#I’ve never been one to turn a cheek to criticism or complaints/concerns and have always been open when I’ve played not so nice muses

[ryunnies]

just got back from work and i’m catching up on things i’ve been sent and i am… baffled, to say the least

[spooky-z]

SOULMATE AU:: First Swap

Look who's back... That's right! Soulmate AU.

I intend to make a shortfic with five chapters, after finishing posting Bombshell (which already has the first of three chapters posted HERE)

Here they are 7 and their behavior may seem strange, but... Damian. So, yeah.

Soulmate AU:: 1 and 2.

1.4K

Maribat by @ozmav

Marinette was... irritated, so to speak, with Mlle. Bustier.

The woman had once again invalidated her feelings for Chloe. Chloe, who was being particularly mean to her, because she was jealous that Marinette had a soulmate, but she didn't.

Chloe had - as always - thrown a tantrum because Marinette had achieved a better grade than she in the test and didn’t shut up for a second until that moment.

Marinette's head was throbbing with the start of a monstrous headache.

“But Mlle. Bustier!” The blonde whined. "I'm sure Dupain-Cheng cheated!" The high-pitched voice resonated through the windowpanes and hurt the students' eardrums.

"Chloe, please." Mlle. Bustier asked, frowning, probably as irritated as the rest of the students.

Chloe snorted indignantly. "Then I will tell my-"

That was when Marinette felt the comforting presence at her side. Catching the movement with a quick look before she turned around completely so she could look at him better.

The skin kissed by the sun, black hair and short. He dressed like the shinobis she saw in the action movies that papa let her watch when mama wasn't around. Sitting in the chair that was previously available, there was an air of danger around him.

But what caught her attention most were his eyes. His eyes that matched hers perfectly, and he was beautiful.

"Thank you." He replied, his cheeks turning a shy pink.

Marinette squeaked, her hands rising automatically to cover her mouth, drawing the attention of Nino and Kim sitting across from her.

"Are you okay, MDC?" Kim asked.

She shook her head frantically. "If you say..." Nino replied suspiciously.

Marinette took her hands from her mouth to smile at them and so the two turned their attention to the interrupted conversation.

She looked at him again, feeling overwhelmed by the flood of information that hit her.

The world around them changing rapidly.

"Wow." Marinette sighs.

She looked at the breathtaking landscape.

The place they were in looked like a big Asian-style mansion on top of a mountain. She could see the clouds from the floor she was on and how the sun reflected against the rocks around the building.

It was breathtaking.

"I agree with you." He says, his eyes glued to her.

A commotion attracts Marinette's attention.

Underneath where they were, she could see other people - Ghuls - in the same type of black clothes as he was, training with katanas and their face covered.

The League of Assassins. Heir. Batman. Damian.

"Oh." She turns to look at him again. An unknown feeling burning in her chest and a lump stuck in her throat.

Her eyes start to burn, a sob escaping without her permission. "I-" Tears clouded her vision, wanting to-

He- Damian, spread his arms, an intelligible expression on his face and a guilty glint in his eyes.

She didn't hesitate for a second before jumping into his arms.

Finally. Finally, she was able to touch, see, smell him, melt against the heat of his body, unite with him.

"I'm so happy." She sniffs against his neck. “I've been so worried about you! Always hurting yourself and- the pains I felt coming from you...!”

Damian tightens his arms around her.

"I'm fine, ya rouhi (my soul)." He responds smoothly.

Marinette violently denies it. "No, you're not!"

“I am- now I am. You don't have to worry anymore.” Damian whispers against her shoulder.

She smiles at the choice of words, her heart warming more and more. It was like the sky, like she was floating with clouds. She never wanted it to end.

“Mlle. Bustier, Maritrash is being scary!” Chloe's voice frightens Marinette and she moves away from Damian back to the classroom, where everyone is looking at her strangely.

Chloe wags her finger at her, tapping her foot on the floor.

"She's talking strange and smiling like a lunatic!"

Beside Marinette, Damian snorts angrily. "She's just annoying."

"I know. Most of the time I just ignore her, you know? Like a persistent fly.” The girl responds, an acid touch in the words.

Chloe gasps, knowing that Marinette was talking about her.

“Mlle. Bustier!” She whimpers.

The teacher sighs tiredly with Chloe's tantrums and the way Marinette was dealing with it. She, better than anyone, knew that it was not right to disrupt others because she was frustrated.

"Marinette, apologize to Chloe." Bustier asks. "You were rude with your words."

The girl looks at the teacher in disbelief and Chloe smiles convinced.

"But I didn't do anything!" She complains. "Chloe who's being stupid again!"

Everyone in the classroom chokes on Marinette's words. Chloe starts to cry and Bustier gets up from her seat scandalized.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng!" She slaps her hand on the table. "Apologize right now or I will be forced to call your parents at school!" Threatened.

Most of Marinette's classmates were unable to notice the change in the girl's appearance or how her posture had hardened. Not even the change in the girl's eye color was noticed.

Only Kim, Nino - who were sitting closest to her -, Sabrina who knew Marinette and Mlle. Bustier, who, despite everything, was very observant.

'Marinette' leaned back against the back of the seat, her lips pressed in a thin line, her eyes - both green, but with different hues - cold as ice and her hair had darkened to a glossy black.

"I hope that this attitude will be taken not only towards me, but with the annoying girl as well." She says.

"Annoying girl?" Chloe mutters incredulously.

"Why would I do that?" Mlle. Bustier replies. "The only person I see being rude is you."

Marinette throws her head back and laughs sarcastically before looking back at the teacher. The face as hard as stone.

"That was a good joke, mademoiselle." She stands up, arms crossed behind her. "That-" She stops as if she's hearing something. “Chloe, right. She has been distracting everyone since you started class. Making meaningless complaints or just whining and so far, I haven't seen you scold her for it.”

Mlle. Bustier swallows.

"B-But-"

“No ‘buts’!” Marinette cuts the woman. "It gets special treatment just for being the daughter of politician, is it?"

Chloe tosses her hair over her shoulders, arms crossed. “My father is the new mayor of Paris. Mayor! He rules everything, so do I!”

Marinette makes an 'hm' sound without opening her mouth, looking critically from Chloe to Bustier - who had a greenish tinge to her face -.

"It will be something to tell the parents of Dupont students, then." There is a dangerous edge to the girl's tone. "Imagine the scandal that will be when the word comes out that the mayor of Paris and his daughter, has power over the way the school is run"

Marinette smiled and went down the stairs towards Chloe.

Mlle. Bustier sighs at the sweet girl's behavior. Understanding coming to her.

"You are not Marinette." She says.

The girl smiles, an evil look in her eyes.

"Bingo!" She claps excitedly. “I thought you were more stupid. I was sincerely concerned about the school education that habibit is receiving.”

The students made protest sounds with the girl's harsh words, but the look she sent them made everyone freeze in their seats quickly shutting up.

"Who are you-" Chloe fumbles, shocked by the color of Marinette's eyes.

