Unable to cram any more physics equations into her head, Marinette climbed the familiar ladder up to her roof to cool off from her night of stress. The chilly Parisian air greeted her as she lifted the hatch door and let out a long slow breath. She would only be getting about five hours of sleep at this point and she knew she couldn’t study any more or else her brain would become dysfunctional at the exam, so she did the only thing there was left for her to do: relax.
Settling next to her flowerbed and resting her elbows upon the railing, she watched Paris slowly fall asleep as the stars accompanied her.
Despite the peaceful glow of the city lights surrounding her, however, she felt a nagging feeling at the pit of her stomach. It was probably due to nerves and stress, but she just couldn’t shake the fact that she was forgetting something…
“Fancy seeing you out here,” a voice said from behind her, snapping her out of her reverie. Startled, she whipped around, nearly losing her balance as she did so and grabbing the railing to steady herself.
Reclining there beneath the roof’s antenna with tousled hair and black ears flapping in the wind and a typical smirk lodged firmly in place was none other than Chat Noir.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, heart rate slowing back down from the initial shock.
“Just, ‘it’s you’?” he said, disappointed. “After saving your life a few times, you’re not even gonna swoon?”
“Oh please,” she said with a hand on her waist and a smile playing upon her lips. She, Ladybug, needing to be saved? The idea made her laugh.
“What’s a purr-incess like you doing out of bed at this hour?” he asked, his ridiculous tail of a belt swishing back and forth.
“Being pestered by a cat,” she said, “or were you asking about ten minutes ago before you showed up?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this,” he said, propping his head up with an elbow.
They were yet ten miles from Kirkwall when they decided to
stop and make camp for the night, pitching their tents in sight of the craggy
shoals of the Wounded Coast and sheltering their fire low against the jagged
“A bath,” Isabela announced as she removed her boots and
stretched her long bare legs out before the flickering flames. She made a show
of reclining back, tossing her hair, thrusting her chest forward. “When I get
home, the first thing I’m doing is taking a long, hot bath. What about you lot?”
Sebastian shook his head. He gestured with the nearly empty
quiver he had just removed. “We were forced to kill so many,” he said, sorrow
in his voice. “Lost souls are still precious to the Maker. I too intend to
cleanse myself, but in supplication to the Maker, in hopes of forgiveness.”
“Oh, pish,” Isabela said. “Don’t tell me forgiveness feels half so good as a good
hot bath. Oh! With a full foamy pint. And bubbles.”
“Would ‘bubbles’ be the name of a person, by chance?” Fenris
asked dryly, unpacking his bedroll. He chuckled softly when she squealed and
called him a terrible tease.
“As charming as ‘bubbles’ no doubt can be,” Sebastian said, “The
Maker - !”
Isabela interrupted him with a lustful moan, lifting her
heavy curls from the back of her neck. When she stretched, it looked more to
Hawke like deliberate writhing. “It would feel so good to be covered in bubbles right now!” she drew her bottom
lip through her teeth and waited, watching, for the inevitable moment when
Sebastian’s eyes strayed to her legs.
He jerked them away quickly, and she laughed in delight and
triumph as he began to turn red.
Hawke shook his head as he hammered in the last stake for
his tent and listened to Sebastian sputter his protests. When Hawke looked up
from his task, Fenris met his eye, one corner of the elf’s mouth twitching
upward into a smile.
Hawke took it as an invitation.
“Need any help?” he asked, approaching.
“No,” the elf said. “But your company would not be