#aglow raise her head and things get warm hold on to its leg before it flies away sunlit walks i feel no harm my primitive words match my

[wastedyouth-wasteddreams]

Part 4

Standing at the door of her apartment, he could feel sweat fusing his shirt to the top of his pecs.

 *there's someone I want you to meet*

He thought about what she had said, and practiced introducing himself 

"Hey, I'm Vik, the Ripperdoc" he murmered under his breath, feeling both ridiculous and lacklustre.

He wasn't used to being flustered and he didn't know how to hide it. Last time he had been here, he had a bag full of supplies, this time just a lump in his throat.

In his clinic today, she was so excited. She threw her arms around his neck. She gave him the same kiss she gave him on his birthday. Deliberately placed, with parted lips, and she let her mouth linger for a second, close enough electricity could be be felt between the two of them.

She was playful, and perky and asked him to come over after work. He had accepted of course, but then she said it.

"Preem! There's someone I really want you to meet"

His throat felt hollow, and his stomach took the form of an elevator with the cables cut.

He had tried to get out of it. After she had left he called her on the holo and told her he was working late. He wasn't lying, he worked very late tonight. He booked 2 extra appointments just to make sure he did. 

Then she broke him a little more 

"No problem Vik, he's staying here anyhow, just come by when you're done?"

And before he could weasel his way out of it, she pulled her move. The move that always gets her what she wants.

"You're the best Vik, you never let me down"

Yes. He was a fool for her. And what an old fool he was. The kiss, the present, the wondering fingers. It was all on his birthday, and she was being herself. She was covered head to toe in chrome, and he was a Ripperdoc. He was business with a side of friendship, not romance. And tonight he would be meeting someone who could sweep her off her feet, someone young. Someone who would take her for dinner, kiss her as she woke, be passionate with her, and all the other things he wanted to do for her. All the things he knew he couldn't give her. 

He raised a hand and adjusted his glasses before placing his forehead snuggly between his fingers and thumb, massaging out an imaginary headache through sulking eyebrows.

Before he left he made sure to shower and change into his spare work clothes, if he was to meet this guy, he was going to make sure he made some kind of impression.

He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back, exposing his broad ex boxer physique to anyone who saw him. He lifted his chin and swallowed, attempting to push down the ball of heavy emptiness that had grown around his Adams apple.

He lifted his hand to knock and noticed the tremble from his forearm to fingers, once again reminding him of the walls between him and the girl behind the door.

Her door opened and she lifted a finger to her lips

"He's sleeping, and he looks like an angel" she hushed and ushered him in to her apartment. The room was dark, with only the light from the bathroom and the city outside her window to illuminate. He had seen her like this before, dropping off essential med supplies. Well, bandages and antiseptic creams that he insisted she needed after seeing how clumsy she was. He had kept this image in his head since then. Small lose shorts clutching the the top of her ass and thighs, just covered by a baggy singlet that was obviously not created to hug her physique like her day wear. The arm hole of her cut off top hung down just past the bottom of her breast, allowing his gaze to trace the curves and shadows.

"Sleeping?" Vik asked, his eyes parting from her only momentarily to see if he could catch a glimpse of someone on the bed.

"I can come back another time, Kid. I know its late"

She closed the door behind him, seeming to ignore his proposition, instead remarking on his fresh clothes.

"Why don't you smell like the shop?"

"Well, you said I was meeting someone special. Can't turn up in grease and sweat can I now?" He whispered back, fully aware of the irony after pulling his shirt from his near sodden chest.

"Come on" she grasped his hand and pulled him toward the bed. This is not what he imagined at night alone when he thought of her pulling him to her bed.

"Look!" She squeed under hushed breath.

Vik looked at an empty bed. He was relieved, but so very confused. A lump in the covers suddenly stretched up and tiny claws popped up next to it. She perched on the edge of the bed with a huge happy grin.

"Purrrowl" he heard as a feline head popped up above the covers.

"Nibbles, this is Vik. Vik, Nibbles"

It was a cat. She wanted him to meet a cat. A smirk began to grow on one side of his face, and he let out  what felt the entirety of his lungs in a single sigh.

He looked over to her and she patted the bed at him.

"I just knew you would love him!" Her wide eyes fell soft as he nodded in agreement, finally allowing his half smirk to erupt into a full smile.

He sat down next to her, softly rocking his head from side to side but still grinning wide.

"I didn't realise it was cat" he said without thinking.

"It was a surprise" she cheerily declared, cheeks flush and highlighted with a warm tingle. 

"That it fucking was" he stretched the length of his muscled torso across the middle of the bed leaning on his elbow, and reached out his other hand to let the waking feline sniff at him.

Nibbles let out a loud snorting purr, and pushed his nose against Viks hand. 

She heard a crack as vik leaned over and looked toward his shoulder for the offending joint, but got distracted by his...well, she actually just got distracted by him. He was peering over his glasses at the cat that was blinking his eyes slowly to the human roughly man handling his head. He looked content right now. The neon lights reflecting from his lenses. His shirt sleaves rolled up and clung around his biceps, threatening to rip at the seams if he so much as sneezed, there was a glisten below his neck defining his chest hair. his stethoscope and trauma team holster were missing, and his boxing glove was swinging just under his clavicle. He eyes glanced to her, slowly landing on her neck and following to her breasts. His groin stirred as he began noticing how both her nipples were stretching out the cotton of her shirt. He had to force his eyes back to hers just in time to catch her eyes Sparkle.

"Who did you think you were going to meet?" She asked as she lay down in front of them both, reaching a finger under Nibbles chin for a little scratch.

Pulling in a breath to answer, all he got out was a growling "mmmm" and he watched her rearrange herself.

She pushed out her chest as she breathed in, attempting to lure his gaze once again. Her right arm stretched out as her body lowered to the bed. She pulled her left elbow back tracing her finger tips across the top of her thigh as her left leg slowly swung to brush his leg with her knee, he watched her hips lift and round toward him, asking him a question he desperately wished to answer.

"Vik?" Her finger wrapped around the leather of his necklace. She dragged it toward her softly and slightly tugged twice trying to exploit a response.

"A guy" he looked at Nibbles in coy quandry. "Like that pretty slackjaw who gave you his card in the clinic maybe". He stroked the soft belly that nibbles had now stretched to expose.

"I think I prefer this guy though. Don't have to compete for your attention with him". 

An effervescence erupted from her her diaphragm, slowly raising between her breasts, and finally settling as a blanket of electricity on her cheeks.

"I like that" she shrugged, her face aglow. She allowed her fingertips to stroke over his sternum, and watched how his skin reacted to her touch. She ran her finger nails up his neck and back down to the collar of his shirt. 

He slowly blinked, allowing his body to feel every part of his skin that was being touched.

A small knee wrapped over his, and a contented short moan left her trembling lips.

"V." He wrapped his fingers around her hand, delicate and slightly shaking with building excitement. 

Her touch, it made his head swell at the best of times, but here, like this. Her body showing off its curves. He didn't know how much he could take, and he didn't want to do something to potentially jeopardise her friendship. 

Nibbles, having been disrupted by the sudden movement, leapt over viks legs and took up a bath on the nearby couch.

Vik lifted her hand to his face holding the tips of her fingers between his thumb and finger.

"I don't want to step out of line. And when you touch me like that..." he felt his pants getting tight as his dick started to make the point for him. 

"Do you want me to stop?" She had edged herself a little closer peering over his glasses into his amazingly blue eyes as they drew up to hers.

"Well that's the problem kid. I'm worried I'm gonna want more" as he kissed her knuckles, he hears her whisper.

"Me too"

[fanfoolishness]

five denials and a truth (The Mandalorian)

Written for @fake-starwars-fan, who suggested this idea.  Five times Din Djarin denies he is a father, and one time he doesn’t.  Canon-compliant, spoilers for seasons 1 and 2, and gets angsty as hell. I’m so sorry, Din.  Featuring Din, Grogu, Omera, the Armorer, Peli Motto, Ahsoka Tano, Boba Fett, and Cara Dune.  3800 words.

***

i.

The sun fell beneath the crowns of the trees, leaving them awash in blues and golds, and the insects sang their chorus in the growing shadows.  Din Djarin sat at the edge of the fire, watching the child play with the other children.  Wariness hummed in the back of his mind, long years of training deeply entrenched despite the seeming peace of Sorgan.  Still, though, it was hard to remain battle-ready here, as the children laughed and played their silly games.

Omera sat on the log beside him, waving a hand to her daughter.  The girl took off eagerly to join the others.  Pinpoint flashes of light sparkled around the children as they played, the evening lightning-beetles taking wing.

“The children love your son,” she said, turning back to Din, her eyes aglow in the firelight.  “I’ve never seen a youngling like him, but they’ve truly taken to him.  My daughter’s quite envious of his frog-catching skills.”  She chuckled, voice sweet and warm.

“He’s not my son,” said Din in polite, careful tones.  He shifted slightly on the log.

Omera tilted her head.  He found her direct eye contact discomfiting, but he did not look away.  “Because he isn’t human?”

He shook his head slightly.  “No.  That has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what?  I see the way you watch out for him.  You’re watching him now, making sure he isn’t getting into trouble,” she said lightly.  “Every parent does it.”

“There are terrible people after him,” said Din, feeling uneasy in a way he couldn’t pin down.  Imps, bounty hunters, who knew what else?  The less said about it, the better.  “I’m just trying to protect him until I can find a safe place for him, that’s all.”

She arched an eyebrow as the child toddled over to them, holding a squirming lightning-beetle in his small hands, its green-gold light pulsing between his fingertips.  “Looks like he has something to show you.”

Din bent down, reaching out to take the child’s hands.  “You, uh, you caught this?” he asked gruffly.  “Huh.”  He’d seen the other children trying to do the same and failing, the agile beetles getting the better of them.  Despite himself, he was impressed.  

“Good for you.  Just don’t  -- no!  Drop it!”  He pulled the squirming beetle out of the child’s mouth and tossed it aside, watching it flash up into the sky.  The child looked at him with big eyes, ears sinking down to his shoulders.

“Oh, they’re perfectly safe to eat,” said Omera, laughing.  “We eat them now and then if things are lean.”

“Oh,” said Din.  He felt his mouth form into a smile, a reflexive action beneath the helmet.  “Uh, sorry,” he said to the child.  “Maybe next time.”

The child took another step forward, then leaned against Din’s leg, small arms curling around his shin.  Then he was off again, toddling back to the children and the waiting lightning-beetles.

“If you aren’t his father,” asked Omera, “what’s stopping you?”  She gazed at him, her face kind, her eyes questioning.  

“I’m not what he needs,” Din said.  He turned away from her, staring off into the forest, where the bandits waited.  “That’s all.”

***

ii.

The Armorer watched Din Djarin carefully, grateful that another member of the Tribe had survived.  Of course, he and his actions were the reason so many had fallen, but the Creed was unflinchingly clear.  Death in the service of protecting another Mandalorian or a foundling was the noblest end to a warrior’s life.  The price had been paid, and paid again, and she bore him no anger for it.

She asked to see the child, to see the one whose protection had merited the fragmentation and destruction of the Tribe.  The creature stared up at her, clearly tired and frail, but its eyes held a spirit she understood.  This one had seen suffering.  It was always written in the eyes of those who did not hide their faces.

She saw, too, the way Djarin angled himself toward the child.  She had heard of how he had protected it, blaster, body and beskar, against the storm that drove him from the planet.  And she remembered the tale of the enemy that had helped him defeat the mudhorn.  She began to understand.

She explained to Djarin what he must do, what the Creed demanded.  No matter that the child was linked to the Jedi, nor that Djarin knew not where to find them.  He was a resourceful man.  She had faith that he would fulfill the Creed.

The others pressed him to leave, their urgency clear.  The Imperials were coming, as they had come upon them before in the night, and she understood their fear.  They knew not the Way of the Mandalore, the honor of a warrior’s death.

Djarin dissented.  “I’m staying.  I need to help her, and I need to heal.”

His desire to assist was welcome, but she knew that this was not his path.  His path was clear. It lay in the child’s wide eyes, in his small hands, in the way Djarin spoke of the foundling with a measured distance she knew he did not keep.  The truth could not be hidden.  A Mandalorian could fool an outsider, but she was the Armorer, and the depth of his feelings toward the child was laid bare in voice and stance.

“You must go,” she said firmly.  “A foundling is in your care.  By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

You already are, she wished to say, but she did not.  He was not ready.  Not yet.  Denial showed plain in the set of his shoulders.

“This is the Way,” she said instead, voice brisk.  “You have earned your Signet.”  Her hands were swift and precise upon his pauldron, affixing the gleaming mudhorn to its rightful place.  

There it was, the emotion she knew lay deep within him.  “Thank you,” he said, and she saw the warrior’s heart within him gentled, humbled, made vulnerable.  “I will wear it with honor.”  

There were certain truths she had long known.  The best warriors did not harden their hearts.  Too hard, and they found their deaths too quickly, the potential glory of their sacrifice fading into a meaningless waste.  Yet those that succumbed to the pain of the world could be too soft, losing the will to fight and turning to the follies of pacifism.  

The finest warriors, the truest, walked wounded through the world.  It was their battles that burned brightest in the minds of their people, their struggles that most honored the Way of the Mandalore.  

She watched Djarin and the child leave with the others, and she waited, her hammer at the ready.  She would protect the beskar and buy time for those of her Tribe to escape.  She knew she would not fall this day.  

Beneath her helmet, she smiled.  For she believed Clan Mudhorn would earn their place in legend.

***

iii.

Din returned to Peli Motto’s shop, laden with supplies from the market.  Ammunition, food and water for himself and the kid, a few more packs of bacta patches.  Wouldn’t do to head out into the deep desert unprepared, and he wasn’t sure this mining town Peli was talking about really still existed.  He unloaded the supplies onto the ramp into the Crest, and turned to look for the kid.  He’s fine, he reminded himself, but he still hated how hard it was to leave the kid sometimes, how he always felt like something was missing when the kid wasn’t in his sight.

As expected, Peli was in her office, the kid in her lap.  She was having an animated discussion with him, judging by the way his ears quivered.  As Din drew near he picked up some of their conversation.

“So there I was, fighting an infestation of womp rats the size of banthas, and this no-good nerfherder shows up wanting to know why his ship’s not ready.  I tried telling him the droids were overrun and that I’d already busted one blaster trying to shoot the damn things, and he had the nerve to -- Mando!  Back from the market, huh?” Peli asked, looking up at him.  

The kid let out an excited squeal and reached towards him.  Reluctantly, Peli lifted him up, and Din took him into his arms.  The kid settled down in the crook of his elbow like he’d been there all his life, and Din finally relaxed.

“Not the best selection I’ve ever seen, but I got what we needed,” he said.  “Thanks for watching the kid.  He’s gotten me into trouble with more than one vendor.  Sticky fingers.”  And having the ability to move things with his mind, while impressive, wasn’t exactly a good recipe when combined with a youngling who was hungry all the time.  Din tilted his helmet down to look at the kid, his mouth tugging invisibly into a grin beneath the beskar.

“This angel?” Peli scoffed.  “I don’t believe it.”  Din simply looked at her, and she relented, “Okay, okay, he ate half my lunch when I wasn’t looking, and tried to eat a sand roach when I was.  I get your point.”

“I told you to be good for Peli,” scolded Din.  The kid let out a small, sad burble, and he sighed.  “I know, I know.  You didn’t mean it.”  He reached up, fingers cuffing gently against the kid’s cheek.

“You guys should do more business on Tatooine,” said Peli, leaning back in her chair and taking a long drink of caf.  “Always a pleasure.  It warms my sandblasted heart, seeing you two.”

Din nearly choked.  “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean!” she said, waving her hands.  “Mos Eisley’s got some pretty nasty dealings in the back alleys.  Orphaned younglings, drunks, slavers looking for easy marks…   It’s just nice to see a dad actually taking care of his kid for once.”

Din was still.  The kid grabbed his thumb with one small hand, holding it tight, and reflexively he curled his hand closer to the little one.  He didn’t speak.

Peli raised her brows, looking concerned.  “Did I say something wrong?”

“I…”  He swallowed.  “I’m not his father.”

“Well, I don’t know what exactly you look like under that armor, but no shit, Mando,” she said.  “But dads aren’t just a blood thing.  I thought -- I mean, the way you take care of him, and all.  You’d do anything for this kid, or I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I would,” he said slowly.  “Do anything for him.”  The kid brushed his hand against his cuirass, his claws making tiny ting noises against the beskar.  

“But you’re not his dad.”

If you aren’t his father, what’s stopping you?

You are as its father.

“He’s a foundling,” said Din, and he fought to keep his voice steady.  “I would die for him.  This is the Way.”

Peli held out her hands skeptically, face shifting into clear confusion.  “And again, you’re not his dad?  I’m not getting the distinction here.”

He looked down at the kid, whose ears quivered with curiosity, his mouth slightly open as if asking a question.  

Red robes, blaster fire, the smell of smoke, the sound of screams --

Until it is reunited with its own kind --

“It’s complicated,” he said, turning away from her.  “Thanks again for watching him.  We’d better get a move on before it starts getting dark.”  

He headed back out toward the ship and the speeder, her indignant voice following him.  “It’s noon, but whatever you say, Mando!”

