Hello everyone! I hope you are having a whimsical Wednesday! (Is anyone tired of my intros yet XD)
I did a lot of thinking after Sunday and a lot of people really liked that snippet that I showed. SO! Even if I don’t remember the original plot of the scene, I put a new idea in my brain and began working!
Also as a way to improve my WIPs, I’ve gone back through them and added summaries! (Well to most of them, some are lost to the wind~)
So today’s snippet is from the previous snippet’s new story that I had to come up (Aren’t I fantastic with word-rumbles XD (Rumbles? Is that a word?))
It beings under the cut! <3
“So how often does this usually happen?”
Luka stopped reading his spell book and turned his full attention over to Marinette. “Does what usually happen?”
Her eyes never moved from the caldron as she stirred. Her cheeks seemed to explode with color, whether it was from the heat of the potion or something else, Luka wasn’t entirely sure.
“I mean, like- How often do you bring girls home?”
Opening his eyes wide and immediately trying to defend himself left Luka choking on his own saliva. Marinette’s eyes shot up as she saw him doubling over.
She dropped the spoon she was using and ran over to him to slap his back. “Ah! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t trying to- I don’t actually think- Obviously you don’t bring girls home!”
Luka eventually caught his breath again and tried to calm himself down. He was still doubled over, but one of his hands laid across his heart. His eyes were still basically popping out of his head, but from this angle he was sure Marinette couldn’t see him.
“Not that you don’t bring girls home! I mean, of course you bring girls home. That’s normal! I bring lots of guys into my home too!”
He eventually collected himself enough to turn his head over to her and stare into her eyes. His face painted in a very confused expression.
“That sounds bad- It’s not like that! I bring girls over to my house all the time! Like Juleka! She’s always over at my house!”
“Marinette, for the love of everything holy, please stop talking-”
The earlier you left, the longer I would have to miss you.
But the later you leave, the more time I would’ve spent with you. And every second I was with you, the more addicted I would get. And in the end, I would miss you just as much in that shorter time.
I guess that doesn’t really matter, though. Forget it. I hope you forget me. But I guess I’m also hoping you remember.
