even I haven’t ever made a how to draw Mexicans is ‘cause Mexico is very very diverse, and the majority of us are Mestizo ( “mixed race, especially one having Spanish and indigenous descent.”) There are definitely racist stereotypes to avoid such as orange skin, thick black mustache, lazy, alcoholic, poncho wearing, Mexican. Obviously. But this is just one small part of the coin, when there is a lot of anti-blackness, and anti-indigenous sentiments in our own communities, EVEN THOUGH, the majority of us ARE mixed race. This has to do with colonization, and the way the Spaniards just really fucked us over, brain washed us, and made being a White Mexican the IDEAL Mexican. So there’s a LOT to unpack there.

Especially with Mestizos being prejudice towards their Indigenous communities WHILE STILL practicing the very same important practices that came from those communities (Dia De Muertos for example) Basically there’s an issue of still wanting to be Mexican, and have pride in your country, and culture, but not wanting be like those "dirty brown” Mexicans. To the point where the government is constantly trying to push the “we are all one Mexican race and nation” while actively trying to get people to essentially erase our Indigenous communities. Like there’s this big idea of “marrying White” that even my mom used to believe in for a while, because her own mother taught her that as well in order to assimilate and what not. Again, lots of colorism and bigotry within our own communities. It’s a very big and complex issue, that we can thank the Spaniards for ( and the Mexican government who continues to uphold these toxic ideas), YAYY colonization!!! Weeee!!!!

( I mean I can even see it in my own family, with my dad’s side of the family clearly not being able to pass as White being severely impoverished, while my mom’s side of the family, who overall is much more White passing, have been able to hold positions of power in large companies and can even afford to buy more than one house)

Sorry to get into that very long rant, but I do think it’s very important to know this information to get started with actually figuring out how to accurately portray a Mexican, Tejano, Mex-Am, Afro-Mexican etc. Because well, anyone can be Mexican, just like anyone can be American! But I’ll get into the main communities that exist in Mexico to help you out!

So again, Mestizos (mixed-race) are the biggest group in Mexico, making up over 93% of the population! So that’s a good chunk of us jaja! So it’s good to talk about how different you can look in a mixed-race family! And what better example than my own family!

Both my parents look very “stereotypically” Mexican by American standards, especially my dad who is the absolute definition of a macho ranchero Mexicano jaja. Both my parents come from small farming communities in Mexico, but look very different themselves! Each pueblo kinda has their own differences too! The people from my mom’s pueblo all tend to have much lighter skin, with cool undertones, some even have blue or green eyes, and red hair! While the people from my dad’s pueblo (98 people in total there, very very small jajaja) Tend to have deep red undertones, thick dark hair, curly hair, hooked noses, and very very rarely hazel eyes! So it’s no wonder me and my siblings look so different as well! (none of us are adopted I assure you)

So I’m very lucky cause I have a HUGE family to use as reference, and reference is key!!! but there are many cool Mexican celebrities and public figures you can use as reference if you don’t happen to know anyone (tho It’s always good to have friends with different experiences from your own as always)

But here’s some examples of how different mestizos can look, including some of my own specific references!

There is also our Indigenous communities “ Mexico's indigenous population is one of the two largest in the Americas (only Peru is comparable in size). More than one in ten Mexicans speaks an indigenous language”

I really recommend checking out this website to learn more, as this is something I’m still learning more about myself!

Then of course we have our Afro-Mexican community! Mexico is cruel to it’s Indigenous communities, but even more so to Afromexicanos, who until recently were completely ignored by Mexico’s census. You can read more about this issue here. Spaniards of course play a big part in the issues that face Afromexicanos today. You can learn even more about this history here!

Did you know Lupita Nyong’o is Mexican! (A fellow Lupita <3 )

And of course, can’t forget White Mexicans! Don’t think the Spaniards just left after a while, because they stayed jajaja. (Look no further than Novellas and most big celebrates for some examples fhhffhf)

So there really is no absolute way to represent us! (which was an issue I had with Coco actually.. with everyone having the exact same orange/brown skin) There is certainly a picture that comes to American’s heads when they think “Mexican” but in reality, things are much more diverse, beautiful, and complicating than that!

However I do have some small little things I personally like to do to help indicate when I’m making a Mexican / Mex-Am character design based off of all of the information above along with my family and friends as reference!

Moles! I don’t know why, but every Latino I know has so many moles.... from my childhood friends to my ex boyfriend, to every single cousin have... MOLES MOLES MOLES! Why? I haven’t a clue, but I always add them to my character designs jajaja! Even if it’s just a little one on the neck <3

Thick hair! It is a curse and a blessing. My grandpa will never bald compared to a white man, but in exchange I have to deal with shaving my chin every day to compensate LMAO. So I like giving my characters thick eyebrows, dark body hair, or thicker hair than most designs! It’s cool and neat!!! But please be mindful about how you do this as there have been white artists who have done this in racist and harmful ways, such as rcdart. ( X ) ( X )

I also recommend checking out shows like El Tigre, and Victor y Valentino, for some more fun and simple designs that show a wide variety of Mexican characters! (Also I just love Jorge R Gutierrez’s designs in general jaja)

Hope this helps! <3

#long post #wow this got really long #but HEY! there's lots to talk about jajaa #and this is like very limited to my own knowledge as well so fjhjrf #yeah!!!#anonymous #replies #callate guero

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aminiatureworld · 3 years

Text

In My Dreams

Characters: Albedo, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,082

Warnings: Waking dreams, amnesia, visions/hallucinations

Premise: The past is many things. Something to admire, something to learn from, something to hold dear. And yet how unreliable it can be, especially in the hands of ghosts.

In which the reader dreams of the past.

Author’s Note: Translation notes and historical references will come after the fic. Tried to be detailed with warnings, tell me if you want me to tag anything else.

Albedo

When you’d first met Albedo you were in awe of his intellect, his passion for alchemy which he honed to a fine point. He had a way of talking about the world around him and himself in a way that was utterly self-assured. This captivated you, made you wish to develop the same thing in turn; the ability to know oneself was an enviable one.

The old Mondstadt ruins were a perfect sketching place. Filled with an old sense of magic, even centuries after its fall, there was an atmosphere to it absolutely perfect for painting. Or so Albedo said – though you found some joy in intermittent sketching you were no master of the art.

While Albedo set up his easel you went around the edge of your little spot, making sure that the monsters that usually dominated the place were at least far away enough as to not cause any interference. The world around you was one of almost perfect peace, the lazy breeze acting as a buffer for the slight heat, the puffy clouds in the sky shading you from the worst of the sunlight.

“It’s such a beautiful day!” You called out. “It almost makes you forget all your worries.”

“That’s certainly true.” Albedo voice called out in reply. “Truly a wonderful time to paint.”

Turning around to join your partner you suddenly felt heard a familiar cackle. Whirling around you found yourself face to face with a hydro Abyss Mage. Annoyance flashed through your mind as your summoned your catalyst. Though the Abyss was certainly a syndicate to be worried about, you couldn’t help but think of the Mage in front of you as little more than a pest, for surely there couldn’t be anything more annoying than the sudden interruption of your outing.

Calling out Albedo’s name you held out your arms, cursing the fact that your bursts of electro weren’t as effective against the Mage’s shield as you’d like it to be. Thankfully a familiar cry of “be careful!” could be heard, as your partner quickly approached, sword in hand, eyes full of the cold determination which was so familiar to you in battle. The combination of your this with his swings soon had the shield dripping, before it burst apart, falling onto the ground in a puddle of water. Standing over the mage Albedo narrowed his eyes.

“Now this is new.”

Following his gaze you could see what he meant. Emblazoned on the side of the Abyss Mage’s robe was a star, made up of a myriad of silver threads jutting out from a red circle in which sat a crown ringed by indecipherable writing. The symbol made you pause, made you take a shaky step back as your throat began to constrict painfully. That symbol, you knew that symbol, you knew that crown. What was it? What was this Abyss Mage wearing?

Albedo appeared somewhat oblivious of your violent reaction, slashing through the Abyss Mage until they disappeared in a puff of ash. Turning around you could see the same mild mannered smile on his face as always, his expression almost one of soft embarrassment. Taking a deep breath you attempted to relax your features, hoping your partner wouldn’t see the panic that laced through you.

“That was an unpleasant surprise. Let’s go back to the clearing, we deserve a little bit of rest.”

“You’re right; that really was a nasty surprise.” You let out a soft laugh, not looking behind at the spot where the Mage had fallen as you allowed Albedo to guide you back towards his easel and away from that too familiar star.

-----

The symbol wouldn’t leave you alone however. Though the rest of the day was perfectly pleasant, the art Albedo had managed to begin showing the immense promise it always did, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Over and over the star danced behind your eyelids, taunting you with hidden information. You knew that the writing was nothing familiar to Teyvat, Albedo himself admitting he’d never seen such a script before. And yet you had; though the memory eluded you the knowledge remained.

You didn’t like to be reminded of your past, of the world that had disappeared before your fingers. It was a world you could barely remember, though surely that was a blessing. Your family had been murdered after all, though you didn’t know why you were sure that they were long dead. Who wants to be the last of anything? Certainly you didn’t want to be. Life was a lonely enough road already; better to focus on the bright future ahead of you than always turning to look back.

And yet the star remained.

You told Albedo that you were simply going out to look for supplies, having noticed no few veins of crystal ore near where the two of you had spent an afternoon. Batting away his questions and his worries you set out with purpose. It wouldn’t take that long, waypointing did most of the job. And you could hardly say that you feared a Ruin Guard or some such thing. You could take care of yourself, and you’d done worse things than take a midnight expedition to an abandoned ruin.

Old Mondstadt looked different in the dark, though perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised you. Old secrets always came out in the night, and the now crumbling city was certainly filled with old secrets. Now they beckoned at you, calling out their siren song, promising an answer to all your questions.

Standing in the middle of one of the stone circles you closed your eyes. Something seemed to be buzzing around you, an energy, a promise. Letting your mind drift you saw the star once more. Reaching out your arm you could almost touch its surface, studded with precious gems, smooth and fragile and a symbol of an old power.

You barely noticed the music at first, so soft was it. And yet somehow you began to move, to dance, following a long forgotten rhythm. Opening your eyes you saw a scene begin to unfold around you, shaping itself out of the dark. You were in a large room now, smooth marble under your feet. Looking up you saw an amber ceiling, You marveled at the intricate design, the flowers which bloomed beneath your feet while golden clouds floated above your head. For a moment you were so entranced by this familiar scene that you took no notice of the people around you, however the moment they entered your vision you could think of nothing else.

They were so familiar, these ghosts of the past. Though you couldn’t make out any of their features, which seemed misty and constantly changing, you felt an immediate sense of recognition. Wandering among these ghosts, you found yourself copying their steps, waltzing with no one but yourself, surrounded by a sea of memory. You felt like you were floated, wrapped in the fabric of the past, so real you could practically feel the fabric of your uniform changing beneath your fingertips, morphing into silk.

Still feeling as if there was more to be seen you looked around, finally finding the answer to your unspoken question at the top of a small group of stairs. Though the specters around you had no discernable features the same could not be said of the people who now gazed down at you, peaceful smiles upon their faces. One of them, a young man who looked to be a little older than you, stepped off the small landing, practically floating as he made his way towards you. There was a familiar star on his uniform, and a comforting smile in his eyes. Bowing softly he took your hand. No words were necessary, you both knew this dance.