***

iv.

Mist lay heavy in the secluded forest, muffling the sounds of the grazing beasts in the distance, the township far away.  Din stared out at the falling darkness, his stomach twisting.  It was nearly time.  Time to fulfill his quest, to deliver the child.

Time to say goodbye to Grogu.

His feet felt heavy, so heavy, though the distance to the little sleeping area from the hold was only a few steps away.  He stood in the doorway, watching the child sleep in the small hammock.  He’d picked up the cloth in a small market on a forgotten world.  He remembered asking the shopkeeper if it was soft enough for a youngling, remembered taking his glove off to make sure the fabric wasn’t itchy.  He remembered the kid -- Grogu -- cooing to himself that first night in the hammock, remembered how well the kid had slept.  

He remembered how he’d laid awake half the night, missing the kid curled up on his chest.

Din raised his hands.  They trembled.  

This is what I came to do.  This is for him.

“Wake up, buddy,” he said, voice breaking.  “It’s time to say goodbye.”  He reached a hand into the hammock, brushing against Grogu’s chest.  The kid made a small, sleepy sigh, a sigh he’d heard dozens, hundreds of times now, a sigh that had become as familiar and homey as the engine’s hum.  He lifted him carefully out of the hammock, but Grogu just yawned, smacking his lips, and closed his eyes again.

Din sat down, leaning against the wall with Grogu on his knee.  He looked at him.  Really looked, though his vision blurred.  I have… I have to remember.    

He drank in the sight of those long, delicate ears, soft with thin white fuzz on the edges, the inner skin shell-pink rimmed with mossy green.  He memorized the curious ridges and bumps on his forehead, between his eyes, remembering how they crinkled when the kid was happy and flattened when the kid was being obstinate.  He looked at the mouth that had eaten a horrifying number of frogs and spiders, and nearly laughed despite himself.

Grogu’s hand twitched, curling over Din’s fingertip.  Din shifted his thumb to cover the back of his small hand, and the kid blinked sleepy eyes at him.  Those eyes, so wide, so curious, so expressive.  He would never forget them.  

“You’re gonna love being a Jedi,” Din whispered.  “You’ll learn how to use your powers.  You’ll get even stronger.  You’ll see.”  You won’t need me.

Grogu’s weight on his knee was so light.  

Funny, then, that Din felt so crushed.  

He bowed over the kid, arms curling around his small body.  Grogu leaned into him, and Din held him, and he told himself that it was time.

He was never sure, looking back, how he piloted the ship safely back to the town and landed it without a hitch.  He only remembered walking down the ramp, seeing the Jedi Ahsoka waiting for them, and going cold, cold, cold.

They regarded each other for a moment.  The Jedi’s eyes were sad and distant.  She gazed down at Grogu, nestled in Din’s arms.  

“You’re like a father to him,” she said finally.  “I cannot train him.”

His legs felt fuzzy and weak.  He straightened up, forcing himself to stand firm.  He had to try again, for the kid’s sake.  “You made me a promise, and I held up my end,” he accused.

The Jedi spoke.  Part of him held onto her words, kept them safe, directions to a planet, another option to find more Jedi.  He could do this.

The other part of him was dizzy, punchdrunk, even as he held the kid safely in his arms.  You’re like a father to him echoed, and somehow the words struck deeper than they ever had before.  He ached with them, ached for them to be real -- weren’t Jedi supposed to be noble?  Weren’t they supposed to tell the truth?

But he knew he couldn’t be that lucky.  

He thanked her politely for the information, and set a course for Tython.

***    

v.      

“We’re coming up on Nevarro,” came Fett’s voice in his ear, and Din jerked awake.

It took him a moment to get his bearings.  This wasn’t the Crest.  This was Slave I.  This was Boba Fett.  Fennec Shand was down below.  And Grogu was… gone.

His head reeled. Gone.  Not safe in the arms of a Jedi, no future secured and sheltered.  He’d been stolen, been lost.  Under his watch.

“You still asleep?” Fett asked, glancing back.  His helmet rested beside him, half-cleaned of its scorch marks and scars.  Fett had been busy while he was sleeping.

“No,” said Din, trying to clear his head.  He lapsed into silence.

“It’s a fair plan,” said Fett.  “I hope it works.  For the sake of the child.”

“You didn’t have to --” Din started.  They’d been through this already, though, and he knew it would be insulting to keep up his protests.  “I’m… grateful for the help.  Thank you.”

Fett shrugged. “We tracked you for a while, you know.  Before Tython.”

Din stared straight ahead.  He didn’t care about that.  But he realized in the waiting quiet that Fett expected an answer.  “I didn’t know.”  

There; the man should take it as a compliment.  Din knew he wasn’t easy to track.

“I saw how you were with the child.”  Fett’s scarred face was thoughtful.  There was something complicated there behind the older man’s eyes, but Din couldn’t read it, unsettled and numb as he was.

“I was to return him to the Jedi,” Din forced out.  “I failed him.”

“You took care of him,” Fett pointed out.  “I saw it.  That’s not nothing.”  

“He was a foundling,” he said mechanically.  “Any Mandalorian would have done the same.  The Creed demands --”

Fett sighed.  “You can keep your Creed.”  The words still sounded so wrong -- to view the Creed as a myth, it was sacrilege.  Still, though, he’d seen the chain code, and he knew Fett’s claim was valid.

Din watched the other man cautiously, but was taken aback by the next words Fett spoke.  “You were a father to him.  That much was clear.”

Din chuckled, a brittle, awful sound.  It hurt his throat.  “People keep telling me that.”

“Are they wrong?”

He thought of Grogu taken, held captive by droids’ arms harsh and cold.  He thought of him in a cell, thought of tests and needles and experiments, thought of the little youngling toddling after him and laughing sweetly about cookies.  He thought of standing there helplessly on the rocky slopes of Tython, watching the world end.

He was grateful, not for the first time, for the helmet shielding his face.  “Does it matter?” he gritted, and Nevarro loomed before them.

***

vi.

Cara Dune caught up to him, about six months later.

He’d been half-expecting her for some time.  Knew that rumors of his doings would reach certain ears.  Knew that she’d put two and two together.  Even if he no longer wore beskar, he knew the patterns would be noticed.

She found him in a scuzzy bar on an ocean moon, where the damp seeped into everything and the cold never faded.  She sat beside him, tossing a few credits onto the bar, and was rewarded with a sea-brewed ale.  She drank about half before she finally turned to face him.

“Hey, Mando.”

He didn’t look at her.  Didn’t want to see the pity in her face.  He could hear it well enough in her voice.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he said quietly.  “Galaxy’s never as big as it seems.”

“No,” she said.  “I guess it isn’t.”

In the silence, water dripped, dripped, dripped behind the bar, a constant rhythm.

“I know it was you,” she said presently.  “The Imperial bases on Corux and Raethe.  Two cruisers downed, the troops dead long before the ships crashed.  Imps dead in the streets of a dozen backwaters.  And a lot of high-ranking officers found in pieces.”

“A lot of people hate the Empire,” he said.  He took a drink of his ale.  He hated the taste, and hated the burn more.

“Not a lot of people hate them like you do.”  Lightning-fast, she twitched aside the cloak hanging over his hip, revealing the Darksaber hanging like an anchor at his side.  He ignored her, covering it again with his cloak.  “Let’s just say you have a signature style these days.”

Din glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  She looked different, hair a little shorter, upgraded armor, a new insignia on her shoulder.  And sympathy etched in every line of her face.  He looked away, shaken.

“So what?” he asked.  “Don’t tell me the New Republic has a problem with fewer Imps running around.”

“They don’t.  They’d probably give you a medal, if they knew who was behind it,” said Cara.  She finished her drink.  “I have a problem with it.”

He nearly snorted into his foul ale.  “Really.  You’re worried about the Imps.”

“I’m worried about you, Din Djarin.”

He froze.  She’d never used his name before.  Slowly, he turned to stare at her, fully aware that his naked face was on display.  “Stop.”

Cara flushed.  “I was on the ground at that Maelstrom-class cruiser.  I saw what you did to them.  It wasn’t…”  Her mouth twisted.  “Killing Imps doesn’t bother me.  You know that.  But that was… brutal.”

“Again,” he said defensively, “you’re worried about them?”

“About what it’s doing to you,” she said, her voice flat.  “Mandalorians… I thought you were known for noble kills --”

“I’m not a Mandalorian,” he spat.

She pounded a fist into the table, a sharp crack that left a mark on the flimsy surface.  “You’re torturing yourself about letting him go.  This isn’t you, Mando.  And I think a part of you knows it.”

The weight of the last several months loomed.  It pressed.  It shattered, a shield failing, a dam breaking.  He saw the Darksaber flaring, scorching, searing, amputating, saw his bare hands on the hilt, saw the bodies piled.  He remembered enjoying it in a way that felt sick, felt dirty, an insult to the Way of the Mandalore, but he’d already burned that bridge, hadn’t he?  Already bared his face to the child, to the Jedi, to all of them; already desecrated his beskar; already severed his clan of two into one, alone --

“I know,” he said hoarsely, ashamed.  “I know it’s wrong.  I -- I broke the Creed --”

She reached up slowly, rested her hand on his shoulder.  She waited, her eyes soft.  

He bowed his head, shaking.  “And I gave him up,” he whispered, burying his damp face in his hands.  “I lost my son.”

My son.

The truth he’d hid from so long flared white-hot, burning through him.  Denial had done nothing for him; all it had done was rob him of the chance to tell Grogu how much he loved him before it was too late.  It hadn’t saved him from this agony at all.  The pain roared, a howling void opening up within him, a darkness he could never hope to see through.

“I was his father,” he choked.  “What am I now?”

Cara’s hand was firm on his shoulder, steady, kind; but she had no answers for him.  In the end, the only sounds were his broken breathing and the drip, drip, drip behind the bar.

[killherfreakout]

i’ve got the touch placebo

elu au / 5.2k words

“You don’t remember a lot of things.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucas’ voice cracks slightly when he asks, those oceans looking like high tide. Eliott’s heart drops to his stomach at the question. Does he tell him, or does he keep that kiss locked away as the secret they didn’t know they were keeping?

or: Lucas kissed Eliott after a few too many one night; three times Eliott almost brings it up, and the one time he does.

:readmore:

It all started by accident, really. Eliott falling for Lucas, that is. He’s always had a little crush on his best friend, but one night changed everything. 

It all started when Lucas kissed him. But, you see, that’s the problem - that was months ago. Lucas kissed him, and absolutely nothing was different between them. Eliott doesn’t know if Lucas just regrets it and pretends it didn’t happen, or if he’s waiting for Eliott to bring it up, or worse: he doesn’t remember.

Sure, Lucas may have had a few too many that night, but was it really enough to make him forget? Enough to have absolutely no memory of something that completely turned Eliott’s world upside down?

If a drunken kiss was all it really was, Eliott doesn’t know what to do. But if it was more, he wouldn’t know the first thing either.  

Sometimes Eliott thinks he’s got enough love for the both of them, and perhaps that is enough. Or at least he’s trying to convince himself that it is.

*

Eliott is perched on the edge of Emma’s balcony where he slipped out of the party going on inside, opting for some fresh air and a smoke. The gang and the girls are celebrating the end of terminale and Eliott comes to join the fun even though he has another uni exam before he’s finally free. It’s a warm summer night and a slight breeze offers some relief from the muggy air and crowded apartment. The moon keeps him company until he’s joined by another warm body in search of his.

Lucas nearly trips over the lip of the balcony door and giggles at his own misstep. Eliott tries his best not to laugh, but a small chuckle escapes, earning him a retort from the other boy.

“Hey! Are you laughing at me?” Lucas asks after he tips back the rest of the bottle of vodka he’s holding, his voice higher than normal and cracking towards the end. It’s way too endearing for Eliott that he smiles around the rolled paper between his lips.

He doesn’t respond, and next thing he knows, Lucas lunges forward and snatches the joint right out of his hand in retaliation. Eliott looks at him in disbelief and Lucas has a devilish grin on his face, again way too endearing to be taken seriously. 

Lucas tilts his chin and chest out with pride and brings the joint to his lips. He takes a long hit, breathing in deep and feeling the strength of the weed. He coughs and hands the joint back to its owner as he recovers.

“That is good shit, fuck,” Lucas adds when he regains his breath. “And expensive, I bet.”

Eliott does one of his signature shrugs. “I know a guy” is all he says to that.

Lucas scoffs at his smug reply and comes to join him on the edge of the balcony. He sits on the ledge with his back against the wall and hugs his legs close to his chest. Eliott’s heart skips a beat at how small he looks.

Lucas unwraps his arms and reaches one out to Eliott, a gap between his first and second fingers in a silent plea for the joint again. Eliott obliges and transfers it to him, hands touching for a fleeting moment - the weed is nothing in comparison to the high he gets from moments like this.

There’s a wrinkle in Lucas’ brow when he notices something. The joint in his hand points to Eliott’s, specifically a faint smudge of black on his right hand. 

“Otteli strikes again?” Lucas is amused at himself and Eliott tries not to indulge him. “I’m best friends with a famous urbex artist, I might have to use that as a pick up line someday.”

The words cut deep coming from him. Sometimes Eliott forgets about his enormous crush on his best friend because everything is so easy with them, but other times - like this - it’s hard to forget. Eliott hides behind the smoke, hoping his face doesn’t give him away.

“I‘m not sure how effective that will be, but...” he raises his hands in acquiescence. 

“Of course it will work!” Lucas’ voice is wet and nasaly and still fucking adorable. “I mean, you’re basically the French Banksy.”

“I wish,” Eliott laughs. “They’re rich and not just tagging places with their spirit animal.” He picks at his cuticles and stares at the remnants of spray paint on his skin, suddenly insecure and words sounding more bitter than he planned.

Something changes on Lucas’ face. “Your tag is fucking cool!” His face goes back to before, features softened by the weed and alcohol aglow in the city lights and embers of the joint. 

Eliott’s heart keeps skipping a beat at every compliment, but especially at the adorable declaration of the love of his silly signature raccoon tag.

“And need I remind you that you’re rich? I mean,” Lucas pinches the joint between his thumb and forefinger, raising it to prove his point.

Lucas hops down from the ledge and stumbles a bit; he finds the vodka bottle again and frowns when he realizes he already emptied it. 

“I may need to marry rich, what with the way my bac went, to be honest.” Lucas is walking across the balcony, bringing the heel of one shoe in front of the toes of the other, wobbling with each step.

He looks extremely focused even though his movements are lazy and slow. And suddenly he gasps as a lightbulb goes off in his head, face lighting up -  both Lucas and Eliott’s. “I know! I’ll just marry you if it doesn’t work out. There, problem solved.”

And no amount of warning could prepare Eliott for a sentence like that coming out of Lucas’ mouth. This time his heart drops straight down to the street two stories below.

Lucas nearly faceplants when he steps on his own shoelace, but Eliott slides off the ledge in time to catch him before he falls. They lock eyes for what feels like the first and only time ever; Lucas’ intense, big, blue doe eyes meeting his and quite literally steal his breath away.

Lucas retreats from their embrace for another hit, the joint burning shorter and shorter.

Eliott sputters, trying to think of a way to change the subject before he melts into a puddle. “We won’t be getting married if you keep smoking all of my weed,” he tries as a comeback. 

Lucas looks up at him like a deer in headlights or a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. He looks down at the joint that has about one hit left in it, then that devilish look grows on his face once again.

Eliott swears that time stops just for them as he watches every move Lucas makes like it’s at half speed. The joint is closed between Lucas’ bitten lips, and suddenly Eliott feels the smoke in his lungs when the other boy leans forward and presses their lips together.

It’s so sudden and unexpected that it makes Eliott’s mouth open wider in a gasp, and Lucas takes it as an invitation to test the waters. He slips a tongue into Eliott’s open mouth, and Eliott thinks he is in both heaven and hell. 

Eliott instinctively reciprocates the kiss until he gets a grip and tastes the alcohol on Lucas’ tongue, reminding him of the fact that Lucas is not sober enough to warrant this. He pulls back, cheeks flushed, but Lucas looks unaffected - like nothing earth-shattering just happened.

Eliott’s phone rings in his pocket; turns out Idriss left his keys at the apartment and needs Eliott to let him in.

Lucas notices the interruption and, with a gravelly voice, says, “Sorry about the weed,” before stepping inside, tripping on the threshold again.

Eliott stares at the moon high in the sky who was witness to his entire world being flipped upside down. He takes a deep breath and walks down the stairs to retrieve his heart from the ground. 

1. 

Eliott is sitting on the dock of the lake with his feet dipping into the crystal blue water below, weight held up by his arms outstretched behind him. The remaining droplets on his tanning skin quickly evaporate into the warm summer air, leaving a cool sensation in their wake. 

There’s some shouting and splashing from the far side of the lake where Basile, Arthur, and Yann are jumping off the neighbor’s dock and trampoline. Eliott had his fun with them earlier and went for a cooldown on his own while he watched the guys perform backflip after backflip.

The usual suspects have all traveled to Arthur’s beach house to kick off the gang’s last summer before they go separate ways for university. The girls are here too; they went inside to fix dinner for everyone while the boys spent the sun’s dying hours out on the water.

