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florencemtrash · 24 days

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He Feels Safe With You — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's sleeping habits begin to worry you, but after a conversation with Cassian, you realize you've misinterpreted the entire situation.

Warnings: Major fluff. Like tooth-rotting sweetness. Sleepy Az.

Author's note: I should be sleeping because I have work tomorrow but instead I've chosen to write this oneshot and I have no regrets.

It was starting to become a problem now.

You cocked your head to the side, cradling a cup of tea in your hands and watching Azriel as he continued to sleep soundly in your bed. You had the windows cracked open and the early Autumn breeze swirled indoors with the scent of lavender, bergamot, and the strawberry jam you’d slathered over your toast. You checked the time once again on the glossy marble clock face. The arrow-shaped hour hand clicked ever closer to 11am, the minute hand close to overtaking its competitor.

10:55am and Azriel was still asleep.

The sheets clustered loose and low around his waist, mimicking the curling of his shadows up and down the ridges of his spine and across the delicate membrane of his wings. His wings hung loose and relaxed, stretching off the edges of your bed and caressing the floor with a lover’s touch. You blushed at the sight. When you and Azriel had first started courting each other three years ago, you’d thought through the mechanics of housing an Illyrian warrior in your bed — should you buy a new bed frame and mattress? Did you even have space for it in your apartment? The answer had been no to both, and yet Azriel loved when your daytime activities ended here instead of at the townhouse. If he cared about having to walk sideways to avoid the bookshelves in the halls or having to crouch to avoid the overhang above the staircase, he didn’t mention it.

Three hours ago you’d woken up beneath the gentle weight of his wings, untangled yourself from Azriel’s greedy limbs, and crept down the stairs to your kitchen, bleary eyed but well rested. But that was three hours ago! Since then you’d brushed your teeth, washed your face, and eaten breakfast, and still the Shadowsinger hadn’t stirred. You were beginning to question whether he truly was the Spymaster of the Night Court as you sat in your velvet chair and admired your lover. You traced all the subtle movements of his body as he muddled through dreams you could only wonder at — the creasing of his brow, the slack line of his lips as he breathed, the twitching of his fingertips as he reached for some phantom object.

The clock struck eleven and you sighed, gathering your plates but leaving Azriel’s pile of toast, butter, and honey alone. You also left the teapot and its mismatched cup, blowing magic over its lid in a silent command to keep its contents hot until Azriel awoke.

“I’ll be down in the shop,” you whispered to his shadows, trusting that they would relay the message when their master finally decided to grace the daytime with his presence.

One by one, shadows slipped off Azriel’s skin, curling around your ankles and wrists in a silent plea to stay. You shook them off like one might a needy child, promising you’d only be two floors down.

The artists’ corner in Velaris was an eclectic array of compact townhouses, each outwardly dressed in their unique, dazzling finery. Your townhouse was squished between a painting studio and a luthier’s. The painting studio’s owner seemed intent on changing the color of the wooden sidings every other day and the drawings scribbled over the windows every other week. Today it was periwinkle blue to match the hydrangeas overflowing from the window boxes.

You nodded in approval as you flipped the apothecary sign over from “Much apologies, please try another time” to “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” The blue would match your tulip yellow sidings and the clean white accents of the luthier’s. Last week it had been red and that had looked gods-awful.

You busied yourself in the shop, crushing up lavender and herbs and boiling mugwort in fire-stained glassware in between flurries of customers until the medicinal stench in the air grew thick and strong. You were used to it by now. It smelled clean. Like home.

You were finishing tying up a bundle of teabags when Cassian came in carrying a sturdy wooden box under one arm like it weighed five pounds instead of fifty. You snapped out the wrinkles of a cloth bag, dropping the teabags and five vials of sleep serum for the nightingale-winged nymph in front of you.

“Four feathers and three strands of hair, as we bargained for,” you said, sliding the bag across the counter.

The nymph nodded in approval, extending out a wing and shoving her fingers into the pillowy softness. She tested for loose feathers ready to pull.

“You’re a godsend, Y/n, has anyone ever told you that?” She pulled out three feathers, closed her wing, and started testing the feathers on the other side. “Finnigan’s was asking me for ten. Ten! Can you believe that? If I hadn’t found you in time I’d have been reduced to a plucked chicken.” She was much less precious about her mousey brown hair and yanked out three strands at random. “Oops, you get an extra strand today,” she sang, dropping the feathers and hair into the jars you held out.

“Well it’s a good thing you found me then, Moricka.”

“Honestly! I understand he’s got a large studio space he’s renting in the thick of the Palace, and even I will admit the ambiance is rather professional—”

Cassian raised his brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred lips as he continued to stand motionless in the doorway. It was true your space was more… homey than Finnigan’s, but your expertise shined in intimate spaces. You liked the control and the familiarity that came from running a smaller business and you wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“But I do think the success is getting to his head. You both studied under Lady Madja so I don’t see why—”

You nodded absentmindedly. It was always like this with Moricka. The songbird in her made it difficult for her to stop talking, but at least her voice was pleasant.

She threw her hands up in the air before finally catching wind of another presence in the room. Cassian waved at her with a wink and an orange blush creeped onto her full cheeks. He tended to have that effect on fae with his towering size and the wild beauty of his chiseled jaw and smattering of scars over his cheeks and brow.

“Oh… oh dear, I didn’t realize you had another customer. Oh my goodness I’ve been talking your ear off all this time and you’ve been too kind to say anything. You’re a godsend, Y/n. A godsend! I don’t know what I would do without you, although I should really be letting you go now.” She grabbed her things and sidestepped the range of Cassian’s wings, trying and failing now to gawk. “I’ll see you soon enough again I’m sure.”

“I’ll be here.” You sighed in relief when the doorbell rang behind her petite frame, the inoffensive smile you offered all your customers sliding off your face like oil on water. Cassian chuckled, dropping the box onto the countertop with a dull thud.

“Long day?”

You pulled out a stepstool and began rummaging around through the box, pulling out jars of squid ink, bark trimmings, buttons, and one particularly nasty jar containing a large eye suspended in yellow goo. “It’s not even three.”

“Did I stutter?”

You tapped the glass and the eye swiveled around to look at you, pupil enlarging and constricting with a stutter. “Yes, yes very good,” you muttered your praise and Cassian fought hard not to shiver. He had a stomach for a great many things, but some of the specimens you handled tested his resilience.

“Thank you for bringing all of this. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Perhaps you could do the same for me and tell me where my brother is? I’ve been looking for him all day.” Cassian leaned forward on the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you holding him hostage, Y/n? Are you using your feminine powers to bring the poor male to his knees? I must admit, I didn’t imagine you as the kind capable of kidnapping. Or shadow-napping, shall we say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly holding him hostage.” You gestured down the hallway past the bookshelves and the cases of empty glassware where the light from the staircase glowed like an iron eye. “He’s upstairs sleeping.”

Cassian furrowed his brows, stepping around and past you. He kept his wings tucked closer to his shoulder blades, careful not to upset the cramped organization you maintained in your shop.

He smirked. “Still? Are you sure you didn't work your feminine powers last night?”

You glanced out the store window. A few fae lingered outside the coffee shop across the street clutching takeaway boxes against their chest as they chatted and sipped their drinks. The street was otherwise empty. For now, you wouldn’t have to deal with any customers.

You looked back at Cassian. “I actually wanted to ask you about that.”

His brows furrowed. “About feminine powers?” He'd meant that as a joke.

