and we meet again | daminette

word count: +0.8k

summary: “i’m looking for an alien. his name is thanos. or something like that.”

a/n: do i have any idea of what i’m doing? absolutely not. will i continue? most likely.

ao3|wattpad|prompts|masterlist

part 1

Marinette ignored the harsh glow of the screen on her eyes as she scrolled through her laptop, looking at websites that would probably get her arrested.

In her defence, she was doing it for a good reason. Which usually meant it was for the safety of the miraculous.

But no one needed to know that.

“Marinette,” Tikki said, floating by her owner. “I’m sure whatever you’re searching for can wait for a few hours, while you sleep.”

The fashion designer groaned, running her stiff fingers through her hair that was sticking out in various directions.

“No, Tikki, it can’t because if it goes too far,” Marinette said, closing a tab furiously. “It’s going to destroy our planet as we know it.”

Tikki stared at her, completely unfazed. “Well then take a break. I’m sure the world is not going to end in the next few seconds.”

Marinette paused her blindingly fast typing, considering Tikki’s offer.

Her answer was an immediate and resounding no.

The other kwamis who had come to support Tikki’s point sighed in annoyance.

“Really, Guardian,” said Wayzz, floating next to Tikki, “I would very much like it if you listened to Tikki; what you are doing is nothealthy. Also, Master Fu once told me, if you take a break, sometimes what you’re looking for appears right after.”

Thatmade Marinette pause. And her rumbling stomach, but we’re just going to ignore that for now.

“Well,” Marinette stretched the word out, her eyes flicking from kwami to kwami. “I supposeI could take a few minutes break.”

The cheers of the kwami echoed around the penthouse.

Marinette sighed in bliss as she took a sip of her coffee, feeling a little less tired than before.

“Coffee,” she announced, carefully sitting on her couch. “Is god’s gift to Earth.”

“Nah, Pigtails,” Plagg said, floating in front of her. “It’s cheese. Always and forever.”

He groaned in delight as he gobbled up a large piece of cheese.

Giving him the stink-eye, Marinette turned back to her laptop, continuing her search.

“If I could just find the name…” Marinette took another sip of her coffee before typing furiously again.

“If I may ask,” said Nooroo, blinking his large eyes. “What exactlyare you looking for?”

Marinette stretched her back, cringing at the loud crackit let out. “I’m looking for an alien. His name is Thanos. Or something like that.”

“Then I suppose we can help each other.”

Marinette froze as the familiar, smooth and silky voice of Damian Al-Ghul rung in her ears.

She turned around slowly, cringing at her state, slipping her confident mask on.

“Al-Ghul,” she said coolly, straightening her back. By now, all of the kwamis had flown into their respective hiding places, knowing who Damian was. “What are you doing here?”

Currently, Damian was perched upon her windowsill, which, for your reference, was quite high up in the sky.

“First,” he asked smoothly, deep voice rippling. “May I come in?”

At her suspicious look, he held his hands up, leaving him in a precarious position. “I don’t have any weapons. I have not come here, intending to fight with you.”

At Marinette’s signal from behind her back, Plagg and Wayzz flew around Damian, scanning him for any weapons.

Plagg flew in front of her after a few seconds, casually saying, “He’s clear, Pigtails.”

Toocasually.

Marinette saw the look in his eyes and mentally pinched her nose because it meant that Plagg wanted to tell her something.

It could wait.

“All right,” Marinette said, suddenly aware of her hair and how it must be looking. “Come in.”

Before she had even finished her sentence, Damian was already leaping inside, like a cat.

Oh kwami, Marinette thought, suddenly having an inkling of what Plagg wanted to tell her.

She really hoped she was wrong.

Once Damian was standing in front of her, Marinette stalked towards him, eyes cold as ice. “Now answer my question from before, Al-Ghul. Why are you here?”

Damian gave her that infuriating smirk, the one she still remembered from when he kidnapped her two weeks ago.

“I assume we are both looking for the same…alien,” he said, looking slightly annoyed at the thought. “Thanos.”

Marinette raised her eyebrows, unwilling to believe him. “I suppose we are. Provided you are telling the truth.”

“I am,” Damian said, looking more annoyed now. “Some of my assassins are going off track, assassinating people who they shouldn’t be. I have been forced to dispose of them, their actions drawing too much attention to the League. I did my research a week ago and came across the same name you did, as well as the word ‘miraculous.’ I suppose that explains your involvement as well.”