Lucas is swimming his way back over to Arthur’s dock and Eliott sits up in anticipation of his return. 

It’s been a total of 72 hours since the night of the party. The night that the love of Eliott’s life and best friend of over 10 years had kissed him. Not so accidentally, but also not quite on purpose.

He hadn’t even had a full conversation with Lucas since that night - the day after the other boy had the world’s worst hangover, the next Eliott was taking his last final exam of the semester, and then they were at the lake. Lucas had fallen asleep against the window for most of the car ride and every other waking moment was full of Basile’s ill-timed jokes and Emma’s ramblings over her recent Tinder dates. 

In other words, there was no appropriate time or place to bring up the situation. No opportunity to ask, hey, remember when you kissed me haha? And Eliott didn’t want to say it like that, so nonchalant and in sing-song with a poke to the ribs. Because it meant something to him, more than he ever thought a drunken kiss could, and because it would kill him to make Lucas think that it meant anything less. 

It’s like that night Lucas gave him this enormous heavy feeling but in a physical form - held it in his hands and said here, hold this and left, but not without Eliott’s heart. And Eliott was left holding on to it, this thing he couldn’t quite find the word or feeling for, and a hole where his heart should be. And it’s softened now, melted, turned to liquid and still losing shape. And with every glance and hidden smile more and more slips from his hands. 

Eliott is violently brought back to his senses when everything in his vision is darkened by the shadow of Lucas climbing up the ladder of the dock and blocking the setting sun. Eliott’s eyes involuntarily rake down the boy before him, all sun-soaked skin and water dripping from every pore. He catches himself after a second too long, obvious even under the sunglasses he has on. He tilts his head back up to Lucas standing at the edge of the dock - taller than him for once - and the sight makes Eliott’s insides shift. 

Eliott’s eyes adjust to the lack of direct sunlight, squinting up at him. He watches as Lucas brings both of his hands through his wet locks, putting his skin on display as the water that Eliott swam in returns to the air, reflecting what’s left of the day’s rays as they go. Eliott feels a shiver run down his spine - be it at the sight in front of him or the now dry surface of his own skin.

“You coming?”

Before he realizes, there’s a hand being offered to him. Eliott’s brain is a few steps behind and he takes the hand when it catches up. Lucas pulls him up and he’s back to being the taller one, although he still feels at Lucas’ mercy. 

Lucas leads the way back to the house, leaving wet footprints on the dock and concrete of the patio. Eliott follows and uses the prints as relief from the scorching surface. Lucas grabs the towel hanging on the patio chair, rubs it into his wet hair, then lets the damp material hang around his neck. 

And there it is, finally: a moment where he could bring it up. A chance to give back the heavy, shifting feeling he’s been holding since. Ask him if he remembers, if he meant it, if he regrets it. The shapeless thing he carries starts to move again, starts to form into something akin to the shape he was given. He can give it back. 

Eliott stands there looking at Lucas, eyes flicking down to the lips he can’t stop thinking about on his own. They’re red and chapped now, a product of sun and salt. He holds in a breath and forces his eyes up to Lucas’, which are darting around the patio looking for something. 

The moment is there and then it’s gone - and the thing starts to slip yet again, just as the water had off of Lucas’ back. 

“Hey, did you bring any chapstick, by chance?” Lucas asks when he can’t find what he’s looking for.

That’s another thing that happens sometimes: Eliott thinks about something and the next minute Lucas brings it up, or vise versa. Like noticing his chapped lips conjured Lucas to search for relief. 

“Uh, yeah.” Eliott walks over to the bedroom he and Lucas and Arthur share through the back door and returns with it. 

He hands it over to Lucas; the gesture feels strangely intimate given the context of Eliott’s feelings toward him, the context that their lips have touched now. It feels coded with something more than a favor for a friend, and hurts more than it should. 

“Thanks,” Lucas says before removing the cap and pushing the balm onto the split skin. 

Eliott can imagine the minty balm stinging the cracks in the other boy’s lips and swears he can feel the same tingly sensation on his own, even without having used it all day. 

It’s entirely innocent, but it gets Eliott’s heartbeat to quicken at the thought of using the chapstick after him. It doesn’t have to mean anything - Lucas borrowing his chapstick - but it does. It’s as if the tube of balm is a placebo for the real thing - having his lips pressed to Lucas’ again - but still just as effective. 

And technically another moment presents itself: the topic of lips, specifically both of theirs, sharing something like the lip balm. 

Think, Eliott, think. He could casually comment on the party, ask how bad the hangover was, anything to get the ball rolling. But the second Lucas returns his gaze and places the tube in his hands again, all rational thought leaves his mind at once. 

The silence is starting to grow uncomfortable until Lucas breaks it.

“How was your exam, by the way?” He shoves some hair behind his ear and rubs his lips together to spread the product.

“Uh, it was fine,” Eliott answers, watching the movement. Something blooms in his chest at Lucas asking about it, the genuine curiosity present on his golden face.

Say something, anything about the party. 

He gets an idea. 

“You know—” He stops when Lucas puts the towel back on the chair to dry. The remaining sunlight hits just right, the balm on his lips shiny and intoxicating. Eliott swallows and starts again. “You know, if college doesn’t work out I could always marr—” 

“Lucas, there you are!” Arthur shouts as the trio come walking through the patio to get inside.

The look on the younger boy’s face turns bright at the sight of his friends, high points of his cheeks dusted pink with sun and stars sprinkled on his nose in the form of freckles. Yann shoves his shoulder and the skin turns white before returning to the pinkish tan. The skin is soon covered in cotton when Lucas shrugs his shirt on. 

Lucas bites the corner of his bottom lip and gives Eliott a glance over his shoulder when he follows the guys inside - a glance that could be saying something, but Eliott’s not sure what.

Eliott makes his way to the kitchen and pours some drinks and thanks the girls for preparing the meal. Everyone sits around the counter and some at the table nearby; Lucas takes the seat across from him. 

There’s chatter between the girls and the gang that Eliott feels slightly disconnected from, but he focuses on filling his empty stomach with food. 

“Eli, what were you going to say, outside?” Lucas inquires, not in a whisper but not loud enough to draw attention towards them.

And there’s another moment, right there for the taking. Lucas literally asks about it - possibly without even intending to. 

Lucas looks at him while taking another bite then puts his fork down to take his napkin and wipe the pasta sauce - and chapstick - off his mouth. 

Eliott’s chest feels tight again, the heavy feeling still there but no longer physically. No way he can hold it and give it back now. The moment is gone like the sun for the day, only leaving what it has touched behind.

The placebo burns a hole in the pocket of his boardshorts. “It was nothing.”

2.

Eliott hates drinking. He’s not a fan of the taste of beer, wine is okay only if it’s expensive, and liquor is gross unless mixed with so much sugar that makes the hangover even worse than straight alcohol.

He finds himself in a gay bar with Lucas celebrating Mika’s half-birthday because Mika decided that ‘6 months is too long’ to celebrate.

It has now been two months since the kiss and neither of them have said a word about it. The unnamed thing Lucas dropped into his hands has vanished, no way of returning it to its owner. Every day is harder to pretend and even harder to speak up. 

The birthday boy is already on his way to being wasted living it up on the dance floor and Eliott sits next to Lucas at the bar. Lucas is on his second beer and Eliott has a melting vodka tonic in front of him. The DJ takes a short break and the music changes to quieter radio jams through the house speakers instead of the mixing table.

“So?” Lucas asks behind his beer bottle, tilting his chin in the direction of a handsome guy across the bar. “Aren’t you gonna go over there and talk to him?”

Eliott looks at the sweaty glass on the countertop and quickly glances over to the him Lucas refers. He picks up the glass and raises it in the guy’s direction as a thank you and sips the thin black straw. It’s strong but watery and makes his lips pucker.

“Isn’t he the one who’s supposed to make the move?” Eliott answers Lucas’ question with one of his own and flags the bartender for water instead.

Lucas points to the drink. “Well, technically, he already did.” Eliott huffs. 

The music picks up again as the DJ puts on another mix, volume even louder than before, or perhaps it’s just loud in comparison to the radio.

Eliott raises his voice and leans into Lucas’ ear. “What if I’m not interested?”

When he pulls back, they share a look similar to the one at Arthur’s lakehouse with the same indescribable meaning. There’s also something different this time in the way Lucas intentionally keeps his gaze. 

It’s dark on this side of the club but when the flashing lights hit the side of Lucas’ face he notices the contrast of his crystal eyes and his blown pupils. Eliott thinks if he stares any longer he’ll drown in their oceans.

To stay afloat, Eliott turns back toward the mirrored wall behind the bar and grabs his water to sip. The second the liquid touches his tongue he realizes it’s not the water he reached for, but the vodka soda. He winces in reaction and shoves the glass toward the lip of the counter out of his reach.

He can feel Lucas’ eyes on him and then in the direction of the sender of the drink. Eliott gathers the courage to look again, but he shouldn’t have - the determined scowl of his brow hurts more than the back of his throat when he puts together what Lucas plans to do.

Lucas reaches for the drink at the edge of the bar and brings it to his lips, tongue darting out to catch the thin black straw he closes his lips around, downing as much of the concoction as he can stomach. 

Still looking at the guy across the bar, Lucas says, “Then I’ll tell him you say thanks for the drink.” 

Eliott’s soul is soaked when he sees the blue of Lucas' glance as he makes his way over to the other end of the bar.

Over the next two hours Eliott nurses his glass of water from his seat and tortures himself by watching Lucas dance dangerously close to the stranger that hit on him with a new drink in hand.

Eliott directs his attention to the glass Lucas emptied when it gets too much to bear. The black straw sits in the glass of ice staring him down and he gets a new urge to drink the remnants of alcohol from it. Perhaps it’s a new prescription of placebo that would work better than the drink itself.

Eliott steps out for a cigarette later, in need of the fresh air more than the smoke in his lungs, but it gives him something to do instead of sulking in a room of dancing strangers. 

Lucas comes to find him minutes after, no handsome stranger on his arm. 

“Okay. My head hurts so bad I can’t stay a second longer,” he says instead of a greeting, words slurred and movements wobbly. 

“Where’s Mika?” Eliott asks, helping him stand up straighter.

Lucas giggles. “He went home with a guy like two hours ago.”

“Oh,” he hadn’t even noticed. “What about the guy and the drink?” Eliott clenches his jaw and looks around expecting him to show up.

Lucas giggles again, and the sound makes Eliott’s heart flutter - it flutters then stops at what he says next.

“Don’t worry, Demaury, no one is coming between our eventual marriage.”

Eliott trips on a bump in the sidewalk and Lucas falls into his side. 

And just like that, he’s back at the lake again – the sting of a moment there and gone – and he’s sinking deeper and deeper.

3.

Everything seems to happen by accident ever since the night on the balcony. 

Eliott hadn’t even planned on going back to Lucas’ flat, but after the party was shut down prematurely, Lucas asked if he wanted to come inside for another beer. And it’s not like Eliott had the heart to say no. He definitely didn’t plan to stay this late, but he also doesn’t want to leave.

“I thought you said you were going to lay off the weed now that you’re ‘taking your studies seriously.’” Eliott grins as he watches Lucas light the joint hanging from his lips. 

“I don’t remember saying that,” says Lucas, leaning his head back on the couch and releasing smoke from his lips. 

His pursed lips carve out the hollows of his cheekbones and plants a rather dirty image in Eliott’s mind. The movement also makes his hair bounce a little; it’s messy and fluffy from when he shrugged his hoodie off when they came inside. Eliott has to busy his hands with the frayed edge of his jeans so as to not reach out and touch.

Eliott pivots from his stare and instead laughs at Lucas’ nonchalance and the irony that he said that while high.

Lucas’ eyes stay closed for a moment before slowly blinking them back open. His long lashes fan over his cheeks like that of a renaissance painting as he’s bathed in a muted golden light from the kitchen. The eyes underneath them look tired, probably due to the lack of sleep that comes with the first year of university Eliott knows too well. The oceans of blue aren’t any less breathtaking, though; Eliott has to look away before he drowns in them once again.

Eliott takes a sip from the plastic cup he filled with water once it was empty of beer. He feels his heart shift and twists in his chest like it does when he looks at Lucas too long, performing a somersault when he feels the ghost of those lips on his. 

Eliott’s words just slip out, his mumbling echoes in the plastic pressed to his lips. “Yeah, you don’t remember a lot of things.” 

It’s almost quiet enough that he could have gotten away with it, but not quite. He can tell he’s been caught by the furrow of Lucas’ brow and the confused tilt of his head - which is way more endearing than it should be.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucas’ voice cracks slightly when he asks, those oceans looking like high tide. Eliott’s heart drops to his stomach at the question. Does he tell him, or does he keep that kiss locked away as the secret they didn’t know they were keeping?

Lucas slowly wets his lips and worries one between his teeth in anticipation. It’s like a knife to Eliott’s gut, piercing through his heart where it rests there. 

Eliott scrambles for an answer, panicking and lacking the courage to tell the truth. “I mean maybe this is all going to your head.” He makes a vague gesture to the smoke wafting the air between them. Not like he meant anything else.

Lucas takes a page out of his book and gives him a one-shouldered shrug before sitting up and putting out the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table. He takes a moment like he’s trying to decide his next move, then gets up and runs a hand through his hair. God, that hair.

He goes to the kitchen and cleans up, leaving Eliott to sit in the awkward space he left. Eliott takes his phone out of his pocket and checks his notifications, noticing it’s already almost 4am. As in, no buses back to his place at this hour.

“Maybe you’re right. I’m super tired so,” Lucas turns his body in the direction of his bedroom indicating he’s going to turn in.

“Yeah, um,” is all Eliott can find in response, shifting on the couch to settle into a position for sleep.

“Come on, Eliott, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“You’re literally too tall and don’t even fit on that couch. Come on,” Lucas insists, cracking a smile.

And what is he supposed to do, deny him? 

So they fall asleep in Lucas’ bed — without bringing up the kiss. Eliott doesn’t know how much longer he can breathe under the pressure. 

+1

Eliott startles awake with Lucas too close for comfort; they’re facing each other in the middle of the bed even though there’s plenty of room on either side.

Lucas is wearing an expression he’s never seen before, although he never seems to be able to read him these days. Eliott wants to ask about it, but gets lost in those eyes again, looking tired but somehow refreshed like he’s been awake for a while.

And Lucas does that thing again, bringing up what he’s thinking without fail.

“We’re okay, right?” Lucas asks softly, like the words burn on his tongue as he says them.

Eliott studies his face again, an openness to it that wasn’t there before – like he wants to talk about it seriously this time, no more dancing around.

“Yeah, of course,” he takes a breath and lowers his tone, matching the sincerity of Lucas’, “Why wouldn’t we be?”

 Lucas twists his mouth and answers, “I just, I feel like things have been weird between us since Mika’s half-birthday. Is there— did I do something?”

And do something he did - he brought up their wedding talk on the way home and basically confirmed he remembers that night at Emma’s, and maybe the kiss. But Eliott can’t find it in him to ask, but can’t stand not asking any longer.

Lucas looks expectant now, an adorable wrinkle forms on his forehead and those eyes are crystal clear. If it’s his eyes that pull him in, it’s his lips that pull him under.

Eliott removes his hand from under his pillow and slowly raises it near Lucas’ face resting in front of him. Eliott’s gaze is drawn to those lips again, the ones he can’t ever seem to stop thinking about in the phantom touch from months ago. Lucas’ tongue peeks out to wet them followed by teeth trapping one, which makes Eliott sink further. 

His hand tenderly brushes Lucas’ rosy cheek and thumb rests near the corner of his mouth, the touch causing Lucas’ breath to hitch and release the pillowy flesh from his teeth.

Eliott quickly looks up at Lucas again, only to find the other boy’s eyes trained on Eliott’s lips now. It’s enough confirmation Eliott needs to do what he’s been wanting to since the day at the lake. And he doesn’t want to swim around it anymore, it’s finally time to reveal the truth.

He delicately strokes his thumb over Lucas’ red bitten bottom lip. “You really don’t remember?” 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lucas speechless before, at least not like this. Perhaps absentmindedly Eliott strokes his lips again, and it’s the closest thing to a kiss he’s had since the one on the balcony. It’s too much and not enough, and also the closest placebo to the real thing.

Eliott suddenly gets nervous that Lucas has no idea what he’s talking about, and that the breath caught in the other boy’s throat is not a sign of remembrance but of surprise to the incredibly intimate touch without the context of that night.

He hopes he hasn’t misread Lucas’ mind, for that would be the first time they’ve been on different wavelengths in years. Sure this whole fiasco was push and pull of avoiding the truth, but there was always some unspoken understanding present even so. Eliott feels he’s in too deep and Lucas is just floating, too much darkness and pressure between them. 

Eliott retracts his hand like he’s caught flame, silently begging for forgiveness as he meets Lucas’ eyes again. 

And this time it’s Eliott who can’t breathe. Lucas inches even closer, eyes flicking back down to Eliott’s lips once more. He whispers hotly in the limited space between their lips. “Make me remember.”

After days and weeks and months of waiting, dying, drowning, Eliott gets his fix as Lucas presses his sinful lips in a kiss – a completely and intentionally purposeful kiss. A kiss that pulls Eliott up so quickly he gets the bends, muscles and bones aching from the speed of his ascent, head and heart feeling lighter than ever.