“Gods, Cassian let that go.” You wrung your hands. “I wanted to ask if Azriel was alright? Has he seemed… normal to you?”

“I don’t know, has he?” Cassian lowered his voice, sinking into one of the stools by the clear glass medicine cabinet. “From what I can tell he seems well. Happy.”

Although happy was an understatement. Ever since you’d stumbled into their lives with Madja’s accolades and your wry humor, Azriel had been a goner. You’d pulled emotions from him as deftly as a spinster with a pile of wool, reduced him to a reverential, lovesick mess, and imbued his existence with a color not even Feyre could mix up. Which made it all the more confusing why you looked so nervous.

“You’ve seen more of him than I have, Y/n.” Cassian said. He braced his elbows against his knees, turning serious. The faint bags under his hazel eyes hinted at sleepless nights spent fussing over Neera. It was their fault really, any daughter of Nesta and Cassian was destined to be restless and particular.

“He just… he’s been sleeping more. Falling into bed early, but waking up late. Sometimes we’ll be reading together or just existing side by side and when I turn to face him, he’s dead asleep on the couch.”

Cassian’s lips twitched, slowly stretching into a smile. You plucked a hemp bag off one of the wall shelves at random, tossing its contents into a mortar and beginning to grind just so you could have something to do with your hands.

“At first I brushed it off, but it’s gotten to a point where I’ll be talking to him — mindless things, but regardless — and I’ll catch him dozing off. He’s always very apologetic after but I…” The mortar and pestle clattered to a stop. “I worry that he’s growing bored of me. Or that he’s sick in a way I can’t help.”

“Y/n.” There was a smile in Cassian’s voice, and indeed when you looked at him, his teeth were glistening in the soft afternoon haze. His eyes shined knowingly, as if the answer were obvious.

You paused. “Yes?”

“He feels safe with you.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“Pardon?”

Cassian tipped back in his seat, knocking his head against the cabinet with a rattle of jars and glass as he laughed. “He’s sleeping so much because he feels safe with you. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time here instead of at the townhouse and why he’s still dead asleep while we’re sitting here gossiping about him. Three years ago you couldn’t even whisper his name in a crowded room without him appearing from the shadows as if summoned.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh... I see.”

Cassian was grinning. “Y/n, I promise you he’s not bored of you. Azriel sleeping is a good thing. The gods know he could use more rest. I think he might be the worst of us when it comes to taking care of ourselves.”

Something about Cassian’s words had a crack splintering in your chest. You knew about his past. You knew of the horrors burned into the ruined skin of his hands and the weight his duties deposited on his shoulders.

And here you’d been worried over him sleeping past noon.

Shadows slipped down the stairs, pooling around your feet in a neat circle and kissing the exposed skin of your ankles. Azriel followed closely behind, still wearing his rumpled hair and pants and a shirt he’d hastily shoved his neck and arms into. He hadn’t even buttoned up the slits below his wings, opting to let the fabric swing free and loose and expose flashes of skin as he walked.

He jutted his chin out in acknowledgement of Cassian and then folded himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and dropping his face into the crook of your neck where he breathed in the scent of lemon and lavender and medicine.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, frowning. There was a slur to his words.

“It’s past three, brother.”

Azriel snapped his head up in surprise, squinting at the window and the afternoon sunlight streaking in. The pale cobblestones shone like they’d been drenched in honey.

“What?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, patting Azriel’s back fondly and mussing up your hair before walking towards the door. He flipped the sign from “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” to “Much apologies, please try another time.”

“Goodnight, you two!" He called from over his back. "Remember we’re meeting at Rhys’s for dinner tonight.” He turned, bracing his arms against the top of the doorway and leaning forward like he meant to share a secret. “8pm sharp. Don’t be too late or we’ll get the wrong idea about what you two are up to.” He winked, then whistled down the street, letting the door close on its own behind him.

Azriel sighed, going back to nuzzling his face in your neck. He peppered the sensitive skin there with kisses.

“Will you be coming back upstairs then?” He murmured hopefully. "Now that you're finished with work?"

You bit your lip and decided rather quickly that the world would not end because you closed a few hours early.

You led him up the stairs, past the kitchen and living room on the second floor, and then up to the third floor — your bedroom. The window was still open, the hustle and bustle of the city and the smell of coffee from across the street wafting in. Steam no longer poured from the lip of the teapot, so you knew Azriel had had something to drink, and where you’d left toast on his plate this morning lay only crumbs.

Azriel dropped to his knees, untying your laces and helping you out of your boots. Then he straightened and tugged at the belt loops of your trousers, silently asking for permission before unbuttoning them and sliding them off your legs. Your shirt, then his shirt, and then his trousers joined the pile of crumpled clothing on the floor.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, falling face first after you with a sigh. This was his favorite position to sleep in — you comfortable on your back and him laying with his hips slotted in between your legs and his head resting over your heart.

You sank your fingers into his velvety, black hair. His hums of satisfaction flowed through your body, lighting every nerve with a comforting buzz.

“Azriel?” You asked him, before sleep could finally claim him once more.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you feel safe with me?”

He pressed his face further into the soft flesh of your chest, bringing his arms up and around your waist before allowing his wings to do the same. The thin membranes glowed red as hot coals, blocking out the most offensive rays of light from outside.

“When I am with you, I forget that I was ever that boy whose hands got burned. When I am with you, the hundreds of years I spent feeling alone and worthless in this world melt away into nothing. When I am with you — when I am in this place that smells and feels so strongly of you — I can imagine a future that is good and pure and perfect.” He sighed deeply, seemingly ignorant to the pounding of your heart and the waves of feeling flooding your system. “So yes, my love — my Y/n — I do feel safe with you.”

“I feel safe with you too,” you murmured. “I love you, Azriel.”

You kissed the crown of his head, earning one last smile and a slurred, “I love you, Y/n,” before his jaw went slack and the room went silent save for the mixing of your breaths and the stirring of shadows.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #fluff #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #sleepy azriel is the best azriel #i swear i just need a man who wants to sleep with me all hours of the day and is a living furnace #is that too much to ask?

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 10 months

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hiya! i remember finding a fic on tumblr ages ago, possibly through a big-bang or reverse-bang or something like that -- it had fanart. it was about violinist blaine getting selected to study under this reclusive master and it turns out the only reason this guy played so good was that his violin was...kurt. he'd been cursed or something. anyway, the fanart was of the pivotal scene where blaine breaks the curse by literally playing kurt so hard he becomes human again. thank you so much for the help!! C:

You have stumped us, anon. Great details! Readers - do you know this story? Please send it in! Thanks! ~Lynne

ETA: Thanks @caramelcoffeeaddict for identifying it as this:

Violoncello by elfinder @klaineitupanotch

Blaine Anderson finds himself being given the opportunity of a lifetime, when he is approached by Hunter Clarington the Third, a rich lord who’s singular goal is to become the best luthier of his age. Soon, Blaine gets the chance to play his finest creation, a cello that’s perfect pitch is spell-bounding, to compete at a world wide competition. Little does he know that accepting the job will also lead him to meet a mysterious young man with the voice of an angel.

#klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #fic finder #musician Blaine

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rhyming-fellowship · 1 year

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It’s harder to keep his distance over the sending stone. Somewhat ironically, he thinks. He can’t see the pain always lurking in Orym’s eyes that reminds him of the reasons they never took the final leap. Instead he just has memories.

Curled up together at night, shared body heat warming his heart.

