#crow's makin' trails! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mlwritersguild · 4 years

Note

September prompts Marichat for 6 please.

🍁 Miraculous Writer’s Guild September Event 2020 🍁

𝔽𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕥 ℂ𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 ℂ𝕙𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕟 𝕀𝕟𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 (𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖 ℍ𝕖 ℂ𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕃𝕒𝕕𝕪𝕓𝕦𝕘) 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕪 𝔾𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕕 @galahadwilder

🍂🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂~🍂

It starts, as so many of these things do, with Chat Noir paying a late-night visit to Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Chat has never been the most observant person, despite his best efforts. He tries, sure, but there are some things that, quite simply, escape him. One thing he has noticed lately is that Marinette has been getting more and more stressed, under more and more pressure, in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Ladybug. There’s only so much he can do for Ladybug, though—he can only really be there for her while she’s suited up. Which is, he supposes, why helping Marinette relax is so paramount for him. If he can help at least one of the incredible ladies in his life...

Which is why Chat Noir is slinking into Marinette’s skylight.

“Gooooooood evening, Princess!” he crows, flopping over on the bed with a grin, one arm dangling straight down and the other waving a Steins;Gate DVD. “I come bearing incomprehensible anime!”

One thing he’s learned about both her and Ladybug—the easiest way to help them with their anxiety is to give them a puzzle. Steins;Gate is perfect for brain explosions, so it’s ideal for heading off her restless trains of thought.

“Jus’ a mimmed,” Marinette mumbles through closed lips. She’s bustling around her dress form, pinning swathes of deep violet fabric into a shape that looks like ocean waves. She looks pale—probably hasn’t stopped to eat in a while.

Chat rolls over onto his back. “But Princess, I’m booooooored,” he whines, kicking his boots up toward the ceiling. He twists his neck as far as he can, looking back down toward her. “Watcha makin’?”

“Ashymmedrig dolmam wid fwogsh,” she says, skipping over half the words in the sentence. That’s a sure sign that she’s hyperfocusing, which is probably a good thing—if she was sparing the brainpower to keep things at the level of understanding she expects from him, she’d just say “dress.” Or maybe “dress with one sleeve.”

Chat rolls back onto his stomach, kicking his legs up near his butt. “One Dolman sleeve, huh?” he says. He’s impressed at the audacity of the design, “Those are supposed to be tough…”

He trails off as he suddenly realizes why she’s mumbling, catching a glint of silver between her lips.

“Marinette,” he says, his voice hard, “what have you got in your mouth?”

She glances up at Chat with confusion. “Pinsh?” she says.

Chat rolls onto his chest and spins so his feet are pointing to the ground, launches himself down the ladder in a slide, and carefully plucks the pins from her lips. “Nope.”

Marinette freezes, shooting him a sidelong glare. “The heck?”

Chat holds up the pins between his fingers. “Pincushions exist for a reason,” he snaps. “Do you know what happens if you swallow these?”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “It’s fine, Chat,” she says. “I’m careful.”

Chat raises an eyebrow. “Marinette,” he says, “Do you know how out of it you were?”

Marinette just glares at him.

Chat sighs. “I just gave you a clue to my identity,” he says, “and you were so focused that you entirely missed that I’d done it.”

Marinette blinks, jerking back. “You did what,” she says.

“My point exactly,” he says, turning and gently stabbing the pins into her cat-shaped pincushion.

He halts, one pin poised over its heart, struck by the familiarity of the motion. “Huh. Do you ever pretend this thing is me when you’re stabbing it?”

Marinette folds her arms. “More than you can imagine.”

“She’s a designer,” Adrien says, standing up from his computer chair and stalking towards his window. He throws his hands up in exasperation as he glares toward her apartment across the park. “She should know better!”

“What’s so wrong with it?” Plagg says from the nest of socks he’s built on the coffee table in front of Adrien’s TV. He props his chin up on his paws. “She’s just holding them in her mouth. It’s convenient.”

Adrien flops back onto his couch. “It’s also really dangerous,” he says. “Do you know how easy those things are to swallow?”

Plagg shrugs. “Not really?”

“Very easy,” Adrien says, staring out the window toward Marinette’s apartment. “And if a pin makes it into your throat…”

“She swallows it,” Plagg says, nestling back into the socks. “It’ll just pass back out again.”

Adrien shudders, turning toward the rock wall. “After shredding her insides from top to bottom.”

Plagg is silent for a moment, his ears flicking uncomfortably. “Oh.”

Adrien turns in his seat, lying down and staring up at the blank white ceiling. “She should know better than to put things like that in her mouth.”

Plagg shrugs. “To be fair,” he says, “Pigtails puts weirder stuff in her mouth all the time.”

Adrien sits up, turning to Plagg with narrow eyes. “What?” he says.

Plagg’s head perks up, his mouth splitting into a tiny grin. “Watch her next time she gets mad,” Plagg says. “Promise you, she’ll shove whatever she’s holding between her teeth.”

“I’m never going to understand this,” Marinette groans, collapsing backward and slapping her pencil down on her math homework. They’ve barely been at this for ten minutes and her head is already splitting. “How does this even make sense to you?”

Chat hums noncommittally from the chair next to her, shooting her a sideways glance. “Numbers just make sense in my head,” he says, waving his claws near his temple. “It’s like—you know how when you throw something, you can always tell where it’s going to land?”

Marinette giggles. He has no idea how right he is—plotting the path of her yo-yo isn’t anything she thinks about, it’s instinctive, even with extremely complex weavings. “Yeah,” she says. “I sort of know the feeling.”

Chat nods. “That’s how numbers work for me generally,” he says. He waves his hands in front of his face. “They just sort of… arrange themselves in my head?”

Marinette grimaces. “How convenient for you,” she growls. Just one more power he gets that she doesn’t. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to her computer screen and staring a hole into her paper. “So what if I just… try to access that part of my brain?”

Chat swallows. “I’m not sure that’s how that—”

Marinette doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence, because she’s already focusing on the paper. Come on, brain, Marinette thinks. You can plot ridiculous trajectories for my yo-yo, you can solve one stupid quadratic equation!

Her brain proceeds to do the equivalent of you’re on your own, sucker, and suddenly, all she can see is red.

“AAAARGH!” she shrieks. She shoots to her feet, narrowly missing bashing her head into the ladder-stairs that lead to her bed, then slams her hand down onto her desk, crushing her homework in her fist. It’s barely a second before she’s tearing into the offending paper with her teeth.

“Whoa! Marinette!” Chat yelps, swiping at the paper. “Get that out of your mouth!”

Shocked, Marinette rears back, and this time the back of her head does bash against the underside of the stairs. “Ow!” she yelps, her homework dropping in a wet clump to the hard wood of her floor.

“Princess!” Chat jumps to his feet. He carefully takes her head in his arms, stroking her throbbing scalp. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You okay?”

Marinette nods, blinking tears out of her eyes. “Th-think so.”

Chat pulls her head down against his chest, and she feels her scalp vibrate as he starts to purr.

“Mmmmm,” she murmurs, sinking into his chest.

Distracted as she is by his purring, it takes a moment for Marinette to realize that Chat is looking at her homework. “Do you do that every time you’re frustrated with math?” he says.

Marinette’s body is immediately flooded with shame. “I… yes,” she says, drawing back into herself. Making herself small. “I get angry, and then I just… go feral, I guess.”

Chat’s mouth twists into a sort of grimace—she’s not sure whether it’s judgmental or sympathetic—and he squeezes her a little closer. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into her hair.

His breath feels hot on her scalp, and she swallows.

Chat looks down at her eyes, sees the fear in them, and smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll still be with you the whole way.”

That’s… not what she’s worried about, but she can’t help the way her heart begins to thud at how sweet of him it is.

“Okay,” Adrien sighs, leaning his head against the back wall, one leg stretched out across his bed. He presses his palms to his eyes. “You were right.”

Plagg cackles from the nightstand. “I’m always right.”