The music swelled around you, almost saccharine in tone, coated by the sweetness of a long forgotten nostalgia. You made no attempt to talk to the boy, feeling that words were altogether unnecessary. After all, what could one say to a shadow of the past? There was nothing to muse on, no moments of happiness which you could conjure. There was nothing except familiar company and soothing music; right now that was enough.

Slowly you could feel the world slow down, almost as if the air had grown thicker. A drowsiness washed over you, but you pushed it down. This was a memory of the past after all, something precious to be savored, not something one could simply wake up from. And yet the dance slowed to its end and eventually you were left standing in the middle of the room, looking at the boy who you knew had once been your family.

A look of mischief crossed over his peaceful face, and he leaned in to whisper something to you. “Ferme les yeux sit u veux voir” the words passed over you in blissful familiarity, and you smiled up at this unknown family member, the heaviness around you feeling like a thick blanket. You wanted to know more. You wanted to know your family.

“Hey.”

A familiar voice broke through your reverie, the scene around you tearing apart like tissue paper as Albedo grasped on to your wrist. Whirling around to face him you found your eyes scanning your now gloomy surroundings, as if looking for an opening that might return you to that peaceful room.

“What happened?”

Albedo’s voice was full of gentle concern, and you leaned into his touch as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. And yet you still felt an overwhelming sense of loss, a sadness that pierced through your soul like a dagger.

“I’m sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. I only wish to know why you were dancing with yourself at midnight.”

“I… I was dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” Albedo raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you gazed out upon the ruins, “I was dreaming. And yet it was so real, I hardly realized I’d fallen into it.”

“How odd.”

“Yes, I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Perhaps.”

And yet you knew that wasn’t the end of it. Lying on the bed you shared with Albedo, listening to the familiar sound of soft breathing, you gazed up at the ceiling, conjuring faces on the white stone, you mind ceaselessly dancing to a somehow familiar tune.

After that you seemed to fall into dreams more and more, stepping into them as easily as one might walk into the sea. It was small at first. Figures at the corner of your eyes, a sign that turned into that now all too familiar symbol, the sense of one more walking on marble. It was easy enough to ignore, after all you were probably just a little burnt out. However within a few weeks these dreams were becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

The first time it happened was when you were gathering berries. Suddenly the ground shifted beneath you and you were once more in that room, once more surrounded by familiar strangers, once more reaching out to your family. You began to recognize them more and more: the lines of worry that painted your mother’s otherwise smiling face, the way your father stroked his beard quickly, putting his arm back down quickly as to keep his ramrod stance; the way your brother stood a little ways away from the rest, and always approached you even when the others held back. You had no way of verifying the truth of any of these dreams, no way of knowing whether or not these were memories of merely fantasies. Yet how real they were, how real and how terribly disorienting.

A blanket of paranoia settled over you as you continued to fall into these dreams again and again. Every waking moment was a moment of chance, when you might suddenly once more disappear into the realm of dreams. Commissions became almost impossible, you teetered your way from one destination to another, sometimes barely able to dodge the attacks of treasure hoarders and Fatui members. It seemed as if these dreams were no longer revealing information to you, but instead holding you hostage. You always managed to fall when dealing with the Abyss.

Eventually you handed in a letter of leave to Katherine, trying to bat off her questions as you explained that you were finding the work overwhelming. It wasn’t like you were lying anyways; the work was overwhelming. How could it not be, when you could never trust yourself? Trudging back to your apartment that afternoon you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. It was so frustrating, it was so frustrating to lose oneself.

You no longer felt sure, no longer felt the self-assurance that you’d once known. Who were you? What in Teyvat, what in the vast universe had happened to you? You’d accepted your lack of memories, accepted the fact that whatever you escaped was something lost to the sands of time. You never wanted the past to be dragged in front of you, thrown at your feet as you stared at it in horrified fascination. And yet you hadn’t learned anything, not really. All you’d managed to do was shatter what little confidence you’d had in who you were.

“You shouldn’t run away from this.”

The voice was that of a stranger, yet filled with a strange familiarity. Raising your head up you saw your brother appear in front of you, a sole figure against a sea of black.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to run away, you’re trying to forget your destiny.”

“And what destiny is that, what could the past of a destroyed land tell me about my future now?”

“Many things, if you’d let it talk.”

“I already know that I have to be careful, that I cannot take things for granted. These visions, they do nothing but harm me.”

“Your frustration should have nothing to do with us and everything to do with them.”

“Them?”

“The people who slaughtered our family. The gods who stood by and said nothing. Did you not wonder why the Abyss Mage should be sporting such a crest? They’re the only answer. If you weren’t so blind you’d be able to see that.”

“The Abyss is full of monsters, they only bring destruction.”

“Destruction?” Your brother snorted, a cruel expression marring his face, its intensity and hatred something you were sure hadn’t existed before. “No more destruction than the gods have caused. At least the Abyss wishes to right a wrong. Should a crime not be avenged?”

“… This isn’t what you were like.” You shook your head violently, something welling up inside you, something threatening to snap. “I no longer recognize you.”

“You don’t remember me. How can you say what I was once like?”

“I can, I simply can. How do we recognize the people destined to be our family? We simply can.”

“You always were such a simpleton; even now you refuse to understand the evils of the world.”

“I refuse to contribute to them.”

“You know nothing of the world.”

“She knows a great deal more than you.” Albedo’s voice rippled through the nothingness of your dream. Appearing besides you the world shimmered around him, your vision tearing at the seams as you returned to the real world.

“And who are you to say that?” Your brother sneered. “You carry enough rage in your heart, if you even have one alchemist.”

“Perhaps I don’t have one.” Albedo’s voice was calm, grounding you as you stepped towards him. “And yet it would be better to have no heart than a rotten one.”

“We’ll see if you hold that same opinion when the Abyss once rises up.” Your brother smiled, gaze once more fixing on you, eyes pinpricks of rage. “I hope you’ll join me someday sister. If you do then you might finally see us all again. And if not, I’ll see you one day on the battlefield.”

You shook slightly, watching mutely as his figured faded into the wall of your apartment. Sinking down on the nearest couch you let out a few shaky breaths, trying to process what had just happened.

“I trust he’ll no longer come to haunt you.” Albedo sat next to you, a glass of water somehow in his hand.

“I hope not.”

“This is what you meant when you said you were dreaming, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It was different this time however. Usually, usually no one else can see them.”

“Perhaps he wanted it to be that way.”

“Perhaps.” You shook your head, staring down at the palms of your hands. “I don’t know.”

“What do you not know?”

“Everything! I… I no longer know who I am. I’d always thought that I knew myself, that you had helped me realize the need to do so. Now however, now I have no clue. My family, if they’re dead so be it. I’d rather it be that way then, well I’m not sure what this is.”

“I think you know who you are.” Albedo’s eyes were earnest as her stared at you. “You have created your own life, your own sense of self. I don’t know what your brother was hoping to do – or what he thinks you should be – but he cannot change who you are. You’re your own being after all.”

You pondered Albedo’s response, the familiar confidence of his tone, the way he seemed to be stating fact rather than opinion. And perhaps he was right, he often was.

“What if the dreams come back?” You whispered.

“Then I’ll find a way to fight them off.” Albedo took your hand. “You shouldn’t have to suffer for the dreams of your brother, of a past you cannot remember. You shouldn’t be made to feel an artificial vengeance.”

It was all the encouragement that needed to be said. Throwing your arms around Albedo you closed your eyes, resting your head against his shoulder.

The past was something still alive, threads and hooks that dug into your skin and pulled you backwards, away from the place you’d made your own. It was a beautiful façade yes, but that didn’t hide its superficiality. A constructed past, one imagined by an unreliable narrator, could never be trusted, could never be learned from. What could be known was what you’d already built, the relationships that defined yourself now.

Perhaps you would never truly know the past. But as long as you knew yourself, that was all that mattered.

-------

The symbol that the reader sees is essentially the badge of the Order of Sainll Catherine. This was a Russian order bestowed upon Grand Duchesses at birth and given to others such as Princesses of the Blood upon special dates or conditions. The only order higher than it was the Order of Saint Andrew, which was reserved for men excepting the Empress. I will link a picture in the reblog.

The song I used is La berceuse d’Ahtohallan. The lyrics translate roughly to: “Close your eyes if you wish to see.”

The room that I used as reference is a combination of various Winter Palace rooms and the Amber Room, which has actually been lost to time due mainly to destruction during WWII. We don’t actually know exactly where it is/was.

#genshin impact fanfiction #albedo x reader #albedo #genshin impact #genshin albedo #waking dreams #amnesia #visions #hallucinations #requested #scenarios #my writing

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mizunetzu · 4 years

Note

hey mark uhhh suck my dick that’s the request

no HAHAHA but I’m sure Iida will do it innnn *drum roll*

——————

Iida x reader - Iida Tenya’s Imaginary Boyfriend (pt.2)

⚠️warnings - none

Pronouns - male, he/him

Part one can be found here!

The true ending can be found here! (Pt.3)

——————

“Alright,” Kaitekina flipped open her sketchbook, setting it back down on the easel. “Who’s going to describe something to me?”

Everyone gestured at Iida.

“I apologize once more,” Iida scrunched up his fists in his lap. “I do not wish to-“

“C’mon, Iida!” Uraraka grasped onto the sleeve of Iida’s school blazer. “You’ve been sulking for a month about this ‘(L/n)-kun’ guy! You need some sort of comfort! Or better yet-closure!”

“I am completely fine! In fact, I see him every night, and that is enough for me! Now, I do not wish to be here, and I have nothing to describe!”

Everyone fell silent. Uraraka voice was barely above a whisper. “Every night..?”

Iida sat back down, bowing slightly in apology for yelling. He said nothing. Todoroki looked down, before looking at Iida.

“If you do this one thing, we’ll let you go and we’ll never speak about it again. Just this once and we’ll leave it at that.”

Iida thought for a moment. He absentmindedly picked at the metal frame of his watch with his thumb and forefinger. Just this once couldn’t hurt. How accurate can a drawing be?

“Fine.” Iida visibly relaxed. “Just this once.”

———

“So, are you describing a boy or a girl today?”

Kaitekina’s voice was smooth like butter. Her eyes, once a chocolate brown, delved pink, bright and demanding. It was probably a side effect to her quirk activating.

Iida’s lips turned up into the faintest of smiles. A sheepish one. “I’m describing my boyfriend...”

Uraraka and Midoryia choked back a shocked gasp, while Todoroki simply raised his eyebrows. Nonetheless, they gawked at Iida like he was crazy.

Kaitekina cooed. “D’aww...how long have you two been dating?”

“Almost 5 months now.” Iida seemed more calm than before. You could almost say he was happy finally talking about his baggage. He rubbed his thumb across the glass of his watch discreetly. Kaitekina looked away from her sketch to eye the dull red watch contained under Iida’s blazer.

“What’s that red thing you keep touching under your jacket? Is that a watch?”