Marinette was intrigued now, Wayzz’s confirmation that Damian was telling the truth reassuring her. “Well, did you come across the term infinity stones?”

“I did.” Damian looked and soundedcompletely confused, proving to Marinette that this was something out of their world, something that none of them knew.

“Well,” Marinette knew she was making a terrible decision and she should probably stop herself but two minds were better than one right?

“How about working together to figure this out?”

Marinette would remember Damian’s expression for the rest of her life because it was thatpriceless.

lesbianjubilee:

the racism/orientalism/antisemitism/homophobia/general “fear of the other” in dracula is such an integral part of the text and i feel like you are missing so much of what dracula is about if you are not picking up on those overtones. i love dracula a lot but i don’t think there is any use in ignoring those aspects of it or pretending they don’t exist - in fact, i think that would show a very shallow understanding of the text. i don’t have any resentment towards ppl who are reading dracula daily and making silly little joke posts about their friend jonathan harker, i love to make those jokes as well, but i do hope that the experience of reading this novel helps some people understand the sheer xenophobia and bigotry that is at the heart of this novel and lots of other iconic horror fiction. i’ve learned not to underestimate the obliviousness of white gentiles but i hope people realize it is not random that count dracula has nebulous eastern ancestry and his plan is to take over england like i hope that does not go over your guys heads. 

Note: Much shorter, barely proofread, chapter as I ease myself back into writing. 

Also, nope, I have not read Star Wars: Obsession. Apologies and enjoy the very much non-canon fanfic. 

Warnings: Swearing, implications of violence, sexual references 

Word Count: 2,344

Chapter 4: Boz Pity

19.43 BBY

The artwork was crude. The paint smeared so heavily by one hand that even now, only hours after the final layer had dried, it had begun to flake and lift - yet applied so gently by another pair that one could barely discern that they were the same shade. The colouring was basic yet bold, then again Clone armour with maroon embellishments could only permit so much creativity - a steak of the most primary red enthusiastically plastered wherever possible.

That was one word for the gunship’s new design, creative. It was staggering really to see how much effort the men had mustered to commemorate their toughest victory yet, though Nalani still found herself reluctant to call it that. Surely a victory should yield less casualties?

Despite the despairing memories and the less than precise paintwork, Nalani could not fault the mural before her. It was a display of pride, triumph, teamwork and above all loyalty. The key indication of the latter being a lithe figure with fluorescently embellished pink skin and ink blue hair carrying an unconscious Clone over their shoulder, an aqua lightsabre in hand and a Mandalorian helm at its feet.

Nalani had to smile at that, the men certainly made it known that they appreciated her resolve to protect them on New Bornalex - even if they didn’t agree with it. Her Master quietly, finally, admitting during their last training session that he admired her tenacity, had also helped her make peace with what happened. That and, well, her conversation with the Marshal Commander several weeks ago hadn’t hurt either.

Ah,him. It was still easier to think of him as the Marshal, even in her own mind it felt far safer than to dare to call him Bacara. It was less intimate that way, more professional. It had become a bit of a game with them in some ways, using only their titles in and out of meetings - and always accompanied by a teasing lilt of rivalry. If her Master had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t thought it concerning enough to voice. Nalani was certainly extra thankful that her Master remained oblivious to the secret winks Bacara - no! The Marshal would shoot her way when he caught her staring. 

She still couldn’t quite figure him out. He was deathly serious in most instances yet, there was a boisterousness brewing beneath; a charming boyishness in both how he spoke to his more trusted brothers, and his never ending amusement in winding her up. He was excellent at repressing that side of himself, though when he scolded the troops for getting particularly rowdy during their down time, she had learned to find that twinkle of humour within his otherwise disapproving eyes.

A slight flicker of the searing hanger lights, not unlike that glimmer of mischief she had begrudgingly come to crave, drew her attention to their largest gunship. Nalani snickered in the most un-Jedi-like way when her gaze landed on both the best, worst and only painting of her Marshal Commander that she had ever seen. It was magnificent, horrifyingly hilarious with barely a shred of accuracy. Atop a scrap pile of discarded droids was a bare-chested Bacara, otherwise in full armour, his kama billowing amid a blaze of red, yellow and green destruction. The portrait’s arms were in the process of ripping a droid’s head from the torso with his bare hands above his shoulders. Try as she might to compose herself, the more Nalani fought to tear her gaze from the image, the more details she would find. Her shoulders trembled with barely contained giggles at the limp droid hand clenched between some crudely drawn, jagged teeth on the Commander’s helmet. Lastly, she spotted a  swooshing arrow between his bare shoulders, gesturing between the image and some scrawled text reading “Commander, Thunder-Guns, Bacara,” Nalani’s resolve cracked.