"I think you'd better be quiet, Bourgeois." Non-Marinette says. "Otherwise, you will discover one of the many ways I know how to cut a person's tongue." She makes mimics a scissor with her fingers, without taking her eyes off Chloe.

The blonde's eyes widen in fright.

“Or who knows, one day you may wake up bald... There are many options on the table. I can even let you choose.” Non-Marinette taps her finger against her chin thoughtfully.

Chloe walks away. Hands quickly going to the head, trying to protect the hair away from Marinette.

"I-I don't feel well." Mumbles, picking up the yellow bag from the table. "I think I'm going to go home... Daddy will call dismissing me... Bye!" She doesn't wait for Mlle Bustier's response before running out of the classroom.

Non-Mari smiled beatifically, enjoying the whole scene of the girl's escape and staying until Chloe was out of sight. Then the expression darkened when her attention turned to Bustier.

"You and I are going to have a very serious conversation now."

And Mlle. Bustier swallows, feeling threatened by the girl's words.

[tag list closed]

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[raelly-writing]

The Lord of Embers

Since I started in Limsa, the Ifrit questline is the first time Thancred and my WoL really interacts and work together, so I wanted to write something for that first impression sort of stuff.

---

The merciless midday sun bore down upon the land, and only a mild breeze stirred the dry air, barely managing to keep it from feeling too stifling.

For all his years in the region, Thancred felt grateful for the shade of the solitary tree that clung to the rocky slope. Leaning against its trunk, he kept one eye on the Amalj'aa encampment further up the ravine, while scanning the lands below, seeking for any solitary figures moving across the flat plane in his direction.

Hopefully the latest addition to their merry band wasn’t completely incapable of following the directions he’d left with the alderman.

Fishing out his water flask, Thancred took a small mouthful to wet his throat. Even for Thanalan, the heat was near unbearable. If he drew Viana’s ire for making her trekk out here for what was a task he could easily do himself, then so be it - he wanted to see for himself how capable this mercenary from Limsa was.

Not that he doubted Y’shtola’s estimation of her abilities - Hells, by his dear colleague’s strict standards, her praise had been positively glowing.

Still, while he’d had no cause for complaints for her conduct so far, his curiosity remained piqued. Even if Y’hstola hadn’t informed them that their new recruit was training with the marauders’ guild, it’d been plain to him from the moment she had stepped into the solar, just from the way she moved, that she didn’t carry that axe just for show.

Just then a dark shape moving amidst the low brush of the lands below caught his attention. Thancred straightened up a little, instantly on the alert. The figure was too small to be one of the beastmen, and there wasn’t much reason for anyone to be heading this way towards the Amalj’aa’s encampment. So, either it was Viana following his directions, or it was another spoken in league with the beastmen.

Fishing out his small spyglass from his bag, he focused onto the figure. Though the armoured figure stayed off the well-trodden path the Amalj’aa utilised, it was easy to pick out their dark red hair and the great axe on their back.

“Well, well, she did not get lost at least,” Thancred mused to himself as he folded up his spyglass. He should be easy enough to spot from her angle of approach, but if needed to, he’d leave the shade of the tree and meet her at lower ground.

But it soon enough became clear that she’d seen him, and Thancred leaned back against the tree once more to wait for her, his eyes locked on the Amalj’aa encampment and ears trained on the sounds of rocks sliding that slowly grew louder. Seven Hells, he didn’t envy her wearing that armour out in this heat. But she was quieter in her approach than he had expected.

Turning his head, Thancred offered her a welcoming smile when she crested the edge of the slope. “Ah, there you are, Viana,” he greeted her. “So good of you to come!”

Viana gave him a curt nod and joined him under the shade of the tree. Wisps of hair had escaped the bun she’d gathered it up in, but other than a mild flush to her cheeks she seemed fairly unbothered by the trek across the plains. “Apologies, didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”

“No harm done,” he replied with a shrug and held out his water flask to her but she shook her head and unhooked her own from her belt. Well, perhaps he should’ve expected a Highlander to know to be prepared for hot weather.

“Did you hear about Sister Ourcen before you left?” she asked before taking a sip from her flask.

Thancred kept his face neutral as he replied, despite the small pang of guilt. “Indeed, I’ve heard all about good Sister Ourcen. Isembard said her wounds were serious. It would seem my suspicions about the poor rose were misplaced.”

Not for the first time in the past few days, he was on the receiving end of a cool and an appraising look. But rather than saying anything, she merely gave him a silent nod and took another sip from her bottle.

Taking the measure of one's comrades was probably something of a useful skill in the mercenary field, but at the back of his mind Thancred had the distinct feeling that he came up short to whatever expectations she had of him. Oh well, he’d play the fool for a while longer still. “But, onto why I asked you to meet me out here,” he spoke casually. “False though they were, perhaps my suspicions were not entirely without merit. Whilst following Sister Ourcen near the Golden Bazaar, a band of Amalj’aa caught my eye.”

He gestured towards the encampment. “And I tracked them as far as here, but…” He slipped on a charming, apologetic smile as easily as one might put on a well-worn glove. “Well, let us just say that I would much prefer to keep my distance and remain here.” He watched her eyes narrow ever so slightly, clearly anticipating his next sentence. “This, of course, brings me to why I requested you, dear Viana. Would you be so kind as to take a look inside?”

There was a flash of something sharp in her expression, a subtle tightening of her brow and flexing of her jaw, before she exhaled in a slow and controlled manner, “As you wish.” It was the polite, well-practised tone of someone used to not making her annoyance with a request too obvious.

Disregarding the feeling that he was poking a bear with a stick, Thancred put his hand on his hip and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “Is aught amiss, my dear?”

While making her way past him towards the slope down into the ravine, Viana hooked her water flask back onto her belt, and loosened her axe from its holster on her back, taking the hefty weapon in one hand. “Nay,” she replied over her shoulder. “Merely trying to figure out if there’s more to you than just a pretty face and clever tongue.”

Thancred couldn’t help but chuckle. “Pretty am I?”

But she’d already begun to jump and slide her way down to the encampment below.

----

The distant sounds of soldiers groaning in pain bore down on Thancred’s shoulders as he made his way out of Camp Drybone’s inn and into the mercifully cooling evening air, with a tray of simple breads and pitcher of water in hand. He did not look forward to reporting to Raubahn how things had gone. Luckily, they had suffered minimal losses on their hasty rescue mission at the Amalj’aa’s inner sanctum.

But there were those who still drew breath who were all but walking dead.

Thancred grit his teeth, his eyes searching for the one person who had somehow escaped the primal’s influence. After a moment, he spotted Viana perched atop some crates in a solitary corner. There were a few bandages wrapped around her arms, but scrapes, singed hair and minor burns had thankfully been the worst of her injuries and from what he could see, they did not seem to hinder her much as she gave her weapon and armour a critical look-over.

“Ah, Viana, there you are!”

At the sound of his voice, she immediately looked up. Despite the attentive edge to her gaze - the look of someone expecting orders to move and continue onward, that rest could wait for later - he could tell that she was tired.

