day 16

Holy heck I did not think I was going to finish this tonight. Wowie is my hand exhausted. Anyway, this is for Day 16 - Event from your own dreams. 

A few months back I had a dream that I was playing a game that revolved around being on a cooking show while characters constantly sabotaged you, and after each round another character would be added that I had to monitor/fend off. Wasn’t as bad as it sounded, actually I made it all the way to the end, but this pic only really shows round 4 out of 8.


He said, “You are a diamond
in the rough,” and I replied,
“I’d rather be the rough.
Rather be the tough stuff
that births the something beautiful.
That there is the beauty in me.”

He said, “You are a rose
amongst thorns,” and I answered,
“I’d rather be the thorns.
Rather be the thing that turned
white roses red, the alarm bell
that your hands are getting
far too close - the reminder
that every beautiful thing has
a defense mechanism.”

He said, “You are the sun
after the storm,” and I said,
“I’d rather be the storm -
rather be the difficulty that turns
a girl into a strong woman,
or a greenhorn into a hardened sailor.
The summer does not always
breed strength. The summer
is a too-calm pair of hands
for callouses. But she does know
how to conjure a good storm
from the still winds.”

Do not call me Spring.
Do not call me Summer.
I am Fall.
I am Winter.

MariChat May Day 16: Flowers

This will eventually be chapter 26 in my MariChat May full fic once all the prompts are completed and in my order.

Funnily enough while researching for this I learned that french marigolds are not native to France or any part of Europe but are native to America! And it’s the regular marigolds that are native to France! The people who name this stuff must have been on the bevvy lol

<<Chapter 1     Chapter 25     Chapter 26     Chapter 27


He was meticulous at keeping his hands hidden behind his back as he knocked on her skylight window loud enough for her to hear without attracting further attention. The familiar voice of his Princess shouted from inside to let himself in so he dropped down onto her mattress, all the while hiding his prize from view.

“Hey Bugaboo,” he said fondly, looking down at her desk from over the edge of her loft. She was bent over her sketchbook again and he was frustrated that he might have to remind her to sit up straight before the night was out, otherwise risk her hurting her back again.

At the sound of his soft endearment she glanced up at him, an adorable irritated pout on her face as she shushed him.

“Mama and papa are right downstairs, Kitty. Watch the nicknames,” she told him as he removed himself from his perch on her bed and made his way down her ladder, back strategically positioned to face away from her and keep the contents in his hand obscured from sight.

He didn’t realise until it was too late, but she noticed his less than subtle behaviour and got up from her chair, moving towards him in mock ignorance. As she approached, glancing at something on her wall, which he immediately turned to look for, he belatedly realised that she was trying to discreetly reach around him. Before he could pull away she had grabbed his wrist, attempting to tug it out from behind his back.

“Marinette!” he cried, alarmed in case she wrecked his gift in her impatient attempts to see what it was, “Wait! Look, I’ll show you, just…don’t ruin them.”

His voice ended in a slight whine and she smirked but it didn’t last. The look on her face when he pulled out the handmade bouquet of tiny orange and yellow flowers and presented them to her was immediately worth all the hassle she’s created for him just a moment ago.

“Oh Chat,” she breathed, voice catching, “They’re beautiful. And they smell -” she inhaled deeply from the bunch “-they, um…they smell…uh, what are they?”

She sounded hesitant and was staring at the flowers confusedly, like they were not exactly what she had expected of them.

“Err, french marigolds,” he told her, “I heard they’re excellent flowers for ladybugs and they looked so nice when I found a picture that I tracked some down for you.”

Her brow was furrowed harshly and she was staring into the centre of the bunch of fiery blooms as if she appeared to be considering something.

“H-How are they good for ladybugs?” she asked.

“Um, they have nectar I think? It’s like a treat for them.”

She still hadn’t looked up since smelling the flowers. It was worrying him now. She was just staring at them and looking borderline freaked out. He was finding it kind of distressing and he could feel a comfort purr building in his chest. He pushed it down before it reached his throat, determined not to become a distraction for her to latch onto as he knew she’d use it as an excuse to avoid explaining whatever was going on right now.

“Chat,” she started, finally looking up at him, awkward discomfort evident in her expression, “I…I kind of want to eat them.”

He blinked stupidly at her, unable to formulate words.

“I mean,” she tried to clarify, “they smell good, but not flower good. They smell like, cookies…or honey or something. Really sweet and delicious.”

He wasn’t sure how to react to that. It was kind of weird but then again as superheroes their lives were incredibly weird every day. She was effected by certain flowers like real ladybugs were. But then he could scent things and purr like a cat. He was honestly surprised she’d never brought up any Miraculous susceptibilities she had before, now that he thought about it.

He started laughing before he could stop himself. It was impossible to control and he keeled over with mirth, a full bellied laugh erupting from him that had Marinette staring at him with a slightly hurt look on her face.

“N-No,” he gasped suddenly, desperately trying to cut off his laughter and failing, “it’s just-” more laughter “-here we are, me insisting on being petted and purring about it and you hungry for flowers! What a pair we are!”

He continued to laugh for a bit longer before his guffaws died down to chuckles. She giggled lightly and he reached out to pull her close to him. He pushed his nose into her hair as he loved to do whenever they were close together and breathed in their mixed essence which he had christened as the ‘MariChat scent’ in his head back when he’d first discovered it.

There was a slight movement against his chest followed by an almost retch-like sound all of a sudden. He pulled back and glanced down at his girlfriend who was sticking out her tongue and looking utterly disgusted. She glimpsed up at his questioning stare and her cheeks became dusted with her vintage shade of pink that he knew so well.

“Um, they don’t taste anything like they smell.”

He let out a snicker at her confession and held his hands up to defend himself when she took offence and swatted at him. He was overcome with so much affection for her in that moment.

“Oh, Bugi-”

“NICKNAMES!” she shouted at him, mortified.

“-Nette,” he finished, deciding that he could at least shorten it in the future so no one would realise what it stood for.

March CAS Challenge Day 16- Scientist

I still haven’t seen Hidden Figures (I KNOWWWW! I’m The Literal Worst I want to see it SO bad) but I wanted to do a simmified Taraji P. Henson as Katherine Johnson. 

“Katherine Coleman Goble Johnson was born August 26, 1918. She is an African-American physicist and mathematician who made contributions to the United States’ aeronautics and space programs at NASA. She was known for accuracy in computerized celestial navigation, and she conducted technical work at NASA that spanned decades. During this time, she calculated the trajectories, launch windows, and emergency back-up return paths for many flights from Project Mercury, including the early NASA missions of John Glenn and Alan Shepard, and the 1969 Apollo 11 flight to the Moon, through the Space Shuttle program. Her calculations were critical to the success of these missions. 

In 2015, Katherine received the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

Keeping freshly bruised palms on the sides of a monster’s face and teaching it not to bite.
A chain-bound shadow dragging itself back into light.
Wishing without hope on a Christmas morning.
Lifting the moon back up into the night until the weight turns your spine into a crescent.
Hiding from your reflection in your own skin.
Still counting on a promise made two years ago.
Still counting the lights leading home.
Seven hundred and twenty three, seven hundred and twenty four, seven hundred and twenty five..
—  Tamarind Fall; She’ll learn someday.
NaPoWriMo day 16.