#nem drabbles

[nemaliwrites]

prompt: nervy

It’s hard to remember, Amélie thinks as she watches Marinette spill tea on herself yet again, that this is Ladybug. Ladybug, who saved Paris, who defeated her brother-in-law. 

Whom her son is enamored with.

One girl, who sits with her eyes averted and hands shaking. And the other, who is used to wielding power; the same power that bruised, choked, controlled.

Amélie, more than familiar with masks, wonders: which girl is real?

But then she hears the way Marinette says Félix’s name — like he’s someone precious, someone she wants nothing more than to keep safe — and Amélie has her answer.

[nemaliwrites]

prompt: foist

The witch is unnecessary.

Unwelcome, the way she worms herself into your fight, knives and beasts and gods-damned magick all at her disposal. You already knew the gods wouldn’t let you die, but these labors were yours. The only thing your life was worth.

So you swing your club with no regard for whether she’s on the other end. It’s what Her Majesty does to you; you’re just being what she made you.

But when the witch comes to you, offering you Nectar and salutes — companionship — you wonder if it’s always been her who welcomes you.

You, who is necessary.

[nemaliwrites]

some hecate Thoughts on waxwitch hehe

The boy-shade comes every day.

He’s gone by night, which is the only reason you allow it — or else you would have blasted him out of the Crossroads with nothing more than a crook of your finger, no matter who his father. 

You should, anyway. He’s nothing but a distraction. A hindrance. A danger, even; the green glow of Melinoë’s arm proves that, a lesson she’ll never forget. It’s one thing to have those wings on his back. Another entirely to use them. 

But there’s something you see in his eyes: hunger. Desperation to prove himself. All good things. Necessary things, the same that your ward carries with her in every step she takes. 

It is those who failed and still rise whose next attack is the strongest. You know that better than anyone —and when you’re finished with Melinoë, the Titan Chronos will learn that, too. 

For you, too, have fallen. Wax wings, the Scythe of Time, it’s all the same. Falling is falling. 

So you watch and you wait. If he hurts her, you think, you’ll rip those wings off his back yourself, magick be damned. But when he looks at her, it’s with respect. Head bowed, eyes averted. No blood left in his body, and yet he blushes all the same. 

It isn’t a distraction she uses him as, you see, but motivation. She pushes herself further at the cauldron — though careful not to overextend, not anymore. Spends every free moment she has in the training ground. 

It’s the sound you hear, though, that makes you pause. Around the boy-shade, the princess laughs. She sounds like her mother, like her father, like everyone whose company she should have grown up in had she not the misfortune to be stuck with you. 

She cannot defeat Time with a smile on her face. There is no place in a war for laughter. You should set her straight. Remind her of your task. Her task. 

But…

Laughter so seldom has a place here in the Crossroads. It is a safe haven — but it is not a home. No room here for happiness or love. Only anger. Only grief. Just more weapons to wield like these torches of yours. 

One red eye, one green. An unfinished portrait. A green arm. It’s all the same. Falling is falling. 

In the end, you stay your hand. After all, you were young once, too. 

[nemaliwrites]

prompt: fever breaking

“Only you, Wright,” says Miles, “could fall off of a burning bridge and walk away with nothing more than a fever.”

Wright mumbles, eyes half-open. Whatever medication they have him on must be strong. 

Stepping forward, Miles presses the back of his hand against Wright’s forehead. Warm, but not hot. He’s getting better, then. 

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Miles lets his hand trail down to Wright’s cheek. This is ridiculous, he tells himself.

But when he moves to remove his hand, Wright reaches out, fast as lightning, to grab his wrist.

“Stay,” he mumbles, and Miles does. 

[nemaliwrites]

Ladybug's heart doesn't beat like it used to.

She doesn't dream like she used to, either. Every night: a world bathed in violet, the flap of butterfly wings. Her partner, face up in a pool of his own blood. When she wakes, it's with her lungs fighting for air. Her heart skips, pounds, jolts in her chest. Threatening to stop at any moment. She inhales, exhales, but to no avail.