Grasping a wrist and feeling his own strength push into Orym’s broken body.

Wry smiles that sparked with fondness.

Dorian tends to these moments and more like a farmer with his crops. Or a master luthier placing each part just so, carving and sanding and tuning and polishing until he knows every piece of the lute so intimately he could pluck it from a line up.

And yet, the memories are stretched by time and space and Dorian aches for all he is missing. He cannot begrudge his brother’s need - not raised as he was - but neither will he so easily give up a place by Orym’s side.

He sends back his messages, each word filled with the love he can no longer show in music and magic; in healing and in held hands. He puts every ounce of inspiration he can in twenty-five short words and doesn’t know if Orym gets it but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try. If it could have saved Orym or Fearne or the other friends he made with the Bells Hells.

Though he cannot quite say everything he wants through the stone, he thinks he gets a little closer each time. And perhaps someday they will meet again and the final bit of distance will disappear.

#critical role s3 #i saw the clip of Dorians response and got inspired but I haven’t seen the rest of the episode #dorym #flash fiction #my fics #orym of the air ashari #dorian storm #critical role

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cellody · 10 months

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Tournament of Ages 2023

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The performance area was taken up by one lone soul with an equally as lonely stage; no assistance with background entertainment nor effects, no enchantments prepared for illusions nor audio enhancing, no props nor... anything at all. Just a chair, the microphone, and the natural, wintery lighting of Northrend though it seemed apparent why he made such choices when nerves were evident from the start.

The mic was readjusted with subtly-trembling fingers (after having failed to offer any sort of introduction or explanation about what this may entail) to aim lower towards the cello he’d brought with him, a small, white hand towel peculiarly draped over the instrument’s upper bout. Seemed that was it. He took one gut-wrenching look out across the gathered crowds and slumped into his seat with a visible swallow.

Following that was a rather loud sigh. His bow raised, hovered in place, and... hesitation lagged through his limbs. There was no backing out now, though; he needed to do this for himself. What then finally boomed forth was a piece likely (and hopefully, by choice,) unexpected of someone so wracked by stage fright.

...It was not a bore nor a classical ballad at all; this was just a flex to prove that the lamb had a monstrous wolf of a talent, wasn’t it? The textures of the notes dribbled, the craft of the cello bore through the tone’s volume, and his brows knit in an immediate show of focus. Lance may have been petrified and had to force himself into position where he now was but the moment he began, he was lost in perfectionism.

His speed fluctuating through all those notes was worthy of awe on its own but as the seconds passed, it became clearer and clearer that this was no mere proof of his prodigious exhibit. There was not one pause. One technique after another—rapid fingerboard ups and downs and fortississimo measures—seemed all the more profound, too, when his focused breathing periodically came through the mic.

Then came the plucking. It was, after all, a stringed instrument not unlike a guitar; it didn’t need a bow (kept out of the way in his cupped palm) to be played in all the ways possible. But of course he would display that when wanting the world to know he not only had this mastered; he crafted this very cello himself through a luthier-ancestral background. No embellishments, no magic.

He ought to have played for the tournament duels considering how tension-focused and vrykul-esque the melody was—or perhaps that was part of the reason he chose such a song for his first true performance. There seemed to be no end in sight, though; just how long was this? And with not a single sheet of music nor a stand in front of him, this must have been practiced like an exercise, the towel of which now made sense. Lance’s forehead was beginning to mist with the sweat that it was meant to soak up and keep off the wood should any eventually drip. This was not easy.

The expressions upon his fair face were ones very rarely ever made unless in the zone of acute, musical concert; he almost looked irate. It was, however, pure, unadulterated concentration. He was as one with the cello as he was with the piece never once allowing him a second of reprieve. For there to be this much contained in the music and for it to stretch across his entire allotted time slot was frankly absurd. He could have gone with two simpler tear-jerkers expected of an orchestral man, but... there he still sat, shredding away so fervently that even the hair of his bow was beginning to fray.

A third of the way through yet still unsatisfied. Lance would not look up properly towards the audience nor break from his trance. It really was no wonder at all why he chose to present on such an isolated stage; had he any other support or pizzazz added, it would have distracted from the raw mood and kept others from being able to soak in what musicians and their apparatuses were truly capable of at their peak—unleashed, exposed, and intense. Hard to believe he was a crybaby in his everyday life when he had all of this grandeur thrumming through his veins.

Adding to the wear of his craft was the accumulating dust of overworked resin and hair fibers settling upon the cello’s waist. At the very least, this came at a time where there finally seemed to be some relief in the tune though it came only in the form of a more hushed, memorized page; he was still swiftly fluctuating from low to high notes no matter what the volume. Then, finally, a true respite! His bow gracefully drifted away from the strings for a handful of seconds though he did not appear to have finished. When the cello’s neck was leaned back into his form as proof of there being more to come in the same piece, his spaced-out gaze resumed closing and his head bowed forth like a metronome in time with the fragile sawing of work that made up this entire composition.

The essence that grew from the silence was less like a peaceful breath and more like one being held to keep from having an intruder overhear. That is to say... the stress came right back in full swing, hushed notes lifting in volume over a series of buzzing measures meant to keep listeners on the edge of their seat. Had he any room to think about things beyond playing, Lance would have wondered what stories others were envisioning to the aura all of this depicted. Surely, everyone’s would be unique; his arrangement was bare-bones mainly to act as a canvas for the audience’s imagination, after all.

It was not feasible for him to waver the notes out any quicker. What began as the whirr of a bee’s wings taking flight turned into the nearly-impossible consonance of a hummingbird’s. Speed, speed, and more speed—easing during one span then picking right back up in the next like a chase across the very strings of his cello. The fact that they could even hold up throughout all of this was outright astonishing.

Pizzicato rejoined the song—this round alongside the usual, bowed notes that now left one feeling as though the race either came to a standstill or a long, grueling fall. Lance was definably (albeit metaphorically) intoxicated by how deeply he himself had fallen into making sure this was seen all the way through, heart and soul. If he ever held back, the entire piece would fall apart. This needed passion and this needed drama unlike anything others would have thought him capable of.

B minor chords began to take on the likenesses of sea shanties whence the music swelled forth like waves across a sea. Travel, shadowed adventures, clothing drenched against flesh; there were so many things he tried to paint through the medium of his instrument and it depended entirely on one’s perspective which hues rang truest.

White-knuckled serenity. This sonata could not at all be deemed soothing, no, but he’d be damned if that wasn’t pulled off to some degree during the next moment—at least as far as the usual rigidity was concerned. The notes remained steadfast in their flair for toil though the hush had even the musician bowing forward to curl towards the dwindled volume like a child drawn into a ghost story. There then came a refrain to an earlier tune strummed out as though teasing at others’ hope for a brighter outlook.

As fate would have it, however, that very hope would then begin lilting back towards the weight of the song’s ever-brewing temper. Strange buildups merging sunlight with a distant storm acted out through the soundwaves he played—the fluctuation of which formed a very stand-out, brief glissando that sounded entirely like one that belonged to the slide of an electric guitar.

Back to the reminder of his skill over that fingerboard. His thumb lingered over a note as the other four digits trekked to and fro across the chords’ joining, vibrato-brimming pairs, the hairs of which cascade them forth from down below by this point thinned seemingly to repair. It was in this stanza his accruing sweat would have been visible even to those seated furthest away, no amount of wintery air able to balance out the exertion this song wracked his form through. This... this was the thrill and lineage of music.