“So…” Adrien purses his lip and drops his arms with a skwoosh of comforter. “She does that… every time?” he says. He gestures with his hands toward his mouth, rolling them.. “Just… jams whatever she’s holding into her mouth?”

“Pretty much,” Plagg says. “Whenever she’s mad or frustrated…” He demonstrates by popping a chunk of cheese between his teeth. “...indo her teesh ih’goesh.”

“Wow,” Adrien says. “I mean… I knew she stims sometimes…” He gesticulates in a manner that is almost, but not quite, like the way Marinette flails sometimes. “I’ve seen her arm flaps.” He shakes his head. “This is a bit bigger than that.”

“Shtim?” Plagg says, tilting his head.

“Oh, like, um, you know how I...” Adrien scratches the back of his neck. “I do, um, this, when I’m uncomfortable?” He glances away, then holds up his hand. “It’s a… like, a physical way of venting intense emotions.”

“Oh, huh,” Plagg says. “Like how she goes berserk with her arms whenever you sneak up on her?”

Adrien snorts. “Don’t be mean,” he says, reaching over to his nightstand and flicking Plagg’s ear.

Plagg bares his teeth, snatching his cheese away from Adrien’s hand. “Don’t be dumb then!” he says.

Adrien rolls his eyes, flopping back onto the bed. “Still, this is… disturbing,” he says, thinking about all of the times when Lila was saying something egregious that led to Marinette angrily gnawing her phone. “This can’t be healthy, can it?”

Plagg inhales another chunk of cheese. “Eh,” he says. “It’s not so bad.”

“You would say that,” Adrien says, tilting his head with a raised eyebrow. “Your first instinct with everything is to chew on it.”

“Guilty as charged,” Plagg says, polishing off the cheese with a smack of his lips. He immediately floats upward and zips toward the mini-fridge under Adrien’s desk. “Cheese?”

“Nah,” Adrien says, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. “You already had all of your cheese for today.”

“You’re mean and I hate you.”

Adrien closes his eyes and smiles. “Too late for that,” he says. “You already said I was your favorite Chat Noir.”

He lies still for a minute, thinking, before his eyes blink back open. “Hey,” he says. “How’d you know she does that?” He wiggles his fingers. “You know, with her arms.”

“Oh,” Plagg says, “I pay attention to all of your friends.”

Adrien sits up, looking at plagg with narrow eyes. “You’ve forgotten Nino’s name four times.”

Plagg looks up from where he is attempting to push the fridge door open with his tiny body (in spite of the fact that he could easily phase through the door). “What,” he says, “can’t take a joke?”

“Alya, stop!” Marinette cries, digging her heels into the ground. Her desperate fingers can’t find purchase on Alya’s wrist, her nails catching on her friend’s flannel sleeve.

Alya keeps powering forward, barely phased by Marinette’s minuscule weight dragging her backward. “Marinette, you gotta let go,” Alya groans. “I don’t want to drag you into this!”

“You promised!” Marinette says. “You promised you’d stop running toward Akuma!”

It’s 100% not true—no matter how many times she’s tried to extract that promise from Alya, she’s never gotten it—but after watching Alya get diced to pieces not two days ago, she can’t think about Alya getting near one of her fights without her heart threatening to explode.

Alya rolls her eyes, shaking her sleeve loose. “I never said that and you know it,” she says. “You’re not going to guilt me out of this!”

Marinette bites into her lip, trying to hold back tears. “W-watch me,” she stutters, tightening her fingers around opposite elbows, her eyes beginning to mist over. “Alya—Alya, please, it’s—it’s—it’s not safe.” She’s trying to keep from shaking, trying to keep from betraying just how scared she is—after all, everyone else in Paris treats Akuma attacks a bit like a joke. She’s the one who doesn’t know if things will go right. “I can’t—I can’t watch you—”

Alya steps forward, putting her hands on Marinette’s shoulders. “Hey,” she says softly. “It’ll be fine.”

“You can’t—you can’t… know that,” Marinette whispers.

Alya gives a roguish half-smile. “I trust Ladybug,” she says. “If anything happens to me, she’ll fix it.”

Marinette’s heart jumps into her throat. But what if I can’t? she can’t say.

Alya’s smile grows to full. “I’ll be fine,” she says, patting Marinette’s shoulders once before turning on her heel and bolting off toward the Akuma.

Marinette stares after Alya, utterly silent. She can feel steam rising inside her skull, pushing outward, burning, and she just—she wants—she needs to—

“Alya—you—agh!” she screams, yanking her phone out of her purse and biting down.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” she hears from above her, and suddenly a black shape drops into her line of sight, clawed fingers in a vise-grip on her phone. “Get that out of your mouth!”

Marinette yelps, her teeth clenching down harder on her phone, cutting into the rubber of her case and splintering the screen like a styrofoam cup. Her Ladybug instincts fire off all at once, her mind screaming Akuma as her open palm takes the intruder across the cheek.

“Ow!” the person—presumably Akuma—shrieks, releasing the phone and staggering backward, launching Marinette—and her phone—in the other direction. “Princess!”

The Princess barely registers in her mind while she’s still falling, and her mouth goes slack in surprise, releasing the phone just enough to let it fall back into her throat. She gags, her esophagus clenching as she pivots on her toes, grabbing her stomach and horking her phone onto the street with a clatter and a tinkle of glass shards.

“No, no, no no no!” Chat Noir exclaims, rushing to Marinette and pressing a palm flat against her stomach. “Please be okay, please be okay—”

“High’mokay!” Marinette rasps, trying not to vomit.

“I’ve got you—”

Marinette slaps his hand away. “Akuma!” she rasps. “Gethekuma!”

Chat grips her tightly, eyes wide. “I can’t just leave you!”

She coughs again, shoving his chest. “Go!”

He stares at her, horrified.

“Befine!” She hacks another cough, stumbling away from him. “Help—Ladybug!”

“She can hold on for a few—”

“GO!” she roars, before devolving into a coughing fit.

Chat stares at her, unsure, before jamming his baton into the ground and launching away.

“Tigghi,” Marinette rasps. “Spohtson.”

Pink sparks explode up her body, and immediately the pressure vanishes from her chest. “Oh, thank God,” Ladybug gasps, stumbling toward the wall. She glances toward where Chat vanished, her mouth twisting downward.

Oh, he’d better hope the Cure fixes her phone, or she is going to rip him open from tail to ears.

“Okay,” Adrien says, running his fingers through his hair. “That was bad. She nearly choked to death.”

“To be fair,” Plagg says, “it was your fault she swallowed her phone.”

Adrien freezes. That’s not—she was going to— “I, uh... “ He collapses into his chair. “Ugh, yeah. It was.”

“At least the Akuma fight went well.” Plagg flits over to the computer screen, sitting down on top of the webcam. “Why don’t you rewatch the fight, take a look at Ladybug? Always makes you feel better.”

Adrien purses his lips. He’s not sure whether Plagg is mocking him or serious—he’s technically right, that usually does make him feel better, but he can’t get distracted right now. “I don’t…” He sighs. “Even if it wasn’t me, something could still have gone wrong, and Marinette would’ve ended up in the hospital.” He turns in his chair, looking out the window toward the bakery. “I need to talk to her. The things she’s chewing on…”

Plagg’s eyes flutter closed in resignation. “You’re not gonna let me have any cheese first, are you.”

When Chat drops in on Marinette, he always makes sure to knock first. He knows how particular she can be about her privacy, and he knows that some of the stuff she does she prefers for him not to know about. He’s used to that from everybody, really, but from her it’s different—from her, her secrets aren’t about him, they’re about her.

When he arrives, he takes a moment to compose himself, to think about what he’s going to say. He doesn’t like arguing, especially with Marinette, but this is for her own safety.

He kneels down next to the skylight and knocks.

Immediately, he hears a muffled shriek and a crash, and in a moment, he’s through the skylight and down the ladder.

“Marinette?” he says, swinging down around the railing of the ladder-stairs. “Are you all right?”