“Come now, at ease, you’ve more than earned a rest, I’d say.” He held up the pitcher and tray in his hands, a couple of simple clay mugs balanced amidst the bread rolls. “Some refreshments.”

Her body language relaxed a little, and she pushed together her gear before moving to the side, making space for him where she had been sitting.

Thancred set down the pitcher and tray by her side, before he with a long exhale sank down on the crate. It’d been a long day, both physically and emotionally.

“You alright?” Viana asked just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the people milling about camp Drybone.

Thancred shot her an easy, disarming smile as he poured up some water. “Flattered as I am about your concern, there’s no need to fret, my dear,” he replied while offering her the mug. “Despite the rather diligent attempts of the Amalj’aa zealots, I’m quite unscathed.”

Viana sighed, the tilt of her head giving him the impression that she’d only just resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she gave him a weary, contemplating look as she accepted the mug from him. “Good to hear.”

“Well, my contributions to this mission have been sorely lacking,” he responded while helping himself to a piece of bread, “so it seemed the least I could do.” He felt the weight of her gaze on him, but before she had the chance to reply, he continued. “Speaking of, I do believe I was in the process of apologizing. I do hope you can forgive me.”

“For what? There’s nothing you did wrong.”

Thancred huffed out a laugh that sounded more tired than he would have liked. “That’s kind of you,” he replied, managing a casual, carefree tone, while he tore off a piece of bread. “But there’s no denying that I arrived too late to be of any use… to you or the abductees.” A heavy silence followed his words. Absently, he popped the chunk of bread into his mouth but barely registered the taste of it as he chewed slowly. The heaviness on his shoulders grew deeper. If only he’d been faster. Stronger. More alert.

It was never enough. He was never enough. And people always died because of it. The bread tasted ashen in his mouth as he slowly ate piece after piece.

“But you tried.”

To his surprise, the firm, guarded edge was gone from her voice.

When he looked at her, he expected it to just have been a momentary slip, but gone was the reserved professional facade. In its stead was perhaps not the relaxed demeanour he might have expected from a friend, but there was an earnest warmth to her gaze when she looked at him.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was a shite situation,” Viana continued with a brief, wry smile, “And it would’ve been the practical thing to just write us all off as an unfortunate loss and not risk any more lives.” She paused, briefly, and he caught the flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “But you mounted a rescue anyway.” She shrugged and looked back out over Camp Drybone. “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I’d probably have survived Ifrit only to get skewered on some Amalj’aa’s spear while trying to get out of there.”

At the back of his mind, he noted how frankly she spoke of her own potential demise, with not a hint of mirth to soften her words. The reassuring words did nothing to soothe the choking sense of failure lingering in his chest. If he had been faster to mobilize a rescue force, he might have been able to reach them before they’d even been brought before Ifrit to start with. Despite his internal turmoil, Thancred mustered a disarming smile and winked at her, “Of course I did, I’d hardly leave a fair lady as yourself to her demise!”

This time, Viana did roll her eyes and sigh, but there was the hint of a smile on her lips. “Suppose I should thank you for risking a scratch to mar that face of yours,” she drawled, then gave him a side look. “Thank you, Thancred.”

The earnest, somber tone made his chest feel tight. Thancred swallowed and was a little grateful that a sudden commotion between a couple of residents of Drybone gave him an excuse to look away from her. He watched as the two men were quickly shushed and led away by a guard, before things escalated. Try as he might, his smart replies didn’t come as easily to his far too dry tongue. “Well, at any rate, I should have accompanied you to the ambush site,” he murmured.

“For what? It was a simple mission, you had your own tasks to see to and couldn’t have known there was a mole amongst the Flames.” He opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off, her voice growing rough with poorly contained bitterness that echoed what he himself felt about the situation. “And if you had been present, you would have risked ending up tempered as well and about to be mercy-killed with the rest of the soldiers.”

His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought all while his overactive mind was constructing a dozen what-if scenarios where he successfully turned the tide at the ambush, or slipped away unseen to swiftly return with reinforcements before the prisoners even set foot within the Amalj’aa’s stronghold.

A multitude of alternate realities where a score of good men and women were free to return home safely to their families tonight. But wish as he might, there was nothing to do but to face the harsh reality before him, once more.  “You know of the unavoidable fate of those put under a primal’s thrall then,” he remarked matter of factly.

Viana made a low noise of acknowledgment. “I’ve been around long enough to have heard the tales,” she replied grimly. “In Limsa, they often speak of the Company of Heroes’ victory against the Leviathan.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms, and he could all but picture the mournful frown on her face when she continued, “I wish I could have somehow saved the others, maybe lent them whatever power it is that kept me from falling under Ifrit’s control.”

With a quiet hum of agreement, Thancred picked at the forgotten remains of the bread in his hand, feeling the slight brush of the crumbs that fell to the ground. “Well, loathe as I am to say it, there’s naught we can do for them now, but to give them a swift, merciful end,” he said. Taking a deep, fortifying breath he pushed away those dark, churning emotions into the deepest recesses of his mind. Surprising as it were, he’d rather not risk losing this sudden favourable improvement of his standing with her. Smiling, he met her gaze. “And I dare say there’s still some reasons to rejoice this day.”

Curiosity and confusion flickered across her features as she frowned at him.

Thancred made a gesture that was the faint echo of a bow as he inclined his head, bread still clutched in his hand. “Ifrit is slain, and by your hand no less. That, my dear, is the deed of no ordinary individual.” He leaned back with a satisfied look on his face, almost relieved to slip back into the theatrics of this well-worn cover persona of his. “Not that I ever thought you were ordinary,” he finished with a dramatic wave of his hand, like he was presenting her some magnificent work of art, rather than waving about the sorry remains of a piece of bread.

Viana raised an eyebrow, the doubt clear in her eyes, and snorted. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“What can I say? My fine eye for talent remains undimmed.”

“Mhm, and would that be why you didn’t just investigate that Amalj’aa encampment yourself?”

Inclining his head, he gave her the placating, pleading look of a man begging for forgiveness. “Why, I hardly had the pleasure of fighting at your side as lady Y’shtola did. You can’t fault me for wishing to see your prowess with his own two eyes, surely.”

She huffed out a short laugh. “Could have just asked me to slay a beast, rather than doing all the theatrics.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that, my dear?” he retorted. “Anyhow, on the topic of your splendid victory; I dare say Minfilia will be proud beyond all reckoning when she hears of your deeds.” With that, he rose up from the crate, letting the rest of the bread fall back onto the tray. He’d barely eaten a quarter of the already modest roll. “I trust you shan’t object to my bearing the tidings to her. That way I can claim to have contributed something to this mission,” he continued and dipped into an elegant bow, then busied himself with straightening his clothes. “You, meanwhile, have earned yourself a rest. Take some time to relax, and return to the Waking Sands when you are good and ready.” He glanced up at her and gave her a wink. “Just don’t take too long, will you? The realm’s problems won’t solve themselves.”

Viana was giving him a barely concealed look of exasperation, clearly waiting impatiently for him to finish talking. “Seven hells Thancred, sit down. You’ve barely eaten, nor drank anything.”

