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inkwardspots · 3 years

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I posted 1,723 times in 2021

129 posts created (7%)

1594 posts reblogged (93%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 12.4 posts.

I added 1,315 tags in 2021

#rose tyler - 320 posts

#art - 204 posts

#tenth doctor - 167 posts

#doctor who - 108 posts

#!!! - 105 posts

#miraculous ladybug - 92 posts

#billie piper - 88 posts

#tenrose - 87 posts

#ninth doctor - 86 posts

#ninerose - 58 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#because if feel like grieving inplies you and that person had an emotional connection but to grieve for someone you don't know is different

My Top Posts in 2021

just realised, if Zoe is Chloe's (half) sister, then LB's exacted some top tier (probably unintentional) revenge and irony by giving the miraculous to Chloe's SISTER.

Like, Audrey hide's her away from Chloe and BAM!!! Already better by getting the bee miraculous and being a decent person.

23 notes • Posted 2021-04-18 13:58:27 GMT

Excuse me for the rant but...

Saw this post about plotholes and I can't help but apply it to GITF.

First -- IT WASNT EVN IN TENS FUCKING CHARACTER?!?!?!

It did not apply with his morals or his bloody emotions in anyway to jump through a BLOODY FUCKING TIME WINDOW WITH NO WAY BACK!!!

This man sent Rose back when faced with a horde of Daleks, and yet is comfortable leaving her abandoned on a metal ship, with no way to reach her, no guarantee of her safety, no way that he has immediate knowledge of her survival, WHEN NOT EVEN TWENTY MINUTES AGI SHE WAS ABOUT TO BE CHOPPED INTO FUCKING BITS BY METAL DRIOIDS?!?!?!

You leave the woman who you died for, her best friend whose a new, inexperienced companion and your blimmin' TARDIS, your one constant in all 9 fucking lives, for a lady who you snogged for less than a minute!!!!

And the FACT of the matter is, SHE'S LITERALLY SOMETHING YOU TRIED TO RUN AWAY FROM GALLIFREY FOR!!!

Did you not run away to escape the confines and rules and regulations that Gallifrey imposed? Did you not ignore their every call, defy their every want they needed from you?

And yet you run into her arms, like a puppy to his mistress, for a woman who barely knows of your tumultuous past. When Rose -- she held your hand when you both thought you were going to die in a basement in Cardiff. She told you "Do it." when you told her all that was stopping you from saving the word was her safety. She was brave enough, loved you enough, to say "I wouldn't have missed it for world." when she faced imminent death at the stalk of a Dalek. She watched her planet burn and yet still was compassionate enough, was brave and believing enough, to get chips with you.

She looked after you whilst you recovered, she grieved the man you where and loved the one you became in equal measure. She was confronted with your past: the Time War, the companions other than her, and was able to accept it; she was able to love you enough to make peace with the parts of your past that you could not.

She was loved you enough TO ABSORB THE BLEEDIN' TIME VORTEX AND YET A FRENCH LADY WHO SEDUCES THE KING IN A BLOODY WIG TURNS YOU ON??!!??!

I can't hope to understand you, and I really don't know why the script wasn't burned to pieces in the first place.

What sense came out of it? What absolute idiocy propelled fucking M*ffat to think this was what people wanted?

Did people want a historical woman worthy of praise reduced to an romance-oriented cardboard cut out when she was a key political player in the French Court? Or perhaps they desired the Doctor more clueless, oblivious -- more deliberately, intentionally hurtful?

Or did M*ffat decide, instead, that an alien who had lived centuries surrounded by influence of humans would forget every lesson taught by those he cherished, would forget every compulsion that made him kinder, braver, more open to acceptance and love by countless companions and one woman who helped him overcome the trauma from the Time War for another woman who had one look into his head, who he kissed once, who didn't even know a lick about the loss and the pain and the horrors?

Who didn't know about a single thing beyond the fact that he was lonely, that he had been there since her childhood (we'll touch on that another day) and beyond the fact that he was looking for something after her?

What sense, what morality COMPELLED HIM TO BECOME AN ABSOLOUTE CAD, M*FFAT!??!?!?

I would like to end by saying, FUCK GITF!TEN'S CHARCTERIZATION!

24 notes • Posted 2021-08-25 16:14:17 GMT

moments in time

I know I'm late but....HAPPY BIRTHDAY @deardiary17!!!! Dearest Sasha, I hope you have received the gifts you wanted, spent time those with whom you love and, most importantly, know that your presence is absolutely adored!! You are literally the sweetest, kindest person I know -- here's some good ol' ninerose for you!!

moments in time

Summary:

In which the Ninth Doctor and Dimension-Hopping Rose meet after the younger her refuses him.

