Ehehe, here's the waaaay overdue sick fic you requested... Dx" Forgive me!
--
Priscilla snuffled and buried herself back under the thick covers of the bed, trying to ignore the discomfort of a blocked nose and a throat both parched and sore.
“Ugh.” she grumbled, then burst into another fit of hacking coughs.
“More water, cherie?”
Her husband-turned-nurse stood at the doorway, holding a mug and a damp towel. He set them down on the side table, then helped her up and passed her the mug.
Priscilla obediently took the mug, but wrinkled her nose after one sip of the warm liquid inside. “Dathes funny.” She slurred through congested sinuses.
Francis chuckled. “Nothing strange in it, just water, honey and lemon juice to soothe your throat. Not skin of a toad and eye of a newt."
Reassured, Priscilla continued to swallow a few more mouthfuls before setting it back down. "I hate being shick."
“You’ll be up and about soon enough, cherie, that’s what the doctor said.” Francis patted his wife’s hand soothingly. “In the meantime, just rest.”
Priscilla huffed and flopped back down on the pillows petulantly. “Don’t wanna.”
“...Cherie, even Arabelle is more cooperative than you are.”
“But it’s booooring! There’s nothing to do save tossing and turning on the bed. I’m bored, and you’re not entertaining at all, so I’m not staying in bed anymore.”
Now it was Francis’ turn to huff indignantly. “My job is to nurse you back to health, not to be a stand-up comedian for you. Anyway, it’s time for your medicine now.”
“The medicine id yucky.” Priscilla wrinkled her nose and turned away from the white tablet held out in front of her.
Francis rolled his eyes at his wife’s protest. “Only young children are entitled to say that, and it’s just a tablet. One swallow and it’ll all be over.” He coaxed, then sighed as Priscilla vehemently shook her head.
“I promise it won’t taste that bad, really. Please, Priscilla?”
A stony stare.
“I’ll make you pasta later,” he added as an afterthought.
Priscilla blinked, silently weighing the cost and benefit of this proposal. “W-well...fine,” she relented and accepted the tablet. “But the pasta better be good.” Screwing up her courage, she swallowed the medicine, then grimaced as it slid down her throat. “It’s yuc-”
Her complaint morphed into an abrupt squeak when another far more welcome distraction was put to her. A pair of lips crashed onto hers and Francis wasted no time in letting this progress into an all-out, hands-grabbing, tongues-duelling kiss of pure passion. Whatever other protests that Priscilla might have had were immediately silenced, erased and forgotten.
“Cherie~”
“Mmm, Francis~”
Finally, they pulled apart (far too soon though) and lay on the twisted sheets in companionable silence. After a few moments, it was Francis who first spoke up, propped up on one arm. “Was that entertaining enough for you, cherie?”
Priscilla glared at him out of the corner of her eyes and swatted at him. “You shouldn’t have done that, you fool. Now you’re going to fall sick too.”
The smirk didn’t seem to fade off Francis’ face as he rolled back over onto the bed.
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
A present~
Saturday, 27 October 2012
B - Bedtime Stories
Priscilla poked her head into the room and sighed in mild exasperation when she saw that the little girl was still curled up by the bedside lamp, poring through a colourful edition of Mother Goose.
“Arabelle, I thought I tucked you in for bed just now, why are you up again?”
Arabelle turned her wide, beseeching eyes to her mother. “But Mama, Papa hasn’t told me a bedtime story yet!” And there were those adorable cerulean eyes that could melt even the coldest of hearts, a trick that never failed on her parents.
Priscilla sighed again, more out of resignation than annoyance this time. “Okay, but once the story’s over, you go right back to sleep, alright? It’s way past your bedtime now.”
The little girl nodded earnestly and perched herself expectantly on the head of her bed as Priscilla walked back out of the room to call in her husband.
“Francis? Come over to Arabelle’s bedroom for a moment.”
It didn’t take very long for Francis to turn up at the doorway (this was his little princess, of course). He patted Arabelle’s head affectionately. “What does my little princess want?”
“Arabelle wants you to tell her a bedtime story before she goes to sleep.”
Francis chuckled, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. “I’m no good with bedtime stories, couldn’t you tell her one instead?”
Priscilla gave her husband a pointed look. “You’re the self-proclaimed romantic at heart here, not me.”