Thancred paused, a bit taken back by the firm tone of her voice that was a rather disconcerting reminder of Y’shtola when she got in a particularly stubborn mood. “As much as I would love to-” He interrupted himself when she tilted her head to the side and the crease between her brows deepened a fraction.

“Really, you’ll be of no use to Minfilia if you collapse on her doorstep due to dehydration.”

HIs posture tensed. He felt torn between the guilt that spurred him onwards and that well-honed, professional instinct to dig deeper for more information - the urge to seek out the next task and try to succeed there instead to make up for this failure fighting the curiosity that bid him to stay and see what else he could learn about her. Another, more logical side that he ignored far too often, saw the wisdom in her words. He was hungry and the back of his throat still felt dry with dust and ash. Thancred swallowed thickly, which did nothing to alleviate the sensation. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, surely? Just long enough to fill his belly and quench his thirst. “Very well,” he finally relented with a charming smile. “It’d be rather ungentlemanly of me to leave a lady to dine on her own, after all.”

Viana huffed out that weary laugh once more, its dryness betrayed by the hint of amusement in her eyes and faint smile on her lips. “Aw Hells, maybe I made a mistake,” she drawled.

“Ah, how you wound me, my dear,” he replied as he settled back down onto the crate. “Many a fair maiden can vouch that I am a most entertaining dinner companion.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all.”

[misssunflowersandsangria]

The Arrangement

Chapter 8: The Challenge 

Hello my darling readers!  This chapter took me so long but it’s finally here!  I hope that you enjoy it!

Summary:  The final ritual.

*

**

Flashback

“The last one, fuck.”  Shikamaru just stared, Temari looked a little rattled.

“You have to take on Garra.”

His eyes widened. “What the hell?  What do you mean I have to take on Garra.”

“You have to beat him in a challenge.”

“You realize that this is the Kazekage, former Jinchuriki that literally has no weaknesses and I have shadows?”

“You don’t have to physically fight him, you get to choose the type of challenge.  Normally you would have to challenge my father but thankfully that’s not the case so Garra it is.”  

“You’re acting like he’s that much better of an option.”

“Trust me, he is.”

Shikamaru looked unconvinced.  “Is there anything that guarantees that I get out of this alive?”

Temari just rolled her eyes. “Stop being dramatic.  You issue the challenge, win, then this whole thing is over.  The council gets what it wanted no one is the wiser.  Then we go back to our regular lives.  Everyone wins.”  And yet the idea of life without him again felt so painful.  

Her face took on a contemplative quality.  “Believe me, if there was a way that I could challenge Garra myself for my freedom, I would, but unfortunately this is the only way.”  

Shikamaru paused his complaints. Her statement brought him back to Earth, reminding him of what was actually important.  He knew how much it must upset her to have to rely on him to get out of this situation. He needed to do this for her and when all was said and done, together they’d find a better way.

Temari could tell that he was wracking his brain for a solution and it made her smile.  Her genius strategist. As much as he might complain she could rely on him when it mattered. They’d get through this.

She placed her hand over his that formed a circle.   “Hey, you’re a lot stronger than you think.  Kazekage or not I always told you that you could have become the Hokage if you really wanted to. The whole purpose is to show that the man I chose isn’t weak. He can stand side by side with the Kazekage.  You can do this.”

She could see the stress leave his body her vote of confidence encouraging his resolve.  “Thanks, Tem, it means a lot for you to say that.”

He paused reflecting on all the things that they’d have to do, it was a lot but it wasn't impossible and it was important.  

“We can do this Temari, you believe in me and I have faith in you.  We’ll get through this because you and I are great partners, we always have been.”

Temari nodded agreeing to the sentiment. They had always been much more successful working together. Her fate was in his hands and despite all that was at stake, she trusted him to come through for her.

End Flashback

“Man the food here is amazing!  We’ve gotta come back when you’re not busy doing all this.”  Chouji was surprised to see Shikamaru scrutinizing a Shogi board in front of him this late at night.  He was probably overthinking again.   Chouji took the seat across from him pouring a drink for both of them.

“Nervous about tomorrow?”  Chouji asked, moving a piece. He never enjoyed playing but would indulge Shikamaru from time to time.  

Shikamaru shrugged. “A little.”

Now that he and Temari admitted how they felt there was more at stake. He couldn’t let anything stand between them being together.

Chouji just waved off his concerns. “Don’t be, no one can beat you. This is your game.”

“I guess...” There were no guarantees and it would be foolish to assume he’d win easily. Neither of them was quite sure what would happen if he wasn’t able to defeat Gaara.  He could only imagine that The Council would attempt to invalidate their relationship somehow. Then they would most definitely arrange another relationship for her.

“Hey, you and Temari are two of the smartest people I know.  Whether you win tomorrow or not I know that if you want to be together nothing will stop you. You'll figure out a way, you always do.”  There was sheer confidence in those familiar eyes.

“Thanks, Chouji, for everything.”

“We’ve all had a good time being here.  It was kind of nice seeing you take on this role.  As your best friend who has seen this relationship grow and heard all the complaints turn into something different, I’m happy for you and Temari. You’re good for each other, she makes you really happy.  You both deserve that.”  Chouji appreciated Temari’s presence in their life. Shikamaru had been through a lot and his best friend deserved to have a partner that would love and encourage him.

Shikamaru smiled at his friend, thankful for his support and friendship over the years.

They both toasted their cups tossing back a drink. “Here’s to growing up.”

*

**

“Ready for this?”  Temari asked, placing an encouraging kiss on his cheek.

Shikamaru smiled with a nod pulling her into his arms, taking a moment to breathe her in.  Trying to assure them both that it would all be okay.

He took a deep breath and nodded.  “I think so.”  

Temari’s hands reached up to cradle his face between her palms.  Confidence and pride shining in her teal eyes. “Whatever happens in there it’s you and I in the end.”  

Shikamaru met Garra at the center of a training room the academy students would use.  The spectators all watched from above.  Temari was seated between Kankurou and Yoshino, Chouji and Ino behind her.  They could all tell that she was nervous and tried to be as supportive as possible.

Yoshino patted Temari’s hand affectionately.  “Don’t fret my child, if he’s anything like his father, he won’t let anything stand in his way.”  

Temari leaned into her, appreciating the reassurance.  “Thank you, mother.”  

They stared as Gaara turned to address Shikamaru.  

“Nara Shikamaru, you have come this far but we will not simply give our Princess to you.  You must prove yourself strong and capable, a man that is deserving of her.  And so I ask you, what challenge have you brought today.”

Unwilling to shrink under the pressure Shikamaru stood there tall and confident.  “I present to you a challenge that tests your critical thinking, strategy, and intellect. Qualities that are necessary for a worthy partner.  Lord Gaara, I humbly request a Shogi match.”

Gaara just nodded, not at all surprised.  “Your request has been granted.”

*

**

“You are better than I expected. I assumed your responsibilities as Kazekage would have prevented you from being able to play.”  Shikamaru couldn’t help but compliment him.  