“Mhm!” she says from the floor next to her desk. She’s sprawled out, her chair spinning, and the look on her face is shocked, taken aback—

Her mouth is full.

“Marinette,” he says, slowly and carefully as he kneels down next to her, “what do you have in your mouth?”

She stares at him with wide eyes and equally wide cheeks—though her eyes quickly narrow into a silent glare.

Chat sighs. He knows exactly what that means, and he deserves it. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry about your phone, I didn’t mean to surprise you—is it okay?”

“Mhm,” Marinette nods.

He feels a cross between relief and bile in his esophagus, but he shoves it down. “Princess,” he says flatly, his head tilting. “Whatever’s in your mouth, take it out.”

She shakes her head.

Chat purses his lips. “If you don’t take it out,” he says, holding up a claw, “I’m going to have to pry it out.”

Marinette’s eyelids fly open, and she scrambles backward, retreating further under the desk, shaking her head again.

He reaches out, eyebrow raised, and she twists her head petulantly away.

Chat sits. “You have to stop eating weird things,” he says. “Seriously, you’re starting to scare me.”

Marinette’s eyes cast toward him without turning her head. There’s concern in them, but she still doesn’t say anything.

“The pins could’ve killed you,” he says, pointing up through the desk at where he remembers her pincushion being. “I wasn’t the only one who could’ve surprised you about the phone, and we were lucky that it was during an attack so that it could be fixed.” He shakes his head. “And the homework—what happens if you eat a document that can’t be replaced?”

Marinette blinks, then purses her lips as best she can around the flat object in her mouth. Then she reluctantly opens her mouth and reaches in, extracting… a polaroid photograph.

Chat leans in.

Marinette yanks the photograph away. “Hey!”

Chat leans back, holding up his palms. “Sorry.” He smiles apologetically, clambering out from under the desk and extending a hand.

She takes it, and he lifts her out with a smile.

“May I see?”

Marinette practically swallows her tongue as she drops back into her chair, her pupils spinning down to pinpricks, and her shoulders tighten. “Uh—I don’t—you should—I don’t—”

Chat places a hand, gently, on top of hers, and she visibly calms at his touch.

She sighs. “I—You’ll find out eventually,” she says, her shoulders slumping again. “Everyone else knows.”

She slides the picture toward him.

It’s—it’s a picture of him. Adrien-him, not Chat Noir-him. Which isn’t that strange, not for her—there are pictures of him all over her walls, always have been. But her reaction to it is a little weird.

“You were hiding this?” Chat says.

Marinette pouts, nodding. “Yeah. It’s—” She crosses her arms, staring at her feet. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Chat says, holding up the picture. It’s not a particularly flattering one; it’s a candid, the one where the angle makes it look like he doesn’t have any teeth. “I mean, it’s just a picture of a friend, right?”

Marinette stares at him, then snorts. “You’re as bad as he is.” She taps the photograph with a dreamy smile. “I’m sort of… in love with him.”

Chat’s brain immediately implodes.

“No,” Adrien says, repeatedly bonking his head against the air conditioning duct on the rooftop across the street from Marinette’s parent’s bakery. “No way.”

“She literally told you, kid,” Plagg says with a smirk, sitting cross-legged on top of the very same duct. “What part of ‘I’m in love with him’ leaves any sort of wiggle room?”

“The part where she’s been denying it to my face for a year!” Adrien says, throwing his arms in the air. He turns and drops with a metal clang as his back crashes against the duct. “Every time I asked, she said no—”

Plagg flits down in front of his face. “Maybe she was scared,” he says.

“Scared? Marinette?” Adrien laughs. “Marinette isn’t afraid of anything.” He’s seen her stand up to Chloé, Akuma, Hawkmoth himself with barely a shiver.

Plagg tilts his head with a cheeky grin. “She’s scared of you,” he says.

“Why?” Adrien says. “I’m not that intimidating.”

“You are when she’s in love with you,” Plagg says. “That’s why she hasn’t been telling you anything.”

The next morning at school is its own special kind of hell.

His feelings for Marinette have always been just on the wrong side of platonic—only just—so he could always force them down, tell himself he didn’t feel that way, that it was just friendly. Besides, no matter how close he was to her, it wasn’t like she felt that way about him.

Except now he knows that she does, and his entire world has been toppled like a poorly-constructed house of cards that Plagg has flown through with reckless abandon. Every sound she makes—every breath, every laugh, every word—has his ears perking up, growing hot and red to match the pink of her cheeks, her smile, her… everything.

He can’t stop turning in his seat to look at her, but—but he knows he’s not supposed to know. He’s not supposed to know.

What about Ladybug? Plagg had asked.

Ladybug is Ladybug. She’ll never be anything less to him than the most important person in his world. She’ll never be anything less to him than his entire world. But… but a world without Marinette, without Marinette’s smile, her laugh, her brightness, her sometimes incomprehensible word salad, doesn’t bear thinking about.

He’s technically supposed to have patrol tonight. He never skips patrol. But tonight he thinks he might have to.

Marinette stares at her homework, trying to think through her literature, but the fog in her brain just won’t lift. It’s hard for any thoughts to form—any thoughts except one.

“I did that once,” she says, jabbing her pencil in the air toward Tikki. “I ate my phone once.”

“Um,” Tikki says.

Marinette glances at Tikki. “Betrayal,” she hisses with a small grin.

Tikki shrugs. “You’re at five since we met, by my count. Plus the grimoire...” She ticks them off on her paws as she speaks. “...several homeworks, some of your smaller stuffed animals, the limbs of your cat pillow, and at least one necklace from Alya.”

Marinette sighs. “Come on,” she says. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

Tikki tilts her head toward Marinette’s pencil, which is covered in teeth marks.

Marinette holds it up, incredulous. “I just started using this yesterday...” she says. She drops it and sighs, sitting back in her chair. “Is Chat right?” she says. “I mean… I stim, sometimes, and that I guess that means I chew on things, but—”

There’s a knock on the skylight.

A very complicated process ignites in Marinette’s brain, sparked by panic and the conversation she’s halfway through. She knows she can’t let Chat see Tikki, because she can’t let him know her identity. But in the moment when Tikki is looking up at the skylight, Marinette forgets how fast her Kwami is, forgets she can phase, forgets everything except for OH NO SHE MUST HIDE THE TIKKI.

She’s not sure why this is her first instinct, even afterward—maybe it was because of the subject matter, about what she and Tikki are talking about, but in that second after the knock—before Tikki can move—she’s already swept her Kwami into her hand and stuffed her into her mouth.

Bad decision, the Ladybug part of brain supplies, but the skylight is opening and she doesn’t have time to undo it. Chat’s face peers down from above, the starry backlighting giving him an ethereal, angelic glow. “Marinette?” he says. “I, uh, I’m sorry to intrude…”

If he comes into the room and sees she’s got something in her mouth again, he’s going to try and make her open it and then he’ll see Tikki and then her identity will be revealed and Hawkmoth will win and Chat will hate her and Marinette’s brain decides to throw good money after bad. She leaps from her desk chair, diving under her chaise lounge with a whimper.

Steel-toed boots hit the hardwood floor barely a second later, followed by the familiar whizz of an unsheathing baton. “Are you safe?” Chat gasps, his feet squeaking on the wood as he spins, taking in the room. “Where’s the Akuma?”

Marinette mentally slaps her forehead. Of course he thinks there’s an Akuma. If she’d seen Rose dive under a couch for no reason…

He spins to look at her, eyes wild, then his gaze locks onto hers and narrows.

“Are you seriously just trying to hide that you ate something?” he sighs.

Marinette shakes her head, but the bulge in her cheeks betrays her.

Chat crouches. “Marinette,” he says. “Seriously. This is… getting kinda ridiculous?”

You’re telling me. She’s hiding from a leather catboy under a chaise lounge with a fairy goddess in her mouth. There is no part of this that isn’t ridiculous.

He sighs, then, a crack.

Marinette yelps, jumping, slamming her head against the top of the chaise. Her mouth pops open in surprise, dropping Tikki onto the ground.