Iida sat quiet for a moment, before pulling up his sleeve and raising his arm. There revealed a dirty, cheap red watch, cloudy but functional. He tugged at the strap, watching as it unraveled and tumbled down onto his lap.

“It was something my boyfriend wore everyday. He wore it everyday since the start of the school year. He said he’d always cherish it, so I’m...cherishing it for him.”

“This isn’t the original one he owned though, that one...disappeared. I bought this one to keep with me where ever I go.”

The woman hummed, taking note of something on a sticky note stuck to the edge of her easel. It was most likely details to add or emphasize in the portrait.

“Can you tell me like-the shape of his face?”

“Angelic.”

Iida didn’t say anything else after that. Kaitekina waited for him to go on.

“Oh-forgive me. Round face, and his hair was a (h/c)-ish shade. It was always kept rather short/long.”

“You keep saying ‘was’. Is he no longer with us?”

Iida narrowed his eyes. Uraraka, Midoryia, and Todoroki eagerly awaited his answer, not-so-subtly staring him down. “It’s...it’s difficult to explain. But in simpler terms, he isn’t here with me anymore. Or he never was. I cannot seem to tell anymore.”

Those last parts came out as a whisper. More like he was saying it to himself, rather than to the sketch artist infront of him.

“I’m...sorry.” Kaitekina stopped drawing for a second to offer her condolences. Iida shrugged.

“...I am too.”

“Um-can you describe his eyes for me?”

“It was a bright (e/c)-color.” Iida limply held up his arm, before letting it drop back down on his lap. “They were always kind of squinted, like he was always so carefree. It was one of the things I never understood about him. Beautiful, (e/c) eyes that would stare up at me like I was the world.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement, grabbing (h/c) and (e/c) pastels scattered across her desk. Scribbling down details with her hazey glowing eyes scanning the paper, she looked up again at Iida. “What about his smile-what did it look like when he was smiling?”

“I believe it was his default expression. His lips were on the thinner/thicker side, though he kept telling me he wanted them to be a bit thicker/thinner. And-they were always chapped. I always told him to put on chapstick.” Iida chuckled.

“If you had to choose one thing-and I know it’s hard, but what would you say you miss the most about him?”

Iida fell silent. He stared down at his fingers, halting temporarily. He opened his mouth numerous times to speak, but each time, no words came out.

“His ability to make me smile.”

He said nothing else. Kaitekina inhaled to speak, but let her mouth fall closed, focusing on her drawing once more.

“Can you tell me about him while I finish up?”

Iida nodded. Midoryia, Todoroki, and Uraraka turned towards him, waiting patiently. This was what they were waiting for.

Iida pushed his glasses up with his forefinger. “His name was (L/n)-kun. He went to our school, and actually sat next to me in class-but apparently no one...seemed to remember him. It’s like he disappeared. That, or my delusions delved to the point where I hallucinated a whole five-month relationship with a boy I see every night in my dreams. It’s made me look forward to going to bed. It’s the only thing I want to do these days.”

Iida thought for a moment, before continuing. “He was good friends with these 3 next to me. But they don’t seem to remember him either.”

“It’s alright, though. I’ve grown used to it. I’ll see him again tonight and I can live on with these memories alone.”

A heavy silence filled the small studio. Midoryia contemplated setting a hand on Iidas shoulder, but as he was about to, Kaitekina clasped her hands together.

“So, I believe I’m done. I hope I was able to capture at least a small part of this person you had such an amazing relationship with.” She picked up her sketchbook, walking around her desk towards the 4 kids seated on the couch. “Are you ready to see it?”

Part of Iida didn’t want to look at it. All of his logical beliefs told him people were giving this woman and her quirk too much credit. Besides, how could she possibly know what mountain of complexity (Y/n) held, and capture it into an unworthy piece of fine-tooth paper?

He nodded anyways. She flipped her book around, holding up the displayed page in the sunlight streaming through the window.

“This is what you described to me.”

There stood a charcoal sketch of a beautiful boy, smiling so gently and earnestly. His hand was resting again set his neck and shoulder, a dull red watch strapped tightly to his wrist. There were features Iida swore he never mentioned, like the crease near his left eye, or the dimple that lay just under his cheekbone.

What captured his attention most, was his eyes. It was only pastel, but it shone and demanded attention, even if his eyes were in his usual half-lidded stance. Bright, (e/c), gemstone eyes that Iida fell in love with. Honestly, he could gaze at this picture forever.

This was him. This was his (Y/n).

Uraraka gasped. “Ahhhh! Wow! It looks really good! Ne, is this accura...Iida? You alright..?” Midoryia and Todoroki tore their eyes off the illustration to check out what Uraraka was talking about.

Iida was staring, eyes slightly wide, at the drawing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it; he didn’t want to. The drawing was more accurate than he’d like to admit. It was as if he was staring at (Y/n) himself.

He didn’t know tears were steaming down his face, until he felt small drops of water pelt down onto his lap. He removed his glasses shakily and wiped his eyes, doing his best not to take his eyes off the sketchbook.

“It’s-“ Iida’s voice cracked along with the seam of his heart. “It’s very accurate, you should be proud of the business you own, Miss.”

———

The stagnant air followed the UA students out of the building. Iida was stiffly walking straight ahead, doing his best not to look at the paper of (Y/n) folded in his pocket.

“Ne, Iida,” Iida hadn’t realized he was walking so far ahead until Uraraka had to jog up to him, followed by Midoryia and Todoroki. He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Do you feel better?”

There were two answers to this question. Yes and slowly but surely, yes. He was feeling better in the sense that he no longer had the urge to cry into his bedsheets, holding the piece of sketchbook paper firmly to his chest. He lost his dignity, and he found it again.

He was also feeling better in the sense that he finally got some sort of closure. Maybe this person isn’t real. And it’s ok. He has some sort of proof of his imaginary ‘friend’ that he can gaze at forever, instead of pitifully checking his wristwatch every 5 minutes, wishing it would go faster just so he wouldn’t accidentally forget how his face looked like.

It wasn’t healthy living day by day, waiting to fall asleep just so he could feel something again. A self imagined kiss on the cheek or just plain rest. He was willing to move on from that. It was time to start the ‘healing’ process. The drip finally stopped.

And he knew that if he got tired, if he was sad, or just needing some assistance, (Y/n) would be there waiting for him with open arms, welcoming him into his imaginary world again.

Though, he wasn’t sure if he really needed that right now.

He loosened the cheap red watch from his wrist, his head suddenly feeling empty and light.

“I’m feeling better. Thank you.”

——————

This is how this story really ends. Though, even I didn’t like it HAHAHA so I made a “true ending”. A sweeter ending without the bitter if u must LMAOO

275 notes · View notes

wickedpact · 3 years

Note

Idea for a JoexNicky fic!! (anon here)- piggybacking off the other anon's nicky's mom idea, what if for an anniversary present, Joe sketches a portrait of Nicky's mother? (obviously she'd look like a beautiful warm goddess of kindness) Like maybe he has a dream of one of Nicky's most vivid memories ;-; I would literally die

so uh. this bloomed wildly out of my control

this ficlet is 5k words long so dont open that read more unless youre willing to commit to it

warnings: brief discussions of violence, extremely brief mention of sex, me not knowing how the FUCK one becomes a priest in Ye Olde 1000′s, and probably a criminal lack of historical accuracy as well as a criminal lack of the accented o in ‘nicolo’

yeehaw.

It starts with one of Andromache’s sparring sessions, and of course by ‘sparring’ session Nicolo means a session in which Andromache was in a piss poor mood for no obvious reason, and decided to take it out on the rest of them.

These sessions tend to start with Andromache coming hurtling into their camp with a dark expression on her face, and end with Yusuf and Nicolo sprawled on the ground, bruised and exhausted, while Andromache and Quynh beat the ever-loving hell out of each other nearby. (Yusuf has been convinced for a long time that it's some sort of mating ritual; Nicolo... doubts it.)

This time around, they are at some point after Nicolo has given up, and some point before Yusuf has joined him; Nicolo lies on the sand, starfished, while Quynh and Yusuf attempt to tag team Andromache with an abundance of vigor and middling results. Nicolo cranes his neck to watch the spectacle, catching a glimpse of Andromache flipping Quynh straight over her shoulder before twisting around and kicking Yusuf dangerously close to the groin. Yusuf stumbles, and Andromache grabs him by the shoulder, shoving his considerable weight off of his feet and towards Nicolo’s resting spot.

Yusuf, stumbling, manages to not trip over Nicolo by inches, and falls face-first onto the ground beside him with a groan. Meanwhile, Quynh has recovered and charges at Andy again, beginning their age-old dance yet again.

Yusuf grumbles at Nicolo’s side and peels himself off the ground, leveraging onto a knee. Nicolo drops his head back down to look at him, smiling when he swipes a hand across his beard to dislodge the sand accumulating there. Having been roasting under the midday sun and the excursion of the fight for hours now, Yusuf is layered in sweat and breathing heavily but evenly, chest and shoulders heaving slowly with each breath. Nicolo’s mouth goes crooked watching him.

“She doesn’t attack still targets,” he advises, amused, lying still atop the sand.

“Like a lioness!” Yusuf agrees with a zest Nicolo lost about thirteen minutes ago. He pulls himself onto both knees and balances on them, wavering in a way that makes Nicolo want to give him a steadying hand. “Hm.” Yusuf braces a hand on his thigh, face scrunching up in consideration. “No. I don’t think so.”

And then he plops, face first, back to the sand. Nicolo gives him an encouraging pat on the back with his knuckles.

“Are you two giving up?” Andromache calls over. Nicolo cranes his head up again to see that Quynh is on the ground yet again, slowly stumbling to her feet, and Andromache stands with her back to her, facing them. Her hands are on her hips.

“Yes. Thank you for checking in!” Nicolo confirms, lifting a hand to give her a thumbs up. Andromache responds to the sass with a raised eyebrow before whirling around and punching Quynh in the stomach before the younger immortal could sneak up on her.

Quynh goes down for the-- who knows how many times now, and Nicolo drops his head. He squints up at the wavering blue lines of the sky until Andromache’s white robes cross his vision, casting a shadow over his and Yusuf’s resting forms.

“Get up,” Andromache insists, nudging Nicolo with her boot. “I’m not done with you two yet.”

“You can’t make us,” Yusuf grumbles into the sand.

“You bet I can’t?” Andromache threatens, more a tease than a promise. When neither of them reply, she rolls her eyes and says, with a less than gentle kick to Yusuf’s side, “You babies are so soft.”

Yusuf hisses, rolling away from Andromache’s boot, into Nicolo’s side. “Son of a whore, Andromache, knock it off,” he grouches, dropping his shoulder atop Nicolo’s. Nicolo grunts with the weight of it. “Or daughter of a whore, that is,” he corrects himself, then adds thoughtfully, “No offense to your mother, if she were a woman of the night. What did your mother do, Andromache?”

Andromache laughs at Yusuf’s meandering insult-- a posturing bluster of a laugh that makes Nicolo blink, wondering if Yusuf’s actually offended her somehow. If so this would be the first time; Nicolo has always known Andromache to be thicker skinned than a mule.

But then she says, “I don’t remember my mother. Who knows,” and turns and heads back over to Quynh, who’s only just recovered from before. They resume sparring, Nicolo watching them with mild confusion.