“After you taught Temari she’d demand that Kankuro and I play with her to practice so that she could beat you one day.  Our moves were constantly scrutinized compared to yours.”  

Shikamaru just chuckled, of course, she did.

“Besides, after she concocted this whole plan I guessed that this was the route that you were going to go. So I planned ahead.” He was quite shrewd.

“I know that this didn’t start off real but I’m thankful that it worked out the way that it did.  That you both figured out what you mean to each other.”

Shikamaru appreciated the opportunity that they had to talk to one another.  “It’s been an experience. I’ve know Temari for a while now but I got to see a different side of her and Suna. I feel like I’m getting so much more out of this.”

“Take care of her for us okay?”  Shikamaru looked up at him surprised by the request.

“Always.”  

“Princess or not she hasn’t had the easiest life, I’m sure that you know that. You make her happy.  She feels safe with you. That means a lot.  She’s sacrificed so much for us and Suna. If she hadn’t met you she probably would have sacrificed her happiness as well. You’re the one selfish thing that she demanded for herself. As the Kazekage, but more importantly as her brother, thank you. I know that she can be difficult, but I know that the two of you will be very happy.”

Shikamaru didn’t have siblings growing up. The closest comparison would be his relationship with Ino and Choji. He could only begin to imagine the bond that Temari shared with her brothers, especially considering all that they’d been through. It was an honor to be welcomed into that fold.

“Can you do me a favor though?”

“Sure, anything.”

“I know that you’re so many moves ahead of me. Can you prolong the game a little longer? It wouldn’t look too good if the Kazekage loses so easily.”  Garra requested with a grin.  He knew that Shikamaru had him beat from the beginning but it wouldn’t do well to just have admitted defeat.  

Shikamaru nodded with a smile. Garra played just like Temari did and unfortunately for him, he had multiple strategies to counter her moves.

“Not a problem. It will be a little funny to see everyone stress about it.”

*

**

“Why is this taking so long?  When we play he can’t wait to show me up. Now all of a sudden he doesn’t know what to do?”  Temari complained aloud. She didn’t even think that it was a possibility that Garra could beat him. What would happen if that was the case?

“Tem calm down, I know you want to ride off into the sunset with your prince but it’s kind of exciting considering it’s just a Shogi match and not a fight to the death.” She just glared in response forcing Kankuro to scoot away from her.

She looked down at where Shikamaru and Gaara were seated, annoyed, and worried.  She couldn’t see the Shogi board from where they were. Shikamaru should have had Garra beat by now.

The two males in question could feel her intense glare.

Shikamaru feared meeting her gaze.  “We should probably finish this up or she might actually come down here.”

“You’re right. She must really love you to be this worried.”  Shikamaru blushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

They went back and forth a few more times before Shikamaru made his final move ending the game they both stood bowing respectfully to the other signaling the end.

“Nara Shikamaru you proved yourself a worthy opponent and have won this challenge.”

They were both surprised by the cheers that erupted. It seems that everyone was rooting for this outcome. Temari collapsed into her chair relieved, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They did it. It had all managed to work out.  She wanted to run down there but now came the last step, their presentation to Suna.

*

**

Temari looked up, seeing the door open revealing Shikamaru.  She ran up towards him, meeting him for a kiss.  After this, he was wholly and completely hers, and the world would know it too.

“How do I look?” She smiled her hands tracing over his shoulders to adjust his coat. He’d been given a set of Suna clothing to wear for their formal presentation to the village. Long fitted buttoned dark green coat with intricate gold embroidery along the seams, a swath of gold fabric hung over his shoulder.  Together in her own gold silk dress with elaborate beading and jeweled crown they looked like quite a royal couple. This wasn’t how either of them were used to dressing but it was nice for just a little bit.

“You look very handsome.”  There was no snark or follow up, just a genuine compliment to which he couldn’t help but kiss her.

“I love you Tem.”

Even now the statement left her breathless.  Her arms wrapped tighter around him trying to take in the moment. This crazy plan of hers had worked out in such a wonderful and unexpected way.  

“I love you too Shikamaru.”

* **

Gaara stood at the balcony looking over a sea of people who were waiting with eager anticipation. He was happy to see and feel the enthusiasm and joy that had been absent from his people for so long.

“People of Suna, it is my privilege to present to you our Princess Temari and Nara Shikamaru the man that she has chosen to share her life with.”

Hand in hand they stepped forward to deafening cheers and shouts of excitement.

“He has demonstrated himself as capable, embracing our people and culture. He has shown his strength and intellect through which I trust him to stand shoulder to shoulder with me.  He has proven himself worthy of our Princess. Shikamaru, Temari, I along with the Council and the people of Suna, and Konoha approve and bless this relationship. It is our hope that it will only continue to strengthen and that we may see your example of love as one that inspires all of us.”

The crowd began to cheer and celebrate wildly excited for their relationship and it’s influence and effect on Suna.

Temari and Shikamaru smiled and waved, neither one enjoying the attention but humbled by the support.  Shikamaru was thankful that the land and people that Temari loved so much could accept him as one of their own.

They remained there for a few moments longer before stepping away and retreating into her room. They had one family dinner left and this would all be done.

Away from the crowds, and cheers, the silence was welcoming. It was also a stark reminder that he’d be going home soon, they’d both be returning to their daily lives

“Come here.”  Temari slid into his open arms, head rested against her favorite spot on his chest. She took a moment to savor the feeling of his arms around her and the steady beat of his heart. Why did it take them so long to figure this out?  They had years to sort out their feelings and once they finally had he was leaving.

“I don’t want you to go.” She knew that he couldn’t stay. He’d already put his entire life on hold for her for a month but that didn’t stop the selfish request.

“I know Tem, I hate that we’re so far apart.”  Saying goodbye to her always hurt but especially now. He didn’t care about what they had to do next. He’d happily go through it if that meant they could always be together. Shikamaru pulled back to take her hand in his before placing them on the pendant of her necklace.  

“I’m always right here.”  

She squeezed her eyes tightly refusing to let those tears fall. She wasn’t losing him, he was finally hers. They would just need to be apart for a little, it would make being together that much sweeter.

“Shika after dinner tonight can you come back here?”  She asked shyly a blush painted across her cheeks.  She needed to soak in as much time together as possible.  

He nodded before his lips met hers. His tongue tracing the seam of her lips before they parted allowing him to explore her mouth. He felt himself becoming drunk off her taste and sweet sighs of contentment.  His hands grasped along the curve of her waist, her warm skin beneath his fingertips.  She was incredible.  His troublesome, perfect Sand Princess.    

“Nothing could keep me away.”

*

**

The Arrangement:

Chapter 1:  The Set- Up

Chapter 2: The Proposition

Chapter 3: The Participants

Chapter 4: The Declaration

Chapter 5: The Fear

Chapter 6: The Performance

Chapter 7:  The Meaning 

Chapter 8: The Challenge 

*

**

Do you ever like refall in love with characters?  I feel like that happened while I read through my previous chapters and while writing this one.  I love these two so much!!!