AO3

There’s a click behind her, a split second before she feels a hand take hers (it’s firm and calloused and the hand of a mechanic, of an adventurer -- hers is soft and warm and is the hand of an artist, the hand of a wanderer -- they fit together, impossibly, inexplicably, unexplainably. They both feel like they’ve found a home.) Rose Tyler looks behind her and takes one look of his eyes, bright blue and entrancing, piercing and all-consuming, and becomes enchanted -- no, becomes overcome with an artist's need to draw, to paint and create and immortalise the vision in front of her -- the moment in front of her.

The adrenaline, the exhilaration, the piercing eyes and the clenched hands and the beating hearts and the --

“Run.”

They speed off, vengeful plastic entities at their heels, and the moment is lost.

(Not lost -- simply frozen in some distant part of time --)

---

She chases him, because that’s the only conceivable thing to do.

The march wind blows a soft breeze, flapping at her hoodie, her hair, and yet, The Doctor looks unaffected, answering her every question with pure belief in what he says and unrestrained snark and yet, the vital, teeming, gripping, clawing question, he will not answer.

Rose stops, her eyes wide, her eyes questioning and pleading, as she looks back at him, with his serious, sad, sad, sad eyes and his battered leather jacket and the whole of her world around him. She steps closer, hoping, wanting, needing to reach the crux of the matter:

“Really, though, Doctor. Tell me, who are you?”

Blonde hair flies in the wind, and the earnest eyes, the pleading need to know and the unrestrained interest, the want to know what lies beyond her concept of him, wants to know who he truly is -- it makes him, now a man of strong, tenable will and leather jackets and fragile hearts and so, so different from the Victorian one -- it makes him pause, makes him think incomprehensibly, incredulously: Rose Tyler, what have you done to me?

(He knows that she’ll be scared with what she finds -- he doesn’t want her to be -- )

The Doctor takes her hand, soft and warm and an artist’s hand sculpted for his, and revels in her quiet, quick drawn breath, her wide eyes and her questioning need to know moremoremore.

He takes a breath at the vision.

He wants to capture this moment, tenuous as it is, delicate as it is; pity that his hands are not made to capture beauty this time round.

(No, they are forged from the fires of war -- they are made to create a better universe. One without the need for someone called The Doctor.)

“Do you know like we were saying about the Earth revolving? It's like when you were a kid. The first time they tell you the world's turning and you just can't quite believe it because everything looks like it's standing still. I can feel it.”

(the spinning, revolving, rotating, falling, clinging, gripping, grasping, falling again --)

“The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour, and the entire planet is hurtling round the sun at sixty seven thousand miles an hour, and I can feel it. We're falling through space, you and me, clinging to the skin of this tiny little world, and if we let go. That's who I am.”

(that’s who he is, an undefinable entity, an amalgamation of memories, of experiences and planets and people and -- )

“Now, forget me, Rose Tyler. Go home.”

...

He opens the TARDIS door, turns back and watches her walk away, ice blue eyes intense and piercing and wondering, before flying away.

....

(He closes the door with a frown and, despite his logical Time Lord's brain, his screaming conscience that says she'll be better off without him, his human hearts hope she remembers.)

(That she returns -- )

---

There’s a hope in his eyes that Rose can see is desperate, is wanting and makes her want to reach out, wants to make her take his hand and say yes, yesyesyes.

Everything in him appeals to her -- his snark, the absolute alieness of him, the cluelessness and the joy for living in the moment. The set of his shoulders, the firm grip upon her hand, like she is his tether to Earth despite feeling the rotation of the planet itself, despite knowing the footfall and biology of every creature conceived in the universe, he comes back to her hand.

(Her.)

His absolutely fabulous bum and his sheer, shorn hair -- the want for adventure and the need for someone to share the experience with.

Rose is appealed by everything he holds, every quality, every snark, every absolute wonderful cluelessness.

And yet, for the life of her, when he asks the vital question, the one that sends the desperate, hopeful look her way, she falters.

His smile is tentative, his eyes wanting, needing, and his heart finally growing warm after so long in the presence of this special ape.

He hopes, he hopes and hopes some more and knows, despite it all, if she refuses his human hearts would break.

She falters, she rattles on about her mum and Mickey and, and, and --

He’s gone.

She blinks her eyes, eyes bright and not in a good way, a terrible regret and dread and sadness overcoming her -- what has she done?

(She’s just lost the only exciting thing in her life up until then -- the only reprieve from the monotony of the telly drone and the beans-on-toast and the nine-to-five job and -- )

---

The Doctor wonders -- he wonders, and wanders all the way from the markets of Plattatoa IV to the docks of New Southampton, New England, all about Rose.

