Dirty and Wet: by Ladybugtrashcan

Chapter 3: To be God

"You can't be too judgmental" says Nino on one particular afternoon.

Alya turns her head to look at him, abandoning her photo-shopping to look at her boyfriend seriously. She pushes the laptop off her, and curls her body around Nino, who shifts on his bed to accommodate her. They've been dating 7 months now and never has Nino been this serious. Adrien has warned her that Nino had seemed off on their hang-out date, and Alya had restrained all her snooping abilities to give her boyfriend any space that he needed.

And honestly, she needed some time alone anyways after her twin sisters were akumatized. This was the first time the two were hanging out together for a week, and things had seemed fine, regular, normal.

Nino takes a deep breath, swallowing a gulp of air before letting it out through his nose.

"I've written something. About Ladybug, and Chat Noir."

Alya's eyebrows climb her forehead, her head tilting at a precarious angle as she considers her boyfriend.

"I want-I want to read it to you" Nino continues, ignoring the inquiring tilt of Alya's head.

"Read it to me" whispers Alya, her voice coming out much more gentle than the usual Alya, the words flowing softly off her tongue.

"Ok" says Nino, doubting his ok, a nervous tremor running through his body before he reaches behind Alya to grab a piece of paper. "Ok."

---

"The sides are scraped and the paint is torn, silver damage etched into the sides. Fingers touch the indentations almost reverently and its erased, returned to its previous state of perfection. The hand retreats to worn jean pockets and they return to the steering wheel as if nothing has happened.

The shout is unmistakable even from this distance. A twisted thing it is, mangled and shredded and silvery on the wind. A pair of pink feet dash towards as others run, hair whipping in a wild display of desperation. Red and black replaces white and pink and the screaming rings closer.

----

Anger does not suit the boy, nor does his solitary confinement on a nice spring day, but both are real and reality has never suited the boy either. So he takes his hand and touches the window like a prayer, hoping and bending the red of his fate until his captor leaves for a business trip much earlier than expected. The future of what was and what can be dances on a finger on his hand and he does not realize.

The boy is already running when the marbled shout resounds off the walls of Paris, and to him it beckons action. Black lacquer runs on his skin and within him and he feels exuberance as his able body swings him towards and forwards whatever the shout brings, and he relishes in it.

----

She is already dodging the latest projectile when he lands, feet spread and ready. Together they are like gods to this distorted figure, who contorts with hate and rage so stunningly blinding that the two partners leap backward, away away away from the spewing monster. It's a more difficult challenge this time, to rip a precious object away and purify it. There was a hard hit once, which sent her sprawling backward, lip splitting and dripping a red brighter than her costume. He had exploded, reality rippling around him as he moved faster, hit harder, blinded by a rage similar to that of a deity.

She touches her cherry-red lips and rubs the viscous liquid that stains them, thinks to them to stop, to return, to a state where they do not bleed cherries and they do. He is gone in a fit of madness, changing the fate of them both again so she intervenes, lets her magic find him and wrap around his waist. She tugs him backward, and he lands at her feet on his bum. His breath is heavy, green eyes wild and darting to and forward, before settling on her no-longer bleeding lip.