Rubbery connotations bounced through the playfulness that pushed onward when stern, bow-less portrayals once more found their place within the song. Strumming a cello made for such a bizarrely familiar yet eerily mesmerizing sound no matter how often it was shown off; what, then, would the method sound like on other stringed instruments? Could those usually plucked be instead bowed? This was exactly the sort of creativity he would have died to bring back into Azeroth’s population.

Lance’s entire left arm got into position when posing through some of those thumbed notes. His right, naturally, only stopped rowing just that once for the song’s earlier rest, but it otherwise kept on due course with very few changes in angle. It was surely the handiwork higher up on the fingerboard that would catch the eyes of most. Even that seemed to be an art form of its own; hells, to go so far as to say it looked a bit sensual wasn’t unfathomable. Perhaps the passion of intimacy wasn’t a stranger to the passion of playing music.

How much of this was even a struggle for the young man? Clearly, physically, he was working himself out to the point of perspiring, but there were uncountable moments where it seemed more like a game to him than a gift. What more could he accomplish? What more could he prove? How many more notes, how fast, how whispered? Just as the piece was peaking towards the finale, the unanswered wonder over whether this was a cello solo or philosophical performance art must have weighed heavy on the mind. It’d gone on for what seemed to be forever... and some parts were so raw it felt almost like studying the naked form of an exhibitionist rather than that of a perfect-pitch, instrumentalist prodigy.

By the final, heavy, long note, Lance appeared forlorn. It took a while for the reality to dawn but when it did, he hastily used that little towel to dab at his face and then to hide his unoccupied fist in—the other being clutched about the cello’s neck in preparation to dart from his seat with it. However... at the very least (and thankfully), he’d managed to muster up enough sense in himself to pause halfway off the stage, lean over in a bow, and wait five rapid yet formal seconds before actually fleeing.

#strings #tournament of ages #so nerve-wracking!!! but also worth it and finally done. <3

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vintageguitar-world · 1 year

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Erwin von Grüner 1985 "Torres"

Erwin von Grüner 1985 “Torres” – nice handmade classicalguitar with great sound quality! Erwin von Grüner (1925-2001) is one of the most famous German luthiers! He was born in Teplitz. His father was an instrument maker and he also had its own musical instruments store. In 1951 his family moved to Bavaria where Erwin von Grüner started to work in a musical instrument factory which was owned by Fred A. Wilfers. The factory was specialized in the construction of violins. Soon after, in 1954, he opened his own workshop in Baierdorf and specialized in building guitars. Grüner is very well known for his inventions like the double resonance guitar and his innovative approaches to guitar making. This great guitar is a Torres style classical guitar. As is typical of the guitars made by Erwin von Grüner, this instrument is made of master grade woods. Its top is made using the best cedar, the back and sides are made from impeccable Indian rosewood. This guitars 650mm scale and 52mm nut is characteristic. The set up is great: low, fast, without buzz. The sound of this gorgeous guitar is wonderfully versatile, with a complex tone and a tremendous range of the most beautiful timbres. The sound is powerful and majestic on the one hand, but the guitar also impresses with clear, sparkling highs that give a sense of great projection. It is a very balanced guitar, with a robust, creamy quality to the sound. It also has this nice quick, bouncy responsiveness, a characteristic found in the best Torres style instruments. Read the full article

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emblemxeno · 2 years

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Literally in echoes the characters victory animations stay the same no matter the class so there uniqueness stays even in a different class meanwhile in 3houses even in three hopes for your characters get put in classes there not suppose to be in or are in master classes they lose all there unquie animations another reason why I love echoes

YES! I forgot about those! Unique victory animations for every character!

Gray's subtle confidence vs. Tobin's bravado vs. Kliff's aloofness.

Mae's show-off tendencies vs. Boey's practical attitude vs. Genny playing up her young girlishness.

Sonya's sultriness shines through cuz even when you set a guy on fire you gotta make sure you look good.

Delthea's cheek contrasting Luthier's over-seriousness

Saber having simple, tired victory animations cuz he's a 34 YEAR OLD MAN BABY SITTING THESE BRATS, HE NEEDS A FUCKING NAP

You get an immediate grasp of a character's personality through one simple animation in Echoes, it's so good! It's why I kinda didn't care for the Overclasses because-aside from Alm's and Celica's of course-they made all the animations uniform and it made me sad.

It's the little things like that which I really miss!

#fire emblem #fire emblem echoes #fire emblem echoes shadows of valentia

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techtalkbyjames · 1 year

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♥️🎶🎸History Of Rickenbacker Capri model...

Rickenbacker’s Deluxe semi-hollow electrics exhibited the full artistry of master luthier Roger Rossmeisl

#music #fun #jamesguitarshoppe #guitars

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sofysis · 10 months

Audio

released August 1, 2023

On this LP you hear two kanteles built by the Master Luthier Rauno Nieminen. One of them is a copy of a historical instrument built by the folk poet Ontrei Malinen in 1833. It is carved from single piece of pine, and it has five bronze strings. The other one is carved from a single piece of spruce. Its lowest seven strings are bronze, and highest three strings are English iron. On most tracks the two kanteles are played simultaneously. [The music… is improvised… recorded at home after dark and outdoors in daylight…] Tuokioita translates to moments. This music is about coloring time.

#2020 #olli aarni #cover art by #Matti Sumari #kantele

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hawkepockets · 9 months

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i’m finally getting to those tav asks. thanks everyone who sent one!! the lovely @dragonologist-phd asked for #1, which includes birthplace & family, and i Got To Thinking in too much detail, much too much detail by far, too detailed, so here’s a separate post for just those elements.

jove grew up in baldur’s gate. they did have a clan, but it wasn’t a biological family unit—it was an all dragonborn craftsmen’s guild! most members were copper, brass, red or gold dragonborn who used their fire or acid breath to manipulate metal and glass. jove wasn’t born with that skill. their mother was a vagabond blue dragonborn, and although jove inherited their father’s brassy scales, they also manifested their mother’s electrical breath type, which wasn’t of any use in metalworking. the clan was warm to insiders but highly competitive and proud of their handiwork, and judged members’ worth almost solely by what they could craft. jove knew they’d be fed and cared for, but only tolerated, unless they excelled at a trade.

as a teenager, jove struck up a friendship with ritika estis, a much older gold dwarf metallurgist from a rival crafting guild. estis taught jove how to use a dwarven forge to work with metal, glass, and jewels using tools instead of relying on naturally heatproof hands and melting breath. estis was tough on jove, working them hard and giving praise sparingly, but every compliment meant the world to the young dragonborn. she built up their confidence to apply for a jeweler’s apprenticeship with their clan.

but estis also noticed that despite their dogged devotion to learning their father’s trade, jove was much more moved by folk songs and carved wood than any bauble made for a baldurian noble. jewelrymaking made them focus and sweat; music made them tap their foot, twitch their tail, and part their lips to try to taste it. it was a different kind of love. the day jove won their jeweling apprenticeship, estis went to them and, in a rare moment of open encouragement, urged them to forget the forge and learn to make music and instruments instead.

jove took up a secret, second apprenticeship with a human master luthier, learning to craft and repair string instruments and, tentatively, how to play the fiddle with their big, clawed hands. when the clan found out, jove was pressured to choose one trade and master it, instead of burning themself out to fail at both. with the self-assurance they’d learned from estis, jove committed to making instruments. many of their older clanmates were deeply embittered toward ritika and her guild for molding a promising young metalworker just to turn them against the family trade, but jove was happy.