It didn't used to be like this. She and Chat Noir used to be on the same page, always fighting side by side. She was always the sword, him the shield. But somewhere along the line, things changed. The sword grew dull, the shield sharpened. Began to launch itself forward, always in sight of the enemy. 

Each hit the shield takes, it grows dented. She can fix it, of course — fix him. Like she always does. Like she always will. 

What happens, though, if she cannot? If there is a dent too strong, she too weak? If the shield is not a shield, but just a boy: broken, laying in her arms, taking his last breath despite the way she begs and pleads and—

Her eyes snap open. Dreaming again. 

Marinette pulls herself out of bed, ignoring her racing heart. It's getting easier to ignore these days. Whispering her transformation words, she leaves a message for him to find on her yoyo and takes to the skies. 

Chat Noir is already there waiting for her when she arrives. Maybe he couldn't sleep either. Maybe he wonders what would happen if the shield is not strong enough, if it cannot keep the sword safe like it so desperately wants to.

Maybe his heart doesn't beat like it used to, either. 

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, like he already knows the answer. His arms open for her, and she falls into them gratefully.

"I dreamed of you," she whispers into his chest. 

"Oh?" Chat Noir's voice is warm, chasing away the chill of the night. "Was I handsome? Good looking? Utterly irresistible?'

"Of course. You always are."

He falls silent, then, and she knows he didn't expect it: the easy affection he asks for but isn't used to receiving. His face must be red. Red, like the blood that flows through his veins—

"I dreamed of you, too," he whispers into her hair. 

She doesn't ask what color he dreams in; she has a feeling that's just one more thing they have in common. 

Her head turns until her ear is pressed to his chest. His heart skips, pounds, jolts in his chest.

"Breathe," she says — to him, to herself, to them both. "Breathe. It's okay. We're okay."

"We're okay," he echoes. "We're alive."

The beating slows down, grows steadier. They breathe together; inhale, exhale. Black and red and green and blue. No violet to be seen. No butterfly wings to be heard.

No sword and shield to be found. Just a boy and a girl, hearts in sync as they should be.

[nemaliwrites]

She is not your mother.

You know of a mother — your mother — the same way you know of the Titan Chronos’s cruelty: secondhand. A portrait of her, smiling. At you. The scent of pomegranate. Leaves growing out of the Earth, reaching skyward despite all odds.

You have never seen Headmistress’s face. You have never seen her smile. The scent of moly. Soft wool. The silver of the moon, a light in the darkness.

She lets you hide in the fabric of her robes. She plays hide-and-seek with you. She praises you every time you get a spell right — and even when you don’t.

The last connection you have to the family you don’t know, she passes down every ounce of their hatred and anger and love. She teaches you, trains you for one specific purpose. Her green eyes stare at you — and one of them matches yours.

You wish you were her. That the poise, the strength, the determination she demonstrates were all yours. That you inherited them, the same way you inherited hatred and anger and love. Red blood and a green eye.

Maybe you did.

But still, she never lets you forget it. She is not your mother.

[nemaliwrites]

prompt: your fave knowing their pining isn't returned

Sometimes, Shadybug wonders what would happen if her partner got his claws on her earrings. 

If he were selfish enough to keep them for himself, rather than turn them over to the Supreme — then what? 

What kind of world would he create?

What would Claw Noir do to her? His ideal world — would she still be in it? At his side, as his partner?

She doesn’t think so, and maybe that’s why it hurts more whenever he lobs an insult, a glare, her way. 

He would be in her world; she doesn’t have to make the Wish to know that. 

[nemaliwrites]

prompt: teamwork

Ann wonders, sometimes, why Joker still fights with them all.

With the number of Personas he can summon with the snap of his finger, he’s a force to be reckoned with.

Surely, he could fight just as good — if not better — on his own. There wouldn’t be anyone holding him back, at any rate. Not when he can do everything she can and more.

But every time the thought comes to mind, it vanishes as quickly as it comes. Because there he is, eyes searching for her amidst the shadows and hand outstretched, ready to pass the baton her way.