Nicolo turns to look at Yusuf, wondering if he’d caught onto Andromache’s discomfort, but when Nicolo catches his eye, he just shrugs his shoulder against the sand and says, “Well, that’s a line that’ll end an argument every time, eh?”

Later on, Nicolo is still considering it, sprawled in front of the fire --that Quynh had constructed a couple hours prior-- with Yusuf, Nicolo slouched against his chest and bracketed by his bent knees. Andromache and Quynh are arguing over the linen tent a little ways off, and Nicolo watches Andromache carefully, the lines on her face and the muscles in her arms, the working parts of her that have existed on this earth for thousands of years. The things her hands have done; the things her eyes have seen.

The things her heart has forgotten.

“You are thinking very loudly over there,” Yusuf says from somewhere over Nicolo’s head. Nicolo shifts his eyes from Andromache and Qyunh, to the fire, to his and Yusuf’s legs stretched out before it. He tilts his head back, the top of his head against Yusuf’s sternum, but all he can see from that angle is Yusuf’s beard, so he drops his head back down with a little amused huff.

“Andromache is very old,” Nicolo says slowly.

“Ah, yes,” Yusuf agrees, amiable. “Also: water is very wet, and the desert is very hot.”

“S’cold at night,” Nicolo grumbles, just to be contrary, and is rewarded by Yusuf slipping his arms under Nicolo’s, bundling him closer to his chest and notching his chin over his head.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Nicolo requires no further prompting, not from Yusuf at least. The words come tumbling out of his mouth, one at a time. “She doesn’t remember her mother.”

There’s little more that needs to be said there. The immortal life is one that comes with many downsides, and the nature of it is that sometimes one discovers these downsides centuries later than expected. This isn’t the first time an unexpected side-effect of their unending lives has been thrust upon him and Yusuf, and likely won’t be the last.

Nicolo had never really thought he might one day forget his mother.

Yusuf hums thoughtfully in response, a non-answer that does little to soothe Nicolo. “That she doesn’t,” he adds after a moment. “What was your mother like?”

“I don’t--” Nicolo starts, and then, with an odd curiosity, realizes he’s having difficulty continuing. “I... didn’t know her very long. I was given to the church… very young. I don’t remember much of what she was like, other than that she was my mother.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Well…”

Nicolo remembers little of his life before the clergy. Two brothers. A sister. His father’s stern brow, and the calluses on his mother’s hand as she took his little fingers in hers, leading him down the dirt paths back in Genova. Her smile, silhouetted by the heady red glow of the afternoon sun.

“Brown hair,” Nicolo eventually answers. “Dark eyebrows. High cheekbones, too, and… and kind eyes.”

“What I’m hearing is you took after her very strongly.”

Nicolo smiles. “I do remember being told something of the sort before.”

“Her eyes?” Joe rests one of his palms flat against Nicolo’s stomach.

“Green, I’m pretty sure.”

“So you took after her very strongly, then,” Joe concludes.

Nicolo looks down, fiddling with the fingers of Joe’s free hand. “She used to take me to the shore. We’d gather seashells together.”

That he remembers well, plucking seashells and bits of coral out from dried seafoam after the tide had gone out near the end of the day, one arm bundling conch and clam shells against his chest, the other prying washed-up shells from the still wet sand. The sun would be low, but not low enough that they would feel the need to rush, and it would cast their shadows in long, blue lines across the beach. Time was an endless thing there, where the sun glowed red and bright, and there was always another conch shell wedged in the damp earth to dig up.

“She sounds lovely,” Yusuf hums. Nicolo pauses, tracing Yusuf’s index finger with his own. Yusuf almost never talks about his family. They have known each other for nearly three hundred years now, and yet Nicolo could store all the things he knows of Yusuf's family in a basket. Over the years he’s been able to piece together that both of Yusuf’s parents were dead before the Crusades began. And that they both died when Yusuf was fairly young. Beyond that… he knows little.

“Yusuf…” Nicolo starts, uncertain and fidgeting. “What about your mother?”

“My mother?” Yusuf repeats, as if Nicolo has somehow strung together two incomprehensible words.

“Yes.” When a pause stretches between them, Nicolo sighs and laces his fingers between Yusuf’s. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, no,” Yusuf insists before Nicolo can change the topic. He returns Nicolo’s grip on his hands, smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of Nicolo’s pointer finger. “I want to. My mother…” He sighs. “She was very anxious. Always fretting. She was a weaver; she liked making rugs.”

Yusuf’s thumb stills over Nicolo’s knuckle. Nicolo tilts his head. “Your prayer mat. Did she--?

“Yeah, she made it.” Yusuf pauses again. “Weaving calmed her down when she was nervous. My father and I, we would travel often-- business, you know. Trade deals and things. Mother always worried when we were gone.”

They both pause when Quynh yells something particularly loud at Andromache, breaking the moment for a split second. Andromache hollers something back, and the two women break out into abrupt laughter.

“Are you worried you’ll forget her?” Nicolo asks when they've settled again. “Your mother?”

“No,” Yusuf replies, though he trails off halfway through the word. “In part, I suppose… but there are many things I’d like to forget, I think.”

Nicolo peels himself out of Yusuf’s arms in response to that, twisting around to look at his companion. Yusuf’s brows are pressed together, the tilt of his mouth sad. Nicolo places a hand to his chest, fingers against Yusuf’s collar. “Yusuf?”

Yusuf sucks the inside of his cheek, looking far away before directing a sad smile at Nicolo. “She came with us, once. On a trip. Of course the one time Father allowed her to come was the time that it went wrong.” At Nicolo’s questioning look, Yusuf elaborates, “Bandits.”

“Yusuf...”

“I hadn’t really known how to fight, then, so it didn’t… really matter, either way-- but I got knocked out in the fight, and by the time I woke up again, it was all over.” With a slow breath, Yusuf looks down at their interwoven fingers. “I would like to forget some things. Not her, but…”

It takes Yusuf a long moment to continue. He looks up, towards the stars, lips pursed with thought, before eventually ducking his head again. Nicolo waits quietly.

“It is hard to remember them,” Yusuf says eventually, to their hands, “without remembering them in death. I had to bury them both.”

With a soft noise, Nicolo reaches forward and pulls Yusuf into a hug, arms wrapping about his shoulders; Yusuf responds in chorus and reaches for Nicolo back, his embrace tight enough to grind bone.

Nicolo rubs a hand up and down Yusuf’s back, his face tucked into Nicolo’s shoulder. Perturbed, Nicolo can’t imagine it- the comforting memory of his own mother, crossed and tainted by violence so cruelly. To lose her was enough. To lose the comfort of remembering her as well would be harrowing.

Yusuf pulls away first after some time, eyes red but dry, mouth turned down. Nicolo reaches up and thumbs at the crease between his brows, which quirks Yusuf’s lips ever so slightly.

“How old were you?” Nicolo asks.

Yusuf reaches up and takes Nicolo’s hand from his face, wrapping his fingers around his. “Twenty one.”

“A child.”

“Hardly, Nico,” Yusuf snorts softly. Nicolo disagrees, but he’s not going to start an argument over it. Not now.

With a sigh, Yusuf leans back against the rock formation behind them, wrapping an arm around Nicolo and tugging him sideways against his chest. Nicolo rests his head against Yusuf's shoulder.

“It’s not that I wish to forget her. Or my father. But I… would rather fondly remember the idea of them, the fragments, then remember them perfectly in death. That might make me selfish.”

“It does not,” Nicolo replies sternly. “It makes perfect sense to feel that way, Yusuf.” And then, “I’m sorry.” Yusuf only hums in response. It is, admittedly, a frail sentiment, so Nicolo adds, “I love you. In case you’ve forgotten.”

This earns him a huff against the top of his head. “I love you too,” Yusuf responds, and they fall into an easy silence.

After a few minutes, and with a great sigh, Yusuf tilts his head so that his cheek presses against Nicolo’s hair. “Nicolo…” he mumbles, hesitant, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but... I think we’re sleeping under the stars tonight.”

Nicolo lifts his head and twists around to find the half-assembled and frankly pathetic looking tent swaying off in the distance alone, with both Andromache and Quynh nowhere in sight.

“The consolidated wisdom of millenia,” Nicolo grumbles, dropping his head back against Yusuf. “And they still can’t assemble a tent.”

Yusuf laughs; Nicolo is by far more warmed by that than any comfort the damned tent could have offered.

Quynh has the little joke of hers whenever they go drinking. She’ll tell Yusuf, giggling into her tankard, “I miss when you didn’t drink!”

This is a joke because Yusuf gave up his abstinence of alcohol only a few months after he and Nicolo had met Quynh and Andromache, nearly two hundred years ago now, and when he’d announced his decision to do so to the two warrior women, they’d both admitted they didn’t even realize that he didn’t drink in the first place.

Nearly two hundred years later, Quynh continues to make this joke. Nicolo has yet to find it funny, but Yusuf laughs every time.

“It’s our anniversary, Quynh, you must be nice to us!” Yusuf insists in response to said joke. He is, as Andromache might say, drunk off his ass, swaying happily in his seat at the musty bar they’ve settled in for the night to celebrate. Despite how loudly he’s speaking, Nicolo can barely hear him over the clatter and bustle and chatter of the other, varyingly drunk, patrons at the bar.

“Three hundred years is nothing, Yusuf. You’re still babies,” Andromache replies, equally smashed yet bearing it more stoically, pitched against Quynh’s shoulder. One of her hands is still curled loosely around her tankard, unwilling to give it up just yet, probably.

Nicolo leans back against his rickety chair. “Do you two remember when you only knew each other for three hundred years?”

In response to this, Andromache pulls back from Quynh’s shoulder, propping herself up on the edge of a table with her free hand. She tilts her head, staring silently at Quynh with a quirked mouth, and Quynh stares back, eyebrows raised high. Nicolo’s gaze flicks between the two warrior women, eyeing them both, studying the emotion in their eyes and their mouths and their brows.

For nearly an entire minute they say nothing. They have no need to. The charged gaze between them could write entire epics; legions of words pass between them and neither woman even opens her mouth.

Nicolo finds himself slightly jealous. He wonders if he and Yusuf will ever hit a point such as this, where they could communicate without words, know each other so well that even a twitch of the brow or a press of lips could mean so much-- that words become irrelevant. Become small and useless compared to the years of their bond.

“It was a time,” Quynh answers at last, smiling a far away smile.

“That’s different,” Yusuf interrupts, slurring slightly and grinning widely. “because, this isn’t about how long you two have known each other, but how long I’ve known Nicolo,” here, he gestures broadly at Nicolo, sitting at his side, “and when you two will have known Nicolo for three hundred years, and-- and want to celebrate, I will not laugh at your paltry few years spent with him, in comparison to my many centuries! And you may-- may thank me for my generosity and kindness-- then.”

Quynh snorts. “That was very poetic of you, Yusuf.”

“Thank you.” Yusuf places a calloused hand atop Nicolo’s head. “I love him very much,” he states, very sincerely, if a little slurred.