after years of practice under the luthier, jove achieved the rank of journeyman and started to make gold for their clan selling handcrafted string instruments and repair services. they were much better at working on instruments than playing them, but had achieved enough skill on the fiddle to play gigs at local taverns and make passersby smile at them on festival days. they were more than content, and would have lived happily as an amateur musician and aspiring master luthier in the gate for the rest of their days.

and then came the bar fight.

fights weren’t that unusual for the cheaper inns and alehouses jove played music at, but this particular brawl started with a human woman harrassing a tiefling bachelor party, talking loudly about how they brought crime and sour luck on baldur’s gate, and shouldn’t be allowed to marry lest their offspring overrun the city. when she implied they killed and ate human children, one of the prouder and drunker tieflings took a swing at the woman. she reacted as though she’d been attacked, unprovoked, by the whole party, and other non-tieflings sprung to her defense. within seconds, the taproom turned into a battlefield, and within minutes all the celebrating tieflings were senseless on the floor. when the guards arrived, it was the tieflings who were arrested for disturbing the peace.

jove watched the whole thing, their bow sliding uselessly off the strings, unsure what they could do short of belching out a cone of lightning that would hit attackers, tieflings, and bystanders indiscriminately—so they did nothing.

when they told their master what happened, he was unsympathetic to the tieflings, saying that the other humans had taken things too far but that they hadn’t been wrong about the “foulbloods.”

jove got up before sunrise, stole their favorite of the violins they’d crafted and a simple glaive from estis’s forge (she would have given it freely if they’d woken her to ask, but jove couldn’t risk talking to her—if estis was as callous about the tieflings as their other mentor had been, it would break their faith completely), and left baldur’s gate. they’ve been roving the sword coast ever since, a vagabond like their mother, determined to protect strangers’ right to live and celebrate life loudly, especially those from “monstrous” races. this became the foundation of their paladin’s oath.

they’ve gotten rusty on the fiddle. but on the night of celebrating peace between the druids and tieflings, they’re compelled to play again.

#bg3 #oc: jove #baldurs gate 3 #dragonborn #antisemitism tw #<- for the coding of tieflings

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architectureinmusic · 11 months

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The breathtaking interior of a rare cello created by English luthier Lockey Hill, completed just prior to his tragic execution for horse theft in 1795. This striking photograph reveals the tool marks left by the master maker, as well as new wood and repairs carried out over the centuries, all culminating in a stunning testament to the instrument's rich history.

Shot with exceptional precision using a Lumix S1R camera and Laowa Probe lens, this photo is the result of stacking 432 images at various focal distances, resulting in a magnificent, cavernous feel that gives the impression of the cello becoming its own recital hall. Prints available at www.architectureinmusic.com

#classicalmusic #cello #music #macro #architecture

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wildcards1407 · 1 year

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A Few Words For Amateurs

This time of the year, there's a lot of hype for you to become a New You. There's a craze to bust out, push hard, meet that goal, be your best self. And all year, there's a pressure to excel, to push to the next level, to be efficient and maximize (cough monetize) your potential.

I'd like to offer an alternative. It's in the shape of a fiddle.

This is a picture of Lon Dubh. My great grandfather carved her. She is not carved by a master craftsman. The last time I took her to the luthier, the note on my bill read 'given that this is a folk instrument, I have done what I can'. She is what's called a kitchen fiddle, made without sound posts so that she wouldn't deafen a small gathering in a little room. She's got quirks. Her pegs slip a bit. If I've ignored her, her pegs slip A LOT. She is heavy as a viola, because my great grandfather made her out of the 'wrong' woods. I find the spot for my thumb by using a bead of shellack that isn't smoothed down.

My great grandfather was not a master craftsman. He did not spend his life learning how to make a perfect violin. He knocked together and scratched away on this fiddle because he liked to make things: furniture, music, and smiles. He made this fiddle to be played in love and fun inside a community.

I am a fitting player for this fiddle. I don't want to play in a concert hall. I'd like to get good enough to play in local jam sessions, in a few years. I aim to practice at least once a week. Sometimes I miss that mark. I play because I like the tradition of the songs, and holding something my great grandfather made, and I like the way a musical tradition draws people together.

The root of the word amateur means 'to love'. It has become a slur in this culture. It should not be a slur. It literally means 'doing a thing for the love of it.'

I am an amateur. I play my great grandfather's fiddle for fun, and for love, and for memory. My fiddle is an amateur fiddle. It was made for fun, and for kitchen parties, and for around the house.

You can be an amateur. Don't let this culture mess with your head. Do it because you love it, whatever it is. Do it because you're whole while you're doing it.

The world has enough moguls and millionaires and people who are rated as incredible successes by society. Many of them are criminals, sociopaths, and just all out jerks. They are broken, because the expectations of our society are broken. They're unhealthy, and meeting them often makes you into something fairly vile.

I don't want to see more successes this year.

I want to see more amateurs. We need more amateurs.

This year, don't be a success according to our society. Be an amateur.

#do it for love #amatuer #bestlife

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friskishdrawings · 2 years

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...Okay this one is kind of cheating since it’s just a spruced up version of a doodle I posted before—Anyway, please have a reference of my character, Entertainer, which I used for Artfight 2022 (which I just realised is a very impractical one since the purple here is actually brown in a normal scheme but oh well). Here is the description I had put down on Art Fight for posterity:

The Entertainer (or Carol Calimeris), 35, a luthier/performer by day, musician/musical instrument inventor/"master" thief by night. Her villainous origin story is failing a music school entrance exam. Yep.

Will claim to be a villain despite being a relatively fun and kindhearted friend. Cool irresponsible aunt vibes. Just... with slight mad scientist vibes. If on a heist, she becomes a loud, competitive, giant dramatic ham, very much playing up the insane genius role. Loves the attention. Her main modeus operandi is stealing rare and weird instruments and mishmashing them into franksteinish musical abominations.

Her family thinks it's just some weird cute phase and somehow is never there when she's in the middle of a heist or being arrested, instead either barely missing it or misinterpreting the situation.

And she has pet chickens (which is a carry over from my "LULZ SO RANDUM" phase on dA, but I got too attached to them to get rid of them so they're staying, sorry—)

You can find me on both instagram and art fight as Friskishdrawings!

#character design #oc reference #artists on tumblr #digital art #ocs #the entertainer #my characters and stories #Clockwork cities #entertainer got a name change for those who knew of her before :'D #I love making characters who are completely full of themselves but then I have no idea how to play or write them #frisqueue bbq

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19thsentry-blog · 2 years

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In The Shadows

Miraculous Ladybug Fanfic (Lukanette Endgame)

Chapters

Prelude | Chp 1 | Chp 2 | Chp 3 | Chp 4 | Chp 5 | Chp 6 | Chp 7 | Chp 8 | Chp 9 | Chp 10 | Chp 11 | Chp 12 | Chp 13 | Chp 14 | Chp 15 | Chp 16 | Chp 17 | Chp 18 | Chp 19 | Epilogue | Worlds Not Our Own | Timeline

Chapter Eight: Turn Me On (AO3 Link)

Chapter Snapshot

Viperion's mouth was still hung open from when he'd been cut off mid-sentence, but now he was just staring at her like she was a freak. He snapped his mouth shut and rubbed the back of his neck again before speaking. "I wondered this when you mentioned your Master before, but…how much did he teach you? About…all of this?"