We’re almost to the end.  I think the next update might come even slower than this one...I’m going back and forth between a few ideas and I might write a smutty chapter as a follow-up but that’s still to be seen. At most there should only be three more chapters then this story will be all done. I hope that you’re all doing okay, healthy, and well.  Keep taking care of yourself and others!  Love you!

[miguel-manbemel]

Aspects & Fanfics Ep. 12: The Curse: The End of Anxiety?

Episode number 12 of Aspects & Fanfics, the fanfic inspired on Sanders Sides, by Thomas Sanders, Joan and the Foster Dawg Team. This week has been a busy one, so it took me longer than expected to finish this episode, but I finally got it ready. It has been a struggling process as there were times where I didn’t feel quite sure about if what I was writing was good enough or not, I’m sure any writer has had that feeling every once in a while about their own work. That’s why I consider a blessing any like, any reblogging or any positive commentary anyone would leave, as they’re confirmations that after all it may not be so bad. I really appreciate them and feel thankful for them.

In this episode I further explore what I hinted at the end of the previous episode, so Prinxiety is getting the center of attention in the plot. I know that ships make some people uncomfortable. I personally avoided them up until the previous episode, because I wanted to focus on the plot and not so much on the romance, but these two last instances, they really needed it to make the general story arc move forward. I hope in the end I managed to make an enjoyable story, you’re the ones who can judge it. As always, remember that this fanfic follows the canon Sanders Sides up to Embarrasing Phases and goes on its own after that. References to previous episodes will be made, if you wanna read them, you can find them right here. And that’s it, I leave you with the story, until next time.

SYNOPSIS: After Virgil rejected Roman over fear of corrupting him, Roman hasn’t been able to function properly, due to his lovesickness. Soon, though, they realize that Virgil is not appearing and, fearing something may be wrong, they go to his room. They find out that Virgil has been bitten by a special kind of Sprite, a Dark Sprite, that threatens to induce Thomas into a deep state of depression.

WARNINGS: As I said, there’s a lot of romantic prinxiety in the plot. This is a spoiler, but there will also be unrequited Anxceit in the final part. There are also going to be made references to depression and the bad consequences it can have, from lack of hope to the bad ending it can cause. As such, there’s going to be a lot of angst in the plot. You are going to see a new evil edge of Virgil he’s never shown before, and speaking about Virgil, he’s going to be in a mortal danger in this episode. There’s an intense scene where he’s on the verge of dying, I give the warning in case it could be a trigger. Also, beware at the end for some final slightly horrifying last lines that come when you least expect it. I think that’s about all. If you think that I ever forgot any warning don’t hesitate into letting me know, please. I always prefer warning too much that don’t warning enough.

EPISODE INDEX

[Thomas and Joan are both with their laptops on their legs, sitting down on the couch]

JOAN: Okay, what do you think about this idea I just had for the funniest short ever? There’s this guy that calls at one door, declares his love, but his crush lives next door and the guy’s proposing to his neighbor…

THOMAS: And both the neighbor and the crush reject him miserably and he lives unhappily ever after?

JOAN: [looks at Thomas with a still face] …you know what? Never mind. Besides, you did a similar short years ago on Vine anyway…

[intro sequence]

THOMAS: [waving to Joan who’s off-screen leaving through the door] Bye, Joan! [to the camera] What is up, everybody? Okay, I guess you’ve seen it earlier. Lately, I’ve become a little… melodramatic… in regards of the ideas I have for new stories… It’s like everything I make up lately becomes invariably sad… However, I’m not feeling specially depressed or blue, so I don’t know what’s going on with me…

PATTON: [rising up] Are you sure, Thomas? Don’t you have anything you want to share with us that could make you feel better?

THOMAS: You should know better, Patton, you’re my heart, you control my feelings of happiness and sadness. How do you feel?

PATTON: I’m feeling quite normal, Thomas. No special feelings of sadness and no special feelings of happiness either. I’m fine. I’m a… Bona Fine expert.

HONESTY: [rising up] Make a soul search, Thomas. Are you sure you’re okay?

THOMAS: I really am, Honesty. I’m totally fine. And that’s what’s confusing me. What could be happening here? Why is everything I create so… so… heartbreaking?

HONESTY: Well, if nothing’s bothering you, and Patton is not holding back bad feelings that could influence you… Then it has to be a problem with your creativity.

THOMAS: [scared] … Oh, no! Do you think something’s wrong with Roman again? Perhaps another Sanders Sprite bit him?

HONESTY: Don’t remind me of that, Thomas. I found it quite outrageous that you went through all of that and didn’t call me.

THOMAS: Well, if you hadn’t been in autopilot, then… wait, wait. We were talking about Roman. Perhaps something’s wrong with him. Should we call him?

LOGAN: [rising up] I don’t think it could do any bad, Thomas.

THOMAS: Okay, then… Roman? Are you okay? Can you come here?

[Roman rises up. He shows a dejected face and serious voice]

ROMAN: Did you call…?

THOMAS: Yes, we did… I’m glad that you’re okay. We were worried because lately I’ve been having trouble to create something lighthearted and…

ROMAN: [same serious voice] Oh… I see… I’m sorry, Thomas. I’ll try to do better next time…

[Everyone looks at Roman in disbelief]

THOMAS: …excuse me? No complaints about me criticizing your work? Roman, are you okay?

ROMAN: I’m okay… I promise.

DECEIT: [suddenly appearing, yelling scared] Look out, Roman! Your pants are on fire!

ROMAN: [jumps scared looking at his legs] What!? [after checking there’s no fire, angry] That wasn’t funny, Deceit!

DECEIT: [looking at Roman in the eye with a serious face] And I didn’t mean to be funny at all, Roman, I was talking figuratively.

ROMAN: [understanding, showing a face of sadness] Oh…

PATTON: What’s wrong with you, Princey? We’re your friends. If we can help you…

ROMAN: Thanks, guys… But I can’t tell you anything.

THOMAS: Why?

ROMAN: Someone asked me not to. And I’m going to respect his wishes.

THOMAS: Someone?

LOGAN: Well, we didn’t have any reunions since the Sprite incident, and judging from your confused faces, no one here has a clue of what Roman’s talking about. I, of course, don’t know either, and I doubt Wrath has anything to say in this issue, they still don’t have a relation close enough to have secrets so serious they cannot be shared with us. So, by logical deduction, it could have only been…

HONESTY: Virgil.

PATTON: Did something bad happen between you two?

ROMAN: [a little nervous] Nothing happened. That Sulk-an of Aggrava-tion is not related at all with it…

THOMAS: What did I tell you about calling nicknames, Roman?

ROMAN: Sorry…

DECEIT: And why are you so nervous? We’re only talking.

ROMAN: [angry] Are you? Or are you rather interrogating me? Could you stop meddling in my life? [yelling] Leave me alone, all of you, peasants! [feels he’s about to cry and turns against the wall]

THOMAS: Okay. If I wasn’t worried before, I certainly am now. What’s happened? I don’t mean to spy on your private life, Roman, but your problem, whatever it is, is affecting me in my life and my job, so I think it concerns me too. In fact, anything that is hurting my friends concerns me, not only because, eventually, it is hurting me too, but also because you’re my friends and I want you all to be nothing less than happy.