(He thinks about “Run.” and her wide, wondering, eyes -- thinks about bottle-blonde hair and an incredulous, tongue-touched grin and a hand that just fits -- fits like no other, fits like it was made for his every groove, his every callous -- like his was made for her every soft curve, like it was made for her every warm grasp -- )

There is a moment, when he wonders what he could’ve said, could’ve done, to change her mind -- he crushes the thought with shocking brutality, crushes it with painful hearts.

There is a moment when he catches sight of blonde hair and thinks impossibly, incredulously -- it’s her. But it’s not -- it’s a wig, a flash of hay, a jeweler's wares catching his eye.

He glances and hardens his heart.

(He caves and goes back to buy the treasure, the yellow and gold and pink treasure, belonging to a once-upon-a-time companion.)

…

There is a moment, when he is at his worst, that he convinces a family not to set sail on the Titanic. Because in that family, there is love -- love in the father and the mother and the children that cling to each other’s hand, the children that wave him hello and make him think -- just this one change, give me this.

It is tiny, a simple flux in time that is astoundingly normal -- give him this, the ability to save even one family, even one child, when he failed millions, and he will be fine.

(He will be ecstatic to know that there is still kindness -- still life, inside him, the alien shrouded in the remnants of war and death and darkness -- )

There is a moment, when he is decked in a necktie and black peacoat, a moment where he places a top hat upon his head and the camera flashes that he catches the sight of a familiar face in the Southampton (not New Southampton, this time --) crowd. He wants to believe it’s true, wants to believe the bottle-blonde hair is real but she looks at him, a sad, slow, hopeful look, and nostalgic smile and then -- just like that, she disappears in the midst of the gathering.

He wants to believe, but he can’t.

(He desperately wants to believe -- but he won’t disappoint himself any further,)

He wants to jump away from this family, this group of people he has granted happiness to to find his own, but he can’t.

(He won’t.)

He wants to stop his hearts from beating out of his chest, but he can’t.

(He daren’t try to.)

...

There is a moment, when he watches the ocean lap at the docks, when he watches the sand shift under the tread of a crab, when he tastes the whisper of the gentle wind upon his superior tongue, that he hears a gentle crunch behind him, a calm shifting of the sand, a familiar (oh-so-familiar) heartbeat.

He turns --

“Rose.”

His eyes are wide, her eyes are teary -- they’re bright in an oh-so good way.

“Doctor…” she breathes, eyes bright and teary, heart full and mind hopeful. She steps closer, wants to hug him, hold him, profess her love to him -- wants to know that he still misses her, even if he doesn’t know who this version of her is right now.

They stare at each other, stare and wonder and glance and become entranced by each other’s changes; it’s another moment to be captured -- maybe in the recesses of their minds or perhaps on an artists’ canvas.

No matter, there is no moment to lose --

Rose Tyler, the woman who jumped in a box with a madman knows that no one, not even a Time Lord, can truly control the flow, the flux, the ripple of time -- no matter how hard they try to fight it.

(She would know -- all the time in the world, and she still couldn't keep her promise -- couldn’t hang on long enough -- couldn’t fight the pull of the void -- )

(A different one of him knows -- the one who after the loss of all that mattered, the loss of her, knows that despite everything -- despite will and grief and sheer force -- Time bends for no one. Not even for the chasm of the Last Time Lord’s grief.)

She grabs his hand, the hand that held her cheek in adoration, the hand that stroked her hair when she fell asleep, the hand that fixed her mum’s telly however reluctantly -- the hand that gave her indescribable comfort when she felt the world around her was crumbling to dust.

She takes it, closes her eyes and holds it to her chest as the night sky twinkles from above, holds it as the waves lap by, holds it as tears stream down her face and as the Doctor (her beloved, brash, bruised Doctor -- the one she first loved -- ) watches her with soft, forlorn eyes and hearts so unaccustomed to this need to hold, to cherish and care and love someone (her --) after the pain of the Time War.

She opens her eyes, breathes a breath so deep that her heart pauses for a moment to assimilate the oxygen before her samba (and his -- his hearts copy hers, impossibly, indescribably, incredulously --) restarts again. She takes his hand, holds it as one holds a cherished token, a cherished memory, sentiment, wish -- and kisses it softly, gently, lovingly, adoringly.

It burns him -- this absolute care for him, for something as ordinary as his knobbly, not-so-pretty hand. She turns it over, traces every mark, every groove, every indent and muscle and palm line.

“You said no.” he accuses, watching her worship the hand forged from the fires of war, from the destruction he caused.

She presses a kiss upon his wrist, his vein that carries a double drum, his vein, his lifeline, that brings life to this man -- this man that she so adores, adored beyond conceivable comprehension.

“I know.”

Her head bobs, she let’s go of his hand, places it gently by his side, she looks up --

His eyes are penetrating, piercing, questioning, wanting, needing to know one vital question:

(So many vital questions -- )

“Rose, I -- what do you feel for me? Who are you, to me? Who am I to you?”