Francis crossed his arms defensively and pouted. “Just because I’m a romantic at heart doesn’t mean that I-”
Arabelle took the opportunity to interrupt the squabbling adults by reaching out and tugging on her father’s sleeve pleadingly. “Please, Papa?”
Again those appealing blue orbs came into play, a powerful weapon in the hands of an experienced user. Priscilla reinforced it by adding an I-told-you-so look at her husband too. Faced with a double-whammy, Francis stood no chance.
“...Alright.”
“Yay!” Arabelle clapped her hands together as her mother lifted her into her lap, while her father sat on the edge of the bed and tried his best to recall a bedtime story.
After a few moments of pondering, Francis finally began his storytelling. “Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a- Priscilla, stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you.” Priscilla retorted, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.” Oh yes, that was definitely a snicker he heard.
“You so are.”
“I am no-”
“Could you please continue, Papa?” Arabelle fidgeted impatiently in her mother’s lap.
Francis threw his wife a this-isn’t-over-yet look over their daughter’s head. “Fine.”
Arabelle shook her young head in mock despair, “Parents.”
---
Ehehe, I think your daughter is the most mature one out of you three... xD
“Arabelle, I thought I tucked you in for bed just now, why are you up again?”
Arabelle turned her wide, beseeching eyes to her mother. “But Mama, Papa hasn’t told me a bedtime story yet!” And there were those adorable cerulean eyes that could melt even the coldest of hearts, a trick that never failed on her parents.
Priscilla sighed again, more out of resignation than annoyance this time. “Okay, but once the story’s over, you go right back to sleep, alright? It’s way past your bedtime now.”
The little girl nodded earnestly and perched herself expectantly on the head of her bed as Priscilla walked back out of the room to call in her husband.
“Francis? Come over to Arabelle’s bedroom for a moment.”
It didn’t take very long for Francis to turn up at the doorway (this was his little princess, of course). He patted Arabelle’s head affectionately. “What does my little princess want?”
“Arabelle wants you to tell her a bedtime story before she goes to sleep.”
Francis chuckled, rubbing the back of his head ruefully. “I’m no good with bedtime stories, couldn’t you tell her one instead?”
Priscilla gave her husband a pointed look. “You’re the self-proclaimed romantic at heart here, not me.”
Francis crossed his arms defensively and pouted. “Just because I’m a romantic at heart doesn’t mean that I-”
Arabelle took the opportunity to interrupt the squabbling adults by reaching out and tugging on her father’s sleeve pleadingly. “Please, Papa?”
Again those appealing blue orbs came into play, a powerful weapon in the hands of an experienced user. Priscilla reinforced it by adding an I-told-you-so look at her husband too. Faced with a double-whammy, Francis stood no chance.
“...Alright.”
“Yay!” Arabelle clapped her hands together as her mother lifted her into her lap, while her father sat on the edge of the bed and tried his best to recall a bedtime story.
After a few moments of pondering, Francis finally began his storytelling. “Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a- Priscilla, stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you.” Priscilla retorted, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.” Oh yes, that was definitely a snicker he heard.
“You so are.”
“I am no-”
“Could you please continue, Papa?” Arabelle fidgeted impatiently in her mother’s lap.
Francis threw his wife a this-isn’t-over-yet look over their daughter’s head. “Fine.”
Arabelle shook her young head in mock despair, “Parents.”
---
Ehehe, I think your daughter is the most mature one out of you three... xD
A - Absence (makes the heart grow fonder)
Aaaand THIS is your actual birthday present!! ...which is not-so-fashionably late, I'm so sorry. Introducing...the ABCs of Francilla!! Which is basically a series of drabbles based on random prompts of each alphabet. So sit back, relax and enjoy! (hopefully, if my writing is up to scratch Dx")
---
Francis was sprawled languorously on the hotel bed. The sheets were scratchy and reeked of camphor, sure to cling onto him for days on end. What remained of his sensible, mature mind sternly warned him that if he continued in this undignified position (with his shoes still on, no less), his business suit would never be the same again.
Increasingly, this small, sane voice was sounding more and more like Priscilla, prodding him to brush his teeth, comb his hair, file all the documents in a neat stack etc etc. In short, he owed it to this little voice (or perhaps it was Priscilla?) that his day to day life didn’t implode or anything. Sure, he could always use Facetime or something, but it just wasn’t the same as having her cuddle up to him under the warm covers of their bed or when she complained about how Pierre kept fluttering about the house and annoying the cats.