ROMAN: [turns back, long streams of tears fall down his cheeks] I’m sorry, Thomas. I’m sorry that I am such a nuisance for you…

THOMAS: [sweet voice] Hey, buddy, don’t say that. You’re not a nuisance. You stayed there with the rest of the Sides supporting me when I was feeling all that sorrow. Do you seriously think you deserve less support than anyone of us? You’re one of us, Roman. If you’re in pain, we’ll share that pain with you, so we can fix it together. Please, let us help you.

ROMAN: I really wish I could, Thomas, cause this is killing me inside… But I can’t… I promised I wouldn’t tell what happened…

DECEIT: You’ve fallen in love with Virgil, right?

[Thomas, Logan, Patton and Honesty look at Deceit with a face of shock]

ROMAN: [also in shock] I… I…

DECEIT: And Virgil’s fallen in love with you too.

THOMAS: Is that true, Roman? The other day, I thought Deceit was only teasing us… But is it true? You two are in love?

ROMAN: [sighs] There’s no use in denying the evidence anymore… Deceit’s right. I love Virgil. I love that stupid Emo Nightmare. And I think he loves me too.

THOMAS: But that’s good then. You love him and are lucky enough that he loves you back. Where’s the trouble? I think it’s beautiful that two of my Sides are in love with each other. I’m not against it, if that’s troubling you.

ROMAN: Thank you, Thomas, but…

DECEIT: I think I understand what’s going on.

THOMAS: Then what is it?

DECEIT: The problem is that Roman is a Light Side and Virgil is a Dark Side. They can’t be together, or Roman could disappear, because of the corruption Virgil would eventually inflict on Roman. [to Roman] And Virgil refused to be with you because he didn’t want to harm you, and you’re suffering because you can’t have him, right, Roman?

ROMAN: Yes. More or less…

THOMAS: And isn’t there any way to help them?

DECEIT: I don’t think so, Thomas. It’s at the core of our nature. We can’t coexist for long periods of time. I know the problem very well, remember what happened to Honesty and me.

PATTON: [emotional] My poor little prince… I’m so sorry.

ROMAN: Do you have any spare hugs, Patton…? [his voice breaks] Cause I could use one of them right now…

PATTON: Of course, Roman, of course.

[Patton goes to Roman’s spot and hugs him. Roman starts loudly crying on Patton’s shoulder, his face is not seen, but Patton sweetly pets his hair]

PATTON: It’s okay… It’s okay, kiddo… Let it all go out. Everyone has the right to cry… Even the bravest princes like you.

THOMAS: [tearing up] This is so sad… And this explains why I can’t create anything that isn’t sad. My creativity is lovesick. What else could he do? Hug him tightly, Patton. Make him feel like we’re all hugging him at the same time.

[Roman puts himself together, his eyes are red and his nose wet. Patton gives him a handkerchief decorated with embroidered kittens and Roman blows his nose]

ROMAN: [cleaning his nose] What an appalling spectacle I’m giving. I’m the prince, I’m supposed to be strong, or at least look like it…

THOMAS: Patton’s said it and he speaks for all of us. Even the strongest and bravest princes have a right to cry. And it needs a lot of strength to cry in front of people. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

LOGAN: Guys… I suddenly realized something…

THOMAS: What is it, Logan?

LOGAN: Don’t you think that there’s something odd going on here?

THOMAS: I wouldn’t call this situation odd, Logan, I…

LOGAN: I don’t mean Roman’s trouble, although it could be related.

THOMAS: If you don’t cut to the chase…

LOGAN: Where is Virgil? He should already be here knowing we’re mentioning him all the time.

THOMAS: Perhaps he’s in autopilot, Logan.

LOGAN: Perhaps, but still… I’m having a bad feeling about his absence.

ROMAN: [concerned face] What do you mean? What makes you think there’s something’s wrong with Virgil?

LOGAN: I don’t know. It’s just… intuition. I never stated it before, Thomas. But apart of being home of your logic and knowledge, I’m also in charge of your intuition. I know it has no logic that I, Logic, am in charge of this illogical feeling, but I am, and I feel deep inside of me that something’s wrong with Virgil. I could be wrong, intuition sometimes fails, and it’s the only instance I’m going to recognize I’m prone to failure, but I highly doubt it.

THOMAS: Then we’ll go check on him. Remember, everyone, that Light Sides are endangered in Virgil’s room, so, if we need to stay for too long, Logan, Patton, Roman and Honesty must retreat, okay?

ROMAN: If Virgil’s in trouble, I’m not retreating anywhere.

THOMAS: But Roman…

ROMAN: Enough talking, let’s go now or I’ll go on my own without you!

THOMAS: Okay, okay, let’s go then.

[They all sink down. Then they appear in Virgil’s room. There’s no sign of Virgil]

THOMAS: Where is he? I hope he doesn’t appear again to scare us like the last time…

ROMAN: Virgil!? Were are you!?

VIRGIL: [only his voice, in demonic form, is heard, with a creepy sing-song tone] I’m glad you managed to come here, my distinguished guests… Come in… Join me in my despair…

ROMAN: Virgil?

LOGAN: That voice…

DECEIT: That is not Virgil!

THOMAS: Are you sure? It sounded like him when he’s heightened.

DECEIT: I know Virgil, and I also know an impostor when I see… or hear it. And I tell you that is not Virgil.

ROMAN: [to the voice] Then who are you!? And what have you done to Virgil! Show yourself, whoever you are!

[A dark hooded figure appears in Virgil’s spot.]

VIRGIL: You have a keen ear, Deceit. However, you’re wrong. It’s me, Virgil.

DECEIT: You’re lying!

THOMAS: Who are you? Show your face!

[He takes the cloak down and shows that he’s, in fact, Virgil. However, he has an evil expression and his eyes are red]

THOMAS: Virgil…?

ROMAN: What’s… wrong with you?

VIRGIL: I am better than ever, Roman. Now that I let myself get carried away with this feeling, I’m… ecstatic… You should all come with me… It’s such a wonderful state…

HONESTY: Okay, something tells me we shouldn’t listen to him…

LOGAN: …wait a second… what’s that in his hand? It’s… like a black glow of some kind… [realizing what it could be] No… This can’t be… it’s impossible…

THOMAS: What!?

LOGAN: It looks like a Sanders Sprite. But it’s impossible, Sprites are allergic to Dark Sides!

VIRGIL: What did you say it is…? A Sanders Sprite? Please… Mistaking it with these amateurish Lite-Brites…

LOGAN: Then what is it? And what has it done to you?

VIRGIL: Don’t my eyes give you a hint, four eyes?

PATTON: Oi! You don’t have to be rude!

VIRGIL: [evil giggling] I know, but it’s so fulfilling!

THOMAS: Red eyes, and a clue…?

DECEIT: [horrified] No… It’s impossible… It can’t be… him!

THOMAS: [afraid] Him? You mean…?

LOGAN: The Dark Master is back? But how can that be? We destroyed him! He would have needed a lot more time to rebuild himself!