He gazes at her, solemn and sad and wondering, "What changed?"

He swallows, throat dry as she turns her burning gaze on him -- it burns him to the core.

(burns itself, the golden gaze, upon his hearts, his soul -- )

She looks in his eyes, smiles a secret smile, recounts a moment that could be only a few hours ago, or perhaps a thousand for him and yet she remembers it as clear as yesterday, remembers her wonder, her awe, her adrenaline --

She looks into his eyes, hair flying in the wind -- just like that moment an eon, a yesterday, ago.

“Doctor, when you realise you’ve grown up -- you realise that you’re not the same person you were as a kid. You realise that small kid you were, the one who felt insecure and felt that she would be trapped on her planet, in her estate and her life and her job -- you realise that she’s gone - and, you don’t know whether you love her, hate her, miss her -- you don’t know any of these things.”

(she knows no certainty towards the notion -- she knows that felt trapped, knows that she felt obligated to live that life -- but living, missing, hating -- she feels a mixture, an amalgamation of these things, when she thinks of her previous existence.)

“But Doctor,”

She takes his hand, entwines their fingers and their hearts and their lives and timelines, a lifetime before she could conceive it, a lifetime after and a lifetime even now, in some distant flux in time.

“There’s a moment when you wish you could relive the catalyst that caused you to change; a moment where you wish that you knew that you had great things, great dreams and adventures and possibilities waiting for you. And you almost wish that you could go back in time, tell your past self that there is a world beyond what she can conceive, tell them that there is someone who will ignite them.”

(that there is someone that will burn for you.)

She squeezes their hands tighter, holding onto him for dear life -- and he may as well be doing the same thing, the way that his hearts are beating, the way that he is clenching her hand, as of she is his tether, his pull --

“But you know, that if you do that -- you will never realise the present you live, the glorious, fantastic future that awaits, Doctor. You know that you will never know adventures like you have until now, you know that you will never know the friends that await, you know you will never know the feelings that will grip you. You will never know the moment, that one special moment, that changed everything.”

The Doctor stares, wide-eyed in the face of her brilliance, her warmth and her wisdom and her starlight -- in the face of her.

“And what was the moment that changed everything, Rose?”

She steps closer, smiling that tongue-touched grin -- she steps, just in front of him, where he can feel her breath laying gently upon his lips, where he can stroke her wrist, where he can lift a hand to her cheek as she places the hand that is not clenched in his upon one of his erratically beating hearts.

“The moment? There were so many...one in a crowded street, another in a dungeon, another a bunker and one more on a frozen planet -- so many on the TARDIS, but the one I think of -- when you took a different face, when we stood on the planet that cemented our fates, our feelings, our future --”

She glances up, a selfless love, a all-encompassing love that he is beginning to nurture, beginning to already return, after so little time --

“The moment -- it’s when I took your hand in mine, different, true, but still yours, still the one I will always adore, and I promised you ‘Forever’.”

They squeeze each other so tightly they may burst, kiss so ardently they may combust, but neither cares -- neither wants to stop, neither could stop this moment written across time and space and fates even if they wanted.

(which they don’t -- nevernevernever )

She releases, panting, desperate, wanting himhimhim and he wants herherher --

She rests her crown against his, rests her breath upon his lips, she gifts her heart to him as he does the same, unknowing and yet so willing.

She looks up into icy eyes, grips him closerclosercloser, biting his earlobe as he lets out a groan, a needing desire gripping him --

“Tell her --” she pants, gasps deeper and deeper, “Tell me -- that the TARDIS travels in time.”

He sends her a burning look, as if she is daft, and the next second, time is in flux -- anything (and everything) could happen.

(Everything happens -- stars combust and a new future is born.)

---

The Doctor wakes in an inn, the Bad Wolf Inn he later finds out, naked as the day he regenerated, his clothes nowhere to be seen (well, except his leather jacket, which is placed upon his bed, smelling of sea salt and yet indescribably sweet, indescribably delicious and, and --) -- his memory is foggy, and unclear.

He wonders if he got drunk.

(drunk on her pants, her moans and her love and her essence -- her life, her Rose Tyler-ness -- )

The innkeeper is kind enough to lend him a set of clothes, he shrugs the leather on and as he leaves, as he rests his eyes on the shabby, yellow-painted sign, he wants to strike herself for his daftness;

I didn’t tell her the TARDIS travelled in time.

He takes a leap of faith and runs back to the TARDIS, setting coordinates for March 26 2005, Earth, The Solar System -- he hopes (hopes with all of his hearts) and opens the door.

---

“By the way, did I mention it also travels in time?”

She sends a blinding, tongue-touched grin and runs towards him.