Ladybug had always suspected there was a lot she didn't know, and she'd told Master Fu over and over that she didn't feel ready, that she felt like she was drowning with it all, but he just…he had so much faith in her. So much faith that it made her feel bad that she was doubting herself when he saw so much in her. For a moment, it was a relief that there was someone, even if she didn't particularly like that someone, who thought Master Fu might have left her unprepared too. Ladybug leaned back in her chair. "I mean…the basics, I thought. The names of all the Kwamis, what their powers were…why the Miracle Box was important, and why I needed to keep my identity a secret. Not to use the power for selfish reasons." Basic stuff.

Viperion seemed to deflate a bit, and inadequacy came rushing back through her like a tornado. "I mean, we didn't have a lot of time--just a year. And I didn't even know he existed for most of it, a-and when I did, fighting Hawk Moth and then Mayura took most of my time…"

Cross-country travel. Hotel room. Odd jobs. Apartment. Odd Jobs. Buy Stuff. Odd jobs. Sell stuff. Cross-country travel. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseam. After the day Luka had had, he was glad to be back to a familiar rhythm, even when something in the back of his brain whispered, Familiar for how long? For now, he ignored it.

"The back entrance is 'round here. 'Spect you'll be usin' that most of the time, and that suits me just fine. No loud music past nine." The old man ambled around the well-kept garden, pointing down to the concrete staircase that led to a wrought-iron door in an alcove. "Key's under the mat, feel free to keep it with yeh, I've got spares. Er, what wassit you said you did again?" Beady eyes squinted at him through thick glasses.

Luka smiled politely, shifting his guitar case. "I'm a luthier. I just got a job at Paradis des Cordes."

The man nodded amicably before shaking his head with a frown, the words catching up with him. "Haw? Didn' you say you just flew in today?"

"Yes, sir. I interviewed for the position while I was still in New York, over the phone. There aren't many people with my level of expertise," Luka said with a soft laugh. He had felt that something about Paris was going to be different this time and that finding stable work before he arrived would be prudent. He didn't intend on making his presence known to Ladybug for a few weeks, so having something that didn't involve using Sass was imperative. He was relieved that Parisians were used to akumas causing delays and that being late for the first time he met his new boss wasn't as big a deal as he'd feared.

"Interviewin' over the phone--sounds plum crazy," the old man rumbled on, "but most folks don't seem to have much sense these days." He sighed, wistful and long-suffering. "Well. I'll get outta yer hair. Knock if you need me."

"Yes, sir, thank you," Luka waved, stepping aside so the man could totter back to his front door. Luka descended down the staircase and got the key from under the simple brown door mat and unlocked the door, storing the key in his jeans pocket. The little apartment was plain but cozy. A small kitchenette sat on the right side of the door, and to his left was a small living room, complete with a vintage CRT television set and plush dark brown loveseat. Directly across from the entryway was a set of hardwood stairs that must have led up to the old man's home proper. Just to the right of the stairs an open door led to a room with a full-sized bed, a simple walnut chest of drawers, and a side table. The bed looked very tempting, but he still had to unpack.

"Do you think the Celestial Guardian would hang me from my toes if he knew I was hiding his guidebook in a toilet?" Luka asked, duct tapping the triple-wrapped trove of knowledge under the tank lid of the toilet. Sass hissed a laugh to go with Mullo's giggle.

"Perhapsss, but it isss for the greater good."

He readjusted the tank lid on top of the toilet and washed his hands. "Mullo, I know it'll be hard for you, but you absolutely can't go upstairs, alright? We don't want a repeat of what happened last time."

Mullo pouted, "But it's so boring."

Luka dried his hands on the tan hand towel next to the bathroom sink. "It'll be different this time. I won't leave you in the house anymore, as long as you promise to stay hidden while we're outside."

"Deal!"

Luka fixed himself a sandwich for dinner and set out an egg and cheese for Sass and Mullo, then settled into bed to see if he could start to adjust his sleep schedule. It was only 7 pm, but he was exhausted. The plane ride had been long, followed by the hour on the bus, the run-in with Ladybug and Chat Noir, meeting his boss, finding his new apartment--he should be ready to pass out, but he was wide awake. He could hear Mullo snoring from the inside the safe burrow of his duffel bag. Sass was curled in a ball at the end of the bed, tongue occasionally slithering out in his sleep. The snake stirred and lifted his head when Luka got up and dressed, and wound up following Luka into the living room. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, staring at the old CRT television sitting on the entertainment center across from them.

He expected both Kwamis to bring up the business with the Guardian immediately when they were all alone, but neither of them had. They had gone about their usual routines with as much ease as they had before. It had been a relief at first, although he knew he would want to address the elephant in the room at some point. Luka pulled a guitar pick from his jeans pocket and flipped it around and around in his fingers, thinking. The clock on the wall indicated it was 8: 14. Luka pulled his guitar case around and unlatched it, settling the instrument in his lap so he could begin to mess with what he had dubbed "Marinette's Melody". He didn't get very far.

"I'm sorry, Sass," he eventually said. His fingers slowed to a lazy pace, the guitar moaning a sad lullaby beneath his fingertips. "We've been doing all this so you could finally see your friends again, and I just…I could have done that for you, but I didn't."

Sass shook his head sagely. "No, we have been doing thisss sso we could enssure all of the Miraculoussss were in ssafe handsss. Our tassk isss not yet complete."

That was true, he supposed. The Butterfly and Peacock were still being used for ill, Ladybug admitted it herself. He still had some time to grapple with the change coming to his future. He would do everything he could to ensure the Butterfly and Peacock were returned to the Guardian, and then…maybe by then, he'd be ready. "You're right. I guess I'm being over dramatic," he said with a small laugh.

"When the Miraculousss are all ssafe, thingsss will change. Perhapsss you can become who you were alwaysss meant to be," Sass said, tone light.

Luka's hands paused on the strings, his heart slowing. "Problem is, I'm not sure who that is anymore," he said, a small smile on his lips as he turned to look at his friend. He’d spent decades searching for and protecting the Miraculouses, and when those leads would run dry, he’d roamed the world in search of their legacies, instead. No one else was around to remember, so he had taken up the mantel. A roving bard in search of heroes to write songs for.

Sass looked nervous, normally bright eyes clouded. He spoke slowly--if he had hands, Luka suspected he'd be wringing them. "If…it would pleasse you, you could…if you were not weary of it, you could be my holder. Properly, thisss time."

He couldn’t help the hope that crept into his voice. "Wait, you mean that? Wouldn't you want to go back with the Guardian? To the Miracle Box with your friends?"

"Only if that isss what you dessire. The Guardian exisstsss to choosse championsss who will fight for peace. The Miracle Box isss where we stay while we wait for a suitable champion," he paused, a smile forming over his face as he looked at the wide-eyed Luka. "I already have mine."

A rushing sting of tears overwhelmed him for a moment, relief swelling in his heart. Losing Sass wouldn't have just been losing a friend; it would've been losing his home. "That's good," Luka said thickly, a laugh bubbling out of his lips. "Because I don't know if I could let you go." Sass flew to burrow between his neck and shoulder, and Luka laid a warm hand on his smooth scales, not minding when a tear or two dropped off his lashes and onto his shirt. "How would you feel about having a look around town with me? I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight," he said after a minute.