Chat blinks, his hand still clenched around the baton that he’d slammed into the ground to surprise her. “Is that,” he says, “a Kwami?”

Marinette’s entire stomach tries to evacuate her mouth, rear first. Every single thing she’s done for the past year, every sacrifice she’s made, and they’re blown because of one reckless, stupid move.

“...No?” Marinette says, her blood crashing painfully through her ears. Her brain is screaming for her to do something, to throw him off, to deny it, but she’s drawing—not just a blank, it feels like there’s a pure white wasteland where her thoughts should be. There’s nothing she can say to head this off, nothing she can do, no trick she can pull.

He’s looking right at Tikki.

“You had a Kwami,” Chat says, crouching, “in your mouth.”

“Meow?” Tikki says, blinking owlishly up at him.

A desperate, terrified giggle bubbles up from Marinette’s chest. Tikki’s trying to pretend to be a cat. Again. That’s never worked once.

Chat smiles and lifts Tikki in his leather-clad palm and pokes at her tummy with one claw, eliciting a bright giggle from the Kwami.

“Hi, Tikki,” he says.

“So,” Chat says. “You’re My Lady.”

Ladybug fights down the surge of warmth that roils through her belly at his tone—there’s nothing but admiration and adoration in his voice, even though her identity is blown, even though she’s blown everything.

“You don’t seem surprised,” she says, her legs kicking out over empty space just past the girders of the Eiffel tower. They’d needed privacy, and this is one of her comfort places. Partly because of him. “Actually, you seem… happy?”

He turns to her, his eyes sparkling. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he says. His mouth opens into a tiny smile. “I mean, I said I’d love Ladybug whoever was under the mask, but… I should’ve expected it to be someone I already loved.”

Ladybug has barely more than a second to notice the heat in her face before she nearly falls off her girder.

“I’m okay!” she yelps, scrabbling at the metal, her super-strong fingers gouging furrows in the metal. “I’m okay!”

She looks down, realizes that Chat’s hand is outstretched, bare inches away from touching her covered skin, reaching out to catch her if she falls. Like he always does.

Her whole body feels red-hot, and she can’t even look at his face. All of her muscles are rigid, joints locked, and she can feel her heart squeezing the way it did that day in the rain. When Adrien gave her his umbrella.

Oh no. She can’t—she cannot be falling in love with Chat Noir.

“Why did you think it would be a good idea to hide her in your mouth?”

Ladybug’s breath catches in her chest. “I didn’t!” she protests. “You—you knocked, I panicked!” She sighs, her head twisting away from him as her voice goes quiet. “I can’t always be the rational one.”

Chat pokes her shoulder. “No,” he says, and she can hear him grinning. “Sometimes you—” His voice breaks, and he keels forward, giggling. “Sometimes you—you have to—to shove an—” He rolls to the side, slapping desperately at the roof. “—AN ENTIRE GRIMOIRE IN YOUR MOUTH.”

Ladybug shoves a fist into his abs, more of a strong nudge than a punch. “Hey!” she yelps.

He doesn’t stop laughing.

She slaps ineffectively at his shoulder. “Stop laughing!”

“But—but Bugaboo—!” Chat gasps out, cackling.

“If you don’t stop laughing, you’re gonna be eating something stupid!” Ladybug says, holding up a fist.

Chat looks at her, eyes wide and lips pressed together, before bursting out into cackles again. “I’m—I’m sorry!” he snorts, pressing his palm over his mouth. “It’s like—being threated by—by—by a cupcake!”

Ladybug glares at him, trying to scrunch up her face, but something about this whole scenario is so ridiculous that she can’t quite hold down a giggle.

“Death by—” She snorts, pushing his cheek with her palm. “Death by frosting, dick!”

“Nooooo strawberry frosting!” Chat cries, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I leave everything to Marinette!”

Both of them freeze.

“Me,” Ladybug says. “You’re—you’d leave everything to me.”

Chat stares at her from flat on the Eiffel girder, eyes wide. “I—well, I, um, I...” He swallows. “I, uh. Yeah.”

Ladybug blinks. Every hair on her body is standing up at once, the wind biting straight into her bones. “Not even… Ladybug-me,” she says.

Chat sits up, bracing himself against one of the struts, and scratches the back of his neck. “I… yeah.” He glances away. “I mean, some of it would go to Nino, but…”

Yeah, that makes—wait. Ladybug’s eyes narrow. “Nino?” she says. “You know Nino.”

Chat swallows. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah, I, um.” He grimaces. “Ladybug, Marinette, and Nino are three of the most important people in my life.” His eyes meet hers. “Well, two I guess.”

She stares at him. “I know how I know Nino,” she says. “How do you know Nino?”

Chat swallows. “Uh,” he says. “Same way you do?”

Ladybug stares at him, the wheels whirring in her brain. Same way—she grew up with Nino. She’s been going to school with him since—oh. Oh no.

School. He knows Nino from school.

And everyone in her class has been Akumatized, except two. Her, and—and—

Her lungs freeze. Her limbs lock. Her neck—she can’t get breath past her neck, can’t swallow, can’t—

The rain. The umbrella. The—the—no wonder he—

He’d said he loved her. Not Ladybug-her. Marinette-her.

“Adrien?” Ladybug shrieks.

Chat leaps forward, pressing his palms over her mouth. “Keep it down!” he hisses. “I don’t think they heard you in the twelfth Arrondissement!”

Ladybug yanks her face away from his hands, narrowly avoiding bashing her skull on the strut. “Oh Kwami,” she gasps, pressing her palms to her forehead. “Oh Kwami, oh Kwami, oh Kwami…” She can feel her breath coming short, her fingers beginning to shake. “And I—I told you—”

He reaches for her wrist—to comfort her, she assumes—but it’s just—it’s—it’s too much—

She snatches her yo-yo, stuffs it between her teeth, and screams.

The muffled, extended shriek splits the night open like a burning crack in the sky. The plastic is cold and bitter against her tongue, pressing outward on her whole mouth, uncomfortable, but she just—she has to—she has to—

Chat’s fingers wrap around her wrists. “Okay, Mari, let’s—let’s not eat inedible things, okay?”

She gasps in a breath and returns to shrieking. Adrien. Adrien is touching her. Adrien is touching her with affection. Adrien is wearing a skintight leather suit and touching her with affection. She’s going to fall off the Eiffel Tower and die and it would be better than this.

His claws grip the yo-yo, and he tugs it gently out of her mouth, scraping the plastic on her teeth. “Come on,” he says. “You gotta let go.”

She whimpers.

The yo-yo pops out of her mouth, and Chat quietly tucks it under his thigh, wrapping his palms behind her head and pressing his forehead to hers. “Okay,” he says. “Breathe with me, Bug.”

She can’t—she can’t—she closes her eyes, matching her breathing to his, forcing the shaking down.

“Are you…” He looks up at her through soulful eyes. “Are you okay?”

Ladybug whimpers again, shaking her head. “Iminlovewithyou.”

Chat blinks. “I’m—sorry,” he says. “Can you… repeat that, please?”

“Nnnn!” Ladybug grinds out, squeezing her eyes shut.

Chat purses his lips, gently lifting her head with his palms. “Bug,” he says. “My Lady. My—Marinette.” He swallows. “Did you say—did you say—?”

Ladybug throws her arms around his shoulders and tackles him to the girder, capturing his lips between her own. Desperate, hot, gasping, his breath in her mouth. He tastes like sweat and Adrien brand cologne, which somewhere in the back of her head she notes is not surprising, but it’s hot and wet and so much more real than any of her fantasies of either Adrien or Chat. It’s awkward, heavy, lips smashed together, teeth clicking awkwardly, but it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

She pulls back, gasping, hairs whipping in the wind as they escape from her pigtails, pressing down on his shoulders. “Mine,” she gasps.

“You know,” he says, chuckling, “I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re a biter.”

She blinks, then swats at his shoulder. “Ass,” she giggles.