(She never looks back, not even a universe away.)

30 notes • Posted 2021-09-18 11:13:10 GMT

aftermath

summary: “Doctor…” Rose breathed, as if stunned to see him only a few feet away from her after that horrible, death-defying moment. “Doctor!” she gasped, and if that breathless, wondrous relief to find him there, to find him alive and whole and still too-far out of reach for her comfort didn’t both shatter his hearts and fill them with love, then he didn’t know what would.

AO3

aftermath: the consequences or after-effects of a significant unpleasant event.

---

The Void closed, and as the suction stopped and that hearts-stopping moment of danger passed, The Doctor became overcome by a sudden raging need to hold his beautiful, brilliant Rose close, to feel her soft figure in his arms, to smell the sweet but oddly tangy scent of her shampoo, to know that she was safe and not about to be pulled away from his arms -- from his embrace that always seemed to bring danger into her life but that she refused to remove herself from.

A trembling grip let go of the lever (those damning levers) and despite himself, despite knowing that the storm had passed, The Doctor’s hands still trembled. He looked up, brown eyes widened and he searched for those whisky-coloured pools that he so adored, those whisky coloured pools that belonged to his precious pink-and-yellow human.

“Doctor…” Rose breathed, as if stunned to see him only a few feet away from her after that horrible, death-defying moment. “Doctor!” she gasped, and if that breathless, wondrous relief to find him there, to find him alive and whole and still too-far out of reach for her comfort didn’t both shatter his hearts and fill them with love, then he didn’t know what would.

“Rose...” he breathed, wishing -- hoping, that the Universe, for once in his many centuries of pain and desperation and heartache, had been kind, rushed forward, colliding with her but not caring in the least as he scooped her up in his arms and cradled her close, as if even a breadth separation from her would tear him away from this magnificent, beautiful, wondrous creature that was his Rose Tyler.

“Doctor,” she sighed back, relief and heartache and desperation to hold each other close pounding through the both of them, “You’re here,” she sniffled into his neck, nuzzling him closer as a light breath sent goosebumps running up his neck, “You’re really here.” He grasped her tighter, because how could he ever let go of Rose Tyler now?

How could he ever let go of this pink-and-yellow human who held possibility and compassion in every breath? “Forever, Rose Tyler; That’s how long you promised me, isn’t it? I’m holding you to that, you’re stuck with me now.” He chuckled, watery and weak; the consequences of having Rose beside him for her forever would come crashing down later, he was sure, just now -- now during this tenuous moment, he was simply glad to have her in his arms.

“Stuck with you?” she chuckled, looking up from her nest in his neck, mascara running down her cheeks and a watery grin on her lips, not his favourite tongue-touched one but still braver and more genuine than if he had lost Rose, “That’s not so bad.” she teased, fingers refusing to let go of the Doctor as he returned the sentiment.

They had exchanged those words under a black hole, the TARDIS lost and hope bereft, but now he was forced to consider those words. Rose Tyler, full of starlight and never-ending compassion, stuck with him, the alien who brought trouble with every turn and danger and destruction and darkness? She was without her family, only him and the TARDIS left to care for the brilliant, shining spectacle that she was. What had he done?

“No?” he asked, bringing his hands up to her face to tenderly caress her rosy cheeks, “Not bad at all?” he asked apprehensively, wondering when she would regain her senses after the victory of battle and realise what he had done. Steely determination entered her eye, “Never.” she vowed as he planted a sincere kiss of hope and regret, of longing and sorrow, on her forehead.

He should’ve said, “Never say never.” But he didn’t, because for once, he wanted to enjoy (wanted to hope and pretend) this feeling of contentment (that this illusion of peace) would last.

Instead, he drew away and took her hand, enjoying the soft skin that he adored, and took a last, searing glance at her face; he could feel the shift of timeliness and the change of possibility, and yet, for these faint, trembling moments, he wanted to hold her close in the safety of his arms and the always-expanding confines of the TARDIS.

“TARDIS?” he asked, searing this image of a battle-won Rose Tyler in his hearts. “Yeah,” she grinned, tongue peaking out as she tugged him forward, desperate to leave the forbidding white wall behind as exhaustion took hold. “Doctor? Are you alright?”

And wasn’t that the question.

“Oh,” he breathed, “I’m always alright, Rose Tyler.” Rose, brilliant, beautiful, tangible Rose, frowned; “Really?” she hummed, doubt flickering in her eyes as she squeezed his hand tighter, “Then, do you wanna go home?”