Andromache, as always, seems to feel a compulsion to try and ruin the moment. Their Andromache, old and wise as she is, is a great many things: an elegant warrior, a stern protector, and a graceful leader-- however, a kind drunk she is not. “You know, you’ll get tired of each other eventually,” she points out, gesturing between the two of them. Yusuf rolls his eyes, his hand slipping from Nicolo’s head. “Quynh and I usually separate every couple hundred years for a time. It’s normal.”

“Bah,” Yusuf grumbles. “Andromache, you do not have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I do!” Andromache insists. Quynh sends her a sharp look that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy waving her hand widely. “I have been with, and wooed, and have been wooed by-- by more men and women than you’ve ever even set eyes on.”

Yusuf copies Andromache’s grand gesture, cheery and mocking. “That, what you’ve just described, is the opposite of romance, boss.”

“Whatever,” Andromache concedes with middling grace. “I’m happy for you two, either way.”

“Thank you,” Nicolo says, so that Yusuf won't say anything else. “Another round?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Yusuf says to Nicolo an hour or so later, as Nicolo is trying to haul the damned drunk up the stairs without sending them both sprawling down to their temporary deaths.

Funnily enough, around the time Yusuf began drinking, Nicolo stopped-- not out of any particular thoughts on alcohol itself, but because someone had to remain sober in order to drag Yusuf’s drunken ass back to their room at the end of the night, and the responsibility fell to Nicolo for all of the obvious reasons, and also because he was happy to do it.

“Who?” Nicolo asks, steadying a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder when he sways at the top dangerously.

“Andromache,” Yusuf replies. Nicolo’s not sure what exactly Yusuf thinks she was wrong about-- they’d discussed many topics at the bar downstairs-- but he might succeed in having this conversation more so if Andromache and Quynh weren’t standing no less than five feet away, hovering just inside their room’s open door down the hall, stripping down to their tunics and trousers.

Probably standing by in case Nicolo and Yusuf took an unfortunate tumble down the stairs. Nicolo is warmed by their concern, but Yusuf is too busy being drunkenly confused by Andromache’s presence after she calls over an “about what?” to think of such things.

“Where did you come from?” Yusuf asks Andromache, only going half willingly when Nicolo rolls his eyes and drags him down the hall.

“Thank you, good night,” Nicolo tells the two women as they pass their door and head down the hall to theirs, floorboards creaking under their boots.

“Have a nice anniversary, infants!” Andromach calls after they manage to stumble to their door, sticking her head out of theirs.

Nicolo fiddles with the key the barkeep gave him, trying desperately to ignore Yusuf when he yells back, “Us infants will try not to fuck so loud you can hear it all the way down there!” probably scarring some of the tenants.

“I bet you can’t!” Andromache responds, gleeful, and ducks back inside to slam the door shut.

“Is that a fucking challenge?” Yusuf asks the empty hallway, going easily when Nicolo drags him inside.

It’s a humble room, but the presence of four walls and a floor makes it good enough for Nicolo, and the bed is only an added bonus. He leaves Yusuf to his own devices as he lights the lantern set in the corner, double checking that their bags --that they’d tossed in the room earlier-- haven’t been stolen. He nudges the bags with a toe as he unlatches his longsword from his belt, propping the sheath up carefully by the little table with the lantern.

Yusuf is being oddly quiet; Nicolo turns to find the love of his life lying starfished on the little bed, peering up at the wood ceiling as if the secrets of the universe are engraved on it.

“I am so tired, Nicolo,” Yusuf mumbles, mournful. “Why did you make me go up all those stairs?”

“I am infamously known to be cruel and unfair,” Nicolo replies dryly, crossing over and sitting next to Yusuf. He unbuckles the straps around Yusuf’s shoulders that keep his scimitar attached to his back while Yusuf lies still. When the task is done, he looks up to find Yusuf staring at him, brows drawn together. “Lean up,” Nicolo orders softly, and Yusuf complies without complaint, shifting his shoulders off the bed just enough that Nicolo can pull his sheath off.

He stands to go retrieve his own sword, so that both can be placed at their bedside, within reach, shucking off his boots as he goes.

“Can you grab my bag for me?” Yusuf asks from the bed while Nicolo is doing so, so Nicolo does, balancing the two sheathed swords under one arm and holding Yusuf’s rucksack in the other.

He drops the bag at Yusuf's side and sits beside it, setting both swords at his feet, on the left side of the bed. Usually Yusuf’s scimitar goes on the other side, but Nicolo does not trust him with access to a sharp object in this state.

Yusuf sits up to shuffle through his bag. “I got you something,” he tells Nicolo when he straightens. Nicolo frowns at him.

“You got me something?” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Yusuf pulls out his sketchbook, though he doesn't grab his bag of charcoals.

But I didn’t get you anything, is something Nicolo almost wants to say, but honestly, three hundred years into a relationship, you stop keeping track of how many gifts have been exchanged and when. Especially when their finances are so intertwined. Nicolo and Yusuf simply buy each other things whenever the urge arises, and they’re both such men that these gifts are usually just practical items: new boots, a thicker cloak, and so on.

But now Yusuf passes Nicolo his sketchbook, turning back to the bag to buckle it closed again.

“A sketchbook,” Nicolo muses with a smile, rubbing a thumb over the bound leather cover. “You shouldn't have.”

“Oh, stop,” Yusuf grumbles, snatching the book back once his bag is closed. He shoves it off the bed with a mildly worrying clank and sits in its vacated spot, next to Nicolo. “Your jokes will make you look a fool when you are crying tears of gratitude on me.”

Nicolo smiles. Yusuf’s thigh, pressed against Nicolo’s, is warm, and his shoulder knocks against Nicolo’s with such familiarity Nicolo wonders if he could identify Yusuf from that alone; without sight, without hearing. He thinks he could, given the opportunity.

Yusuf flips through his sketchbook quickly, scanning past images of landscapes and crowded marketplaces and Nicolo’s own smiling face until he stops at a certain page, angling the book away so that Nicolo cannot see. He peers sideways at him, suspicious or maybe anticipatory.

“Do you expect me to start the tears of gratitude now, or…?” Nicolo asks, grinning at Yusuf’s unamused stare before Yusuf shoves the book into Nicolo’s open hands.

Nicolo doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, at first. Not that he doesn’t recognize the image; he does, he just doesn’t... understand.

“How…?” Nicolo asks, trailing off in wonder. He lifts a hand to touch the image, then snatches his hand away, afraid he’ll smear it.

It’s his mother.

He doesn’t understand how Yusuf could do this; drawing his mother is one thing, but the accuracy of the drawing to Nicolo’s memory is astounding. The line of her cheekbones and the crinkles of her crows feet, the shape of her eyes set by happiness. The drift of hair over her shoulder is a little longer than his mother had it, and a little straighter, but other than that it is an almost perfect recreation. Down to the curl of her mouth, the small flash of teeth. Nicolo can practically hear her in the image, her eyebrows raised and surprised joy flashing in her eyes, as she says, “That’s a big one, Nicolo, good job!”

“How did you do this?” Nicolo asks, voice small.

“Do you remember when you told me what she looked like?” Yusuf asks. “When we were talking about Andromache’s mother?”

“Yes, I remember,” Nicolo replies, frustrated. “I told you she had brown hair and green eyes. Yusuf, how did you--” He peels his eyes off of the drawing that sends him straight to his childhood. “You even got her smile right.”

Yusuf presses his lips together in a fond little smirk. “I will tell you, but you must agree not to share my secret.”

“Yusuf.”

Yusuf scoots that much closer, tucking a hand under Nicolo’s jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “I know how she smiles because I know how you smile. Because she’s your mother. And she lives in you, even if she’s been dead three hundred years. Even if you forget her to some small degree, she will stay with you. Here--” Yusuf touches the corner of Nicolo’s mouth. “And here--” His pointer swipes over Nicolo’s cheekbone. “And here.” He presses a thumb under Nicolo’s eye, and it comes away wet. He makes a small noise. “I was kidding about the tears of gratitude, Nico.”

The sketchbook almost falls off of Nicolo’s thighs in his urgency to pull Yusuf into a hug.

Yusuf returns the embrace with a huffing little laugh, arms wrapping around Nicolo’s waist and hauling him in close, the sketchbook folding closed between the press of their bodies, the beat of their hearts against each other.

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Nicolo murmurs into the crook of Yusuf’s neck, endlessly sincere. His fingers hook into Yusuf’s tunic, over his back, already pulled tight by the muscles there.

“Happy anniversary,” Yusuf responds cheerily. “To three hundred years, eh?”

“And three hundred more,” Nicolo reminds him.

“Fuck, Nicolo.” Yusuf leans back, hands lingering at his waist. He catches Nicolo’s eyes, his brows pulled together. “To three thousand more; Andromache doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Nicolo frowns, recalling Yusuf saying something of the sort in the hall. “What did she say?”

“What did she say?” Yusuf repeats thoughtfully. “I don’t remember-- some nonsense about us getting tired of each other.”

“Oh.” Nicolo does remember that. “I don’t think she meant it like that, Yusuf. And after all, she is rather the authority on how the relationships of immortals work.”

“The authority!” Yusuf repeats, mocking. “When Andromache kills a man with her bare hands and comes out the other side of the experience loving him, I will give her credence to the idea that she’s an authority over our relationship.”

“I didn’t say she was an authority over us. Just that she may understand better.”

“What, do you think she’s right?” Yusuf’s brow furrows, voice lowering. “That we shall grow tired of each other?”

“No,” Nicolo immediately insists, his desire to assure Yusuf strong and instinctual. He lets his hand slide to his shoulder, gripping there. “At least,” he admits on second thought, “I’ve never once felt anything to give me the impression that I will. But it may happen, Yusuf.”

To be completely honest, Nicolo can’t imagine such a thing. He’s woken up every morning for the past three hundred years of his life at Yusuf’s side, and he can’t even begin to understand what kind of drastic shift in his heart would inspire him to grow tired or restless of doing so. Of Yusuf’s hands, of his voice, of his glittering eyes and his loud, joyful laugh-- and the way he furrows his brow when he’s thoughtful, like he’s doing at Nicolo right now.

“Because Andromache says so? I think not,” Yusuf argues. “Andromache is wise, but she’s known us barely more than a hundred years. Her experience does not allow her to see to your heart, or to mine. I will love you forever, Nicolo.”

“Forever is a long time, Yusuf,” Nicolo responds, smiling.

“Well, I will,” Yusuf insists. “When we are twice as old as Andromache is today, and the memories of our childhoods, and our warring, and even our three hundred year anniversary will be nothing but dust, I will remember loving you with certainty-- and that will be because I’ll have done it every day of my life.”

Yusuf shrugs and presses closer, bowing his forehead to Nicolo’s. “And if we forget every bad time and every good time with it,” he murmurs, looking down, “I will not care; it will all wash away in the sands of time eventually, but I have no intent to be separated from you. I won't let memory or time or violence take you from me. I don’t care what Andromache says. The only thing that will end us is your word, Nicolo.”

Amused, Nicolo lets out a throaty little huh. “You will be waiting a long time for that, Yusuf. Maybe even forever.”

Yusuf grins at that, eyes flicking up, and Nicolo has that split second thought he always has --you’re hiding dimples under all that beard-- before Yusuf tilts his head up and kisses him, leaning forward with all the drunken weight of his body.