“Lucas—” Eliott sighs, everything this means dawning on him.

“I know. Me too,” Lucas interrupts before locking Eliott’s lips again.

They indulge in the taste of each other with nothing to hold them down, eager and wanting like all kisses should be. He’ll never have to refill the script for placebo ever again, too busy getting high on the real thing.

[lesbian-deadpool]

Its Begining To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Natasha Romanoff X reader

Modern AU

Words: 1,980

Warnings: Nothing. Just some family fluff.

Request: Nope.

Summary: To you, there's no better way to spend Christmas, than with your beautiful family.

A/N: Surprize!

(Not My GIF)

***

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Everywhere you go;

Take a look at the five and ten

It's glistening once again

With candy canes and silver lanes aglow

Every corner you turned, all you could see was a gaggle of Christmas festivities. 

Decorations strung up around every entrance, be them wreaths, garlands, bright twinkling lights, or something else entirely. Used to entice people inside, get warm, maybe spend a little.

Who could blame them, really?

You could count at least twenty Christmas trees, in this block alone. Either outside or in the store's windows. It really was that time of year, huh?

With flakes of white slowly drifting to the snow-coated ground, you couldn't disagree, that it was nothing short of breathtaking.

More so to you. Thanks to your red-headed wife walking in front of you. Each of her hands clasped around one of your children’s so that they wouldn't wander too far. Listening intently to what the had to say.

The view looked like a Christmas card. One that mad personally for you.

“Hey!” Natasha called over to you. Smiling because she knew all of the thoughts running through your mind. It was almost scary sometimes, how well she could practically read your mind, “Are you almost done dazing out, over there? Your son wants a piggyback ride.”

Smiling yourself, you jogged over to where your family was waiting for you. Scooping your son, from where he stood, holding his mother's hand. Hoisting him up and onto your shoulders.

“How’s that, instead?” you asked the giggling boy. Your hands moving to hold his legs, so he wouldn't fall.

Luka nodded down at you, his small hands threading into you snow-speckled hair, as you began walking again. With Natasha beside you, your daughter on her hip, still babbling away.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Toys in every store

But the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be

On your own front door

You finally arrived at your destination. Placing your son onto the ground, you watched as both he and Ana looked in every direction of the mall. Not straying too far from you and Natasha. Smiling, you knew you taught them well.

This was a sort of tradition for your little family. You would schedule a day where you had to run a few light errands, and take the kids out with you. And as a reward of sorts, you would take them to a few shops they wanted to go to. But in actuality, this was your’s and Natasha’s way of seeing what to get them for Christmas, whilst also having a nice family day out. Then buy the gifts a few days later.

It was quite a good tradition if you did say so yourself.

“I want to go tho the Leggos!”

“I want to go to Build-A-Bear!” They excitedly spoke at the same time, turning to face you.

Laughing, you raised your arms to calm them down slightly, with Natasha giggling beside you.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go to any place you want.”

“But how about we start at the closest place?” Natasha suggested, “That way we’re not walking back and forth?”

They nodded excitedly, and then you were off to the first, of many shops.

A pair of hop-a-long boots and a pistol that shoots

Is the wish of Barney and Ben;

Dolls that will talk and will go for a walk

Is the hope of Janice and Jen;

And Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again

“When do they go back to school, again?” you asked Natasha, who was busy washing the dishes, them passing them over for you to dry them.

She laughed. “You really can’t be telling me that you can’t wait until they go back to school.”

“No...” you said honestly. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a break from ‘em sometimes. But I can’t get enough of them. Of you.” You nudged your shoulder against hers. “Our family. It’s like heaven to me.”

Natasha paused, to stare deeply into your eyes, totally captivated by the honesty and devotion shining in them.

“It’s like heaven to me, too,” she whispered.

That was all you needed before you leaned in to give her a love-filled kiss.

“Eww!” A high pitched whine sounded behind you, pulling you and Natasha apart, “Kissing’s gross.”

You looked over your shoulder to see your son standing in the kitchen doorway. His little face scrunched up in disgust.

“Okay, I take it all back,” you mumbled to your wife. Who scrunched her nose up playfully at you, nudging you back, slightly harder than you did.

Turning to Luka, she playfully backfired a, “You’re gross.”

He laughed and ran from the room, calling out to his sister, “I just saw them kissing!”

“Eww!” Came her far away voice.

You turned back to your chore, Natasha handing you another freshly clean plate for you to dry.

“I hope you know, we just scarred him for life,” you joked.

“Well, parents are supposed to scar their kids. It’s all in the job description.”

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Everywhere you go;

There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well

It's the sturdy kind that doesn't mind the snow

“Mom, look!” your son yelled for Natasha. Pointing at the magnificent tree standing in the hotel you were walking past.

“Yeah, honey,” Natasha spoke, bending over to pick up the fast-growing, six-year-old, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Luka nodded his head, still in awe at the bright tree. Smiling lovingly as the child, Natasha rubbed her nose into his cheek. Causing him to tuck his head into his neck, and away from his mothers loving, but tickling, ministrations. Giggling as he did. Natasha soon joining him, with her own laughter.

God.

You couldn’t believe just how lucky you were to have this in your life. Your wife. Your son. Your daughter.

In your eyes.

You were the luckiest person in the world.

“What about you, Ana?” You asked the girl in your arms. Noticing that she hadn’t said anything. But being too distracted by the image of your wife and son in front of you, to notice her also starring in awe at the tall tree. Watching as the bright lights, slowly twinkled away.

Smiling, you already knew the answer to the question you were about to ask, unable to hide the humour in your voice, you asked, “Do you like the tree?”

The four-year-old nodded her head vigorously. Mouth open and still staring at the tree.

The laughter finally erupted from your chest, Natasha glanced back, smiling at you and your pre-occupied daughter, as you kissed Ana’s hair.

They were gonna love the tree lighting ceremony, you were on your way to right now.

Oh, and were you right.

With Anastasia still in your arm, the other wrapped around Natasha’s waist, as she held your son on her hip. You watched the Mayor of New York City light the tree up.

While the kids watched the grand tree, covered in bright multi-coloured lights, and the just as giant snowflakes, projected onto the surround in buildings, in absolute wonderment. You placed your chin on your wife's shoulder, moving to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear, “Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Natasha replied, looking at you over her shoulder. Her eyes nothings short of loving, when suddenly her lips were on yours.

The kiss was short and sweet, but no less perfect than the first you ever shared. And all the others after it.

“I love you,” Natasha said.

“I love you, too.”

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas;

Soon the bells will start

And the thing that will make them ring is the carol that you sing

Right within your heart

The carpet rubbed against your jeans from your spot on the floor, as you twirled a giggling Anastasia.

You had just finished dinner when Natasha had dragged your son up to dance to the record playing in the background, you following soon after with your daughter.

Both you and Natasha were kneeled on the ground, as to dance with them better. You had chuckled when you first saw that your wife and Luka were around the same height when she kneeled, while you were still a head above Ana. Natasha threw a playful glare over her shoulder when she heard your laughter, knowing exactly what you were thinking.

The warm glow from the fireplace settled in your bones and all around the room, giving it an almost heavenly glow. Making the colourful lights on your poorly, albeit still perfect in yours and Natashas opinion, decorated tree shine brighter.

Getting to your feet, you picked your daughter up and span her in the air, before placing her down gently. Leaning over to whisper in her ear, you asked, “You wanna go dance with your brother?”

Ana smiled and nodded, before taking off towards her big brother, pulling him from your grinning wife. All the while you walked towards them.

Offering Natasha your hand, once you were by her side. She gratefully accepted it, allowing you to pull her to her feet and into your arms.

And so there you stood. Arms wrapped around one another, heads resting against each other, and swaying side to side, as you watched your kids dance around each other.

“Thank you,” Natasha spoke so only you would hear.

“For what?”

“For giving me this life. Our kids. Thank you for loving me- Us, so much.”

“Baby,” you cooed to the red-head in your arms, placing a delicate kiss on her red hair, “I wouldn’t have my life any other way. Thank you, for giving me this.”

Natasha leaned up, capturing your lips in a long heartfelt kiss. Only being pulled from it when the kids bound into the sides of your legs, grinning up at you.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Toys in every store

But the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be

On your own front door

Natasha came into the living room, plopping down beside you on the couch after the kids had finally fallen asleep. Placing a peck on your cheek, brandishing a present onto your lap.

”Merry Christmas, baby.”

You looked up at her, confused. “But you already gave me my gift.”

”Yeah well, this is something a lil’ extra.” She smiled.

”What is it?”

”You’ll have to open it to find out.”

Pursing your lips you tried to hide your smile. Tried.

Natasha watched intently as you reached for the thin black box, with gold ribbon added as decoration.

Lifting the lid up, you peered inside pausing at what you saw.

Slowly, you reached for the contents. Unable to tare your eyes from the little window that held two thin pink lines.

”It worked?” you asked, choked up. Holding the pregnancy test up in your hand.

”It worked.” Natasha nodded, tears springing into her eyes.

The box fell to the floor, and the test landed behind you on the couch, once you gently pounced on Natasha. Kissing her in earnest, as she lay below you. Pushing all of the love you had into that one kiss, feeling her do the same.

Natasha broke away from you with a gasp.

”I love you.”

”I love you, too.”

Pushing against your chest, Natasha stood up, dragging you behind her. And towards your bedroom.

”Come on, “ she ordered gently, her voice turning sultry, “You have one more gift to unwrap.”

You groaned.

“Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

Throwing you a smirk over her shoulder, Natasha span around, giving you one last tug, attaching your lips together once more. And closing the bedroom door behind you.

So it's Christmas once more

[spoonfulofsexy]

Nervous

PART 4

(Shawn Mendes x Reader)

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 5

AN: So I know I said I wouldn’t have this ready till sunday but i decided to stay up to write it! Sorry if it seems rushed but I didn’t want it too drag on for too long and bore you guys! Hope youre still enjoying this and thank you for reading!

Shawn tries so hard to keep himself from texting you right away but before he can stop himself he’s saving your number as a contact and typing out a text.

Shawn: hey it’s daddy long legs! 😉😂

He almost slaps himself when he realizes how stupid that text he just sent was. “What?”, Aaliyah laughs watching him. “What did you do?”, she moves over to see what he’s doing. “Daddy long legs?”, she says with almost a face of disgust.

“No wait- let me explain”, Shawn tries to stop her but it’s already too late, she’s already giving him a judgemental face. “Okay don’t look at me like that”, he playfully shoves her.

“Who’s (Y/N)?”, she asks looking at the contact name.

Shawn gets distracted seeing the typing bubbles pop up till she nudges him. “Oh- she’s a new friend of mine”, he peaks up at her with a smile.

Aaliyah’s brows furrow as she looks down at him. “New friend or new friend?”

Shawn sighs getting what she’s hinting at and he can’t help but feel embarrassed that she even has to ask that. “She’s just a friend, for now…. I really like her though.”

She looks at him unconvinced and moves away. “Right we’ll see how long that lasts”, her sass showing through her words as she goes upstairs to her room.

Shawn sighs feeling guilty but then his eyes go back to his screen seeing you replied.

(Y/N): ohhhhhh my god why 😂😂 hahaha hey daddy 😉

Shawn: sorry only Teddy can call me daddy

(Y/N): wow that’s discimination… 🙄

Shawn: shut up 😂 haha anyway did you think of a place for dinner yet?

(Y/N): You know I was thinking of Mcdonalds

Shawn: LIAR, I won’t believe that for a second

(Y/N): damn you caught me…. I have been craving a burger though!

Shawn: See was it hard to just say that in the first place? 😒😂

Shawn and you basically text non stop until you have to meet up for the “date”. He stands outside this rustic tavern, waiting for you to show  up.  He’s too busy scrolling through twitter to even realize you were standing right next to him.

“Ummmm excuse me, long legs?”, you say with a playful impatient voice as you poke him.

He flinches at your touch and almost drops his phone, “Oh my god- I’m so sorry I didn’t see you there!” His face reddens by the second, feeling like a total ass.

“Well I would hope not or that would’ve just been rude”, you chuckle really not thinking its a big deal.

Of course, like the gentleman he is, he opens the doors for you and keeps a close distance as you two walk to your table.

“Soooo this is different from our normal meetings”, you smirk and look at the menu once you two are settled.

Shawn chuckles and shakes his head, “Oh that’s what they were, meetings?”, he raises a teasing brow.

“What did you think they were… dates?”, you tease right back just to mess with him.

His brows instantly shoots up because you really trapped him, does he admit that he thought it was is a date and give away his feelings or deny it. “Oh uh- I mean…. It was just a friend date”, he purses his lips watching for your reaction, so glad the lighting is low enough to hide his blush.

You chuckle at his sudden shyness and tell the waiter what you want, waiting for appetizers. “Soooooo”, you drum your fingers against the table. “What’s it like being a teen sensation like yourself?”, you say it in a playful way not wanting him to feel like he’s in an interview or something.

Shawn takes a sip of the beer he ordered and smirks at the question. “It’s busy”, he chuckles at his lame answer, “No I’m kidding it’s been the most amazing experience I could ever imagine. Honestly, I couldn’t think of it being any other way. I always say the stars were aligned for me.”

You can’t help but smile seeing the passion spark in his eyes just at the topic. “Oh for sure, but I think you deserve it! You seem very hardworking, or atleast that’s what Teddy says”, you smirk before taking a sip of yours.

“Teddy seems to talk about me a lot”, he chuckles and takes some of the pretzel bites you guys ordered.

You blush and tuck hair behind your ear, “Well…. Maybe I ask about you”, you admit sheepishly.  Now you were the one getting all shy and Shawn could feel his confidence coming back.

He smirks and cocks a brow, “Oh yeah? Well is there anything else you want to know?”, he says in a smooth voice that has your heart racing.

Your eyes peak back up at him and you almost regret it because he looks like fine art sitting infront of you. The way his curl rests against his forehead and how his sleeves cling to his arms.  You catch yourself lost looking at him and you blush even more. “Oh uh- whaaaat’s your favorite color?”, you make the question up completely on the spot.

Shawn bites his lip thinking this is the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “Wellll”, he sits up again to teasingly have his arms flex to show off his muscles. “I don’t really have a favorite color but right now it’s pink, like your cheeks right now”, he raises his brow trying to hold back his laugh.

Your hands instantly fly to your cheeks, “Stoooooooooop!” Your hands try to cool your warming cheeks but you can see the way he’s looking at you and it’s definitely not helping. “Stop looking at me like that”, you whine.

“Sorry- sorry, you’re just… really cute”, Shawn quietly admits before he can even stop himself.

The mood almost instantly changes, you two were always a little flirty with each other but now you basically admitted your mutual interest in each other. It’s not awkward but Shawn can definitely tell it’s different between you two, he only hopes it’s a good thing.  By the end of the “date”, he drives you home, just wanting to make sure you get there safely.

“So are we still on for Sunday?”, he parks his car infront of your apartment.

“Of course, I need my weekly latte”, you wink because it’s more like you need your weekly Shawn.

“Okay”, he beams, as if he really had to worry about you canceling. “Well thank you for coming to dinner with me, it was fun.” His hands grip the steering wheel not sure what to do because all he wants to do is kiss those beautiful lips of yours.

You bite your lip seeing how he’s gazing at you, “Well I couldn’t have you eating dinner by yourself! Also, thanks for driving me home, I really appreciate it!”, you smile and lean over giving his cheek a kiss. “I’ll see you Sunday”, you say cheerfully and get out of his Jeep as casually fast as you can incase that kiss was too soon.

“B-bye”, he says almost completely in awe as he watches you get out and give him a cute little wave.  It felt like a balloon just burst in his stomach and it was filled with butterflies. He can feel the fluttering move up to his chest and he just watches you with parted lips, the moment replaying in his head so he can savor the feeling. He wished he was more prepared for it so he would have paid more attention to the way your lips pressed into his cheek and the way your perfume lingered in the air.

There was that feeling again, that tightness in his chest and the way his smile just won’t fade away. He turns on the radio and his Jeep fills with music as he drives home, the most perfect song coming on making him just have to sing along.

“So this is love

So this is what makes life divine

I'm all aglow, mmm

And now I know (and now I know)

The key to all heaven is mine.”

[powerdragonmoon]

🎄 Kitten Kisses 💋

Marinette gets a head start on her Christmas decorating, saving the tree for her evening visitor...

Merry Christmas to the lovely @bbwoulfc​ or Raydara12 on ao3!!! SURPRISE!!! I AM YOUR VERY LATE SECRET SANTA for our DISCORD GROUP EXCHANGE!!!! You asked for anything lovesquare with an emphasis on Marichat and Adrienette....so I give to you…THIS!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ Hope you enjoy! 

(ao3 link) 

Marinette hummed a happy tune as she continued her way around her apartment, caught halfway between a dance and a song as she littered Christmas decorations to and fro. Her kwami and kitten followed fast on her heels, tiny little paws pitter-pattering along the floor as Tikki swooped gracefully through the air. On her wrist she twirled her homemade wreath, while on her other wrist, she wore her trusty lucky charm.