“Home?” he breathed, because what was home? Was it Gallifrey, with its imposing laws and twin suns that was lost to the Time War, or was it the TARDIS, ever-present family and companion that held him within her walls and cared for him? Was it this dinky planet in the Mutter Spiral that grew leaps and bounds every time he happened upon it or was it a small flat in the Powell’s Estate, filled with second-hand furniture and the bristling warmth of Jackie Tyler ? Or was it indeed his pink-and-yellow human, who took his hand when he said ”Run!” and never let go; was his home her, who held kindness and compassion in every touch every breath? Was it the blinding human who shined like the sun and held starlight in her wake? Was it her, who was his home?

“Home -- The TARDIS, Doctor. That’s alright, isn’t it, Doctor?” She wouldn’t want her home elsewhere -- her home was the crevice in the Doctor’s neck and the enclosed hugs and affections of her best friend and not-so-secret love. Her home was the twisting TARDIS corridors and the coral-decked console room -- because anywhere else would never compare, never realise her hopes and dreams and wonders as well as the Doctor and the TARDIS. The Doctor squeezed her hand closer and tighter to his, bringing her to his side as he hummed in delight despite the onslaught of heartache soon to come. “That’s brilliant, Rose Tyler. Let’s go home.”

He tugged her forward, and they ran; ran away from the empty flat and blinding white wall, ran away from the place called the Torchwood Institute and ran towards the realisation that they only had each other now, ran towards the blue box that was their home and towards the possibility that everything the held dear was in each other’s essence.

They ran and ran and ran, towards possibility and adventure and goodbye and heartache. But first, they ran towards the TARDIS console and then beyond -- beyond into the Vortex and into the TARDIS library.

30 notes • Posted 2021-05-24 21:28:50 GMT

For @raphillia for the @mlsecretsanta

Dear @raphillia, I hope you enjoy this gift of mine! Happy Holidays!

Pairings: Marichat

Under City Starlight...

When Adrien first meets Marinette, she is fierce and angry;

She is volatile and refuses to meet his gaze, and Adrien is disappointed -- has he managed to mess up making a friend already?

But then, the rain is pouring and the thunder is flashing and he extends his umbrella; he doesn’t want to lose what could be a new friend, doesn’t want to lose the possibility of her buoyancy and vibrancy and burning flame.

She gazes at him -- and he feels he is bare underneath a microscope, feels that his soul is revealed underneath her burning gaze. And it is, in a way, and so, as he apologizes and explains and asks for a new beginning, the burning azure turns pure ocean blue -- able to see and heal and realise all that he is and will be and was.

She reaches out as if in a trance, thunder flashing as they bump fingers -- hers are soft but subtle, pricked with hours spent with steel needle and pen callouses from hours spent scribbling away and sketching anything and everything her heart desire’s.

The rain falls gently, like stars from above, and as she takes the black umbrella -- rain falling like stars and smattering the dark colour with the beauty of starlight -- the umbrella encloses around her. He takes one look and laughs, joyous and radiant, but it is nothing compared to hers -- she lifts the umbrella, and upon hearing his laughter -- his laughter of dappled sunlight and evergreen meadow and dancing willow -- she joins in.

She grins and laughs; but her laughter -- hers is of the tinkle of bells and the whisper of brushing branches and the gentle sweep of waves and the vibrancy of a storm all at once.

It is vivacious and vicious in it’s beauty and its joy. It is the rising of the sun and the shining of the stars and the poison red of wine.

It is beauticious, he thinks, and passes the umbrella.

He passes his hand and his umbrella and his friendship and the beginnings of his heart, unknowing in all this.

“First day of school and we already have two lovebirds,” Plagg says, but Adrien is delighted in simply having a friend -- after all this time, a friend.

Come too close, and you’ll fall far too hard, but I don’t think he minds --

____

When Chat Noir first meets Marinette, it is to protect her.

She is, rightfully so, scared and unsure (how naive he is.) Still, even if she is scared, she is bright and unyielding and refuses to be cowed. The sun is setting and the stars are gently appearing when she walks up those stairs to meet the boy who so adores her -- Evillustartor that is, and certainly not Chat Noir.

He doesn’t adore her, not like he adores Ladybug, but he admires her. Admires her courage and splendour and vibrancy. Admires her vivaciousness and her tactileness as she steals the pen from Evillustrator, admires her flashing eyes and raven hair under the moonlight -- admires the stars reflected in her eyes and the ocean blue turning to fiery, burning azure and -- “CHAT NOIR!”

She is displeased, and seems to be fending Evillustator off -- “It would be brilliant if you could help me anytime today!” she yells, hair shining as she nimbly sidesteps the supervillain’s lunging figure. She trips -- her everlasting clumsiness, he thinks fondly -- and the pen goes flying. Chat, for all his prowess, is slow to answer Marinette’s call; he leaps and bound and flies to her rescue (and also the pens) -- and is immediately trapped in a box with her while the boat sinks.

Great.