Nicolo catches Yusuf’s jaw in his hand, shoulders bunching up as he shifts so that Yusuf doesn't topple them both; tilts his head and grips Yusuf’s shoulder and kisses him back.

It is not, admittedly, their best kiss. But Nicolo’s found over the years that a kiss with Yusuf is a kiss with Yusuf, which is to say no matter how much their teeth clack or their mouths miss their mark, it is still Yusuf, so none of them are actually bad.

And Nicolo is distracted. Yusuf is one to spew pretty words whenever the mood takes him, but his aptitude for the spoken word even in the worst --or most drunken-- of times always catches Nicolo off guard; even three hundred years into their relationship.

Every day of my life, Yusuf had said, and Nicolo finds himself giddy and weightless at the idea. Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks to himself, unable to fight off a smile as Yusuf pulls him in closer, a hand at his neck. Every day.

It is a fair while later --after Nicolo has pried Yusuf’s boots off, after the lantern light was blown out, and after they are both under the admittedly threadbare blanket-- that Nicolo lies propped up on his elbows on his side of the bed, admiring the drawing of his mother by moonlight. Yusuf lies on his back beside Nicolo, either asleep or drifting, arm thrown over his eyes and mouth pulled into a frown.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Yusuf asks groggily after some time, revealing himself to be awake. “Or must I compete with my own drawing for your attention?”

“You made a mistake giving me this,” Nicolo replies, closing the sketchbook and leaning over to set it carefully on the floor. “I will do nothing but admire it for eternity.”

With a huff, he settles under the blanket, facing Yusuf, crossing his arms to his chest. Yusuf responds with only a smile, and after the silence stretches for a moment, Nicolo adds, “I wish I could give you such peace in regards to your own mother.”

Yusuf drops the arm from his face, squinting sideways at Nicolo. “Pfft. You have already brought me more peace than any other living being on this earth. Give making me the happiest man alive a rest for a few minutes, Nicolo; you’ll give yourself a complex.” He rolls onto his side. “But also roll over. What are you doing lying all the way over there, anyways?”

“Giving myself a complex, apparently,” Nicolo grumbles, doing as he’s told and shuffling onto his side. Yusuf throws an arm over him from behind, snuggling forward and pulling Nicolo back in unison until they are pressed against each other, shoulders to thighs.

“I am being truthful,” Yusuf murmurs after a moment, low and intimate and close, tired words slurring into each other. He yawns before butting his forehead gently against the back of Nicolo’s neck. “My mother-- I have many good memories of her, and some bad. I would like to forget some and cherish others, but in the end I will likely lose all or most of ‘em, as Andromache has. That’s just the truth of it all.” He yawns again, shifting his grip on Nicolo. “I could draw her if I wish, but I don’t know if even a thousand drawings will ease her memory. And losing memories is a simple trade-off of the life we live, even if we didn’t choose it. I may not keep my memories, but as long as I can keep you, I am at peace with it all.”

Nicolo considers that, tucking his own hands into his sides. As much as their immortality was not a choice-- it was nothing either Nicolo or Yusuf asked for or even really wanted, three hundred years ago, but it was gifted to them anyway. They didn’t ask for each other either, and yet Yusuf was given to Nicolo and vice versa in the same breath that their immortality was thrust upon them.

But of course, unlike the immortality, and unlike all the other positives and negative consequences that came with it, they did choose each other. They chose to put down their weapons. They chose to stay at each other’s side. They’ve chosen that every single day of the last three hundred years. Hopefully they will do so for the next three hundred -- thousand-- years.

He will lose his memories eventually, one day, one way or another. It is like Yusuf said: it is a simple trade-off of the life they live.

But if it had been a choice-- well. Even the innocent comfort of his mother’s memory, of those late afternoons picking seashells-- those memories are not nothing to him, but if it ever came between keeping them and keeping Yusuf… the choice is obvious.

But there is no choice. The memories will fade one day whether he wants them to or not, whether Yusuf draws a thousand portraits of his mother or not.

Yusuf will not fade. Yusuf will be here. Yusuf has been here, for three hundred years.

Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks, and smiles.

“You know,” he says quietly into the dark room. “You are a very wise man, Yusuf.”

“Don’t tell Quynh and Andromache,” Yusuf mumbles into Nicolo’s nape. “It will ruin my image.”

Nicolo snorts, smiles, and, eventually, falls asleep in Yusuf’s arms.

#Anonymous #joe x nicky

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lady-charinette · 5 years

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A Clawful Plan & A Pawssibly Good Day (Chapter 10) - Dinner for Two Marichat Fic

A Clawful Plan & A Pawssibly Good Day

Plagg quietly sipped at his coffee the next morning, idly watching Pierre set down the chairs for the morning hours when the restaurant would open for business.

His voice seemed loud in the emptiness of the large space and the lack of the usual talk of the crowd and bustling kitchen, “Did Adrien say when he would be back today?”

The chair scraped slightly against the floor and Pierre pushed it under the table neatly, a sigh escaping him, “He said to expect him just before-“

The doors opened as if on cue and the blond himself walked in, hoodie pulled down deeper to cover his face, hair messy, “Hello Pierre, Plagg.” Adrien moved the protective cover of the hoodie away from his face, smiling tiredly at his friends, “I’m sorry for being late, had late night shoots yesterday and an exam earlier this morning.” He didn’t have any eyebags, he couldn’t allow himself to, being a model, but Plagg could definitely see the exhaustion in that green stare.

“Why don’t ya take the day off? It’s a Wednesday.” Wednesdays were reserved for Adrien to freely study for university if his schedules called for it, like upcoming exams or catching up with lost lectures or attend events his father forced him to go to.

Adrien rubbed his chin, resting his hand on his hip and Plagg snickered at the model pose, “Wednesdays are always so full of customers, are you guys going to be alright?” he scratched the back of his head, a sign he was uncomfortable with ditching work.

Pierre offered a kind smile, “Of course, you don’t have to worry at all Adrien. Just make sure to keep up with your studies and don’t forget to rest too.”

Adrien smiled at the elder man, bowing slightly in gratitude, “Thank you Pierre.” He looked at Plagg, who was watching him curiously, “Plagg, don’t trash the VA room again, please.”

The dark-haired man rolled his eyes playfully, “Yeah, yeah, mom don’t worry. Now shoo and go before I change my mind and sit your ass down here.” Plagg was about to take a sip of his coffee before an arm planted itself around his shoulders abruptly and a hand roughly ruffled his already messy raven hair.

“Thanks Plagg, Pierre! You guys are the best!” with a smile to Pierre, the blond raced out of the restaurant, leather bag filled with today’s lecture papers.

Pierre chuckled at the dark, murderous frown on Plagg’s face, “Shut it old man.”

Pierre’s expression changed drastically, a brief flicker of something more sinister shining in those old, brown eyes, “Excuse me, Plagg?”

The raven haired man stiffened, “A-Apologies sir!”

The old butler nodded approvingly, his usual friendly disposition in place and Plagg sighed in relief, sagging further into his seat, muttering about secret demon butlers and pesky blonds.

His phone vibrated with a new message and he lazily took it out, quickly typing in the password and opening the messages.

They were from Tikki.

‘Good morning stinky sock! I hope the cheese cake I made you yesterday was alright. Have a nice day at work, catch you for lunch tomcat!’

A heartwarming smile softened his normally sharp features, Pierre discreetly watching the man’s lips transform into a gentle smile as he typed a reply.

‘Morning, sugar cube. Of course it was, it was purrfect. Don’t overwork yourself either today, I’ll wait for you with lunch outside the shop.’

Adding a silly emoji at the end, Plagg sent his message taking another sip of his coffee.

For some reason, it tasted sweeter.

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

Marinette stubbed her toe against the desk, cursing under her breath and Nathaniel paused in his sketch to look over his shoulder curiously, a sympathetic smile on his lips, “You okay?”

The dark haired woman sighed, slumping back onto her chair, “Fine…”

Nathaniel set his pencil down and turned towards his friend completely, “Sure? You don’t look that fine to me. When did you go to sleep?” he had always had an eye for detail, ever since his childhood days where he first began to draw every day. It also meant he nearly always picked up on miniscule details other people failed to notice.

As often as Marinette wore very little to no make-up, today she had applied a thicker layer under her eyes, which blended into her skin tone to hide the dark eyebags.

Marinette should’ve known Nathaniel knew better, she gingerly touched the smooth skin beneath her eye, “That obvious?” she offered a tired smile and Nathaniel shook his head.

“To me, yes, but not to others.” His small smile stretched into a concerned frown, “Seriously, what’s up? You’ve been on edge lately. We made the deal with that model and the fashion event is only a few days away, I would be relaxed in your stead.” The red-head crossed his arms, carefully observing the woman before him who wrung her hands in her lap nervously before her.

A drawn out sigh and a groan followed her next words, “I know but-! Argh!” she threw her hands in the air, standing up and pacing back and forth in a line, hands gesticulating wildly, “Have you ever met a person you thought was really funny and kind and interesting but like, you don’t know them all too well and you suddenly see a different side to them that you didn’t expect and you don’t like that side of them and you feel really helpless and frustrated?!” Marinette still continued to pace before hands clasped onto her shoulders and Nathaniel gently grabbed her attention by turning her towards him.

“Hey, easy, stop trying to walk holes into our floor.” Nathaniel soothingly squeezed her shoulders again, “I…I guess I can relate to what you’re saying Marinette.” The surprised look she gave him made the professor chuckle, “Remember Chloe? I used to have a bit of a crush on her in primary school, until she started with that bullying anyway. That went away pretty fast. I mean, I don’t really think it’s the same as your situation, but I can relate with the liking someone and not liking certain aspects of them thing. It’s natural.” He shrugged, noticing her calming down slowly, “…Want some coffee?”

Slumping her shoulders, Marinette nodded and Nathaniel led her toward the kitchen, setting up fresh coffee while Marinette slowly started talking about the restaurant she frequented in her breaks.

Once both steaming coffee mugs were in front of them, along with a cookie plate inbetween, did Nathaniel stare at the woman in bewilderment, “W-Wait…you…you’re saying there’s…a toy?” Nathaniel still tried to wrap his head around the quick explanation Marinette had given him, about her recent behavior, her extended breaks, everything. “And…there’s a guy voicing that toy and you…started liking him?” Nathaniel rubbed at his chest, feeling a stinging sensation there, but he tried to curb it.

Marinette, pink faced, slowly nodded, “I mean, maybe ‘liking’ is a bit strong, I mean, he’s really nice and funny! I like his puns! And he keeps me company while I eat, he’s easy to talk to and get along with and well, I don’t know! I l-like his voice okay!?” Marinette slapped her hands to her face, the tips of her ears a beet red and Nathaniel burst into laughter at her shy reaction, “S-Stop laughing! I’ll demote you!” the threat was empty, but it sounded adorable coming from her red face.

Nathaniel coughed a few times, trying to hold in the chuckles trying to come out, before he took a sip of his coffee and it finally died down, “So…you like his voice, huh?” Nathaniel adjusted the collar of his shirt, feeling slight embarrassment bubbling within his own chest at how cute Marinette reacted.

“Ugh, Nath!” Marinette looked ready to spontaneously combust or throw something at him, “It’s-I-I mean- it’s not like I-“ she backtracked, eyes blown wide, elbows planted on the table and hiding her eyes, “Uhm…I…actually did see him.”