What her small studio apartment lacked in size, she more than made up for it with experience and creativity. Equipped with a small kitchenette and living in space, the majority of the flat was set up as a in home studio for the young designer. And now with the holiday season in full swing, her fabrics and sketches had been properly stored and a santa hat now adorned her trusty dress form.

Everything besides her sewing supplies had been purchased and arranged to save on space. A comfy plush couch in the center of the room, doubled as a pull out bed and the major selling point of the studio—besides being an apartment in the city that she could actually afford—was the wall of cupboards that was most likely meant to be a pantry for the kitchen, but for Marinette the storage was mostly for clothes, muslin, and materials of all sorts.

She smiled to herself has she angled the wreath on her door just right, trying to get it to balance on the random hook that was already there. The wreath itself was made with scrap pieces of fabric, bright shades of pink peeking up from beneath layers of green. Once secured, she glanced around her studio, her hands on her hips in triumphant determination, before a small meow at her feet caught her attention.

“Oh, I’m sorry Minou!” she said, bending down to meet the small ball of fluff at her side. She ran her hand through the kitten’s soft fur, delighting in his gentle, scratchy purr as his bright green eyes fluttered shut. Above her Tikki swirled in the air, a smile on her face as she landed on Marinette’s hand with a giggle.

“All he does is purr and sleep!” she said glancing between Marinette and the kitten.

Nodding with a laugh, Marinette picked up the tiny cat, watching in wonder has he fell asleep in her arms. With a wink, she pointed out a plate of Christmas cookies on the kitchen counter to her kwami. Tikki made a squeal of excitement before zooming off in that direction.

Marinette cuddled her with her kitty for a few more moments, before gently depositing him on the plush cat bed by her desk. Without looking up, she called out to Tikki with a sigh, “He is just the cutest!”

She jumped at the exaggerated gasp from behind her.

“Well, I see my greatest fears have been realized,” came an all too familiar voice from her window, “I have been replaced with the newer model!”

Marinette turned, greeted by the mischievous smile of Chat Noir as he sat lazily on her window sill leaning against its frame. His one leg dangled into her studio, while the other bent at the knee, his heavy boot on the ledge.

His acid green eyes seemed to focus on her, taking in her oversized sweater that basically covered her comfiest pajama shorts and her knee high socks. She felt a small rush of embarrassment under his gaze but squashed it down as his eyes flickered on, scanning the rest of her apartment with a nod, eyes locking on the bare tree set to the side before turning back to her once more. His smile took on a different expression, somewhat shy as he cocked his head to the side. “You waited for me!” he said in wonder, looking all too innocent for a grown man in a leather catsuit.

Marinette laughed, trying to ignore the blush rushing to her cheeks, “I said I would!”

“Well I appreciate the gesture.” he said as he slid off the sill, closing the window behind him before standing tall. He stood framed with the window behind him and city lights setting him aglow, playing a light show against the patina of his suit.

“Now, tell me this Princess,” that mischievous smile returned, and Marinette squinted, her guard already up in preparation for whatever flirty line or awful pun was about to be thrown her way. If she was wearing her spots, she would be reaching for her yo-yo about now.

Chat Noir didn’t seem to notice her look of premature condemnation, instead gesturing up to the tree before saying, “Shouldn’t you be on top the tree?”

Marinette stared at him in confusion. A few moments of silence passing, filled only by the soft lull of a sleeping kitten in the background and the rise and fall of Chat Noir’s suggestive eyebrows.

And then it hit her, and she groaned, her hand smacking against her forehead in defeat.  

With pointed claws Chat Noir winked her way, ignoring her reaction and explaining himself anyways, “You know...cause you’re an angel!”

Arching a brow, she walked over towards him, half impatient at his lateness and half hoping to shove him out of her window for being such a flirt. “Very smooth,” she said dryly, a hand running up his chest.

A shift in the air signaled as Chat Noir leaned down as if called by her touch. She smiled ruefully at the low rumble murmuring quietly under her palm, excited by the effect she had on him. He leaned down as she stood up taller to try to meet him, their warm breaths meeting in the space between them.

‘Hmmmm,’ he hummed before backing away, leaning back against her window before glancing up. Marinette’s eyes followed his, locking on the garland bordering the frame. “As smooth as hanging mistletoe above my window? Princess!” he gasped dramatically, “If I didn’t know any better I would think you were trying to seduce me!”

Marinette frowned, a little annoyed at the stolen moment. “You do know that’s holly, right?” she asked.

“What?”

“That’s holly,” she continued, hand pointing to the red and green along her window, “Mistletoe is like a weird leafy pine cone with white berries.”

Chat Noir looked almost offended, his expression shocked combined with confusion. “A pine cone!?”

“No, well…” Marinette pursed her lips, “Not a pine cone really, but like I always see it arranged like one! In these weird bunches or some times just a random sprig.”

Chat Noir nodded, his eyes narrowing as he raised his chin. “Right, sure...holly, huh?” He reached up to pick a red berry from the leaves. He licked his lips, eyes darkening as he leaned in close to Marinette, his lips but a whispers breath from hers, and again he leaned back, much to Marinette’s frustration. “I’m sure it’ll taste a lot like mistletoe to me,” he winked.

“And how the hell, do you know what mistl—”

She was caught off guard as he popped the berry into his mouth. It was a move that came off as much too sexy for her liking, but looking past the taunting curve of his lips, Marinette immediately reached forward, squishing his cheeks with her hands.

“OH MY GOD! DON’T EAT IT! SPIT IT OUT!”

With wide eyes, Chat Noir spat out the piece of holly, tongue sticking out and sputtering. “Mistletoe does not taste good,” he grimaced.

“Holy shit, Chat, I’m pretty sure those berries are like poisonous or something! Do you just stick your tongue on everything before even thinking?”

Chat Noir paused for a moment, staring off into space before shrugging, “Yeah...kinda.” Marinette glared. “What?” he asked, “It’s all apart of my charm, no?”

“No,” Marinette answered flatly. “The guy at the pet shop told me to be careful with the Christmas decorations. I think those berry things are poisonous for cats!”

“Oh…well fuck, it didn’t taste good either!”

Hitting her forehead once more with her palm, Marinette sighed, “I can’t believe that you are more of a handful then an actual kitten.”

“Well…” he said, “I would wager, I’m much more than a handful, if you know what—”

Marinette pressed a finger to his mouth, “Shush, you!” before balking as he kissed her fingertip, his red tongue flicking out for a moment to brush against her skin.

“Ugh! Will you stop!” she admonished him, fighting back against the slight buckle of her knees to stand tall.

“Well...a kiss under the mistletoe…? That’s what you wanted, right?” he shrugged, “Perhaps that was too unconventional…” He stepped close and wrapping his arms around her waist. She gasped as she was pulled flush up against him, feeling the cold, crisp night air on his suit. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as his gaze bore down upon her. “If you want a kiss, you only need to ask!” he finished, pursing his lips.

She caught him off with a finger pressed this time to his nose, pushing him back as she stepped out from his hold. “For the last time, Chaton, it’s holly!”

“Mistletoe,” he answered back.

“Holly!”

They glared at each other before somehow finding themselves on her couch, Marinette with her laptop and Chat Noir with his baton, both searching up the difference between holly and mistletoe.

“See!” Chat gestured, scrolling through a plethora of pictures showing green leaves and red berries, “Mistletoe.”

“Ugh, Chat,” Marinette sighed. “It is such a rookie move to go straight into the image search. Here,” she read aloud from the current page she was on. “The major difference between holly and mistletoe is that holly leaves are glossy, stiff, and spiky.” She emphasized this point by waving a piece of holly they had plucked from her window for research purposes. “Mistletoe, on the other hand, has soft and fuzzy leaves with light green-yellow berries.” She glanced up to Chat’s stunned expression, “Well…?”

He reached out, gathering the sprig of leaves from her hand and inspecting it as if he were studying the stars. “Holly shit,” he finally whispered in defeat.

Despite herself, Marinette giggled, and the sound brought a sparkle to Chat’s eyes. He leaned in closer, moving to sit close beside her on the couch and glancing down at the webpage on her laptop.

“Are we sure we can trust this…” he squinted at the screen, “‘Christmas Experts dot com’?! Where are their sources?!”

“They have better sources than you, I’m sure!” Marinette countered, leaning back as Chat reached for her laptop. He eyed her cheekily before grabbing her around the waist, his claws tickling her over her sweater.  

“Ah! Chat!” she squealed as her laptop was closed shut. She ended up sprawled out, lying on the couch cushions, with Chat Noir above her, her laptop fast forgotten, closed and wedged in between the pillows.

Marinette gasped as he pressed down against her, this time his suit felt like fire against her, warmed by her touch and sparking desire within her. Her small studio felt considerably darker, whether by his presence or the dimming of her overhead fairy lights, she wasn’t sure.

And again the air heated between them, his intense stare almost too much for her as their comedic argument took a fast turn into something much different, so familiar and known. Nevertheless Marinette couldn’t help but flounder, drowning in his company, overcome with the irresistible smell of his cologne, and unknowingly leaning up towards him as her chest rose and fell in anticipation.

“I hope you don’t die from holly poison,” she whispered, half grimacing at her lack of finesse and flirtation. She needed to fill the air with something, she was just disappointed in herself that it was her ramblings rather then his moans. Despite that, she reached up to cup his cheek with a hand. The touch of his mask and skin was a balm to her worries.

“I’m sure, by your good graces, I’ll survive,” he said, catching her hand with his own and pressing a kiss into her palm.

She felt her heart stutter at the touch of his lips on her skin.

“Merry Christmas, Marinette.”

Marinette stared up at him, her free hand brushing his messy hair back, before reaching around to grab him by the back of the neck.

“Merry Christmas, Adrien,” she answered before pulling him down to met her.

[skaylanphear]

Dragon Seer

Nadraya, a princess of Casasis and the second daughter to the Desert Emperor, knows little of the world outside the constraining walls of the palace. But when her elder sister falls ill with the plague, she takes it upon herself to find a cure. After meeting with a traveling wizard who supplies her the means to escape her royal trappings, she sets out with companions she hardly knows if only to attempt the impossible. The journey is filled with danger--dragon sightings, sand and dust reapers, mages and their mysterious powers, elves that hide amongst haunted trees, and a conspiracy that could lead to consequences much bigger than Nadraya or her companions. A war so great and so formidable that the whole of Vraed will be victim. Hard decisions have to be made. Sacrifice is inevitable.

Chapter I

Lord Devrah of Casasis bore three daughters during his reign over the southern desert. He liked to think they were considered the prettiest sand flowers in his kingdom, but his opinion was limited to only himself and those that served within the castle walls. For, as decreed twelve years prior, no royal skin was to come in contact with that of the common folk. Not after Lord Devrah had lost his dearest wife to the plague—a sickness which had begun to wear on the borders of his kingdom during his father's rule. In order to protect his daughters, he forbade their exit outside the castle walls and that they touch none but each other, thus they would be safe from infection.

And so they grew, safe behind the glass and stone of the palace. The first, Lady Amirya, was to be heir and inherit rule following her father. She was of stable mind and strict judgment, raised to the position despite how her fogged eyes saw her people through clouded windows. Though this ailment weighed on her, she was determined to follow in her father's shadow and become empress of what she had been taught was the greatest kingdom in all of Vraed. She suffered in much of the conceits of any natural born princess, but was not so heavily burdened with the sentiment as some trailing her in birthrights. Lady Ventya, the youngest of the three, was as equally spoiled as she was ignored. Having not been brought into the world first, she was of little significance to her father, whose favor fell for none of the qualities she had to offer. Rather, she was littered with gifts and favors if only to distract her from her own triviality. Her vanities seemed to dominate her person, a trait of her existence that was treated with patience by Amirya and disdain by Nadraya, the middle of the three sisters.

Nadraya, despite her rank as only second born, had somehow managed to win her father's favor. Perhaps it was because she seemed a bit cleverer than her sisters, or because her temperament left little to be doted upon. No matter. She was like her mother in appearance and her father in the capacities of mind, such qualities sometimes making the emperor consider how much happier he'd be were she the first to have been brought into the world. Amirya was sure to do well, but he was convinced Nadraya would have led the people in ways her elder sister could only ever observe through her underlings.

And though she was aware of his favors, Nadraya was quite content with her position. She knew her father preferred her, leading to her own conceits, but her satisfaction at being without responsibility overcame any of his praises. While Amirya had been educated in the ways of leadership, Nadraya had been left to her own diversions. Many times she'd been found in the knights' quarters, observing their practices, or in the gardens upon her bay steed. But more often than not, she was atop the castle wall, staring out into the city and the desert beyond with an expression of pointed contemplation upon her brow.

Her current situation, however, fell into none such categories. Presently, she was sitting up in bed, silk gown dampened with sweat as she forcefully steadied her breathing. Hand on her chest, she counted the fast beats of her heart against her palm, only vaguely aware of the sinking sunset flashing in through the windows.

She didn't move for many moments, instead allowing the images to flash over and over again before her mind's eye.

Her father, carried on the back of a draken through the desert. With him was his personal guard as well as another young man. He was unfamiliar, but rode with purpose. Behind them had been the Dunes of Tuurin, which meant he was within a day's ride of the palace, a fact she could only deduce based on the maps she'd been shown some many years before—when learning the boundaries of the kingdom had been an important part of her education.

It wasn't these details that caused her heavy breathing and sweat, however. No, as always, it was the flashes that came before. Images that were unrecognizable to her. It wasn't until she'd completely exhausted what she could recall that her hand sank to the bed sheets, shoulders slumping as she opened her eyes.

Back again to the familiar. To the white-sheeted, canopy bed and imported wooden furniture, all of which was accented with details only befitting a princess. The numerous glass windows to the west were aglow with fading sunlight, casting a warm, orange glimmer across the patterned tile floor. Rugs and carpets littered the room as well, all sewn with the careful hands of only the best artisans serving Casasis.

Directly ahead, staring back at her, was a large mirror. Her brown eyes caught the reflection, immediately studying her bronzed desert skin and midnight hair that filled the frame. Reaching up, she wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand before pushing the wavy locks back out of her face. Satisfied, she scooted to the edge of the bed and out of sight of the reflection, bare feet holding her steady as she stood.

She could only deduce, despite her efforts, that her father was close to the palace and that he harbored a guest. She could make sense of nothing else, her frustration at being unable to make out the choppier parts of the vision only causing a frown to crease down onto her lips. Not that such a development was new—it was quite expected rather—but still she found herself puzzling over the dilemma.

No amount of pacing relieved her. It was only when the door to her bedroom was thrust open that she was surged from her thoughts.

Her younger sister, Ventya, was the one to barge in on her contemplation.

"Nadraya!" she exclaimed as she burst in, red-faced and obviously winded. "Oh My King, Nadraya, I've been looking for you everywhere!" Her slipper-clothed feet carried her easily into the room, light yellow gown fanning out behind as she whisked past her older sister. Nadraya watched, eyebrows raised in the beginnings of exasperation.

"What could be so urgent that you're forced to look for me 'everywhere?'" And though she mocked Ventya, the younger failed to notice. Instead, she patrolled before the windows, the sharp contours of her face and form apparent in her silhouette, which was altogether slim and petite. Nadraya, by contrast, was fuller, but they shared in similar coloring.

"Oh, Nadraya," she halted suddenly, a squeal of delight escaping her throat. "What wonderful, wonderful news! I've only just been up on the guard tower with..." She paused to look around, her brows pulling tightly together. "Why is it so dark in here?" With the twitching grace of a bird, she skipped to her sister's bedside table and turned up the oil lamp. "I don't understand you sometimes, spending all your time alone and in the dark. I find that a little sunlight during-"

"Why are you here, Ventya?" Nadraya interjected pointedly, knowing that to allow her sister to prattle on would serve no decent purpose. Truly, she had very little patience with Ventya lately. When younger, the flirtatiously invasive girl had been tolerable, perhaps even charming, but with age her immaturity and jar-headed disposition had worn out its welcome.

"Oh, right." Ventya smiled widely again, her perfectly shined teeth bright in the dim light. Without so much as an invitation, she sat herself on the end of Nadraya's bed. There, she seemed to find a small speck of something, peered down her nose at it, and flicked it to the side. She then met her sister's gaze again, as intent as ever. "So I was up on the guard tower with Amirya and Gilbard—I really don't know what she sees in him—when all of a sudden one of those hideously loud delivery birds, what are they called…? "

"Cargen."

"Oh right, a cargen, comes swooping down." She placed her hand on her breast dramatically. "I swear Nady, we all about had a heart attack the thing scared us so badly." She laughed as though it were the funniest thing in world. "Amirya almost popped out that baby right on the spot. Anyway, so this bird—ugly, horrible thing that it was-" Ventya thought all animals were ugly, "-has a letter strapped to its leg. Now, I'm the only one able to catch my wits again before it flies off, so I snatch the letter." She made a theatrical grabbing motion. "It would have pecked my hand had I not been quick enough, but thankfully I was. I opened the letter," she smiled knowingly, "and you'll never guess who it was from."

"Oh surely not."

"It was from Father!" she giggled in excitement. "And he'll be home-"

"-Tomorrow?" Nadraya crossed her arms over her chest before stepping her way up to the windows. There, she peered out over the city into the surrounding desert. To the dunes and brown, mountainously jagged skyline. "Yes, I know." She glanced back at her sister.