Evillustrator bounds into the night, and for a desperate moment, Chat wonders if they will truly sink -- talk about failing his lady, he’ll be failing his friend and himself. But once again, Marinette surprises him -- when has she not surprised him? -- and goes above and beyond, rescuing him with that shining, innovative mind of hers.

"Cat Noir, your stick -- like this, and extend it."

And she blows him away -- with her genius, her smarts. He keeps her close, her arms wrapped around him, a pleasant buzz spreading throughout him as he vaults them over and toward relative safety.

He sets her down, drawing away as she stares back at him in what he imagines is absolute impressiveness. He bound to the railing, turning back to his...his -- Princess, for a last moment. She stares back, eyes twinkling as he motions towards himself, "I've got damsels in distress to save, ladies in waiting -- I'll cat-ch you later, Purrincess?" He can't help but throw in.

"Princess?" She wrinkles her nose, "Right. Well, Minou, I suppose you can go save your damsels in distress.I wouldn't want to keep them waiting, but I'm sure this damsel -- who is not in distress and instead saved your butt and inflicted some damage -- can find her way home tonight. I'm sure Ladybug awaits you, though,"

Golden-haired and full of cheery grins, he lets out a bark of laughter and green eyes sparkle in the streetlight, taken by her wit. He nods though, giving her a salute as he bounds away, jumping and vaulting and trying to take his mind off of that certain cheek of Marinette's.

____

A broken heart, and she's there waiting. He wonders who caused her to revert to a dim-eyed remnant of the normally bright girl.

He takes her with him on a whim, something to heal both their hearts -- just because Ladybug isn't there to enjoy it doesn't mean Marinette can't.

She takes his hand, claws and all, and he sweeps her up in his arms. He jumps past her balcony, past her twinkling fairy lights and potted roses, past the neighbouring rooftops, leaping to and fro with her in his arms before setting her down gently on his candle-strewn rooftop.

He steps away from her, taking a minute to light the scattered candles. The light dances merrily, and as she opens her eyes, sees her bathed in the light and his breath is held in the beauty of it -- it makes up for the disappointment of Ladybug’s no-show.

It does, in the biggest of ways; the beauty she sees in his endeavour lets him know that this -- candle's alight and rose petals strewn -- can take someone's breath away.

Can take Marinette's -- kind, compassionate, fierce, heartbroken Marinette's -- breath away. It kindles a proud satisfaction, and even though he is morose, he can't help but feel that in the candlelight, Marinette looks as if she is an angel sent just for him.

Someone to draw him out of his funk and to take his hand and draw close and --

Huh.

She is beautiful, isn't she?

She is beautiful in every way, be it because of her kind nature or raven hair and flickering blue eyes or because of her courage and fiery disposition.

She is beautiful and vivacious in all ways, and he feels -- he wonders what this swooping feeling in his stomach is?

She glances at him and they smile at each other and all is well.

That is, until they get attacked by a certain ice cream akuma.

____

He visits as often as he can, and she stays up later. He sees a side to his friend he had never seen before -- sees past her flailing arms and stuttered words and half-formed responses that he often delights in when she gathers the courage to talk to him -- Adrien Agreste, that is.

Here, as Chat Noir, he can experience all the things that make-up who Marinette is that Adrien cannot.

He can experience her wit and her banter, can experience her teasing grins and lit up eyes and her small nudges. He can bundle up close to her as she leans on him and she can lean against him and bop his nose and think nothing of it because they're friends.

The closest of night owls and the closest of friends, and he feels that under the mask he is privy to the side of Marinette that she feels the need to hide from Adrien. How wrong she is, because she lights up like stars and sun combined and he flourishes under her smiles and grows giddy when her hand brushes his and beams when she leans in and bops his nose and brazenly, without hesitation or thinking things through, he takes her hand and pulls --

Pulls and pushes and takes her spinning and twirling as if there is nothing under the night sky that can trouble them. She spins and he spins and some nameless song is what they're dancing to from her phone.

...and if I were so bold, fly away with me here

Yes, fly away with him, let this moonlight spirit of Marinette's dance among the stars and the rooftops and the city lights as if nothing can contain her -- as if nothing can stop her.

fly away, high away, and let me love you

And nothing can stop her. Not him or Chloe or anyone else, because that's what Marinette does. She soars and flies and even still tethered to the ground, trapped on Earth, she soars above the rest of them. Caring and healing and helping in anyway she can because she is that good.

She is that kind and wonderful and amazing, and nothing can stop her.

So like another, another person, but he can't remember who --

kiss you, cradle you, adore you

Because in this moment, there is only Marinette with stars in her eyes and music in her ears and magic in her hands and moonbeams under her feet. There is only her, and she is pain and beauty all at once and if this is drowning --

and all will be well.