He went to go rouse Mullo, but she grumbled at him to go away and let her sleep. Figures: he was finally going to let her join him and Sass on adventures outside (at her insistence), and now she was complaining he was interrupting her beauty sleep. Luka slipped out of the basement apartment, locking the door behind him. He asked his boss after introductions were made if he'd ever heard of Tom and Sabine's--and Malo had simply laughed and said it was just across the park. Paradis des Cordes faced Place des Vosges, so Malo only had to point one bony finger out the door for Luka to spot it. He'd unwittingly picked a place so close to where she could be found. Must be fate, his brain thought again, Marinette's eyes dancing in his mind.

His new apartment was close by, close enough to walk to work and back each day. Luka always traveled light. Anything he kept, he had to be able to shove in his duffel bag and call it a day (the only exception to this rule was his guitar, which he refused to travel without). As a consequence of spartan living, most of his clothes were utilitarian and easily replaceable if they were ripped or torn. The only thing that he took great care of was the leather jacket he tightened around him tonight in the Paris chill. It was part of Wes's 'initiation ritual' to the world of punk. Punk was familiar to him, the rebellious kids he met in the scene were the same he'd known growing up in London in the 1800s, full of piss and vinegar and in sore need of a place to put their energy when the world had given them the bird. The jacket was critical, a statement of who you were and what you stood for. He'd used white nail polish to embellish the back with a rough stencil of Jagged's rough, minimalistic logo.

It was part of him, now, a second skin, even though he only brought it out in the winter months. It was still too big for him, but he never cared. Better too big than too small. Luka crossed the street to the park, his feet grateful for the soft grass over the hard pavement. He wandered around the square for a bit, then crossed over to the other side to see if he could spot Tom & Sabine's--memorizing the pathway he would take when he would go tomorrow, hoping to spot a glimpse of her.

In the end, he couldn't think of anything worth sending via text. "Hey, it's Luka. Still waiting?", "Touched down in Paris, want to show me around? -Luka", "It's Luka, I missed you". Bad. All bad. He was too bad with words to trust his longing with them.

The boulangerie-patisserie was situated on a corner, the architecture jutting out elegantly with the store's name in gold letters, and beneath it were dark windows stenciled decoratively in gold. The second and third-floor windows were dark, but the attic windows were dimly lit. He could see a small balcony all the way at the top, which was dark, but after a moment a light burst forth from the back wall and a small figure appeared, coming to stand at the edge of the balcony.

From his place yards away, he could see her look out across the park, folding her arms to lean against the railing. He couldn't look away, and he wasn't sure why. He always wondered why there were so many Grecian and Roman myths of men that got cursed by nymphs, knowing they were in the wrong for staring but doing so anyway. Apparently, he was one of them now--not the kind of company he wanted to keep. The girl turned towards him and he could make out two pigtails over her shoulders. Though he couldn't see much else he knew she was looking at him, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He waved, briefly, then quickly shoved his hand in his pocket and began to turn away. From the side of his vision, he watched her stiffen before darting away into the safety of the attic.

Man, he really needed to stop waving at people. Luka had taken a few steps on his way back home when he heard a door clatter shut and footsteps quickly running across the street, and he turned again to see someone--to see her rushing towards him. Luka barely had a moment to register that he knew who she was. To revel in the too-big blue eyes, the nervous stutter of her steps, the dark fall of her bangs across her forehead. Marinette closed the gap in seconds, arms around his neck and lips on his.

He gasped in surprise, and she pressed the advantage, sweet strawberry-tasting lips hungry against his. Arousal tore through him instantaneously. Luka wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, winning a soft heady moan from her throat. After the longest and shortest few seconds of his life, she drew away first, and his now slick lips felt the cold bitterly. Forehead still resting on his collarbone, Marinette loosened one arm from his neck and drew away from him just enough to give him a half-hearted punch on the shoulder.

"You were supposed to text me," she mumbled.

He tucked her head beneath his chin, smelling the sweet honey scent of her shampoo. "'M sorry," he said back. "Bad with words."

Marinette hummed, her breath tickling his exposed skin. "This is good too."

After a moment--"You waited for me."

He heard a miserable sort of smile in her voice. "You didn't give me much of a choice."

Luka laughed softly, glad that she'd been counting the hours as much as he had. "Let me show you something," he said. Luka gently prized his way out of her grasp and took her hand, interlacing their fingers just as he had a month ago. Marinette pushed her side into his and let him lead her across the courtyard. He stopped them by the trees that lined the park, facing the street. "See that store?" he asked, nodding his head at Paradis des Cordes darkened and shuttered windows. "They repair and sell guitars, among other things. They've got a lot of pianos, too. My first day is tomorrow."

She frowned, looking up at him. "First day? When did you--?"

Luka shrugged, an easy smile on his lips. "I just flew in today; met my boss a few hours ago. He's a nice guy--I think I'll like it."

Marinette looked back behind them, eyes still able to make out the shadow of her house and parent's store. "Was this…did you plan this?"

"No, that was all luck. I didn't even know where I'd be able to find you when I got here. Imagine my surprise when I found out," he said with a laugh. "I almost didn't live long enough to find out. I'll be honest, I've imagined a lot of ways to die," and in his more desperate times, had even thought that a few of those ways might not be too bad, "but being crushed by a giant pastry monster wasn't on my list."

Marinette snorted playfully, "Believe me, by the end of the year you'll probably get to add way weirder experiences to your bingo card. I know I have. Oh, but, um--sorry for not warning you. About the…monster…stuff. I wasn't really thinking about it last time. Maybe if you texted," she tacked on with a squeeze on his fingers and an angry pout.

He grinned at her. "Would I have gotten that nice of a 'welcome to Paris' kiss if I had?"

"It took a lot of courage to give you my number, you know!"

Luka let go of her hand so he could put an arm around her instead, pulling her into his shoulder. "Guess you're going to have to keep giving me an earful about it. But that does mean seeing a lot more of me if you're up for it."

Marinette huffed, dropping her head on his shoulder. "You must be a glutton for punishment, hanging around me."

"Marinette, if you're a punishment I'll send myself to hell."

A faint rose blush dappled her face. "It sounds like the Akuma today almost did the job for you."

"Almost--but Ladybug saved me. She seems good with that 'just in the Knick of time' business," Luka said. Marinette hummed and nodded, head resting on his shoulder. "Do you know her well?"

Marinette stiffened against his shoulder. "I guess, um--she's saved me a few times. W-why?"

"No particular reason. People in Paris seem to trust her. Do you?"

She relaxed again; eyes trained on the storefronts just beyond the street. "As much as I trust myself, I guess. She's…a professional. She wants people to be able to trust her to do the right thing, and…and she tries." Marinette looked up at him from beneath her long eyelashes shyly, although why she seemed so bashful he wasn't sure. "Do you like her?"

Luka took a deep breath, letting it go to the count of five. He wanted to--that was all he could say for sure at the moment. If she was the Guardian, he'd want to get to know her and see her in the way everyone else saw her. He wanted to trust her too. "It seems like her heart's in the right place. Sounds like she's been keeping you safe, and I like that."

Marinette gave a short laugh before stopping, the blue in her eyes churning. A line appeared between her brows as she thought--but was cleared when she yawned.

"Guess I should get you back home, huh?" He watched Marinette, his little squirrel, get nervous and twitchy.

"But I don't want to," she said.

Luka nudged them back towards her house regardless. "I think we both deserve some shut-eye. As much as I'd like to steal you for the night, I don't think the old man I'm renting from would appreciate policemen at his place searching for the punk who kidnapped the baker's daughter."