He missed Priscilla.
Priscilla huffed again as she flopped onto the sofa, just in time for her favourite drama serial and armed with a much-beloved tub of vanilla ice cream. Favourite show and ice cream, what else could she possibly ask for?
(Well, Francis, for one.)
She snuggled up closer to the cushions (a pathetic ersatz for the warmth of Francis’ arms) and reached out for the remote-
The telephone burst into a fit of ringing and Priscilla jerked up, startled. She lunged for the sideboard and swiped the receiver off its stand. “Hello, Priscilla here.”
In a hotel far away, Francis smiled in equal parts fondness and relief. “Cherie. I...” He took a deep inhale, trying to sort out the knotted lump of words and emotions he couldn’t quite discriminate yet. “...I miss you.”
“I miss you too, I guess...”
Francis smiled to himself at how small and quavering his wife’s voice sounded over the phone, almost unwilling to admit that she needed him as much as he needed her.
“Not that it means I’ll put up with you perverted nonsense when you get back.”
Francis’ smile grew wider. This, they both knew, was a lie.
“When are you coming back, anyway?”
He noted the tinge of desperation lurking behind that seemingly offhand question. He didn’t blame Priscilla, Francis felt that he was on the point of spontaneous combustion if he had to wait any longer to get back.
“Half a week more, cherie.” He sighed over the phone, the whoosh of air echoing eerily over the receiver. “How are the cats? And Pierre?”
“Aristotle and Hobbes are fine, although they seem a little sad that they can’t claw your pants off you anymore. Pierre’s alright, except he can’t seem to stop nipping my ear.”
The smile was rapidly replaced by a wry twist of the mouth. “That’s one good thing about business trips, my pants stay intact. And Pierre tends to do that quite often, I think it’s a sign of affection.”
“Affection, huh.”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t really mind if you follow suit and start nibbling on my ear too, though~”
On the other end of the line, Priscilla nearly choked on her last mouthful of ice cream and spluttered ungracefully. She could practically hear that accompanying lascivious wink over the phone. “D-dream on, perv! The only thing you’ll get from me when you return is the laundry!” Priscilla huffed, cheeks burning a bright scarlet.
Another lie.
“We’ll see about that, Priscilla, we’ll see about that.”
“You incorrigible pervert.” Priscilla snapped, then relented. “Look, I gotta put down the phone, my favourite TV show is coming up now.”
A mock sniffle, a dramatised whine. “You care more for a TV show than for me, cherie? You wound me so.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. Why were all men so immature? “Yeah yeah, I’m a heartless ice queen. But really Francis, take care. I can’t wait till you get back.”
“Same here, cherie. Take care too. I miss you...”
Priscilla blushed a deeper shade of red as her heart melted a little.
“...especially in bed.”
The abrupt end of their phone conversation was announced to Francis with a slamming down of the receiver on the other end.
---
Francis was sprawled languorously on the hotel bed. The sheets were scratchy and reeked of camphor, sure to cling onto him for days on end. What remained of his sensible, mature mind sternly warned him that if he continued in this undignified position (with his shoes still on, no less), his business suit would never be the same again.
Increasingly, this small, sane voice was sounding more and more like Priscilla, prodding him to brush his teeth, comb his hair, file all the documents in a neat stack etc etc. In short, he owed it to this little voice (or perhaps it was Priscilla?) that his day to day life didn’t implode or anything. Sure, he could always use Facetime or something, but it just wasn’t the same as having her cuddle up to him under the warm covers of their bed or when she complained about how Pierre kept fluttering about the house and annoying the cats.
He missed Priscilla.
Priscilla huffed again as she flopped onto the sofa, just in time for her favourite drama serial and armed with a much-beloved tub of vanilla ice cream. Favourite show and ice cream, what else could she possibly ask for?
(Well, Francis, for one.)
She snuggled up closer to the cushions (a pathetic ersatz for the warmth of Francis’ arms) and reached out for the remote-
The telephone burst into a fit of ringing and Priscilla jerked up, startled. She lunged for the sideboard and swiped the receiver off its stand. “Hello, Priscilla here.”
In a hotel far away, Francis smiled in equal parts fondness and relief. “Cherie. I...” He took a deep inhale, trying to sort out the knotted lump of words and emotions he couldn’t quite discriminate yet. “...I miss you.”