#ml writers guild #galahadwilder #september event #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fic #ml fic #ml fic rec #fic rec #ladybug and chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #chat noir #marichat #love square #mlb #miraculous

247 notes · View notes

lockawayknight · 3 years

Text

@vilestblood said: (DS Crow raises his birb hand ✋)

“Ah! No need to be shy, my friend! C’mon, m’sure I’ve got some stuff you’d like! I’ll take it as a personal challenge to impress ya.” Wink.

He looks the Crow over with exaggerated stance, one hand on the hip and the other on his chin, eyes squinted. “What fascinatin’ garb y’got there. You a servant of Nahr Alma? Velka, maybe? M’sure y’got a helluva lotta stories t’tell! Promise you’ll share some? Ah, hell” — he raps his knuckles against his forehead — “I’m the one makin’ the offers, not you, huh? Hah, got me distracted, y’did! Now let’s see…

“Well, first thing’s first, a’course, no celebration a’ this season’s complete without some costumin’. ‘Ave a look at this!”

From a chest full of silks and crowns, Magerold produces a mask fashioned of the skull of some sort of giant bird, its head white as ivory with a beak black as a piano’s half steps. Seamlessly attached to the cranium — or, perhaps, belonging to the same creature naturally — are a set of ram’s horns, curled black at their tips and clearly once meant to kill. Finally, a mane of long, wiry black hair trails down from the back, in messy braids and tangled locks, like that of a Lion Warrior.

“How’s this suit your fancy, eh? Picked this up outside a’ the cathddral wheret the Prowling Magus’ congregation… well, congregates. I dunno if it’s got any magical properties, but it certainly matches your armour, I’d say! Prob’ly’ll spook a few souls too, wouldn’t ya think?” Wink again.

“Ah, an’ a’course, some sweets!” From a large cauldron filled with candies, he pulls out a selection of dark paper wrappers and places them all atop some black silk, wrapping them nicely before handing them over. “Dark chocolate, black liquorice, and blackberry gumdrops.” He looks pleased with himself for his selections. “Now everythin’ matches! Aren’t I the best?” A gentle elboy nudges the Crow’s ribs with that. “Go on, y’can tell me, I won’t get an ego.” Grin. “Ah, m’jus joshin’ ya. Hope y’like!” A friendly wave concludes the whole thing. “‘Ave a nice night, my friend! Ah, an’ I still want some stories!!”

#magerold [muse]#yay!!!#vilestblood

3 notes · View notes

queenbirbs · 4 years

Text

the way home | Ch. 3 | Edward x MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x MC

Word count: 3,417

Warnings: language, violence, mention of blood

Read from the beginning or continue on Read on AO3

Tag list: @writinghereandthere ------

Whatever Robert says or does against Rhodes seems to work.

For the next week, as they hop from island to island, he gives Elena a wide berth. It doesn’t stop the death glares he gives her on the regular, but she’ll take those over him dropping a sack over her head and kidnapping her, as her nightmares depict.

He can’t ruin today, though. The next outpost is St. Sylvain -- finally, a place where Elena has contacts of her own. Well, Charlie’s, she considers, which brings that familiar rush of heartache. She misses her best friend; misses her snarky, carefree attitude; misses her crude jokes and compassionate heart. Though Robert tries with his sarcastic tongue, he can never measure up to Charlie’s quick wit.

As soon as the ship docks, Elena is off, flapping a hand at Robert’s reminder to only ask for information from those she trusts. Down the gangplank and across the port, she makes her way into the open-air market and searches along the rows of brightly-colored stalls. As if no time has passed, Bronte leans out from her own stall and waves at her as she approaches.

“Ah, the fiercest pirate in all the seven seas!” she crows, her wrinkles creasing as she grins. “You’re Charlotte’s friend, aren’t ya? She’s been looking all over for ya.”

“She has?” Elena asks, tightly clenching the leather strap across her chest.

“O’course. She was here…” she trails off, tapping a finger against her stall as if counting up the days in her head. “...oh, sometime before the big storm. Was makin’ her rounds of the place, askin’ if ye’d been around.”

“Did she say where she was headed?”

“Afraid not.” Settling her weight across the table, she opens her mouth, then pauses to squint at something along the market. Elena glances over her shoulder, but spots nothing of interest among the crowded stalls. “But here -- let me give ye something.”

Bronte bends down and heaves up a basket of what looks like knitting supplies, clicking her tongue as she digs through it. Sweeping her hair to one shoulder, Elena keeps watch of the market until the older woman hums a noise of victory. She pulls out a makeshift cross, bound with red thread. “‘Tis made from the twigs of a Rowan tree. Keep it on yer person. It’ll offer ye protection from evil spirits on yer journey.”

Given her recent history, Elena’s made a point to avoid picking up any old object. But she doesn’t want to seem rude, and who is she to argue against something that will bring protection? Taking the charm, she tucks it into the pocket of her coat.

“Thank you -- for the protection, and for speaking with me.”

Bronte smiles at her once more. “If I see young Charlotte, I’ll be sure to send her yer way.”

------

The rest of the day is a wash.

Her stop by the St. Sylvain Inn to speak with Mary takes the better part of an hour. Most of that time, however, is taken up by helping Mary toss out an unruly guest. What little chance at conversation they manage to have, Elena finds that her knowledge about Charlie’s whereabouts is limited.

“She asked if I’d seen you, actually.” Mary’s face brightens at the memory, before she bites at her lip and frowns. “But this was months back. Certainly well before the hurricane.”

At the blacksmith’s, Elena wanders around the shop as the man there speaks with a customer. They hem and haw over the fine details of a new gate, going back and forth about prices. She bides her time by looking at a row of gleaming blades. One of the daggers catches her eye for the level of details carved along the hilt; it reminds her of the pistol Charlie gave her, all those years ago. The customer eventually leaves, having refused such a high cost for ‘such subpar craftsmanship.’

“What can I do for ye, ma’am?” the blacksmith calls out to her, wiping away the sweat on his face. “Interested in anything?”

Elena leaves the wares and crosses the room to be heard above the roar of the forge. “No, sorry. I was wondering if Tripp was working today?”

The blacksmith turns back to his project, tapping at a piece of glowing metal with his hammer. “He don’t work here no more.”

“Oh. Do you know where he works now, then?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I can--”

He slams the hammer down and a burst of hot sparks flares up into her face. The sword is in her hand and at his throat before she realizes it -- and before the man has the attempt to lift the hammer in defense.

“Listen, alright.” He licks his lips and eyes the sword’s gleaming edge. “He left about three months ago. Said that he was going to try and head back home.”

“Where’s that?” she snaps, though she eases the sword back a few inches to give him the illusion of space.

“I don’t-- maybe, maybe St. Fisher, or England. I dunno, I never asked. All I know is that he went off, and I haven’t seen ‘im since.”

Elena flicks her sword away and slides it back into its scabbard, suppressing her smirk at the man’s audible breath of relief. Brushing past another woman on her way out, she starts her trek back to the market to try any other of Charlie’s contacts. She’s nearly reached the main drag when there’s a voice from behind her.

“Is yer name Elena Montgomery?”

Elena spins around to face the stranger. It’s the woman from the shop, her auburn hair matted to her neck from the heat -- and, presumably, from chasing Elena down. Her accent is similar to Kendrick’s, her voice low and rich.

“It is. And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry -- I’m Fran.” She shifts the satchel she carries from one shoulder to the other, trying to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, too, for chasing after you like that. I saw you at the inn, talking with Mary. Are you looking for Edward Mortemer?”

“I am.”

“I just met a lad who talked about doing business with him.”

“When?”

“Two hours ago or so, I think. I was out near the market and we struck up a--”

“No, when did he see Edward?” Elena clarifies.

“Oh.” Fran’s nose scrunches up as she tries to recall. “I think he mentioned it was o’er the summer? I’m not for certain. I can take you to him -- if he’s still at his stall.”

It’s too good to be true. After weeks of searching, a lead like this doesn’t just fall into her lap. She would be a fool to go with some random woman, despite how cute she is. But she can’t turn her back on an opportunity like this.