If her blush was rose before, now it was a deep scarlet. Luka laughed when all that came from her mouth was jumbled word salad. He stopped them across the street from the bakery and took both her hands in his, lowering his head to kiss her knuckles reverently. "It's alright," he whispered on her skin. "Now you know where I work. You won't lose me again."

Ladybug shoved the well-worn desk in the boiler room of her old middle school closer to the dim light above. The cord to the lamp stretched tenuously but stayed plugged in. As long as no one walked straight into it, everything would be fine. She hated this place. Whenever someone had hurt feelings or trauma, they always ran straight to the old boiler room because apparently to feel sad you also needed to be surrounded by creepy. Still, it was the only neutral ground she could think of where no one would bother them that was still semi-well-lit.

Viperion showed up at 9pm on the dot, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell and the grim interior. “I still don’t understand why we can’t do this as normal people in a relatively normal place,” he said, rapping his knuckles on a pipe by the door.

"We are normal superheroes--at least one of us is--and a school is a relatively normal place," she snapped back. She didn't know why it was so hard for him to comprehend the concept of secret identities and why they were so important, but it had been. In the end, he accepted her terms--if they were going to sit and chat as he wanted, then he would have to do it her way. Ladybug sat in the old discarded wooden chair that she pushed behind the desk and motioned for him to do the same on the other end.

They stared at each other for a moment and awkwardness settled in. He looked away, rubbing his neck. She thought about starting the conversation, but he was the one who apparently had so much to say, so she wasn't going to give him an out now. She could hear water slowly drip, drip, dripping somewhere in a corner.

"How long have you been the Guardian?" he asked, quietly, eyes still concentrating on the corner of the desk with the graffiti.

Ladybug had been prepared to bicker all night--it had been 2 days since she'd enacted the tactical retreat at Place des Vosges, and she still felt bitter that she'd gotten so excited he might cooperate and hand over the Miraculouses. His invitation to talk this morning after the day’s Akuma attack had also gotten a rise out of her, but now that he was sitting there as if the flame had gone out of him her reply was a bit softer, even if it still had an edge. She shrugged; arms crossed. "Not very long, a few months."

His blue eyes shot up to hers, a studious frown on his face. "Who was it, then, before you?"

She held up a hand first, "Hey, question for question, bub. This is supposed to be equal. Me next. How did you get the Snake and the Mouse Miraculous?"

"Sorry. The Snake Miraculous came from its last holder, Sangpo. The Mouse Miraculous I found on my own."

She pursed her lips. He wasn't exactly forthcoming with details, but she'd get them eventually. She answered his previous question. "The last Guardian of the Miracle Box was a man named Fu. He transferred ownership to me after…long story. So, you said this Shangpo guy was the last holder, where did he find it?"

"Sangpo. He didn't find it. It was given to him by the Celestial Guardian. When he was too old to use it, he returned back to The Order to serve as one of the monks in the temple. …How long has the Miracle Box been in France?"

So, this previous Snake holder had to be at least as old as Master Fu, although she’d never heard the term Celestial Guardian before. She had assumed that Viperion just stumbled across the term Guardian, but she was starting to get a sinking feeling that he knew a lot more than he was letting on. "Uh, that I don't think I can answer. I mean, Fu was old old, so probably awhile. But he wasn't exactly forthcoming with details. How long have you had the Snake and Mouse?"

Viperion paused at that. "The Snake…I guess since I was 12, maybe 14. The Mouse was a lot more…recent, I guess."

Ladybug frowned. "Hey, you're being cagey! And how can you not remember if it was 12 or 14?"

"We're both being cagey," he sighed. "This isn't exactly how I wanted this part to go. I want to work with you. I promised Sangpo I'd make sure that if any of the Miraculous had survived, I'd keep them safe. You said yourself the Butterfly and the Peacock aren't in good hands."

"They aren't, but I don't know why you suddenly care about using the Miraculouses properly. Weren't you just in New York using them to spin a profit? I literally caught you red-handed." They glared at each other over the desk.

"There were extenuating circumstances. It's not like I go out and commit felonies. If I hadn't done what I did, Mullo would still be sick."

So, what, he'd been out collecting money for a mouse doctor? "The only person I know who could cure Kwamis was Master Fu," she said, not so happily remembering the day Tikki had gotten sick.

Viperion sighed impatiently. "If this Master Fu guy was a real Guardian, he'd have been taught the same techniques I used, and they didn't work. Believe me, I tried." Viperion rubbed his eyes, and he suddenly looked a lot older than he had moments ago. "What she was sick with wasn't just some flu, it was…it was enough to kill a person. I was in New York looking for a cure for her--something I'd caught wind of in California. And it worked, but it wasn't easy to get."

Ladybug's mind tried to keep track of all the questions that popped into her head as he spoke--how would he know techniques that Master Fu would have used? Did he really know more than she did? What was it that Mullo had gotten sick with, and who had died? How did you just "catch wind" of a magic cure? And what exactly did he have to do to get it? She didn't get the chance to ask.

"So, she's been cured which is all well and good, but there's another problem. When I found the Miraculous, it was broken, and the book that the Guardian Precepts mentions isn't one I have--"

Ladybug pressed her fingers to her temples, "Wait, wait, wait--give me a minute to--what the hell are the Guardian Precepts?"

He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, too, the pair of them both looking fairly dejected. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to…if I made you feel bad, I didn't mean to. I guess I was hoping you would know more than I would, but it sounds like we were put in the same spot."

Ladybug inhaled sharply, his soft smile, the sad dejected laugh--he meant it, at least, and for a moment she felt just a little bit less alone. How often had she wished someone else would get it? Maybe they had gotten off on the wrong foot. Ladybug shifted in her seat, interlocking her fingers nervously. "I'm sorry, too. I, um, might have been a bit…Chat Noir says I can be…"

The corners of Luka's mouth tilted up. "Passionate."

Ladybug snorted. "A nice word for a perfectionist control freak."

Viperion laughed, and with it, some tension left her body. It was a nice sound. She didn't mind it. "I don't think he ever said that. Lots of other flattering things, though."

"He's a smooth talker; don't be fooled," she said, not able to help a small smile.

Viperion rested his chin in his hand, leaning over the desk slightly now. "So, you are dating?"

Ladybug sputtered, nearly knocking herself out of the chair. "We are not!!"

The mischievous spark was back in his eyes. Apparently, the smug son of a bitch was in there still and lurking just under the surface, waiting to bite her in the ass. "My apologies, then. You clearly have no feelings whatsoever for him."

"I don't! I have a…" she stumbled, thinking of Luka and his lips and being curled up under his arm, and also thinking about how they'd never actually said what they were to each other. "A somebody," she settled for instead with a sharp nod of her head. "And before that, there was…not important. Anyway, I don't even know who Chat Noir is. And that's for a good reason; the kind of reason that time travelers get involved in. But that's a different story," She said, waving her hand dismissively. "Back to what we were talking about. I guess a non-punchy partnership would be good."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. He took another look around the room, "But next time, I pick the meeting spot."

She could accept that. Especially if it meant she could learn all the things she was supposed to know. Maybe then she could feel like a real Guardian, and with Viperion and his power, maybe they would really be able to turn the tide on Hawk Moth… That wasn't even the only thing that was going right for her at the moment. She was supposed to hear back about the Lanvin apprenticeship in the next month or so, and now Luka was here… Things could be good. Things could be really getting good in her life.

Something in her brain, the part she hated most of all, whispered, But isn't that when everything goes wrong?

#in the shadows mlb #alternate universe #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #Nat's Monster In The Box

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