Drowning in her inner beauty and outer beauty and her cookie and paper scent; drowning in her fire and ocean and compassion and skill and talent and kindness -- then he thinks he could get used to it but still feel exhilarated every time.

If this is drowning, then all will be well.

____

And then, the catalyst starts.

Because he knows that his affection for Ladybug had not waned but his affection for Marinette had grown by leaps and bounds.

They stare into the sunlight from the plane and he can only admire her silhouette against the beautiful tones. He takes the tissue caught in her hair -- and how did it get there? -- and he lingers a few seconds longer to revel in her velvet hair.

And then, they are off the plane and in the bus towards the hotel, and he stares out at the scenic sunrise against the American skyscrapers and buildings and yet --

Yet he can only focus on Marinette against the window, and his eyes soften and her feels heat rise to his cheeks and he thinks words like Beautiful and Amazing and Enchanting.

He's sure that Nino doesn't notice but that quirk of the brow Alya sends him is all-knowing and he looks away furiously as his cheeks flush.

And then, he and Marinette are sent together for separate tasks, and spotting her, he wants -- he wants Adrien as well as Chat Noir to be able to get Marinette's barriers down, to let her know that she needn't hide, and he knows that he just needs to go that extra length. But then the building shakes, and the pillar is crumbling and Marinette is going to get hurt and he can't --

He can't allow it -- won't allow it.

Because it goes beyond being a friend -- it goes beyond being his night owl partner and being his closest friend. It turns into wanting her delirious with joy and protected at all costs and starts with feeling a blush overtake his cheeks whenever she looks a second too long towards him.

It turns from being innocent to being interested, and this is a comfort as much as it is a conundrum. Because he leaps and catches her in his arms, dodging the fallen rubble as she breathes out a gasp of, "Chat Noir!?"

He doesn't know if it is the adrenaline or his heightened hormones, but he breathes out and answers in an equally raspy voice. "Hello Princess," he says, before dropping a kiss on her forehead and bounding away to fight the akuma.

If he feels any amount of delight in her slack jaw, then that's really nobody's business except his own (and undoubtedly Plagg's, at some point or another.)

____

After New York, after her surprised gasps and her questions and her sentiment towards him -- Adrien -- he starts bringing flowers.

There isn't a particular pattern, but he delights in the way her face lights up like a for work and the way the flower of the week takes pride in her windowsill vase. Sometimes it is lavender or marigolds or bougainvillia -- other times it can be daisies or orchids or roses.

It doesn't really matter, because each one lights up her face, and that is all the gift he needs.

Each time he drops by, he starts leaving flowers; each one holds a sentiment, a memory for him or for her, and as he watches her press the dried flowers in her scrapbook specially meant for his flowers, he can't help but feel inexplicably pleased.

____

Underneath the city starlight, and still Chat Noir can only focus on Marinette.

Marinette, with raven-hair and sky blue eyes that could change with the slightest change of emotion (he should know; penetrating azure blue from when they first met lightening to clear ocean blue, doe-eyed and trusting and -- was this all it took to gain a friend? His first new friend -- she was fierce, standing up to him, but kind, forgiving him -- and she was all sorts of amazing, wasn't she?)

She is shining and exudes brilliance -- and he can't help but bathe in it.

She is sunlight and starlight and moonlight; winter chill and summer breeze and spring wind and autumn gale, all in one.

They sit side by side, backs propped up against the circular table -- not particularly comfortable but enough so that their legs brush each other and that they can take in the blinking starlight and the rush of the city night life.

They each hold a mug; hot chocolate from the pink flask and whipped cream from Marinette's fridge. Chat takes the whipped cream in his 'World's Best Dad!' mug, while Marinette takes to instead adding marshmallows in her brew of hot chocolate, contained within a pink mug with black spots. They are their own person, but dwarfed by the night sky and ever-expanding universe and the ambience of Parisian nightlife and it feels as if they are one soul that inhabits two bodies, connected by the hands they both hold.

His feelings for her have not turned into love quite yet; they are still emerging and developing like a newborn fawn. Learning to stand on their feet and take a steady stand; he knows a time will come when he must confront them, but right now, under the city starlight, he can't help but feel that all is well

That nothing truly changes when he confronts these feelings of his, because they'll still be them.

Marinette and Adrien.

Marinette and Chat Noir, and all the other thousand possibilities.

He'd like to think that under the city starlight, holding hands with his best friend and savouring her special Dupain-Cheng exclusive hot-chocolate, all will be well and he thinks he will.

They're both under the city starlight, and nothing can change that.

Nothing.

(Not even the akuma that disrupts their peaceful stargazing. Oh well.)

41 notes • Posted 2021-01-01 18:58:38 GMT

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#do you know what?#I dunno how to feel about this....#meh

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