“I miss you too, I guess...”
Francis smiled to himself at how small and quavering his wife’s voice sounded over the phone, almost unwilling to admit that she needed him as much as he needed her.
“Not that it means I’ll put up with you perverted nonsense when you get back.”
Francis’ smile grew wider. This, they both knew, was a lie.
“When are you coming back, anyway?”
He noted the tinge of desperation lurking behind that seemingly offhand question. He didn’t blame Priscilla, Francis felt that he was on the point of spontaneous combustion if he had to wait any longer to get back.
“Half a week more, cherie.” He sighed over the phone, the whoosh of air echoing eerily over the receiver. “How are the cats? And Pierre?”
“Aristotle and Hobbes are fine, although they seem a little sad that they can’t claw your pants off you anymore. Pierre’s alright, except he can’t seem to stop nipping my ear.”
The smile was rapidly replaced by a wry twist of the mouth. “That’s one good thing about business trips, my pants stay intact. And Pierre tends to do that quite often, I think it’s a sign of affection.”
“Affection, huh.”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t really mind if you follow suit and start nibbling on my ear too, though~”
On the other end of the line, Priscilla nearly choked on her last mouthful of ice cream and spluttered ungracefully. She could practically hear that accompanying lascivious wink over the phone. “D-dream on, perv! The only thing you’ll get from me when you return is the laundry!” Priscilla huffed, cheeks burning a bright scarlet.
Another lie.
“We’ll see about that, Priscilla, we’ll see about that.”
“You incorrigible pervert.” Priscilla snapped, then relented. “Look, I gotta put down the phone, my favourite TV show is coming up now.”
A mock sniffle, a dramatised whine. “You care more for a TV show than for me, cherie? You wound me so.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. Why were all men so immature? “Yeah yeah, I’m a heartless ice queen. But really Francis, take care. I can’t wait till you get back.”
“Same here, cherie. Take care too. I miss you...”
Priscilla blushed a deeper shade of red as her heart melted a little.
“...especially in bed.”
The abrupt end of their phone conversation was announced to Francis with a slamming down of the receiver on the other end.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Colours - Brown
"Hey, school starts next week, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
“There goes the buckets of free time we once had.” Priscilla joked as she slid further down the seat, interlocking her fingers and revelling in a luxurious stretch.
Francis blinked and smiled faintly at her, suddenly struck by how foreign the simple act of smiling seemed to him now. He wasn’t even sure if what he gave was a smile or a grimace. At that thought, he immediately dropped the supposed smile from his face. It wouldn’t do to freak Priscilla out.
“So we’re both going to the same school. Cool, huh?”
Ah, that. They found that out a few bus rides back (Francis finds it both a little amusing and slightly more than a little terrifying that he has now come to measure the passage of time through bus rides, the underlying principle being that they only count if spent in Priscilla’s company) that they were both going to the same school. ‘Going to’ were Priscilla’s words. Francis had prefered ‘stifled in a parcel and booted off to’ instead, although he suspected it was a tad uncharitable on his part.
“Mmm.” Yes, well, as cool as the prospect of dragging himself through piles of soggy assignments and mouldering corridors with no support other than sheer power of will for a handful of months could possibly be.
Then again, there was Priscilla to consider.
Maybe... it would be cool.
"Mm-hmm."
“There goes the buckets of free time we once had.” Priscilla joked as she slid further down the seat, interlocking her fingers and revelling in a luxurious stretch.
Francis blinked and smiled faintly at her, suddenly struck by how foreign the simple act of smiling seemed to him now. He wasn’t even sure if what he gave was a smile or a grimace. At that thought, he immediately dropped the supposed smile from his face. It wouldn’t do to freak Priscilla out.
“So we’re both going to the same school. Cool, huh?”
Ah, that. They found that out a few bus rides back (Francis finds it both a little amusing and slightly more than a little terrifying that he has now come to measure the passage of time through bus rides, the underlying principle being that they only count if spent in Priscilla’s company) that they were both going to the same school. ‘Going to’ were Priscilla’s words. Francis had prefered ‘stifled in a parcel and booted off to’ instead, although he suspected it was a tad uncharitable on his part.
“Mmm.” Yes, well, as cool as the prospect of dragging himself through piles of soggy assignments and mouldering corridors with no support other than sheer power of will for a handful of months could possibly be.