Her laughter, which could only be described as cackling truly, turned a few heads as her uncharacteristic glee echoed against the durasteel walls, only subsiding at the interruption of a low gravel grazing her left ear. 

“I’m not sure if I approve or not.” Bacara murmured as he emerged beside her, remaining ever so slightly behind her left shoulder. It was quite possible that he knew that she could feel the ever present heat rolling off of him against her back, purposefully igniting goose bumps as his breath fanned over the back of her neck. She ignored the bait. 

With a carefree glance over her shoulder, amusement still on full display, Nalani met his amber eyes with her own amethysts. “Are you trying to tell me that’s not what happened?” 

“Huh.” He huffed, his own laugh threatening to escape. “Jet certainly would have approved.” 

A few weeks ago, the mere mention of Jet’s sacrifice likely would have sent her spiralling in fits of both remorse and anger, now time and reflection were the young padawan’s allies; they eased the path of acceptance. That’s not to say it didn’t still sting, and the immiscible flinch Nalani failed to repress caught the Marshal’s attention. 

“You know.” He spoke, softer than usual. “Humour can often be a brother’s best weapon; if we can find it in us to laugh amidst tragedy, we haven’t lost the war yet.”

It wasn’t often Nalani found Bacara sombre. Stern, serious, even menacing - yes, but never sombre. There was truth in his words though, a truth that she had come to recognise first hand: that while the men’s humour could be loud and downright crude sometimes; it never failed to lighten her mood. Since the aftermath of New Bornalex, both Commander and soldiers seemed to have found a common approachableness and almost comfort within each other’s presence. It soothed a loneliness with Nalani’s life she hadn’t previously acknowledged.

Bacara’s words had their desired effect, and Nalani found herself smirking before responding dryly. “I didn’t realise you were quite so profound, Sir.” She cast a look over her freckled shoulder, meeting his crinkled gaze. “I’m not sure it suits you.”

Bacara huffed a laugh before taking a single step forward, placing them side by side. “I’d warn you to keep it quiet, but no one would believe you anyway.”

A flash of white teeth against magenta lips betrayed a genuine smile that she knew Bacara returned without looking. She sensed him quickly straighten, glancing behind them briefly before lowering his voice. “You’re easier now.” He uttered, neither of them turning to face the other. “It’s like you’re finally comfortable in your own skin.”

The air suddenly felt still as the sound of munitions trolleys screeching, soldier’s banter and machinery faded into nothing. More goose bumps pricked up from the tender hairs on her arms, nothing to do with the chill of recycled air. He must have bowed his head to murmur his next words, as his breath grazed the shell of her ear, caressing the curve before sloping down the lobe. “Who knew a bit of release is all it took?”

If Nalani were a lesser person, one not so well versed in decorum, she would have cheered aloud at her ability to conjure her response - one laced with disinterested aloofness. Praying that he didn’t notice her nervously swallow, or the twitch of her brow, she faced his expectant gaze with a scoff. “Are you seriously suggesting that sex is the answer to all of my problems?” 

Clearly, this was the rise Bacara wanted from her because he quickly barked a laugh so snappish and loud that several heads shot in its direction before retreating. Somehow, he stepped even closer, and Nalani had to resist the urge to triple check nobody was looking at them. “No.” He clarified. “But, if it helps…ease certain stresses?”

Oh it did. It really, really did. She knew that her personal and professional development had nothing to with their…sparring match, confused as she may be, she was certain that she was shaping that herself but force, it did help her forget her burdens while it lasted.  

“Maybe.” She smirked.

“Then we have an arrangement.”  He replied simply, brown lips parting once more is a positively dashing smile.

Did they? It was less a situation of could they and more one of should they…again. She wanted to. She found herself craving it since the incident and, no matter how much she tried, nothing she did in the privacy of quarters could replicate the thrill he instilled in her; satiate the curiosity of how those events may play out with their roles reversed. Plus, he spoke some truth - it did ease tension, instilling a bliss and contentedness that hours of meditation could barely touch.