Ventya was gaping and appearing rather deflated, but then was overcome by a disapproving eye and a sulky frown. An avid gossiper, the younger princess despised spoiled news.

"Well I suppose I should have expected as much." Getting to her feet, Ventya began twirling her long, luscious brown curls around her pointer finger, a habit she'd adopted from their mother. "You always spoil all my fun with your future telling."

"It's not fortune telling, Ventya!" Nadraya hissed defensively. "I've never once seen the future and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't refer to it in such a crude-"

"Yes, yes, I understand." She sighed dramatically. "Anyway, this is beside the point. Father is returning tomorrow and," she smiled mischievously, "he's bringing someone with him. A young man, more specifically."

Nadraya's eyes narrowed. "Who is he?" She tried to sound disinterested, but the effort was to little avail.

"Apparently he's a prince, visiting from the north. Father didn't give an exact location." Ventya giggled again, but the noise was thinner somehow. Perhaps trickling with trickery or even malice. "You do know what this means, don't you?" She glided to Nadraya's side at the window, linking their arms together. "It means he's going to try and marry you off again. Why else would he bother dragging a prince along with him?"

"Trade, diplomacy, political alliances, there are plenty of reasons, Ventya," Nadraya assured despite her sister's skeptical brow. Somewhat disgusted, she pulled away, pacing to the other side of the room. "Besides, he knows my stance on marrying."

"Oh bless the King, Nadraya, why must you be so difficult?" Ventya was once again playing up the theatrics. "You're nearly four and twenty. How long do you think you have? Women are only desirable for so long. Besides, it's not like he's just some random dragon fighter or something. He's a prince for King's sake. If you don't want him, I'll gladly take him. Though I suppose my standards must be low compared to yours, seeing as you've already decided to reject him."

"Ventya-"

"Anyway, maybe since Father's returning, we'll get to go to the Dragon Competitions this year. Father adores them and if we keep him in good enough sorts, perhaps he'll consider it."

"He won't," Nadraya replied a little too sharply, still defensive over her sister's previous comments. "We haven't attended since mother passed. That's the whole reason we're kept prisoner in this castle—for our own safety. The plague still spreads, even if you choose to ignore it."

"Well, maybe he'll change his mind this-"

"He won't change his mind." Of this Nadraya was also certain. She didn't need to be privy to a vision to know. "He swore that he would keep us out of harm's way until the plague passed, and if you hadn't noticed, it's still as potent as ever."

"But I want to go-"

"Find a cure and you'll be able to. Until then, you would do good to give up such futile hopes. Father is stubborn and won't go back on his word, not without a properly convincing reason, which I know you lack."

"Your negativity is what makes this castle intolerable!" Ventya shrieked suddenly, Nadraya whipping around in surprise. "All of you! I can't take it anymore!" As quickly as she'd come, she was gone, the fabric of her lightly layered gown swishing out into the hall. Silently, Nadraya stared after, momentarily caught up in her temper. Ventya's inability to control such emotional outbursts was extremely unbecoming, yet no amount of reprimand seemed to have any effect. Rather, the more she was scolded, the worse she became.

Anger still simmering, Nadraya twitched her attention back to the window. As the evening chill crept up from the east, she felt her irritation seeping away. She understood her sister's feelings, how imprisoning the palace walls were. It was no wonder Ventya was frustrated—Nadraya was too. Only Ventya wasn't clever enough to have discovered a way to ease her own frustration.

Turning her head over her shoulder, Nadraya cast a sidelong look at the ornate chest sitting at the base of her bed. For a moment, she simply stood, her annoyance with Ventya finally fading completely. Only to be overcome by restlessness that echoed all the way down through her legs. She knew what she was considering was against the rules—against everything her father wanted. But she wasn't a criminal or a toy bird. She couldn't remain cooped up behind sand-spattered walls forever.

Something inside her demanded she move.

Whisking herself over to the chest, she was on her knees and rummaging through the contents inside. She pulled out multiple cloaks, a pair of riding boots, and a heavy gown she would never wear before she finally reached what she wanted. Dragging out a thinly layered skirt, leather boots, light cloak and shirt, she then shoved everything else back inside before beginning to strip off her nightdress.

Soon enough she was swathed in common attire, the cloak clipped around her neck. Grabbing a single ribbon, she tied her hair back low on her neck before pulling up her hood. Tugging it forward so as to hide her face, she felt satisfied that none would be able to recognize her. Not in comparison to her expected princess appearance anyway.

Going to the door, she hesitantly pulled it open before glancing up and down the hall. It was empty, lit only by the many torches lining both sides. She crept out, tugging her cloak around her as she headed down to the left. Within moments she'd reached a set of stairs that led her down a level, feet silent as she toed onwards. At the bottom, she veered to the right, coming upon a wide corridor with a pair of open, stone doors on the other side. Beyond them was the palace library, which, by most standards, was quite grand, but not nearly an equal to the other kingdoms of Vraed. It wasn't the library she was headed for, however, her attention instead focused on one of the many intricate tapestries plunging down from the tops of the walls.

On the left, four wall-hangings down, a wide scene depicting the desert cliffs where the draken resided was unfurled against the stone wall. Heading to it directly, Nadraya glanced around only once more before slipping in behind it. There, shrouded, was a single door. Pushing it open, she slipped past—making sure to close it again behind her.

The passage wasn't secret. It was a servants' passage, one rarely in need of use. Thus, she was able to descend the stairs without alerting anyone, her path soon taking her into the underground tunnels crisscrossing beneath the castle. Once used as a kind of last resort defense, it had long since been turned into the foremost course the servants took in getting around to certain parts of the palace. However, dressed as she was and having entered the underground quarters without raising alarm, Nadraya was soon able to trespass into the busier parts of the tunnels without anyone casting her a second glance. The way lit by torches, she walked swiftly across well-used stone, passing both women and men carrying out their expected, everyday duties. Her purposeful walk deterred all from questioning her.

Some few minutes later, she had reached a set of wide stairs leading upwards to a gaping archway in the castle wall. It was, at the moment, only moderately busy, some few servants walking to and fro. In the mornings it was packed with deliveries to the palace, but the afternoons were generally clear because everyone was at work inside.

Ascending the steps, she was greeted by the heated sun, rays beating down on her unforgivingly as she squinted against the abrupt brightness. Though the day was at its end, the orange glow still reflected harshly off nearly every surface, the heat seeming to float up in shimmering waves.

Eyes set on the gate some fifty yards ahead, she hurried onward. The day still wore on, which meant the palace was open to those who had business. With a registered badge, those that served the royal family were able to pass through. Though the plague was a threat, daily business could not be ignored, thus the palace—though the staff was not nearly as many as it could be—was as active as could be expected. Nadraya, however, didn't have a badge. But it didn't matter. No one would stop her from passing out of the castle walls, not without direct orders to do so. It was coming back that was the problem, but she had her own ways of getting around that.

Posted to either side of the gate on both the inside and outside were four guards, each clad in the traditional Casasis armor. Lighter and covering less than those further north, the metal plates hung only on the necessary places—across the chest, torso, parts of the legs and shoulders. The design wasn't always forward thinking as far as defense against a blade, but the warmth of the desert was more threatening than an oncoming sword when considering how many would perish from heatstroke were the armor to be much heavier. What space was left open by the armor was covered in thinly patched leather, allowing for airflow whenever possible.

The four men were heavily armed as she passed them, standing tall and paying her no mind as she whisked by and through the thick gates interposed within the heavy wall surrounding the palace. Intent on the city, she easily left the chains of her birth behind, a sense of flippant freedom overtaking her as she merged in with the general populace.

Raised and wrought in the desert hundreds of years before, Casasis was a city of rough edges and sand filled crevices. There was a certain type of beauty in it, however—in the storm-faded buildings and their thick, block structure. Stacked atop one another, the clay and stone features sometimes seemed to create castles all their own, those nearest the palace wall stretching some five to six stories high. As the city fanned out, the homes grew smaller, the less wealthy living closer to the outskirts in little more than fabric draped over poles and pillars. Nadraya wasn't blind to the poverty, but, as she was as powerless as any commoner, she felt she could do little on the matter. Besides, the only way to bring a case up to her father would be to reveal her exploits, a freedom she wasn't yet ready to sacrifice.

Turning down what had become familiar streets to her, she was soon just outside the bazaar, skirting the entertainment district. Her usual destination wasn't far, perhaps a thirty-minute walk from the palace, and left her somewhat comforted that though it was outside her prison, it was still close enough to offer security.

The pub was called the Broken Horn, a draken with a similar affliction etched into the stone sign hanging out front. Quickly skipping up the stairs, Nadraya entered and found the pub hardly half-full despite the bustling crowds outside.

The Broken Horn was a smaller pub, at least in comparison to those in the surrounding area. Well-respected, it was moderately popular, oftentimes busier later in the evenings. Always a source of the latest gossip, it was considered both a place to accrue facts as well as nonsense. Nadraya frequented it for neither. She preferred to simply observe—from a small table in the back—the lives of the locals, which were far more interesting to her than any palace goings-on.

Perhaps considering her a regular customer, the man behind the bar—Throan was his name, he was the owner—looked up as she walked in, nodding before continuing on with his duties. Taking herself to an empty seat near the corner, she kept her hood up as she sat down, one of the multiple waitresses coming over to take her order. She asked for only a pint, unaccustomed to drinking and knowing she wouldn't finish.

Her ears were pricked for anything interesting that might fill her dreary day.

Some of the men nearby, loud as they were, only complained of work and the desert—of the sun and the long hours spent under it that never seemed to offer reward enough. Others were already past such logic, happy once more despite how they'd likely feel in the morning.

The voice that ultimately drew her attention, however, was that of a middle-aged man at the bar, his words directed at the owner across from him, who was drying a glass with a sand-stained rag.

"Another?" was the aghast voice of the patron.

"Another. The plague is gettin' into every corner of the city it seems," Throan replied gruffly, his glass never nearly clean enough. He was a heavyset man, his apron stained with the remains of his work and only the edges of his wispy hair remaining.

"They're comin' up so fast now…" the middle-aged man at the bar, skinnier and with a full head of hair, replied glumly, shoulders sinking. "I heard Haros' youngest went into the Sleep yesterday." They both shook their heads, the skinnier taking a gulp from his drink while the tender took up another glass.

"I take it's a bad omen, got the feelin' that this spring is goin' to be the worst yet," Throan added, the patron across from him pausing in his drink before, with a sigh, placing his glass back down on the bar and shoving it away—despite it being nearly half full.

"This is gettin' to be bad," the skinnier said quietly. "We'll all be done for if this keeps up much longer." And Throan, eyes narrowed in abrupt irritation, slammed his own glass down upon the bar, his actions drawing the eyes of a few others nearby.

"Don't be sayin' stuff like that!" he bellowed. "The Emperor will have a cure soon enough. I bet he's got troops, medics, all kinds out there lookin' for it now. We just got to give it time."

The other scoffed. "Ha! I don't think so. Them castle folk don't care about us, not one bit… and anyways," he waved his hand flippantly, "I heard tellin' that there aint been a cure since dragons that could fly lived on Vraed."

"Who told you that?" Throan asked curiously.

"Heard it from some old wizard that come to town this morning. Some woman asked if he could cure her sick babe with his 'magicks' and he says 'aint no one been able to cure the plague since dragons flew.'"

Throan grunted. "Who can trust a wizard anyway? They're as worthless as damn cat-thieves. They never been good for nothin' but tellin' stories anyhow."

"You never trusted nobody but yerself and the Emperor."

"Well of course I don't," Throan barked. "It's like sayin' you believe in elves when ya never seen one before." And even as he made his defense, his patron shook his head before grabbing the thin, ragged cloak that'd been hanging off the back of his chair. "I'll believe there's a cure for the plague when I see it."

"If you ever find a cure for the plague, then I'll believe anythin,'" the skinnier man said as he walked towards the door of the pub, throwing the cloak over his shoulders in preparation to leave. As he did, the door was opened by those coming in—three sand-dusted youths. "I'll believe silver dragons exist and there's real magic, if ya find a cure for the plague." Waving, he turned toward the newcomers. He greeted them casually, as if he knew them, before pushing his way out into the night.

At the bar, sidetracked by those who had just arrived, Throan smiled.

"Erof!" he greeted loudly, the three making their way into the pub. The young man he addressed returned the grin, a thick, leather sack thrown over his shoulder. "I see you're alive then," Throan continued jovially, his mood taking an upward turn. "Get the beastie then, did you?"

"Did you expect anything less?" Erof asked in good humor before dropping the pack heavily to the bar. Even from her slight distance, Nadraya could smell the foul stench coming from it, as could the rest of the customers. This was normal, however—even Nadraya was around often enough to know that. These three, though generally Erof was on his own, periodically came dragging dead beasts in from the desert. Wanting them hunted for interfering with his shipments, Throan hired Erof out specifically to deal with the trouble, no one else in the district having much comment on the job seeing as the deed did all more good than harm. And though Erof seemed to be the go-to for such jobs, his two companions—Nadraya knew their names to be Anier and Fratalie—sometimes tagged along to assist.

"Well, I got its head, in any case," Erof continued, his hand falling to the leather pack. Throan, eyebrows rising, looked momentarily surprised before a great, holy smile overcame his face. Guffawing loudly, he reached over the bar and slammed the younger man on the shoulder. Erof stumbled a bit, but didn't appear bothered.

"Erof, if the beast was so big you couldn't bring the whole carcass back, what makes you think I want the head?" he asked. "Nothin' useful there!"

"I thought you might like it as a trophy," Erof replied easily, his voice sounding gruff with sand. "Biggest sand skrin I've seen in a long time." As if reassured by the weapon, he wrapped his hand around the handle of the sword strapped to his hip.

"Sand skrin?" Throan questioned, surprised. "They don't usually come this far north. Wonder what it was doin' up here?" The large, black desert birds generally fed on the wild draken in the caves to the south. Only desperation would drive them so close to humans. Towering creatures about twice as tall as a man and three times as wide, they were generally smart enough to keep to only feral game.

"Short on draken perhaps," Erof replied. "The southern rains were shorter than usual this year. Perhaps it's slim pickings."

"I suppose." Throan shook his head, staring down at the leather package with a contemplating eye. "If I'd known it was a skrin, I'da sent more than just you after it." He looked once more to Erof, who was pushing his pale blonde hair out of his eyes into a ruffled mess atop his head. Truly, he was quite a sight as far as desert folk were concerned, which was likely why he stood out in Nadraya's mind. Tall and wiry, he wasn't the thick build expected. And his alabaster skin and matching hair didn't help matters. She assumed he was a native of a northern country, as usually none with such pale features would be a natural desert dweller. And unlike most, he was almost completely covered in foreign black leathers. They appeared lightweight, which was likely why he didn't overheat, and served as a ward against the sun's damaging rays.

"That's why he had us tag along," Anier started then, a cocky grin revealing his Cheshire smile. "Not even the Great Erof, Slayer of Sand Beasts, could take this one on his own."

"I doubt you were much help," Throan replied sourly, glancing the other man up and down with apparent dissatisfaction. His look didn't faze however, Anier simply continuing with his knowing smile. Much like Erof, he too was quite alien in appearance. Taller still than his friend, his long limbs and slight build created in him a thin, lanky disposition, a difference so in contrast with what was standard of the natives that it was nearly on equal ground with Erof's paleness. He was darker featured however, his pointed, angled frame the only thing that really gave him away as being "unorthodox."

"He wasn't, trust me," the final of the three companions interjected smoothly. "It would have been easier without him." Fratalie. She fit in well enough with the group of misfits, mostly because she was a woman that wore a large, two-handed claymore strapped to her back. With curling, auburn hair tied in a long braid, her dark complexion was made up entirely of layer upon layer of freckles. Her thicker build and steady gate were generally trademarks of those trained in battle—a "man's" pastime, which was likely why she fit in so well with her two odd companions.

"You hurt me, Fratalie, you really do," Anier rebuked flatly, though not nearly as offended as he was pretending to be. "I did my share, just like the two of you. If it hadn't been for me, you'd both probably be dead."

"Only because your constant running away drew its eye," Fratalie made clear.

"I was being a distraction."

"It's amazing I get anything done when I have both of them with me," Erof interjected, his rolling eyes taking his attention back to Throan. "In any case, you shouldn't have any more issues getting shipments from Casas Port. I've combed over the whole stretch of area and this skrin," his hand fell to the leather bag, "was the biggest threat I could find. The only one, aside from the expected sand lizard or two."

"It should make a fine addition to my collection then," Throan assured, gesturing with his thumb to the multiple stuffed animal heads he had on display against the south wall. "I'll pay you what you're due, but sit down and have a drink first." Taking his advice, the three sat at the bar while Throan filled them each a pint.

"So…" Fratalie sounded hesitant as she started then, Throan glancing to her as he set down the three glasses before them. "What was Rahner sayin' as we walked in?" Both Erof and Anier looked to her as well. "About a… cure for the plague?"

Throan's expression darkened then, in both irritation and sympathy. "It was nothin' worth talkin' about," he assured seriously. "Somethin' about a wizard that come to town spreadin' rumors about there once bein' a cure. I wouldn't take it to heart, if I was you."