Then again, there was Priscilla to consider.
Maybe... it would be cool.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Colours - Lavender
Francis fiddled absentmindedly with the dog-eared pages of his novel. Normally, he would have been hunched over the paperback and intently poring over every word, but he was somewhat distracted today.
No, not distracted, he was expectant. A shaky burble of excitement had somehow lodged itself in his throat and try as he might, he couldn't get rid it.
'Not when Priscilla's going to board the bus soon,' an amused voice chuckled at the back of his head. Francis scowled at this unneeded intrusion and determinedly glared at his book.
He was not distracted, he was not expectant and he certainly did not smile to himself when he saw the familiar canvas knapsack perched on it's owner's back when the bus trundled to the fifth stop after he boarded. No, he was too busy being fascinated by the novel's dramatic retelling of how medieval artists ground lapis lazuli for ultramarine pigments (he hadn't seen ultramarine before, but he still liked the sound of it).
Yet his heart still gave a little leap when Priscilla slid into the seat next to him with a quiet, "Hey!", slightly out of breath from the run for the bus. "Hey." he muttered back, a quick, shy smile darting across his face.
"What, not sketching in your notebook? What's that book you've got there?" Priscilla poked her head over his shoulder curiously.
"J-just some historical novel." he stumbled, fumbling to shove it back into his rucksack. "About, um, painting."
"Sounds cool! Can I take a look?"
And as always, Francis found himself unable to deny her request.
After she has silently flipped through a few battered pages, she closed it again and handed it back to him. "I think it's pretty good, actually."
Francis turned slightly pink as he crammed the book back into his bag. "I'm glad you do." A slight breath of happiness, of relief.
He shouldn't have been seized by a sudden, terrifying urge to close the last fraction of an inch and link their pinkies together.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Colours - Orange
Pairing: Slightly-awkward-and-lonely!Francis x Kind-of-a-Passerby!Priscilla :P
---
He can only remember that day as the day colours finally returned to him.
It wasn't a vibrant rainbow streaking across his sky, or a vivid explosion of distilled visuals midair, nothing so dramatic. The colours had slowly trickled back into his life, one at a time.
He can only remember that day as the day colours finally returned to him.
It wasn't a vibrant rainbow streaking across his sky, or a vivid explosion of distilled visuals midair, nothing so dramatic. The colours had slowly trickled back into his life, one at a time.
The memory is slightly hazy now, turning sepia at the edges where time has leached out the colours, but he remembers being wedged on a seat on the rickety bus, painstakingly writing on his time-battered notebook (the one that Arthur had told him to just throw it out with the rest of your junk you bloody blockhead it's falling apart already but somehow he never got round to doing it) with smudges and accidental smears when he was nearly thrown from the seat each time the bus shuddered to a halt.
Scattered across the crinkled pages were sketches and scribbles, snapshots of the life whirling around him. There, the tiny lavender old lady with the nose that never stopped twitching, rendered with light, feathery strokes of graphite. The little squalling baby with his fever-red face twisted into a grimace as he clung onto his mother's shoulder framed with harsh lines of ink.
A spidery scrawl that, if he squinted hard enough and tilted his head at just the right angle, read 'GET MORE PENCILS'. A hand here, a shoe there, disembodied limbs hastily thrown together or painstakingly limned, all sprawled across the old, yellowed paper.
When he closed his eyes, ribbons of fantastic dream-colours would swirl and dance beneath his eyelids and slowly congeal to form tangible shapes (a coat, a person, a city, masterpieces full of life) but when he opened them again, they would be (whywhywhywhywhy) once again be black and age-spotted yellow.
It wasn't that his drawings were bad, per se (no, his family friends teachers all said he was good, maybe even talented) but he could never colour in a single one of his drawings.
The bus spasmed again as it coughed out another plume of black smoke. People shuffled on and off. His pen nib continued to hesitate and his fingers loosened a fraction-
The bus groaned and lurched forward once more. Caught by surprise, his pen was wrenched from his hand and skittered across the floor.
He cursed and leaned out of his seat, desperately trying to find his pen, only to see it...
...reappear right in front of him.
"Is this yours?" The girl held her palm outright, his pen nestled safely there.
He stared at the floor and nodded with a muttered 'Thank you.'
"You're welcome."