“I suppose we do.” Nalani admitted, fighting the urge to exhale with relief after her short, agonising deliberation, instead she sculpted her expression into one of relaxed determination. “So, when can I repay the favour? 

Bacara’s eyes brightened like the combustion of a supernova even as they narrowed to regard her seriously. “We get out of this next mission alive, and you can do whatever you want to me.”

[Break]

The mission in question, while most definitely not the worst yet, did in fact, make her personal top ten of absolute shambles. Even if it was, technically, another victory.

During her years serving at the temple Nalani had heard more than her fair share of complaints about General Skywalker’s recklessness - more often than not coupled with sympathy for the more esteemed General Kenobi. Even in The Temple med-bay, she had witnessed Master Windu verbally dress down the former as he visited a trooper’s bedside. That trooper in question had rendered her into a fit of barely concealed snorts as he flicked his brows towards the squabble then back to her with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He was annoying, loud and constantly instigating scenarios that could only be referred to as complete and utter farcicals, but she often wondered how he was; the trooper with the single number five tattooed on his temple. She wondered if he was still alive. 

She forcefully shook that line of thinking from her head. 

Since physically entering the war, Nalani had come to realise Skywalker wasn’t to blame, Kenobi was just as bad - if not worse - he was just better at hiding it. So when the aforementioned General proposed sneaking a full-sized Venator-Class Star Destroyer through an active blockade, she should have been less surprised. 

She should have been even less surprised when the same Star Destroyer, piloted by General Skywalker, crash landed directly into an active battlefield. 

It was carnage, it was bloody, and the gains were minimal. Grievous’ main assault retreated, Ventress (who apparently is definitely still alive) escaped and Doku was never there to begin with. So while her master engaged in an unexpected kill count contest with Generals Skywalker and Kenobi, Nalani found herself hanging back with her troops, failing to hide the irk in her brows. 

[Break]

Espionage was not Nalani’s idea of warfare, and it certainly wasn’t Bacara’s. The whole incident had rattled him, and despite observing him from afar, she could see that he was doing a poor job at hiding it.

The debrief dragged on, but Nalani had hoped for the post-report reunion with Marshal Commander Cody, Captain Rex and the one who called himself Alpha to quell Bacara’s annoyance - and it did, when it was just Rex and Cody. However, the second Alpha had hulked up to the trio with a clenched smile, Bacara’s shoulders tightened so harshly that Nalani almost swore she heard fresh knots pop from the muscles.

Alpha was unlike any Clone she has ever seen, for a start he was old - positively ancient compared to the majority of men she worked with. She would place his scarred features at about 50-60 years of age, which would technically make him about 25 at the least; a whole 10 years older than Bacara claimed to be. Alpha also exerted a sense of untouchable superiority she would never expect from an ARC trooper in the face of two Marshals, let alone one so decorated as Cody. 

Cody and Bacara reverted to clipped, formal answers when speaking with the hardened ARC, their stances at ease only in the most militaristic of senses where Rex could hardly look him in the eye. The whole room was fogged in an anxious yellow. 

As Alpha excused himself, after nodding once in Nalani’s direction, the fog stilled before gradually dissipating into a dull white tension. Rex, who until this encounter had only displayed the bravest professionalism, exhaled and looked hopefully to Cody. Cody in turn, made both of their goodbyes and marched Rex back to their transport.

Bacara almost looked as though he were in a trance. He bade farewell to his brothers, offering a goodbye and a promise of some drinks at a bar of which she had already forgotten the name of, but he blinked too slowly, his hands trembling minutely as he scrubbed at the coarse hair of his jaw. 

Nalani found herself approaching cautiously, as one would a wounded animal, totally unused to even the slightest hint of vulnerability within her Marshal Commander. She was fearful, not of him, but the thought of him shutting off from her completely, sending the bridge they’d built to timbre. 

Sympathy wasn’t something she lacked, but she knew that her inability to connect with people made her attempts to be soothing come across as harsh; and often somewhat patronising. The latter certainly not something she anticipated Bacara to react well to. Perhaps, she mused it was best to ignore the nervousness and simmering anger and just try to be helpful. Yeah, she could be helpful. 

“So…” she trailed softly, startling Bacara as he suddenly remembered where he was and shot his blearly, red eyes to hers. “Would you like a back rub?”

Bacara looked confused for the briefest of moments, before a broad, chapped grin broke across his face. “Level 3, room 38. 21:00.” He said, briefly tapping her on the shoulder before making his way over to the mess. 

Masterlist

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