The professor’s eyes flew open, leaning forward over the table, “Wait, what? You did? When? How comes you didn’t tell me?” he tried pinpointing when it could’ve possibly been, maybe the time she visited him? But that meant she saw him on campus and that was highly impo-

“I-I met him after your lectures…I kinda bumped into him in the hallway…”

Nathaniel choked.

“What does he look like? What’s his name?” alright, maybe Nathaniel was getting too excited to know this guy, but he definitely wanted the best for her, even if it meant throwing his own infatuation out of the window.

He tried ignoring the prickly, painful sensations in his heart.

“H-His name’s Erik, he’s a bit taller than me, messy dark hair, he likes to joke around and um, he teaches art psychology or uh, art therapy in your university.”

Nathaniel’s body froze and his blood ran cold.

Images conjured up in his mind.

Memories of the past two years of him working as a professor to be exact.

And him.

‘Yo, Kurtzberg, playing with colors again? You’ve got something there on your cheek.’

‘Hey tomato-head, cooped up alone in that room, doesn’t that drive you up the wall? Go out and have some fun, maybe you’ll get some friends along the way!’

“Nathaniel?” Marinette rose an eyebrow at the vacant stare he seemed to have set on a fixed point on the table and she waved her hand.

‘Heh, this looks like a bird shit on it, if I have to guess what’s on your mind, I think the answer stays the same dontcha think?’

‘Most artists only dream of being able to tell what art truly means like us therapists, it’s a shame you chose the weaker craft of the two.’

“Nathaniel? Hey! Earth to Nathaniel!” the man jumped, as if ripped from his own thoughts, wide eyes looking at her.

“Uh, s-sorry, I-uh, got lost in thoughts.” He scratched his head, ruffling his already messy hair.

Marinette noticed the familiar almost haunted look in his eyes, it reminded her of her younger days when she used to be bullied in school. Her hand reached across the table and settled lightly over his fist, “Does he treat you badly at work?”

She had a hunch, but she couldn’t picture it. It didn’t fit together, the picture she had of Chat Noir when she was in the restaurant and when she met him at campus.

Maybe she was wrong, after all.

Nathaniel smiled weakly, “Don’t worry, I tell him off politely whenever he tries to act all alpha male on me. I’ve learned a thing or two following high school.” He winked reassuringly, and patted Marinette’s hand closed over his fist, “It’s just, I always had bad vibes about him, before he started being a jerk to me. He just spells trouble.” He noticed the conflicted look on her face, “But don’t let my personal judgement influence your own, if you say he acts differently in the restaurant, maybe the jerk behavior is just an act? Maybe it’s just me.”

At that, Marinette immediately shook her head, “No! Don’t think that for a second! I don’t know what it is but I’ll find out, he can’t treat any of my friends that way if…if I really do end up liking him that much.” She looked unsure of herself and Nathaniel hated seeing her like that.

He squeezed her hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t worry too much Marinette, if he likes you, he will realize what a mistake it is in letting you go.”

Marinette flushed, smiling warmly at him, “Thanks Nath, I can always count on you to cheer me up when I need it.” She grinned awkwardly, “Well, except Alya as your female counterpart.”

Nathaniel smiled.

-----------

Adrien almost groaned in bliss at the explosion in his mouth, the delicious pastry from the bakery he grabbed on the way felt like the first taste of heaven after enduring weeks of hell.

He was on his way to catch up on his studies at Nino’s place, before getting ready for the fashion event later this afternoon, he had enough time to pour over the new materials his professor gave him before he had to drive towards the address for the fashion event, of course hosted by Agreste Fashion, with a model wearing a dress made a growing designer. He hadn’t caught the designer’s name, but according to conversations he overheard, the designer must be good at their craft with decent production time.

He hoped to get breaks in-between, he hadn’t eaten much except for the pastry and a small breakfast in the morning before the exam. He bet Nino had some leftovers from yesterday, maybe even something edible in the fridge.

Nino was a surprisingly good cook, courtesy of Nora who loved and treated him like he was her very own little brother since his and Alya’s high school days. Nino mentioned Nora being a bit of a tough nut, instead of showering him with affection, she usually showered him with ‘tough love’ when she visited, whatever that meant.

Adrien smiled when he spotted the building Nino’s apartment was in, he also remembered the very stunned look the DJ gave him when he humbly asked to temporarily share living quarters.

‘Sure dude, you know you’re always welcome, but what happened? Did you lose your apartment? Did your dad piss you off?’

As probable as the last possibility was, Adrien had explained what the true reason was, his apartment was empty.

Not furniture-wise.

It lacked warmth.

It lacked everything a room with people living in it should have, warmth, personal belongings, trinkets that were useless or not that pretty but were still held dear.

Trivial things that made his father scrunch his nose.

Trivial things that made Adrien smile because they reminded him of his mother, when she would take little trinkets and souvenirs from places she would visit for her roles and bring back with her.

Adrien himself didn’t have much, not many personal things, the things he recently got that were closer to his heart were pictures of him and Nino. Those were already in his apartment, one in a frame, the other clipped to a piece of string he remembered seeing in Nino’s house all those years ago, when they were still teens. It inspired him to do something similar, it felt so personal, so real.

For now, only Nino’s picture hung there, they also made a few pictures with Alya at the club as a memory, those would come there too.

Adrien hoped many more would come. Maybe even some with a certain dark haired woman with bluebell eyes.

He took out the spare keys Nino gave him, quickly unlocking the front door and jogging up the stairs before finding the door to Nino’s apartment already unlocked.

Was Nino home?

Adrien pushed the door open, stepping in and setting the keys in a bowl near the doorway, taking his shoes off, “Nino?” he called out, already smelling something delicious wafting in from the kitchen.

“M’ here dude!” the boisterous voice of his friend called back and a small smile lit Adrien’s entire face as he made his way towards the kitchen.

The rooms were small, but enough for one, or two to comfortably live in.

Nino was sitting at the kitchen table, steaming plate in front of him, fork rolling around in the sea of noodles, vegetables and sauce, “Hey man, grab a plate and join me, you haven’t eaten anything much, right?”

The blond snorted softly, shaking his head as he fixed himself a plate and glass of water, “It’s scary how well you know me after all those years.”

The DJ grinned boyishly, gently punching his friend in the shoulder, “Once a model, always a model, huh?”

Adrien chuckled, “Once a friend, always a friend.” Nino’s teasing expression softened, and he nodded immediately, both men chuckling.

“I thought you were in the studio practicing for that gig you were hired for?” Adrien had to admit, even if Nino was nowhere near Marlena’s caliber of cooking, the food was still good.

He wolfed down the veggies and noodles when Nino started talking, “I was, in the morning though. It’s already two in the afternoon, don’t tell me you forgot how to read the clock?”

Adrien rolled his eyes playfully, “I forgot the time, it flew by so fast after that exam, I was just rushing from one point to the next.” Nino spotted the leather bag set on the couch in the connected living room, frowning in concern.

“Aw man, you still gotta study, huh?”

The blond shrugged, swallowing down the noodles, “Yeah, but I should be done in no time. It’s not that much, besides I still need to get ready for that event today, so I’ll go over to my apartment to prepare. I think I’ll sleep there too, so don’t stay up late okay?”

Nino huffed, taking a big gulp of water, “Whatever you say, mom. Just drive safe and don’t drink too much, young man.” Nino imitated the voice of an old woman and both men, despite themselves, burst out laughing at their silly antics.

Adrien enjoyed these things.

Whenever he entered Nino’s apartment, it always reminded him of home, or the closest thing he could associate to it. It reminded him of their school days and strong friendship and what a good man Nino was.

The two men continued eating and chatting and laughing, even after half an hour went by, Adrien felt at ease, the papers in his bag temporarily forgotten, the fashion event forgotten.

All that mattered was the food, his friend, the atmosphere.

It smelled – it felt – like home.

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

Erik strolled across campus leisurely, scanning his schedule for his next class, when he spotted the familiar sight of a certain dark haired woman in the distance.

A grin automatically stretched his lips and he waved to catch her attention, “Marinette! Hey!”

The woman jumped, surprised by the call before she relaxed upon noticing him and waving back.

Erik walked up to her and smiled down at her, “Hey, visiting tom-uh Nathaniel again?”

Marinette smiled, “Hey Erik. Yeah, I just wanted to go over a few things concerning work, I won’t be a bother for too long.” Erik looked around, that explained why she waited near his office too.

Erik planted his hands in his pockets, “I see. So, you don’t have some time today, huh?”

She flashed him an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, I don’t. I have to help organize a fashion event and help dress the models.”

His interest peaked at the word ‘models’, “Models, huh? Mind if I watch?” the grin on his face was positively feral, but the look in Marinette’s eyes hardened to steel.

“Watch?” she rose an eyebrow and Erik backtracked quickly.

“You know, your work, how you work.” He cleared his throat, “Anyway, I may not make it actually, I have classes starting soon until late. See ya tomorrow, purrhaps?”

A smile made its way on the frown previously marring her pretty features and Marinette nodded, “Sure. Good luck on your lectures!”

“Yeah, you too!” he waved and moved towards the long stairs ahead.

Marinette sighed, rubbing her arm.

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

A few hours later…

Flashing lights, clicking heels and painted faces greeted Marinette as soon as she entered.

Paparazzi, bodyguards and models as far as the eye can see.

There were so many people.

She took a breath, before carrying her designs and bag with designing tools towards the changing areas. It didn’t take her long at all to spot a model, or several of them.

Most were doing their make-up, chatting or doing pep talks. Marinette couldn’t fault them for it, she would be a jittery, nervous mess if she would’ve even have to imagine stepping foot onto a catwalk, or anywhere where hundreds of eyes would be on her.

She wasn’t good in the spotlight.

After greeting and going over the minor details and major parts of the show, Marinette helped them put on the dresses she designed, feeling at the same time odd but comfortable, handling something that was hers, her very own work in her hands, and helping models put them on, adjusting things and offering advice.

It felt liberating but also frightening, like an otherworldly experience.

Marinette wasn’t new to fashion nor to handling fabrics or designs, but she was new to this; the spotlights, the flashing cameras, the crowded fashion galas with hundreds of models running up and down looking for their agents, bodyguards or organizers.

She smiled kindly when another model thanked her for her help in braiding her hair, it wasn’t part of the job, but she would help wherever she could if it meant easing the anxious looks on the young women’s faces.

She wasn’t much older than them and yet, she felt obligated to keep them as comfortable and relaxed as possible under these circumstances.

Some models were seasoned experts, doing breathing exercises or small, personal rituals. Some were tracing patterns on their hands to calm themselves, others were looking in the mirror and silently encouraging themselves, some were chatting with others while again others were drinking juices or water to distract them from the big event which would open any minute.

It was almost time to shine.

Marinette excused herself from the changing rooms, making sure the models were taken care of before she stepped out.

The large, luxurious ballroom was filled to the brim with people. Some were already sitting, looking like they belonged to the VIPs or high end people who would asses the event. Others in suits were chatting amongst themselves near the buffet, people with cameras were keeping a low profile and trying to discreetly take pictures without disturbing the guests too much.