“Yes, please,” she all but begs.

Fran guides her through the streets, clearly a local in her knowledge on how to avoid the congested areas. She isn’t much for talking, which Elena appreciates, as she’s too caught up in her own thoughts. Even if this man saw Edward over the summer, does that mean it was here, or somewhere across the globe? If it was over in Portugal or the Philippines, then what the hell is she supposed to do? What if she returned too late? What if Edward, Charlie, and the crew were one of the twelve ships lost in the storm? Elena fiddles with the necklace, worrying the chain in between her fingers. She knows the risk of using the whistle again -- but she will, if it means saving their lives from such a fate.

“That’s a pretty charm you have there,” Fran says, breaking the silence between them. “A bit odd-looking, but pretty.”

“Thanks.” Feigning a smile, Elena tries to subtly tuck it back into her shirt.

They reach the market soon enough. Along with Bronte’s, most of the stalls are boarded up or packed away. Out in the harbor, strong winds batter at the ships’ flags and rigging. Thick clouds roll along above the island, warning them of the approaching storm. Across the horizon, lightning dances atop the white-capped waves. Fran continues down to a covered section of the wharf, shadowed by a large building for ship repairs.

“Tommy! You still here?” she calls out as they round the next corner.

Tucked back along the building are a few more stalls. Their choice in location isn’t lost on Elena. This is where other sorts of deals take place. If it weren’t obvious from the grizzled men that leer at them, the crates of pistols, bolts of fine lace, and casks of wine are enough of a statement on their own.

“Aye, I’m here.”

Dread rings its alarm bell loud and clear inside her skull when Rhodes steps out from the group of men. From the corner of her vision, Elena sees several more men approach her from behind. “Very good,” Rhodes croons at Fran, dropping a few coins into her waiting palm.

“I also snagged us this. Figured we could rough it up a bit and pass it off as the Bonnie Prince’s.” From her satchel, she pulls out the dagger Elena eyed at the shop. “And that charm she’s wearin’, that could go for a fair bit o’ coin.”

The roof groans under the sudden onslaught of rain. Shoddy patch jobs let some of the water through, soaking the dry earth under their feet. Taking the blade from Fran, Rhodes tosses it between his hands, eyeing Elena all the while. That crooked smirk of his widens.

“Fran speaks the truth, ya know. I spoke with your captain not long before the storm. He told me a lovely tale about how he’s sailed the world looking for his love. It brought tears to my eyes, it really did.”

“Touching,” Elena all but spits back at him. She lifts her chin to keep her eyes on his. Her hand hovers above her sword’s hilt.

“Too many heartless bastards out there, he said, trying to pull one over on ‘im.”

Her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. “And you’re going to be different?”

“O’course. He’s been chasing after lies for far too long. The lad wants proof.” Rhodes strikes; he throws an arm across her chest and slams her back into the wall. Her face smacks against the rough stone; she tastes blood on her tongue. “So, I’m going to slice off one of those pretty fingers of yers, and if he don’t respond to that, I’ll keep sending him more until he--”

Elena spits in his face. He reaches to wipe it away and she ducks under his hold, using the muddy ground to slide from his next punch. Knocking his arm away, she slams her fist against his kidneys. Rhodes collapses to one knee and growls out a long string of curses.

“Send him one of yours instead,” she snarls.

Swiping the dagger from his hand, she twirls it and grips it tight before seizing his other hand. The blade slices clean through three of his fingers. His howl of pain disappears under a loud clap of thunder.

“You fucking--”

His insult never lands. With a quick snap of her knee, she knocks his head into the wall. He collapses in a heap, mottled with blood and muck. Elena bends down and wipes the blade on a clean patch of his shirt.

When she stands up, she finds Fran gone and the other men watching her from a few yards back. Sliding her new dagger into the sheath at her breast, she throws the men a mock salute and heads out into the storm.

------

She’s woken by the smell of blood.

Her hand goes up to attend to her nosebleed before she realizes the scent is a memory from her nightmare, the last dredges of it lingering in the confines of her quarters. Not wanting her bunkmates to wake to the sound of her crying, Elena climbs out and heads for the deck. With the skeleton crew this late at night, she has no trouble sneaking past them to reach her corner of solitude at the stern.

If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s aboard the Revenge. The salty ocean breeze and the rhythmic swaying of the ship could fool her so easily. When she opens her eyes, though, there is no Henry badgering her about trying his latest creation; no Charlie sauntering up with a bottle of rum; and no Edward drawing invisible lines between the stars to teach her the constellations.

The same stars she’s looking up at now, knowing that somewhere out there across the sea, he might be gazing at them, too.

The small pinpricks of light start to grow fuzzy. Elena folds her arms against the railing and buries her head in them, trying to muffle her crying. The idea of spending another month chasing after Edward is frustrating to no end. If this was her own time, she could just hunt him down on social media or track him down with a PI. Maybe it would be better if she planted her ass down on an island and waited for him, at this rate.

“Are you bawling because you killed him?”

Elena jolts up in surprise. Her ribs smack against the railing. Rubbing a hand over them to soothe the ache, she turns and glowers at Robert.

“I don’t remember inviting you to my pity party.”

“You didn’t. I crashed it.” Moving to stand beside her, he spends a long minute overlooking the dark ocean in front of them. Once she’s finished with trying to hide her tears, he asks again. “So, did you?”

“No.”

“A shame.”

Captain Delaney was the only one to ask about Rhodes when he didn’t return. When no one else responded, Robert mentioned that he decided to take a position on another ship. The lie -- and the fact that no one cared all that much for the man anyway -- seemed to work. Delaney promoted another sailor to Rhodes’s position, and that was that.

“I should’ve listened to you,” Elena laments, not-so-subtly wiping her tear-stained sleeve against her face. “This woman approached me and said she had information about Edward. I was baited -- hook, line, and sinker.”

His hands clench tight around the railing. “Love can make you do stupid things.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Aye, actually, I am.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “You’ve never once mentioned someone important. You only wanted to come back for the freedom, the adventure -- you said so yourself. And I understand that, I really do. The adventure is why I stayed in the first place. I could’ve snuck into Edward’s cabin or seduced him for the compass like that,” she snaps her fingers for emphasis, ignoring Robert’s snort of disbelief. “But once I had the chance… I stayed. It became about more than the thrill of it.”

“Why is it that you younguns think love is only for the thirty-and-under crowd?”

“‘Younguns’?” Elena repeats with a grimace.

“I was trying out some of yer Texas slang.”

“Nobody says that.” When he opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. “Okay, nobody who didn’t fight in the fucking Alamo. But -- seriously, I want to know. Is there someone…?” she trails off, encouraging him to open up.

Robert lets out a long, ragged sigh before digging into his coat. The compass in his hand is set into a simple wooden box, much less ornate than the previous one. Cradling the compass close to shield it from the wind, he digs a fingernail into a hidden switch and a small compartment slides open from the bottom. A twist of raven-colored hair falls into his palm, tied with a tiny length of twine. He traces his thumb across the coarse texture, his breathing unsteady.

“His name is Julien. We met in Panama City while searching for Sir Francis Drake’s treasure that he stole from the Nuestra Señora de la Concepción. Though we never did find the gold, we ended up running a ship together and stealing some of our own.” Without glancing down, Robert slips the lock of hair back into the compartment and snaps it closed. It’s telling how reflexive it is, as if he repeats the move a hundred times a day. “We didn’t want to deal with the Spanish anymore than we had to, so we sailed to St. Lucia. ‘Twas run by France at the time, and our contact out there bragged about running a smuggling route right under their noses. But when we arrived, we found him in a gibbet. He’d been there a good while. Julien only knew ‘twas him from the ugly, purple trousers he wore.”

Having seen the skeletons hanging along some of the ports, Elena is thankful she missed seeing the late stages of decomposition. “Not long after, we were captured by the French. We managed to escape, but were forced to separate in order to get our crew out. Being French himself, Julien had a better chance at disguising himself as a local. The last I saw of him was when he went back in to retrieve Charlie. And then,” he pauses to clear his throat, “she came out and he didn’t, and we had to escape the island or risk getting caught all over again. And his attempts would’ve been for nothing.”