"A wizard?" Anier asked incredulously, Fratalie's expression having fallen as she stared down at her drink. "Don't hear much about that lot coming around here. I wonder what a wizard could want in Casasis."

"That's a valid question," Erof assured. "There's nothing here worth a wizard's time."

"That's what I was thinkin,'" Throan agreed. "I don't like it. Sounds like trouble. And besides, he comes here bringin' tales about a cure for the plague, gettin' people's hopes up." He glanced again to Fratalie. "Aint right startin' somethin' as foul as that."

"He'll likely be here and gone before much can be made of it," Erof assured. "Best not to concern ourselves." He took a long drink from his pint.

"Yeah, well," Throan shrugged, "aint the first thing I been hearin' that's out of the ordinary." This drew all their attention, Nadraya continuing to quietly listen. "I heard just yesterday that the sand to the east been stirrin' for months, never lettin' up. Like a storm's been brewin' all winter. Right outside the Plains."

"That's all rumors and superstitions," Anier made clear, not appearing even the slightest bit perturbed. Erof didn't comment, but Fratalie, her drink held tightly in her hands, appeared moderately uneasy.

"You'd do better to take things more seriously," the bartender reprimanded. "The plague comes from them Plains ya know, from the reapers there. If things be actin' up, it'll likely only get worse for us."

"Even if the winds to the east have been kicking up storms," Erof started calmly, "there's no reason to assume that anything will get worse here. Best not to assume." He finally glanced up then, casting Throan, who was a great deal older than him, a warning kind of brow-raise. Erof's intelligence, however, was as well-known as his hunting skills, Throan pursing his lips but supposing what was said was reasonable.

Nadraya, ever-curious, sat back on her stone seat and considered. Rumors of a cure for the plague, to her knowledge, weren't circulated very often. The affliction had existed for hundreds of years and most had given up on a remedy eons before. Never had any headway been made in even slowing its progression once it was attached to its host. The people haunted by it had no choice but to wait for the inevitable.

Her father, Lord Devrah, held a similar viewpoint. True, he had an assigned assembly dedicated to searching for any way to relieve the infection, but to say he was vigorously searching was another subject entirely. Like so many others, he'd grown up in a world where the plague was simply a part of life—a variable all were forced to live with. That his daughters were kept cooped up in the castle was a matter of expectation. The only defense.

The idea of someone spreading rumors of a cure however… It was intriguing. Though perhaps for the wrong reasons. Not because Nadraya held any faith in such notions, but because she wondered what kind of person could possibly say such things. Such incredibly false things. She had no faith in the idea that there was a cure, especially when word of such came from a wizard as a source. Magic, though considered warily, was not taken seriously by most in Casasis. A society that lived off of hard physical labor and perseverance, few had time for the study of magic. Generally, it was thought a waste of time if any did dedicate their focus to it. Even Nadraya, who had grown up in a pampered, palace life knew little of the subject.

Reaching for her pint, she took a sip and wondered, more so out of curiosity than anything else, why a wizard would come to Casasis in the first place. It wasn't exactly known for magical knowledge or even friendliness toward those who practiced the art. Certainly it was to be the last place such a person would turn up.

"In any case," Anier said, "wizards aside, I don't think that-"

"Fratalie!" Abruptly, a young woman, likely a little older than Nadraya herself, burst into the pub. She was doused in sweat, her sand-tattered gown set astray as well as her auburn curls. "Come home, quickly!"

Having already risen from her seat, Fratalie's entire demeanor sank, her face paling. For a moment it looked as though she might be frozen to the spot, but a few seconds later her senses returned. Walking swiftly, she met the other woman before the two dashed out the door, Anier, Erof, and Throan staring after.

"You don't think…?" Anier looked to Erof.

"We all knew it was coming," Erof finally replied before heading forward as well. But not before turning to Throan and nodding farewell, their payment for the skrin obviously postponed.

With a sigh, Throan spoke only once more to the two men, saying, "Offer my condolences to Haros," before both Erof and Anier were gone as well, leaving the pub in a sour kind of quiet.

Hands tightening around her glass, Nadraya found herself curious, but supposed it really wasn't any of her concern. These people didn't know her no matter how often she overheard their conversations. She was helpless to do anything. Useless even.

Eyes falling to the stone table, she pursed her lips and wondered fleetingly what she was good for.

This is the first chapter to the book I’m working on. Please let me know what you guys think ;D

ALSO! Please support my writing on Patreon! It doesn’t cost much, I promise ;)

[helmes-deep]

Prompt: Sean and Sue cuddle on the couch while watching a movie.

So I, uhhhh… decided to go with a different writing “style” this time around, hehe… included a bunch of types of hugs/cuddles, but the movie scene is still in there!! 😉💕

Human affection is an interesting thing, Sue Heck decides. Sure, she’s been with a few good boyfriends throughout her dating life, and has had her fair share of hugs and kisses inherent to the functioning of each relationship. But it isn’t until she starts dating her current boyfriend Sean Donahue that Sue begins to think there’s a little more to another’s display of physical affections than just the plain touch. A kiss isn’t just a kiss anymore, and a hand on the shoulder isn’t another warm embrace. It’s only when you truly love someone, Sue surmises, that a simple touch from the person you care about can mean so much more—and so many different things:

Support / Encouragement.

“I did it! I did it!” she shouts. There’s a big smile on her face, and she can’t contain her joy and excitement, waving a crisply-rolled piece of paper as her cap and gown bounce up and down on the open, crowded playing field. Her entire family is there to congratulate her, and she exchanges a hug with each of them, working down the line of relatives until she makes it to the end, and greets him.

“Congratulations, Sue!!” he says, appearing alongside her overly-ecstatic family members. His smile is as wide—and as proud—as hers. He motions to a bag he’s been carrying with him. “Here, I got you a gift.”

She smiles brightly and takes the bag from him, reaching in and pulling out a small cardboard box before opening it, and peering inside.

“Oohh!” she gasps aloud, just as the lid folds open. “My very own service bell!! It’s even got a cute Orson cow design on it and is in my favorite color as well!” She squeals in awe, excitement, and delight. “Thank you, Sean this is such a sweet gift! I love it!”

He nods, and then smiles. “I wanted to give you something that you’ll be able to use right away at your new job. I know you’re going to be great at managing a hotel someday, Sue; your guests are going to love you. You’ve worked really hard to get here, and I want you to know that I’m really proud of you.”

“Well, nothing says ‘Sue Heck at your service’ better than having your guests to ring your very own, actual service bell!” she responds with avid enthusiasm, beaming. She holds up his wonderful gift to show to everyone before saying, “I just hope you’re really right about me getting a job soon, Sean. I’d hate for ‘Sue-vice’ to go out of business before it even gets started!” She’s obviously joking, but there’s a hint of nerves and an odd awareness of true, approaching reality hidden underneath her care-free grin.

“You’ll get one; I know you will,” he says, laughing in response. And he pulls her in for a hug. It’s warm, strong, inviting, and firm—and exactly what she needs right now. His warmth is welcoming, and it spreads all over her, chasing away all her feelings of self-doubt and of being over-whelmed by thinking of everything she still has yet to accomplish. His wide, strong arms block out all of the unnecessary noise (there were a lot of jubilant students reunited with their equally as exuberant parents that day); her speeding adrenaline rush; and all of the new, impending chaos beginning to surround her as his firm, steady hold lends her hope. For once, she can hear herself think again, and her rising fears for the future begin to steadily fade away.

She closes her eyes as his arms tighten encouragingly around her, and she reaches around him as well, carefully holding onto her diploma in one hand and his thoughtful gift in the other.

Their embrace is normal and sweet—a typical display of affection from any couple. But this one is unlike any other. It’s the hug he gives her to tell her that he’s happy for her, that’s he’s here for her, and that he believes in her. That he’s not only here to celebrate her great achievement thus far, but also to remind her of the support, love, and encouragement he will always have for her as her journey continues beyond this life-changing point.

The future ahead is bright, afterall, but it is still, relatively, unknown.

And it’s the same supportive, encouraging, and congratulatory hug he gives her when she announces with unbridled glee that she’s found a job in guest service at a local hotel just a few months later.

Protection.

She shivers as she helps him stack another donation box for Orson’s Annual Christmas Food Drive. Once the last box is stacked neatly on top, they stand next to each other in front of his house, waiting for their moms to drive by and to come pick the boxes and them up.

“Bbbrrr,” she says, shaking in the winter cold. Her nose, cheeks, and the tips of her ears are all flushed, while everything else beneath her puffy, pink coat is quietly rattling. She can already feel the frosty, iced air start to chill her bones as it begins to seep into her thinly-layered mittens, making her fingers go numb.

Suddenly, she feels a certain pressure and warmth encapsulate her entire body. He’s standing behind her with both arms wrapped fervently around her, his heavily jacketed and insulated arms soundly holding her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking up with a curious smile on her face and a bright, rosy-red nose.

“Protecting your from the cold,” he replies openly. The light note in his voice indicates that he’s teasing her, but his arms stay wrapped securely around her, and his hands don’t break away until they spot their moms’ car driving up in the distance.

It’s a cute and adorably romantic gesture he’s done, she thinks to herself as she feels the full length of his warmth around her shoulders. It’s the type of ridiculously cheesy thing a couple (like them) would do. But somehow, as they wait for those few, short minutes to slowly trickle by, she finds herself feeling warmer, less colder—somehow safer—and with greater strength and determination as she stands up a little taller, and a bit more comfortably, against the terrible cold.

Comfort.

She had come home after a long day at work. He was sitting on the couch, unwinding to some TV as she opened the apartment door and entered.

“Hey, Suzy-Q! What’s up?” he asks in his usual, welcoming and amiable manner.

She doesn’t respond right way, quietly locking the door as she ponders her answer; and when she turns, he immediately recognizes the sadness in her eyes that typically isn’t on her usually cheery, upbeat face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her. He’s instantly up in his seat, eyebrows raised in serious worry as she silently trudges over.

She’s unable to speak a word, stumbling forward and crashing onto him as soon as she’s made it to the couch.

“Hey… it’s okay,” he answers softly, taking all of her into him. He moves over to let her find a place in the space between his arms; her whole body sinks into him as her head falls near his neck. As her small frame sinks deeper into him, it’s like a pile of incredibly tense and heavy emotions has been weighted onto his lap. He quietly places one arm completely over and around her back, while the other moves to bring the rest of her together. By the time he’s holding her to him, she’s already breaking apart, thin lines of tears streaming down her cheeks.

The warm, comforting tenderness with which he pulls her closer to him tells her that he cares. The patient, loving quietness he displays as he gently strokes her back, soothing her sobs, tells her that he’s ready, waiting, and listening. That he doesn’t quite know what’s happened to set off her feelings in this way, but that he understands. It doesn’t matter what kind of horrible situations she’s had to pull herself through for today; they’ll figure out all of that stuff later. What matters right now, in this moment, is that he’s holding her, that he’s simply there to offer his support and comfort to her as her world falls apart. And that’s all she needs right now��his presence. His unyielding desire to not let her go because she’s already been let down too many times today. And that’s what he gives her as he pulls her even closer into him, wiping the tears and wet strands of hair away from her face, and she cries her heart out into his chest.

Care / Love.

It is night. All the lights are turned off, and their little apartment is quiet and still. The only other movement in the room is the flashing of the TV screen, which switches from one exaggerated face to the other as soft blue and purple-ish hues set their faces aglow.

A funny scene flashes on the TV, and they both laugh quietly together.

His arm is resting on her shoulders; his fingers barely brushing against her. Her head is lying between the start of his shoulder and the peak of his chest, her whole form leaning against his. Both of her legs are bent and bundled upon the couch, while his whole back is resting comfortably against its cushions.

For a moment, she shifts, and as if by natural response, he does, too. Her upper body moves to fit snuggly back into the crooked space created by his arm and torso, and his whole body mirrors her movements to let her back in. And for a moment, they briefly wrestle—he’s desperately trying to find her and she’s frantically looking for him—before he’s been quietly fitted to her and she’s nicely fitted into him once again; and they’re nestled against each other like a perfectly tangled puzzle on the living room couch. His arm pulls her closer into him, and her arm reaches over to fully hug him beneath the blanket covers.

It’s just him, and it’s just her. There are no unnecessary movements, no extra noises, no other distractions.

Just pure, happily contented silence.

There are no words; there don’t need to be. The way his arm is wrapped so easily around her shoulders, and the way she’s snuggled warmly into his side, tells her how comfortable they are with one another. The way he leans into her as he holds her closer, and the way she knows she can happily rest her head on his chest forever, tells her how completely and fully they trust and understand one another. And the way they gradually move closer and closer toward each other, deeper and deeper, until all she hears is the sound of his soft breathing and her heart beating in unison, tells her how much he loves her and how much she loves him—and all she needs to know about the two of them being together.

And for Sue, those are her absolute favorite moments: her most precious, deeply cherished thoughts when thinking about finding any type of human affection in Sean’s arms. It’s moments like that when she believes she truly understands what it means to experience another person’s affectionate touch, what it means to be carefully held—what it’s like to be in love.

And it’s that realization that fills Sue with the truest warmth; it’s that realization that makes her the happiest. And as her realization grows, she finds herself moving closer and closer to Sean, scooting closer and nearer to him—to share with him this warmth, this happiness. She’s pretty sure he feels the same way, too, as he starts to bring himself closer to her as well, the two cuddling so close to each other. And it’s in that moment, when Sue finds herself fitting so warmly, snugly, and perfectly in Sean’s arms, that she knows she couldn’t be happier.

Wanted to try something different so went for something that was a little more… drabble-ish?? :PP I guess if this story could be considered Sean’s introspective, than this one can serve more of as an introspective for Sue.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and that this story sorta half-fills the void while we’re all waiting for the show to come back after the break!! Excited to see what’s next for Sue and Sean, especially after those press release spoilers/pics lololol. 

Also someone tell me if this story came off as too cheesy leool; my goal was to be more “fluffy” this time around because of the incorporation of hugs/cuddles, but who knows how my execution of “fluffy” actually came out as leoleoleoool.

My next one should be out soon…ish??? I’ll try to get it done, at least by the end of this week :P :P 

Send me a prompt and I’ll write a short Sue x Sean fanfic about it leol (closed)

Also available on FanFiction.net

[writerly-blonde]

Night Terrors

Summary:  After nearly a year of being Ladybug, Marinette thought she has the superhero thing down. That was before the nightmares started. She and Chat Noir find themselves on the Eiffel Tower where they finally have a talk about their sleepless nights.

WR: 2,826

Find it on AO3!

Enjoy! ~~~

Marinette jolts up in her bed, mouth ajar in frozen terror. A scream builds in her throat as she darts a glance around. She searches for the bodies, the blood, the akuma with a wicked grin stalking towards her. But with the moonlight illuminating her normal, if not messy, room, she slowly comes to terms with the fact that it was merely a dream.

Marinette collapses against her bedframe. Tries to steady her racing heart. Her breaths come out as sharp pants, breaking the peaceful silence of an otherwise normal night. She wraps an arm around herself. Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

But logically knowing that doesn’t vanquish the phantom fingers clutching at her throat. The blood splattered across her hands. Marinette swallows back a scream. Swallows back the bile and the outrage and the terror. It does nothing to stop the tears. The water burns her eyes; blurring the shadows until they once again look like formless monsters.

Marinette bites down on her fist to muffle the sobs. Shuts her eyes tight and tries to stay calm. Tries to pretend that she isn’t shuddering so hard that the bed shakes under her. Tries to stay quiet, tries to pretend that she’s okay, that it was just a dream. It wasn’t real.

“Mari?” Tikki’s sleepy voice pauses her sobs. There’s a sigh and then the kwami flies up and puts her small hands to Marinette’s cheeks. She wipes away the tears. “That’s the third time this week.”

Marinette’s lips twist in an effort to stop another sob. When she does manage to speak, it’s hardly more than a broken whisper. “I know.”

“Oh Marinette,” Tikki says, pressing their foreheads together, “Brave, brave girl.”

“I-I’m okay.” Marinette tries for a smile, if only to ease Tikki’s worry, “Besides, if…if it keeps up at-at least I’ll be used to it, right?”

She holds the smile for a half second longer before the sobs come back full force. Just another thing she can’t control. Another thing that takes her for a ride and tugs her along and spins her around until she can’t get her bearings, until she can’t focus, until she can’t do anything, until she’s helpless, and what if she’s like this against an akuma and what if she’s helpless, what if she can’t control-

“Marinette. Take a breath.”

She does.

“Another one.”

She nods. Takes another. And another. Breath in, breath out. In, out, in, out. One thing she can control. Marinette isn’t sure how long they stay there, listening to her regulate her breathing, but by the time Marinette has calmed down, her leg is cramping.

Marinette’s tears have finally stopped. They’ve dried into tracks that tighten her skin in odd ways; a physical reminder of her weakness. She pulls away from Tikki. Mutters a thank you. Third time this week she’s woken Tikki up.

She whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Tikki says, “It’s-”

“Tikki?”

“Yes?”

“I…I just need to clear my head,” Marinette doesn’t need to finish her thought; they’ve done this enough times by now. “Spots on.”

The Ladybug suit feels like a second skin, a thin armor. In it, she can pretend that the shadows are just shadows, that she doesn’t see monsters in them. That her room doesn’t feel very, very small. That she feels trapped in it the longer she stays, that the shadows don’t seem to stretch towards her.