Another nod.
"Hey, do you mind if I sit next to you?"
He was about to nod again, before he realised that no, he would not mind her sitting next to him in the least, so he shook his head firmly this time.
"Great!"
And there they sat, side by side in awkward silence for the next few stops, until his notebook caught her eye.
"Are those your drawings?" He nodded mutely again.
"You...you draw very well." She said quietly, a bashful smile playing on her lips.
"Can't colour." He mumbled back, drawing forlorn rectangles and shading them pitch-black.
"W-well, you can if you try. Everyone can colour if they try!" She turned around and rummaged about in her knapsack before pulling out a box of colour pencils. "I'll show you, it isn't very hard at all!"
He wasn't very sure why he was so intrigued by this sentence even though he had heard it countless times before, but he willingly handed his notebook over, staring in awe and wonder as he watched the colours slowly flow from her hand and swirl about to fill up the hungry spaces.
"So you see, you just pick whatever colour you want...I think orange would be quite nice here, what do you think? No problem? Okay then, orange it is. So you just colour it in like this...and then you slowly add in the darker shades of orange for the shadowed parts...and you use different strokes for different textures...and then you're done!"
She triumphantly lifted her pencil and returned the notebook to him, him still wide-eyed and transfixed by the alien daub of colour sitting so impudently amongst the monochrome pages. She couldn't help but smile at his amazement by the simple piece of colour, and he could't help but feel a little awestruck by the person sitting next to him for performing such magic with a simple wave of the hand.
The spell was finally broken when the bus ground to another halt again. "Oh, I have to get off now, see you!" She slung her knapsack back over her shoulders and hesitated for another moment. "I'm Priscilla, by the way." She added, almost as an afterthought.
"Francis." He blinked, momentarily stunned, and in that space of a blink, Priscilla had disappeared again. But when he looked down, the colours were still there with him.
That was when he finally found the name for the little flutter in his chest when Priscilla first smiled at him. Orange.
---
Ehehe, we're done! But maybe not quite done! Would you like me to continue? :3 (Also, I think Francis seems like he has a little bit of synesthesia in this fic. xP)
Scattered across the crinkled pages were sketches and scribbles, snapshots of the life whirling around him. There, the tiny lavender old lady with the nose that never stopped twitching, rendered with light, feathery strokes of graphite. The little squalling baby with his fever-red face twisted into a grimace as he clung onto his mother's shoulder framed with harsh lines of ink.
A spidery scrawl that, if he squinted hard enough and tilted his head at just the right angle, read 'GET MORE PENCILS'. A hand here, a shoe there, disembodied limbs hastily thrown together or painstakingly limned, all sprawled across the old, yellowed paper.
When he closed his eyes, ribbons of fantastic dream-colours would swirl and dance beneath his eyelids and slowly congeal to form tangible shapes (a coat, a person, a city, masterpieces full of life) but when he opened them again, they would be (whywhywhywhywhy) once again be black and age-spotted yellow.
It wasn't that his drawings were bad, per se (no, his family friends teachers all said he was good, maybe even talented) but he could never colour in a single one of his drawings.
(He was going to scream.)
The bus spasmed again as it coughed out another plume of black smoke. People shuffled on and off. His pen nib continued to hesitate and his fingers loosened a fraction-
The bus groaned and lurched forward once more. Caught by surprise, his pen was wrenched from his hand and skittered across the floor.
He cursed and leaned out of his seat, desperately trying to find his pen, only to see it...
...reappear right in front of him.
"Is this yours?" The girl held her palm outright, his pen nestled safely there.
He stared at the floor and nodded with a muttered 'Thank you.'
"You're welcome."
Another nod.
"Hey, do you mind if I sit next to you?"
He was about to nod again, before he realised that no, he would not mind her sitting next to him in the least, so he shook his head firmly this time.
"Great!"
And there they sat, side by side in awkward silence for the next few stops, until his notebook caught her eye.
"Are those your drawings?" He nodded mutely again.
"You...you draw very well." She said quietly, a bashful smile playing on her lips.
"Can't colour." He mumbled back, drawing forlorn rectangles and shading them pitch-black.
"W-well, you can if you try. Everyone can colour if they try!" She turned around and rummaged about in her knapsack before pulling out a box of colour pencils. "I'll show you, it isn't very hard at all!"