Elena wants nothing more than to wrap her friend in a hug. Knowing that he’s not big on physical touch, though, she gives what comfort she can by placing her hand alongside his on the railing.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“O’course you didn’t, because I never told you. Even in the future, there are places where our relationship would be met with the business end of a pistol.” Robert shrugs at the idea, but she can see in the set of his jaw how angry it makes him. “But even after I gained your trust and you told me about your past relationships, I felt like I still needed to keep him a secret. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

“Tell me about him,” she requests.

With a quiet chuckle, Robert shakes his head.

“There isn’t enough time in the day to describe him, and I’m not one to wax poetic. But he is… kinder than me, certainly. A better shot than me, too. He’s the one who taught Charlie everything she knows. The chain I gave you, that’s for him.” He puts a hand up when Elena immediately reaches up to return it. “No, no -- that whistle is much too important. The chain isn’t the… I’ve already gotten a new one. I was hoping -- I have my grandfather’s ring that I would like him to wear. If he agrees, o’course.”

She suppresses the smile that wants to form at seeing Robert flustered.

“You’re referring to him in the… do you know if he’s alive? Where he is?”

“The last confirmed sighting of him was three years ago in Curaçao, a small island off the coast of Venezuela.”

Her brows knit together as she studies him. “Then why are you here, in the north?”

His shoulders sag with the weight of his sigh, though she can see the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

“Because I made you a promise, remember? Last year, when we tried our hand at stealing the sceptre from the Crown Room. The only reason I’m not locked up in some Scottish ‘House of Special Purpose’ is because you came back for me. And I told you that I would stay by yer side until we found Edward.”

“I mean, if I had left you there, you would’ve just ratted me out as an accomplice.”

That gets a proper laugh from him. “True enough, but I’ll wager the thought never crossed yer mind, did it, kid?” Her small shrug is enough of a confirmation for him. “Julien’s somewhere out there, waiting for me,” he assures. “The man has the patience of a saint. So, I’ll be sticking with you ‘til then. Make sure you get home safe and all that.”

Annoyed at the night’s second round of tears trying to make their appearance, Elena keeps her eyes on the whitecaps in the distance.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” In a rare show of friendship, Robert knocks his elbow against hers and jostles her from the railing. “Seriously, don’t. I do have a reputation to uphold.”

------

References:

The “House of Special Purpose” is another name for the Ipatiev House, where Emperor Nicholas II, his family, and members of their household were executed in 1918. To my knowledge, there is no Scottish version -- mostly because MI5 operates out of the Thames House in London.

#distant shores #edward x mc #edward mortemer #choices #distant shores fic #Kaila writes things #f: the way home

8 notes · View notes

queen-scribbles · 4 years

Text

Whiskey Kisses

What can I say, Bry and Jonas are really cute(and affectionate) when they’re tipsy-verging-on-drunk, and I’ve been hoarding this to be my V-day fic this year for Reasons that will become apparent. :D

---

“So.” Bry slid a perilously full shot glass across the table, let her hand linger as she caught his eye and smirked. “Ready to taste defeat, Balkar?”

Jonas matched her smirk as he laid claim to the shot, catching a droplet that spilled down the side with his thumb. “You’re awfully confident, gorgeous.”

“‘Cause I know I can drink you under the table, handsome,” she shot back, index finger tracing around the rim of her own glass.

“Oh, really?” He held her gaze as he slowly, deliberately, sucked the escaped whiskey droplet off his thumb. “Prove it.”

Bry bit her lip at the not entirely alcohol-induced warmth that spread through her and lifted her shot glass. “With pleasure.” She waited for him to lift his as well. ”On three?”

Jonas nodded, flashing one of those dangerous grins of his. “One...”

She clinked her glass against his. “Two...”

“Three.” They were tipping back the whiskey while the word still hung on the air, swallowing even as it burned their throats, thumping the upside-down glasses back onto the cantina table almost in unison.

“Ha!” Bry crowed, slapping the table.

Jonas just shrugged, faint smirk tugging his lips. “Night’s still young. Let’s see what happens.”

She grinned and snapped her fingers to call over one of the serving droids.. “Let’s.”

---

Their glasses banged the tabletop simultaneously, but Bry’s flipped out of her grasp and ricocheted off the evidence of previous rounds to skitter toward the edge. Jonas grabbed for it with slightly less than his usual grace, but did catch the glass before it could plunge toward the floor.

He chuckled triumphantly and leaned forward to set it, right-side up, in front of Bry. “Think that round’s mine, gorgeous.”

“You were due one eventually,” she shot back with a teasing grin. “I’m still winning.”

Jonas raised a brow at her, looked toward the shot glasses spread out between them. “I think, at this point, I’m gonna concede defeat-”

“Ha!”

“-Mostly in th’ interest of keepin’ us sober enough we don’t wind up somewhere we aren’t s’pposed to be.”

“That’s when things get fun, though,” Bry winked, fiddling with the glass she’d fumbled.

He shook his head with an amused smile. “Not this close to gang territory, it’s not.”

That was a good point. “Okay, then... my place or yours?”

“Your is closer,” Jonas pointed out after a moment’s thought.

“Also looks like someone tossed a grenade in right now,” Bry confessed, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t mind you seein’ it like that, but, y’know... there’ll be stuff in our way...”

“So, mine?” he said with a chuckle.

He knew her so well. “Prob’ly better, yeah. Easier t’ have fun there.”

The chuckle morphed into a laugh and he leaned across the table to steal a kiss, knocking over a few of the empty glasses as he did.

Bry reached up to grab a fistful of his jacket and held him close as she savored the whiskey-flavored kiss. Stars, but she did love his company. She signaled the serving droid over so she could pay the tab even as they broke the kiss, but Jonas beat her to it. “Jonas-”

“You can take it next time,” he waved off her protest.

“That’s what you said last time,” she said, stealing a kiss. “An’ the time b’fore that.” Another stolen whiskey-kiss as they got to their feet, but she was too happily tipsy to do more than offer teasing complaints about this trend.

“You’ll just hafta hold me to it one of these days,” Jonas said playfully as he draped one arm around her shoulders. “Or be faster on the draw with payin’.”

She wrinkled her nose but couldn’t help a giggle as they headed for the door, stumbling slightly and leaning against each other. It had probably been a good call on his part to cut things off when he did. Which was only further proven when she narrowly avoided running her shoulder into the doorway on their way past.

“Speeder or leisurely stroll?” Jonas asked. As if in answer, Bry tripped over her feet and lurched into him, almost knocking them over. He laughed and took advantage of the closeness to kiss her forehead. “Speeder it is.”

“Prob’ly wise,” Bry mumbled, pressing a somewhat sloppy kiss to the corner of his jaw. His breath hitched and this time he was the one to stumble. She giggled. “For both our sakes.”

They headed for the nearest shuttle pad, path weaving just a little as the full effects of their contest started to hit. Fortunately, there was already a shuttle waiting, the droid pilot’s eyes glowing a dull orange as it asked for a destination. Jonas gave it the address, Bry beat him to paying the fare and pulled him into the speeder’s cabin with a smug grin, and they spent the whole ride to his place making out. (Because, really, what better use of their time when tipsy and enjoying your company?)

Bry may have slid off the seat at one point and had to, giggling and awkward, lever herself back off the floor, Jonas may have laughed at her. And she may have kissed him real good to shut him up. The fingers-in-hair, how-long-can-you-hold-your-breath kind of kiss, still strongly tasting of whiskey. (His dazed look when she pulled back may have left her inordinately smug.)

Neither was the picture of grace as they clambered out of the shuttle, but at least they managed to keep their feet until they were inside Jonas’ apartment and could collapse on the couch.

Bry bit her lip to hold back another wave of giggles as the two of them kicked off their shoes and Jonas murmured a playful “Now where were we?” that she answered by kissing him again.

