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Her eyes beg for a reprieve, to give in to the weight of her eyelids for five minutes.
The arm stuck stubbornly underneath her chin falters as her chin slides off by the smallest of measurements, but she snaps her head back up and debates the effectiveness of pinching on sleep depravity.
A bright sploche of red blooms over the patch of skin where her hand had applied pressure, unnoticed.
She can hold her neck up for exactly fifteen seconds before she needs a support system again and reluctantly obliges.
Everytime her eyes begin to slip close for the umpteenth time this hour alone, a depressing mydrid of crumpled sketches, marked through with black ink like a child found a marker, flashes on her eyelids.
(As far as she's concerned, her sketches might as well been designed by a child the amount of coordination and flat-out talented they portrayed).
Every writer is familiar with the dreaded writers block, but our hero suffers from a massive case of fashion block, commonly found in aspiring designers.
Thank God above for Alya, who pokes her in the ribs anytime she notices Marinette slipping away; Marinette would be drooling all over her desk and achieve the maximum epitome of embarrassment by now if not for vigilant Alya.
And whatever the opposite of thank you to her thermos of coffee, which has done nothing to reverse the effects of only three hours of sleep, despite what she was promised.
If she ever infiltrates the fashion scene, her advice to her adoring fans would be that an all night brainstorming session does not cure a lack of inspiration.
And that bags underneath your eyes are anything but couture.
Louez le bon dieu ci-dessus plays on an endless loop in Marinette's mind as they were dismissed to lunch. Only three more hours of this hell left.
As it would seem, Alya was not the only to observe the 34 oz. of caffeine on hand Marinette carried and the look that threatened to kill if you got to close.
Adrien almost had to do a double take when he glanced back, not expecting to see Marinette swimming in an oversized sweatshirt and red rimmed eyes.
He hangs to back off the pack, stalling as she packed her things in no big hurry.
She yawned as she passed and Adrien was suddenly struck with the way her freckles stood out in stark contrast to the paleness.
"Hey, what's wrong, Marinette?" Adrien inquiried as the class stampeded out the door to the one hour teacher supervision was at a minimum and the volume level was at maximum.
"I'm stuck in a inspirationless void," Marinette deadpanned, massaging her temple with a free hand.
Usually, she would be a bumbling mess by now, unable to attune her thoughts with what was coming out her mouth. Yet she found it easier to fall into step with the model now that herimf was focused on only one goal; sleep.
"I guess it was unaVOIDable," Adrien smirked, hoping for at least a small smile from the downtrodden girl.
Marinette was suddenly wide awake(well, as much as possible).
That voice...
That smirk...
The questionable humor in the form of pun
Her hearbeat echoed in her ears, daring her to say it, to link this whole mess together like a game of hardcore Clue .
"Chat Noir?"
"Shit"