Marinette was glad she had the pass around her neck, people would mistake her for some lost woman who accidentally stumbled into this fine establishment and not a semi-respected designer whose work was about to be put up on stage.

She took a deep, staggering breath, accepting a glass of orange juice from a waiter who was parading around with a plate full of champagne and orange juice glasses.

She gulped the liquid down in nearly one go, frayed nerves still breaking at the seams, but at least she was sure she was hydrated.

Marinette decided to mingle about the crowd, greeting a few other designers she’d met a handful of times, but otherwise keeping to herself.

Due to so many people, there wasn’t much room for individual people to really distance themselves from the crowd. It was inevitable to hear some private conversations.

Marinette pretended to enjoy the ambience while subtly listening in on any remotely interesting conversation topics.

She spotted a group of male models a few steps away, talking, some chuckling. Almost all of them had bathrobes on, they would obviously come up on stage later, after the female models were done with their performances.

As Marinette tried to slip past the group of males, back towards the changing rooms to check on her models, she nearly tripped over her own feet when a particular voice caught her attention.

She was sure she wasn’t imagining it, but when she turned around, there were several models talking, it was impossible to say which voice belonged to whom. There was a blond with green eyes, a brunet with blue eyes, several black haired guys with brown eyes.

But there was only one name that hit her like a lightning bolt when she heard a familiar voice sound from among the group.

Chat Noir?

Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you enjoyed it :3 By the way, is the plot advancing too fast?

#fic #fanfiction #marichat fic #marichat #dinner for two fic #cross posted on AO3 and FFnet #ml fic #ml #miraculous ladybug #marinette x chat noir #marichat au

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dam-those-words · 5 years

Text

15 Questions Tag Game!

I was (kinda) tagged by @georgiacambrielwritblr!

Rules: Pick a character (or two in my case) from your WIP and have them answer these 15 questions, then tag 15 people!

(Also, I already had this post done but when I tried to post it Tumblr went Thud appearently and deleted it instead, so I had to start over. Sorry for the long wait Georgia lol)

1. What is your full name?

" I'm Aniol Kaminski," The dirty-blonde male on the interviewer's right ruffles his red and gold wings. It takes most of the interviewer's willpower to not stare at them while shaking his hand; of course they've seen wings before, but never like these.

"Mattea Sarai," Says the platinum blonde on the interviewer's left. She completely disregards the interviewers outstretched hand and instead sits back in her wooden chair and crosses her arms.

2. What does it mean?

"Mine means something like, 'Stone Angel,' in Polish, so that's pretty cool." Aniol's voice is a growly-type deep, and paired with his thick accent, it takes the interviewer a second the realize what he said.

"You're so lucky. [Throwback to when his name was actually Lucky lmao] My name means some bullshit like, 'Princess,' or 'God's Gift,' or something. Makes me wanna barf just thinking about it." Mattea says, making a puking gesture.

"Woah there, young lady. Who taught you to cuss?" Aniol grins at her, but the way he flashes it makes it seem more like baring his teeth.

Mattea raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'Who taught you to cuss?' Have you heard yourself?" She leans forward in her wooden chair, putting her elbows on her knees.

Aniol leans forward, copying Mattea. He whispers-- well more like growls-- something too quiet for the interviewer to hear, but makes the rage in Mattea's eyes simmer.

The tension in the room makes the interviewer realize that the wooden table in between them would do nothing if the got into a fight as bad as they'd been rumored to. The interviewer clears their throat and asks the next question.

3. Do you two have any nicknames or other names?

"I don't really have any, but this little devil does call me Bird Boy more often than she calls me Aniol," Aniol nodded towards the girl across the wooden table.

Mattea had snatched a peanut butter cookie from the gold-lined plate in the middle of the table, and now had a mouthful of cookie. She somehow still managed to say, "Are you forgetting about Jexi calling you Ann? Like, Ann of Green Gables?"

Aniol simply rolls his eyes, replying, "I'm not forgetting, I'm just ignoring the fact that you've appearently eavesdropped. And don't talk while eating,"

"Its not like I try to listen to everything that happens in your guys' rooms, especially at night when you guys--"

"Anyway, why don't you tell them what your nickname is?" His cheeks are a bright red as he talks.

Mattea smiles, relaxing a little and shrugging. "I don't really have any, either. Oh, well, Mayson calls me Matt sometimes. But other than that, none."

4. What's your gender?

"Male, obviously," Aniol says, the pink already fading.

"Female," Mattea answers.

"God, we're so boring. I wish we had Dani so they could spice it up," There's a tinge of sadness in his voice. He frowns down at his hands where he holds a small paperclip he had been figiting with, his short and jagged hair falling into his eyes.

Mattea's eyebrows scrunch for a split second before a mask of arrogance passes over he features, and she says, "Speak for yourself, amigo. I'm the most interesting out of the entire Assassin's."

Aniol's returning look is so full of an emotion that the interviewer can't place, but still makes them look away and clear their throat yet again.

5. What is your sexuality?

"I'm pansexual," Aniol says quickly, sitting back in his chair and grabbing a cookie.

The confusion must have shown on the interviewer's face, since Aniol adds on, in a matter-of-fact tone, "It means that I can like anyone, regardless of their gender."

The interviewer nods and turns towards Mattea for an answer.

She had become a completely different person than she was about five seconds ago: she had somehow scrunched in on herself, grabbing her arms as if she were cold. Her lips were pursed.

"I--uh, I don't... I think--" Mattea is interrupted again by Aniol, but this time her expression changes to relief instead of amusement.

"We've talked about it before, and Mattea would like to not answer that question. If we could move on, that'd be great." He says in the same matter-of-fact tone as earlier.

6. Where are you from?

"Poland, though you can probably tell," Aniol says, his accent somehow becoming thicker than before.

Mattea clears her throat, the tension slowly leaving her body. "I'm from here. Akida."

7. How old are you?

"I'm 25. I was born on October 2nd, 2005." Aniol says.

"I'm only two years younger than him, and yet he somehow thinks that he's sooo--" Mattea does jazz hands as she speaks. "--much smarter and wiser than me, even though I obviously am the smarter one."

Aniol rolls his eyes, throwing the last bit of his cookie at her. He hits her directly in the forehead. His eyes go wide.

There's a moment of silence before they both burst out laughing. It fills the small room, and the interviewer can't help but join them.

8. Any special talents?

"Not really. I mean, I'm pretty good at baseball, but my wings get in the way for any sport." Aniol ruffles his wings again in emphasis. The interviewer silently thanks themselves again for remembering to get a special chair to accommodate his wings.

"I'm good at using most weapons, besides those stupid miscellaneous ones. I'm also good at braiding my own hair, which is something even Jexi can't do." Mattea figits with her hair tie, throwing Aniol an arrogant grin.

"Hey, you should put all that on your future resumes. I'm great at weapons, also known as murder, I can tie my hair back like any normal human, and I can be incredibly stupid! I'm the whole package!" Aniol mocks, making his deep voice extremely high.

The interviewer tenses, but is pleasantly surprised when all Mattea does is laugh and look expectantly for the next question.

9. Any kids?

Mattea bark-laughs again, shaking her head vigorously.

Aniol only shrugs his shoulders and says, "In the future, if my partner wants them. But none right now,"

10. What's your aesthetic?

Mattea interrupts Aniol before he has a chance to open his mouth, ticking the subjects off on her fingers as she talks, "Water fountains, pale roses, lip balm, pastel colors, stationary--"

It's Aniol's turn to cut her off, asking what an aesthetic is.

"It's like... your vibes. Like, for you it would be something like... maybe lots of grey and orange things." Mattea explains.

"That sounds stupid, but whatever. I guess mine is cobblestone, rain... uh, bright orange feathers and pumpkins. I don't know what it means, don't laugh at me!" He adds when Mattea tries to cover her laugh up with a cough.

11. Who's your best friend?

"Jexi,"

"Are you sure it's only best friend? Nothing else?" Mattea prods at Aniol's answer.

"Oh shut up. What about you and Mayson, huh?" He snaps back. Her cheeks turn as red as Aniol's cheeks earlier.

"That's not important,"

"Mhm," Though their words suggest tension, their eyes are full of amusement.

12. Would you ever get piercings or tattoos?

"I already have a tattoo," Aniol says, pulling up his grey sleeve to show a black and white tattoo of an arrow on his bicep.

"Wait, when did you get that?" Mattea asks, leaning forward to see it better.

"Jexi gave it to me when we were nineteen,"

Mattea's eyebrows rise. "Jexi did? And you still refuse to acknowledge the fact that she's--"

"Did I not make myself clear, Matt?" Aniol snarls, letting his sleeve fall down.

Mattea snarls right back.

The interviewer hastily asks the next question, hoping to change their focus onto them.

13. When are you happiest?

Aniol throws Mattea one last death glare before ruffling his wings yet again. "When I'm flying,"

"With a certain someone," Mattea tries to whisper but the interviewer hears her anyway, smirking.

"Do you have a death wish or what, Matt?"

"Name a time when I didn't,"

Aniol starts to respond but is cut off by the interviewer, still desperately hoping to get through this interview without a fight. The interviewer asks Mattea the question again.

"If I'm honest, I really like sketching. And archery. And I do like to banter with this idiot," She smiles again, but it's (thankfully) filled with much less venom than before.

That quickly, the tension leaves the room. The interviewer was amazed at their ability to start and end an argument in less than a minute. No wonder these two were always in trouble.

14. What's your biggest secret?

"Oooh, that's a good one. Why don't you go first, Aniol?" Mattea claps her hands, threading them together and putting them on her now crossed legs.

"Oh, uh. I guess... I'm terrified of spiders. Like, I hate then with my whole being,"

Mattea seemingly can't help but laugh at that, trying again and failing at turning it into a cough.

"Hey, you're scared of them, too! Don't you remember when you made Noah switch sleeping bags with you because you thought there was a spider in yours?" Aniol hastily defends himself.

"Yeah, but," Mattea is laughing so hard she can barely talk.

It takes longer than the interviewer would have liked for Mattea to finally calm down, and to ask the question again.

"I think my biggest secret is how I got this necklace and why." Mattea answers, holding out a silver chain with a half-cresent moon dangling on it.

When she doesn't continue, the interviewer decides to move on and get this interview over with.

15. Last question: What's the first thing you notice about people?

"Hmm. I think I notice how they move firstly. That alone tells you a lot about them," Mattea answers, nodding at her own answer.

A grin creeps onto Aniol's face at her, but he only says, "I notice their eye or lips first. I don't really know why, and I honestly should notice their movement first, but," He shrugs.

Oh jeez, I'm sorry for the long post lmao!

And idk about 15 people, since tumblr might decide to not actually tag them, but I'll try as many as I can think of!

@supersockosis @toboldlywrite @quillwritten @quilloftheclouds @fruzsiwrites @reeseweston @writeness @bartlebyboys @pens-swords-stuff @msmeaghanrey

As always, you dont have to do this is you dont want to (or already did it), and if I didnt tag you feel free to do it anyway and say I tagged you!

#tag games #tag game #long post #sorryyyyy #i know im a hypocrite lmao #my ocs #mattea sarai #aniol kaminski #btw theyre pronounced exactly how they look #well #aniol is ann yule #but besides that #yeah

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