Marinette is outside in a single step. Cold, biting, night air cuts across her cheeks. It has nothing on the chills already crawling down her spine. She tries not to think, instead letting her body simply wander. The city lights dance across her skin, painting a tragic scene of their broken hero aglow against the night.

Marinette keeps swinging, flying, falling, crying, and drying her tears, until she reaches the Eiffel Tower. It’s late enough that the lights are off, but that’s how she prefers it. The shadows here aren’t oppressing or nightmarish; they offer her a place to disappear.

She sinks down, tugging her knees to her chest. Here, so far away from her room and so far above any bystanders, she begins to calm. It was just a dream. Just another nightmare. She can handle this; she has before. It doesn’t make this any easier, though.

Marinette had thought that she was getting the hang of this Protector of Paris thing. And she was. She was managing the late nights, the excuses, the stress, the double life, all of it just fine. She had Chat Noir, Tikki, and freedom.

And then a couple months in, the nightmares started. The excuses turned to lies that suffocated her. The late nights became sleepless ones. Monsters began to lurk in every corner, in the whispers of conversations, in the hits civilians barely dodged, in the sudden way an akuma could appear. Marinette had forgotten of a time where she could relax during the day; now it felt like she had to brace herself constantly. Paranoid. She was paranoid.

Marinette sighs. Buries her face in her arms. She will be okay. She has to be okay. She has school tomorrow, and inevitably an akuma, and she is no use to anyone tired. She has a test she didn’t study for, but she probably can pass if she doesn’t fall asleep mid question, and Alya will get worried again and if an akuma does come by, if she isn’t awake someone can get hurt and what if she can’t fix it? What if she stands there while her nightmares come true, as paralyzed as she is in her dreams?

“LB?”

Marinette nearly jumps out of her skin. She’s up on her feet in a moment, yoyo already in her hand. She’s taken a step forward, ready to fight, before the owner of the voice dawns on her. Chat has backed away from her, hands up protectively.

She deflates. Is this how wired she’s been? Crazed enough to make her closest friend think she’d attack? That she would have had she not paid attention? The yoyo falls at her side. “I’m sorry.”

Chat relaxes. Shoots her a hesitant, reassuring smile which quickly fades to concern. “Why’re you out this late?”

Marinette sits back down. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me too.”

As he settles in next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth, but far away enough for her to breathe, she does something she didn’t think she would do tonight. She relaxes. When the possibility of an akuma bears down on you every second of every day, having someone by your side makes it easier. Knowing Chat is here, ready to help her tackle whatever monster, whatever akuma, makes her feel safer than she has in a couple days. She almost starts crying right then and there.

Instead, she clears her throat and says, “We do this a lot, don’t we?”

He chuckles, though there’s very little humor in the sound. “Yeah. We do.”

“It’s nice.” Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette sees him jerk in surprise. She raises an eyebrow. “It’s not for you?”

“No, no, it is, it’s unbelievably comforting, I just always thought-”

“Chat, having you here,” Marinette, apparently not fully recovered as tears make their grand reappearance, because what if he wasn’t here, “makes it a bit easier.”

He’s at her side in a second. Screw the distance, he seems to say as he tugs her against him. Wraps her in a hug that’s loose enough for her to pull away but god no. Marinette has had too many nights of crying by herself. Of leaving before Chat can see the tears. Of the half lies and the excuses and how they make a web that she gets caught, a noose she hangs herself in, she’s tired and he’s warm and there and her best friend and damn everything, so she moves closer. Leans her head against the crook of his neck and shoulder. Clings to him as he holds her steady.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers in her hair, “It’s okay.”

It really isn’t. Maybe it will be in the morning, when her nightmares seem like a world away, but not right now. Right now she can’t stop the tears from flowing, can’t stop herself shaking. She can’t help but wrap her arms around him because what if she lets go and he disappears? What if she lets go and tomorrow he won’t be there? What if her nightmares are right?

Chat whispers tiny phrases, things that mean nothing but are more comforting than they should be. He holds her tighter. Waits for the tears to slow, for the sobs to shudder into unsteady breaths. He holds her until she feels a bit steadier.

“It’ll be okay. Just keep breathing Ladybug. Deep breaths.”

Slowly, Marinette remembers herself. She’s awake. Paris is asleep; calm and peaceful with its ever flickering lights. Chat is still here. And she’s just dissolved into a hot mess on him for who knows how long. Marinette clears her throat and gently untangles herself. She has to be better than this.

Chat’s hands follow her, unwilling to let her pull away. His fingers gently press against her jaw, guiding her gaze back to his. “It’s okay to break.”

Marinette should shrug away his touch. She shouldn’t be here. He’s a flirt, he could take this the wrong way, she is stronger than this…and none of those things are true. So she stays still. And in his gaze, her own brokenness shines back.

Maybe it’s because she’s so far away from her house, her life, from the girl she tries to be during the daytime, maybe it’s because she’s so far away from the akumas, from the girls she tries to be at night, maybe it’s because she’s in an untouchable middle ground that she finds herself whispering, “I’m scared, Chat.”

“I know. Me too.”

“The nightmares…they…”

“They don’t really stop.”

Marinette takes a shuddering breath. And after months of skirting around what truly has them seeking the Eiffel Tower as shelter, she finally asks, “What are your nightmares of?”

His hand falls from her face. Chat seems to draw into himself. The air around them chills and Marinette wishes she could pluck her words back from the breeze.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“I don’t call them nightmares.”

Marinette’s words wither in her throat. Chat meets her gaze for a fraction of a second before he turns back out towards the city. Talking to the wind.

“They’re night terrors. That’s the only thing that actually describes them. Terrors that haunt me during the day and night. So many what ifs. So many things that can go wrong. I dream a lot about my friends. I’m bad luck incarnate remember? ….One day that’s going to catch up to me.”

Chat shivers, eyes turning glassy. Marinette reaches over, resting her hand over his. Though he doesn’t look at her, his fingers squeeze hers before he continues.

“And a lot of them are about Hawkmoth. What if we don’t defeat him? What happens then? We just keep fighting for the rest of our lives until we turn it over to another pair of kids? Or even worse…”

Chat finally looks at her. “What if we do? What happens if we defeat him? What happens to us? I don’t have much besides being Chat Noir. I can be myself without worries, what happens if that’s gone? Or, what if it never ends? The paranoia, the villains, the pressure and civilians and responsibility. What if the nightmares never end?”

He swallows thickly, gaze jerking back to the city. “But most of all, I dream of the akumas. Of the attacks. That maybe one day my suit won’t absorb all of the damage. That an akuma will attack and I won’t be there. A blast meant for me will fall on you or a civilian. It could be as simple as me not getting there in time and seeing you fall. I know our dynamic. I’m the protector.” His hand grips hers. “The fact that there might come a day when I fail terrifies me.”

For the first time that night, Marinette can’t form a complete thought. Every time she tries, it breaks off, sparking into ash. Instead, she scoots closer to him. Letting herself press against him, thighs to shoulders. Chat doesn’t react. He’s too lost in thought and possibilities to even notice.

Marinette’s mouth goes dry. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, swearing that she’ll make it through this without crying. If he could, she can.

“My nightmares are monsters. Shadows. Inescapable. What if I fail? What if I’m not good enough and someone suffers because of it? What if an akuma is too powerful and I can’t fix it? The worst part…is that I don’t think I could come back from that. If someone died…I’d break. Shatter. Ladybug wouldn’t be the protector of Paris anymore because the girl behind the mask would be wondering why it wasn’t her. She’s the indestructible one.”

Marinette feels Chat turn to her, feels his steady gaze fall on her but she can’t bring herself to open her eyes. Not yet.

“My nightmares are like yours. Makes sense, same responsibilities and all that. But…I dream of bodies. Bodies upon bodies piling up with blood on my hands. I dream of your suit turning white and a purple outline across your face. What if I can’t save you? What if you’re lost to me forever because I failed? What if…”

Marinette clutches Chat’s hand like a lifeline. “What if an akuma attacks one day and you’re not there?”

Silence greets her. It’s not suffocating, or overwhelming, it doesn’t fill Marinette with what ifs or fears that she said the wrong thing, it’s simply silence. He squeezes her hand as they sit, each soaking in the other’s story.

Time skates by, seconds seamlessly sliding into minutes. Their legs dangle over the edge, sometimes bumping into each other. Eventually, Chat looks up. Sighing, he leans back, laying across the roof. His gaze devours the sky whole and what little stars there are shine in impossibly green eyes.

Marinette follows him. She lays down, looking up at a speckled sky.

Chat takes a shaky breath. “Do you think we’ll get used to the paranoia?”

She tilts her head up, heart breaking at the braced expression on his face. “I don’t know.” She can’t bring herself to lie. “I hope so. But…”

“Yeah. I know. Every time someone gets mad around me, I tense.”

Marinette laughs, the sound hollow. “Me too. I keep scanning for places to transform. I hardly have enough energy to pay attention to lessons. If it weren’t for my friends, I’d be even worse off.”

Chat closes his eyes. Untangles his fingers from hers. “Sometimes I wish….I wish you were there. It’d make it easier.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Marinette can’t bring herself to look at him. What if he saw that she wanted the same? “There are a thousand reasons but they all seem like excuses.” She rubs at her face. “Fear makes us do stupid things.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He sighs. “I’m scared too.”

Marinette reaches for his hand. Maybe it’s stupid, but it feel right. She intertwines their fingers once again. Presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. “One day.”

Chat nods. “One day,” he echoes. And for now, for both of them, it’s good enough. A couple seconds pass before Chat turns his head. “What constellations do you think there are?”

She shrugs. “Probably one in the shape of a plane.”

That earns her a laugh and with it, the tension curled in her body releases. If Chat can still laugh, maybe they’ll be okay. For a while, they stay like that. Legs dangling, eyes watching, hands still intertwined. For a while, the shadows, the monsters, the fear, all of it can’t reach them.

Marinette yawns. She rests her head on Chat’s shoulder, lightly enough that he can pull away if he wants. Instead, he lets go of her hand, only to wrap his arm around her. His head tilts, leaning against hers.

And logically, Marinette knows that she shouldn’t fall asleep, that she’ll have to get up eventually, but it’s been many days since she’s properly slept, since she’s felt this safe. Like everything will be okay. She doesn’t want to let go of it just yet.

So, Marinette lets her eyes drift shut.

“Ladybug?”

“Yeah Chat?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Marinette holds him a little tighter, finally realizing how badly she needed to hear that. “Neither am I.”

Chat stills under her and it’s a long moment before she feels him sigh in relief.

“…Goodnight bugaboo.”

“Goodnight mon minou.”

*****

There, on the Eiffel Tower, high above the city, the Protectors of Paris finally sleep in peace.

[bambinovak]

Repair in Process - Dean Winchester

PART I

PART II

summary; part III (and final part) of trapped. y/n decides to take that final step to get hers and dean’s relationship back on track and neither of them could’ve been any happier than at that moment. [140417]

a/n; this is the last part of trapped !! thankyou for reading and supporting this mini series  :)

warnings; talk of nightmares, getting over ptsd. 

word count; 1.4k

masterlist

AFTER LAST WEEK'S mishap, things had started to look up. Dean felt it too, the way you could look him in the eyes more without forcing yourself to, or the way you would get closer to him without flinching away. You were, however, still well acquainted with the spare bedroom. There was just something about the way the darkness took ahold of you in the night, rendering you useless to the way the nightmares plagued you. It was different. It was too quiet, too vulnerable.

But tonight, something within you had shifted. Tonight felt different.

Curled up on your side, your eyes kept drawing themselves to the door through the shadows. You sighed, your heart and your head tearing you apart on the inside. You glanced at the bedside clock, the bright, luminous numbers shining off into the darkness showing you that it was well past midnight.

You hesitated to sit up and rest on the edge of the memory foam mattress that Dean was indefinitely obsessed with; your feet dangled over the brink but never came into contact with the cold flooring as you sat there for a while in the airy silence of the night, undecided. It would be so easy to get up and leave, like you had every night since the accident, so easy not to face it.

Then, that silence was severed when you heard the sound of the bed frame squeak slightly and you glanced wearily over your shoulder to watch as Dean turned to you, leaning his weight on his elbow. His eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted a little to the side as he looked at you, quizzically.

"You alright, (Y/N/N)?" His voice was soft and endearing as he spoke, the gentle and affectionate use of his nickname for you instantly temping and lightening your reticent and reserved mood.

Baby steps. You reminded yourself.

"I don't want to leave tonight," You eventually let out in quiet mutters, your tone unusually tired and timid as you fully turned in your place to face Dean. Even through the darkness, you could see him struggling to reign in the grin that was trying to break free with relief.

You didn't want to dwell on what happened anymore. It was about time that you took this final leap to finish rebuilding, regulating and restoring the only relationship that's ever really meant something to the both of you. Besides, there was nothing that either of you could do about the incident, you had to keep reminding yourself. And even if you could go back and change how it happened and the outcome, you weren't sure that you would want to; you had a feeling that once you had overcome the aftermath, it would make you and Dean stronger than ever.

"Then stay," His hand reached out slowly and intertwined your fingers with his, his voice calling gently for you to stay. Even though it felt as if the two of you had been worlds apart these past few weeks, you could tell how wary he was as he tried not to recklessly run over any boundaries. And in his fingers laced through yours, you could tell in the loving hold he had on you that he would welcome you back into his arms in an instant.

Running your free hand through your loosely hanging hair, your thoughts and memories running a million miles a minute in your head kept you from answering right away. But it was then that you decided, looking at his eyebrows pulled up and eyes looking into yours with bouts of hope, you gave him a shy nod. "Okay," You said softly, a small smile lifting your lips with pride, and you heard the breath of relief that seemed to slip from Dean's lips, like he had been holding his breath as he waited for you.

And so, with your fingers still laced with his, he gently pulled and guided you away from the edge of the mattress and back under the safety of the warm and cozy covers. You rested your head back onto the soft pillow before feeling Dean's captivating, green eyes linger on you whilst you got comfortable.

You turned on your side to face him, coming face to face with the elated and blissful smile, that reminded you so much of sunshine, that graced his lips. He watched you, unbeknownst to you his heart racing in his chest, back in your shared bed - willing and ready to stay with him until the sun rose the next morning. A hue of pink tainted your cheeks under his loving gaze, setting you aglow as you let out a content laugh that rang through Dean's ears, like music.

Finally manoeuvring closer, you could feel Dean's minty breath ghost over your lips at the closeness of your bodies. The vicinity bringing you solace that you didn't realise you so desperately needed once more whilst you had been sleeping in an unfamiliar bed filled with the icy feeling of emptiness, until you were back in the attentive proximity of the man you loved.

"Thank you," The words escaped before you even realised you were thinking of them; you weren't even quite sure what you were thanking him for, but after they were out in the open, you felt like they needed to be said, nevertheless.

"For what, sweetheart?" The term of endearment that he regarded you with made your heart swell with familiarity and love.

"For giving me time," Your quiet explanation was muffled as your eyes fluttered closed and you nuzzled your face slightly into your soft, feathery pillow - a sudden tiredness sweeping over you.

Dean watched you, admiration shining in his eyes. He had never sound it aloud, but he did blame himself for what happened. Of course he did. The amount of times he has heard you clamber out of bed in the middle of the night and never return always piled the guilt on top of him. He'd tell himself that he should've fought the demon off; he should've fought and stopped himself from hurting you. He should've fought for you. But he knew that you wouldn't want him to think that way, so he tried to push those feelings away, even when he knew that they were true.

"I'm so sorry, (Y/N)," The tears stung his weary eyes as he spoke your name and he thought that you didn't notice through the dark as he desperately swallowed them away. But, you did notice. And so, with a slight falter in your actions, you moved closer - slowly resting your head on his chest and he didn't hesitate to wrap his arm around you and pull you even closer, flush against himself.

"It's okay," You whispered calmly, your voice forgiving and full of infatuation and adoration as you slung your arm over his abdomen and squeezed lightly, "It's okay, Dean."

"It's not okay, dammit. I hurt you. That's not okay." The tears had vanished and instead were replaced with narrow eyes of frustration. Not at you, but at himself. His tone was bristling but not raised any louder than how the two of you had been speaking beforehand.

You didn't know how to answer; it was obvious that he wasn't going to forgive himself anytime soon, even though you had already done so. So instead, you pressed a lingering but soft kiss to his clothed chest before cuddling into his side further, "I missed you."

His acrimony seemed to dissipate into thin air at your gentle words, an endearing smile reappearing as he pressed his lips to the top of your head affectionately, "I missed you too, so much." His hand came up gradually to run his fingers softly through your hair, earning a quiet hum of appreciation from you, half asleep already. You had missed everything about him.

The soft, rhythmic beat of Dean's heart pumping infiltrating your ears as your head lay peacefully on his chest, the feel of your legs weaved in his under the covers, the caress of his fingers as they tenderly ran through your shiny locks - you were so utterly glad that you faced it instead of running away again.

And for the first time in weeks, you fell into a deep, warm slumber to the sound of Dean's soft heartbeat with a small smile gracing your lips - your happiness radiating even as you slept soundly, knowing that everything was falling back into its rightful place.

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