“Oh, right, now I remember,” he grinned between hungry kisses, one hand tangling in her hair and the other molded to the curve of her hip as she swung one leg over to straddle his lap.

“Though you might,” Bry mumbled back, sliding her hands under his shirt to graze the ticklish spot just above his hip.

Jonas yelped and jerked upright, forcing her to scramble for something to grab so she wouldn’t get dumped on the floor. “Dammit, Bry!”

This round of giggles turned into full-on cackling as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder. Worth it. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed between fits of laughter, the words huffed into the curve of his neck, “I couldn’t resist.”

Muttering under his breath, Jonas relaxed again, settling back into the couch. “Sure you couldn’t.”

She straightened, started to finger-comb his hair back from his forehead to give apology kisses, but was rudely--painfully--interrupted by the muscles in her leg seizing up. “Kriffin’ moons of kwath,” Bry groused as she pushed away from her previous position to lay back on the couch, her head pillowed against the arm and her legs in Jonas’ lap. “Leg cramp,” she hissed when he shot her a questioning look..

“And serves you right,” he teased with a smirk, but his hands were already rubbing her leg, those talented fingers soothing taut muscles.

Bry relaxed as her muscles did, sinking further into the couch with a happy groan. “Is this s’pposed to be punishment? ‘Cause if so, I’m gonna hafta tickle you more often...”

“Perish the thought,” Jonas said dryly, one hand rubbing her shin while the other worked on the cramp. “Last thing I need is you doin’ that more. Leg cramps are nasty, though, an’ I wouldn’t leave you suffering” --he leaned over for a kiss so quick he was pulling back by the time she reacted, the warmth and taste of whiskey lingering on her lips--”even if you deserve it.”

She laughed and gave his closer arm a light, playful swat even as her eyes drifted closed. The two of them lapsed into silence after that, comfortable and warm with the buzz of being somewhere between tipsy and mildly drunk with company you enjoyed. She curled her toes as the cramp finally eased, and his hands went still a moment before one began the idle strokes up and down her shin once more. It was peaceful, almost sleepy. Content.

Bry couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt that way about just being with someone. She liked it. A lot. She liked him. A lot. She hummed, barely audible, a smile curling her lips as the realization settled. Whiskey always had made her philosophical.

Jonas chuckled softly, his fingers trailing over the top of her foot before starting the next pass up her shin. “What?”

She cracked one eye open to see the amused smile he was sending her. “ ‘M just thinkin’.”

The smile widened and his fingers circled the sensitive spot on the side of her knee, making her toes curl again. “’Bout what?”

“I love you.”

The words hung on the air, a truth that had long been building in the quiet places of her heart but never spoken aloud.

Jonas’ hand stilled midway down her leg, the warmth of it an anchor to this moment, as he blinked at her, raised a brow, and murmured a mildly stunned, “What?”

“I love you,” she repeated more emphatically, pushing herself upright as she guessed where his thoughts had gone. “An’ I’m not jussayin’ that ‘cause of the whiskey. Though it is makin’ things easier...”

The stunned look melted in a crooked smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinkin’ it, I can tell.” Bry curled her legs back so she could sit on her calves, wobbled slightly as the couch cushion gave under her shifting weight, and caught herself before placing her hands on his shoulders. She looked him dead in the eye as she repeated, again, “Jonas Balkar, I. Love. You.”

His crooked smile spread into a genuine, delighted grin and he curled one hand around the back of her neck to pull her in for a kiss. “In case you were wondering,” he murmured, so close his lips brushed hers with the words, “I love you, too.”

She let him kiss her, deep and warm, still tasting of whiskey, then grinned as she rested her forehead against his. “I figured,” she whispered impishly before kissing him again.

They cuddled close when they broke from this one, her head tucked under his chin.

“For the record,” Jonas began after a long moment’s contented pause, “I was doubting my ears, not your sincerity.”

Several ways she could tease floated through Bry’s head. She let them all go in favor of, simply, “Whadidja think I said?”

He linked his fingers between hers, her palm to his knuckles. “Wasn’t expecting to hear... that anytime soon,” he admitted, kissing behind her ear. “Thought I was imagining it, full-stop.”

This one she couldn’t resist; low-hanging fruit and all that. “Oh, c’mon, Balkar,” she teased, tilting her head back to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You know I’m full of surprises.”

Jonas chuckled wryly. “Better than most.” He kissed the top of her head. “This one’s my favorite.”

Bry grinned and squeezed his hand as she settled in close as she could get. “Mine, too.”

-----------------------------------

So now I have a solid answer to “Who said ‘I Love You’ first?” :D Against all odds, alcohol does not make Bry more sarcastic; it makes her cute and affectionate and giggly. That was fun to discover. :P

#queens fic #briyoni nerai #jonas balkar #brykar #otp: better company #swtor #swtor fic #god i love these two

13 notes · View notes

t-underneaththeradardancing · 4 years

Text

so yah gonna try and rite sum - poetry t or just a buncha nonsense bout ur day - w a little whine ( a little lol - watch me now ) - got a chord progression - written down and no clue wat it 2 - wait it aint

a progression - but notes to a chord fuck me - a production note typo thru me also

u do know i fake it and improvise mostly and still cant play or even know all the chords - but closer

hey baby we makin magic not sausage widgets - remember gidget - no not inspector gadget - how bout a drum solo like the 60s - but yah playing right notes in a semblance of time - if imma trance and flow dont hafta think about notes chords time key my fingers just - fuck i dont even know half the time how or what - i mean i play practice - uh - things - that come - here something i like and over and over - sometimes an idea but need muscle memory for the studio - fuck - tbh idk if imma b ready - ever lol but there been major angst in a minor key of course cuz minors always sad - and t he b drama lately

then i get calmed outta delusional and back into the surreal comedie francais cuz everything sounds better in french and when in trouble i claim to b a conehead and its all good - the liver is a muscle yall - no i aint drinking not even a thot - smoking tho - no aint but fuck sometimes - on and off copd med - cramps a motherfucker - so on and off steroids - a roller coaster rooster fur shure - so far breathing fine - no improving but steady as goes

uh t - not to but yah - not sure this b poetry despite a bad rhyme and nonsense here and then - maybe the kitty ? it aint poetry either - but ppl luv cinder - and she is

a good one

no i didnt make the post office - i thot 2 but no 12 - woulda made it before 12

but

mobbed by murder oh my - so many and hungry - and chatty - we walk slow together - the mostly hop and fly - like a pied piper and theres a trail of missed pieces for the way home when i ran out - some come and go - the og crow mostly watch after getting a share - a couple fly off bringing one home - and birdsong - brave a bizzy chaos grocery as an interlude

i gess we b chillen - sang while walking till

yah its wonderful life - is that a crow or raven billy - dont lose the money this year k - yah compulsive af - always - it a raven named jimmy - a birb star if ever - 1000 films - a talker human english style

kitty crows a little whining lame humor bad rhymes

yah my work is done here

just for now - prolly write more gibberish

later

love

#poetry i guess

14 notes · View notes

green-eyeddragonfanfiction · 6 years

Text

Son of the Sea

Pairing: Selkie!Steve x Female!Reader Summary: After losing your crew- your family- and waking up in a town you’ve never been to before, you find yourself going through life in a bit of haze while you recover. Your only solace is the sea, which you spend any time you can spare staring longingly at. That is until a mysterious, handsome blond makes a sudden appearance in your life. This stranger isn’t like the other townsfolk. Unlike them, he seems to understand, if the spark in his eye when he looks at the ocean is any indication. Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, smut, vaginal sex, unprotected sex Word Count: ~8,566 A/N: This is the first Monster!Character one shot for this Spooktober season! If you’d like to be tagged in other Spooktober stories, check out this post! Send me Spooktober requests for Monster!Character fics you want to see!

Masterlist // The Monster Series Collection

As I walked by the dockside one evening so fair To view the salt water and take the sea air I heard an old fisherman singing a song Won’t you take ma away girls me time is not long