He wasn't very sure why he was so intrigued by this sentence even though he had heard it countless times before, but he willingly handed his notebook over, staring in awe and wonder as he watched the colours slowly flow from her hand and swirl about to fill up the hungry spaces.
"So you see, you just pick whatever colour you want...I think orange would be quite nice here, what do you think? No problem? Okay then, orange it is. So you just colour it in like this...and then you slowly add in the darker shades of orange for the shadowed parts...and you use different strokes for different textures...and then you're done!"
She triumphantly lifted her pencil and returned the notebook to him, him still wide-eyed and transfixed by the alien daub of colour sitting so impudently amongst the monochrome pages. She couldn't help but smile at his amazement by the simple piece of colour, and he could't help but feel a little awestruck by the person sitting next to him for performing such magic with a simple wave of the hand.
The spell was finally broken when the bus ground to another halt again. "Oh, I have to get off now, see you!" She slung her knapsack back over her shoulders and hesitated for another moment. "I'm Priscilla, by the way." She added, almost as an afterthought.
"Francis." He blinked, momentarily stunned, and in that space of a blink, Priscilla had disappeared again. But when he looked down, the colours were still there with him.
That was when he finally found the name for the little flutter in his chest when Priscilla first smiled at him. Orange.
---
Ehehe, we're done! But maybe not quite done! Would you like me to continue? :3 (Also, I think Francis seems like he has a little bit of synesthesia in this fic. xP)
Friday, 5 October 2012
Persuasive has failed in a challenge!
"So frog, I assume that I won the bet."
Francis would have scowled at the smug smirk on Arthur's face if his cheek wasn't still stinging from the slap. "I didn't expect it to be this hard." He grumbled.
Convincing Priscilla to wear lacy garters (and only lacy garters) probably required a lot more persuasiveness on his part.
Francis would have scowled at the smug smirk on Arthur's face if his cheek wasn't still stinging from the slap. "I didn't expect it to be this hard." He grumbled.
Convincing Priscilla to wear lacy garters (and only lacy garters) probably required a lot more persuasiveness on his part.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
FOUR can play at that game >D
Pairing: Francilla. Of course. And a leeeetle bit of PruLiech mwahahaha.
AU: Fallen London >D
---
Try as Francis might, he couldn't precisely pinpoint how a decorous waltz in the grand ballroom wound up with him and his love...doing this in a small enclave some way off from the main party. At least the dusty velvet draperies muffled their noises from the unsuspecting maid or butler.
Dark hair escaping from the jewelled pins in stray tendrils to frame her face in a nebulous cloud. The kingfisher blue sleeve nearly torn off, exposing a bare shoulder for his viewing.
'I like this sight.' Francis decided. 'We should do this more often.'
And despite the hot blush spreading across her face, Priscilla didn't seem like she objected to this either. "Just...just get on with it, would you?" she muttered through gritted teeth.
An indulgent smile appeared on Francis' face, although it didn't quite hide the feral glimmer in his indigo eyes. "But of course, my sweet," he purred, before ravishing her lips with another kiss.
A petite green-eyed girl glanced momentarily at the heavy velvet curtains, then subtly guided her albino escort away with a knowing, sphinx-like smile.
AU: Fallen London >D
---
Try as Francis might, he couldn't precisely pinpoint how a decorous waltz in the grand ballroom wound up with him and his love...doing this in a small enclave some way off from the main party. At least the dusty velvet draperies muffled their noises from the unsuspecting maid or butler.
Dark hair escaping from the jewelled pins in stray tendrils to frame her face in a nebulous cloud. The kingfisher blue sleeve nearly torn off, exposing a bare shoulder for his viewing.
'I like this sight.' Francis decided. 'We should do this more often.'
And despite the hot blush spreading across her face, Priscilla didn't seem like she objected to this either. "Just...just get on with it, would you?" she muttered through gritted teeth.
An indulgent smile appeared on Francis' face, although it didn't quite hide the feral glimmer in his indigo eyes. "But of course, my sweet," he purred, before ravishing her lips with another kiss.
A petite green-eyed girl glanced momentarily at the heavy velvet curtains, then subtly guided her albino escort away with a knowing, sphinx-like smile.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Cat says hi :D
Here is Cat for you to pat while I'm away~ (: Yes, I'm sorry, but away doesn't rhyme with pat or cat. Blame Iggy for that. :C
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