VIRGIL: Oh, no, it’s not the Dark Master… Well, not all of him at least… And I tell you that I’m Virgil.

LOGAN: I’m confused…

VIRGIL: When we destroyed the Dark Master the way that we did it, we broke his body into tiny pieces that were propelled out of the Dark Realm all over the Mind Palace. And from these pieces, they were born.

THOMAS: They? Who are they?

VIRGIL: Oh, we didn’t get a name for them yet. But now that you’ve mentioned the Sanders Sprites… I think Dark Sprites sounds like a good name, doesn’t it?

THOMAS: So you are a Sprite, then…

VIRGIL: I told you I’m Virgil. But this in my hand, it is a Sprite.

THOMAS: I’m confused.

VIRGIL: Ordinary Sprites bite Light Sides only and their aim is to possess them. Dark Sprites, bite Dark and Light Sides alike and their job is to heighten the darkest part of us to unveil a trait we’ve been suppressing from ourselves, but without manipulating our minds or anything. That’s why I told you, I’m still Virgil. And you wouldn’t believe the wonders this little dark fellow has shown me.

THOMAS: I’m getting scared.

VIRGIL: I thought I was only Anxiety and Fear. But who would have known? I’m Depression too, and I discovered it thanks to this little friend.

THOMAS: And with that knowledge… what do you plan to do?

VIRGIL: Everything would be so much calmer if I spread depression on you, Thomas… You wouldn’t have to worry again about the real world. You wouldn’t have to waste your energy on mundane things, because anything is pointless anyway… [mesmerizing voice] and you know it… What’s the point of struggling anyway? There’s none… so stop struggling and let yourself get carried away by me…

LOGAN: Stop it! Stop it, Virgil! What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense!

DECEIT: And it’s a load of lies too! Thomas, don’t listen to him! He’s trying to put you into a deep state of depression. If you let yourself get sunk down by him, it will be difficult to get out.

THOMAS: I’m trying, guys. I try not to listen to him. But I’m suddenly getting such a strong feeling of sadness and lack of hope… It’s overwhelming… Guys, help me…

PATTON: [scared whining] What are we going to do?

HONESTY: Virgil, please, don’t do this!

VIRGIL: You all don’t understand… It’s all so wonderful where I am… No more anxiety… no more fight… only laying down and waiting for the inevitable…

ROMAN: [angry commanding voice] Virgil, shut up!

[Virgil looks at Roman]

ROMAN: You know this is wrong! Look at Thomas. Do you think he’s experimenting the pleasures you’re promising him!? Just look at him! He’s suffering! And what’s worse! You’re putting him in danger! You had a sworn duty, Virgil, just as I had mine. Your duty is to protect Thomas, from himself and from the dangers around him. If you go on that way, you’re betraying your duty! You’re failing, Virgil!

[Virgil shows a face of slight struggle and horror]

ROMAN: Please, I beg of you. If there’s still a tiny little piece of the Virgil I love in there, please fight against this nonsense. Don’t let this happen. You said that you loved me more than you love yourself. If that’s true, listen to me!

[There’s a flicker in the black glow in Virgil’s hand. Also, the cloak Virgil’s wearing flickers in black and purple. Virgil’s face is of constant struggle, his eyes go from red to brown, then back to red, again and again. Then, at last, the black glow gets off Virgil and explodes in the air. At that moment, Virgil goes pail as a ghost, recovering his usual purple emo outfit, and falls down unconscious]

THOMAS: [relieved] I think I’m feeling better now… [scared after noticing Virgil on the floor] What’s wrong with Virgil?

[Roman runs towards Virgil and holds him, resting Virgil’s head on Roman’s shoulder]

ROMAN: Virgil, my love… Are you okay? Can you hear me? Wake up, please…

[Virgil doesn’t wake up. In fact, he’s looking worse every minute]

LOGAN: I think Virgil recovered reason for a minute and to avoid what was happening to Thomas, he inhibited himself to repel the Dark Sprite… But perhaps he’s gone too far. We could be losing him…

ROMAN: [horror face] That’s not true! Sides don’t die, that’s impossible!

LOGAN: Human personalities can change. It’s rare, but not impossible. So it’s possible that Sides can die and be replaced or not by new Sides. It’s something that can happen.

ROMAN: [crying] Virgil. It’s not true. I told you earlier to fight. Now I tell you again. Please don’t leave me. Fight!

[Roman leans towards Virgil and kisses him. Then something happens. To Roman and the other’s shock, Virgil’s body starts floating in the air, surrounded by a mystic purple glow. The glow gets so intense it dazzles everyone for a second. Then Virgil wakes up, taking a deep breath and recovers the color on his face. Then he slowly descends down until he perches on the ground, and then the glow disappears]

VIRGIL: I… I’m not very much sure of what has just happened…?

ROMAN: [happy crying] Virgil!

[Roman runs to Virgil and hugs and kisses him]

ROMAN: Are you all right? How are you feeling?

VIRGIL: [with a loving smile] Now that you’ve kissed me? Like I could move a mountain.

[Roman smiles and kisses Virgil again]

THOMAS: But I don’t understand. What has happened here? What was that glow?

DECEIT: Isn’t it obvious? In Roman’s fairy tale language, his true love’s kiss has broken the curse and awaken Virgil. In fact, I think it has done more than that.

THOMAS: What do you mean?

DECEIT: Try to change into your old panther form, Virgil.

VIRGIL: Okay…

[Virgil tries, but nothing happens]

VIRGIL: I can’t. Maybe if I forced a shape-shift, but it’s not coming naturally as it used to…

[Wrath suddenly appears]

WRATH: [nervous, almost hysterical] Guys, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! The Dark Realm! The room! The Dark Realm!

LOGAN: Calm down, Wrath! Calm down or we won’t understand a thing! What’s wrong with the Dark Realm?

WRATH: [taking a deep breath, then calmer, but still nervous] Something’s happened in the Dark Realm! I heard a huge noise, as if something was falling apart! I went to check it out and I couldn’t believe my eyes! Virgil, your room in the Dark Realm has disappeared. It is gone!

VIRGIL: My room?

WRATH: Yes, your room! Now you don’t have a room in the Dark Realm anymore!

DECEIT: Exactly as I thought. Your Dark Side room has disappeared, because you don’t need it anymore. You’re now a creature of the Light Realm.

VIRGIL: [in shock] What?

DECEIT: When you inhibited yourself, you lost almost all of your Dark Side energy, like I did when I had to inhibit myself too. When Roman kissed you, he infused you with his own love, the purest light energy there is, and it filled you, replacing the dark energy you lost, and that made the miracle. You are no longer a Dark Side, Virgil. You’re now a Light Side.

VIRGIL: I’m… a Light Side…? I can’t believe it…

WRATH: Um… Excuse me, but will, like, somebody come back to Earth and pick me up? Because I am totally confused.

THOMAS: You’re not alone in your confusion… Wait a minute. If Virgil is now a Light Side… Does that mean that he’s no longer my anxiety?

DECEIT: Yes… and no…

THOMAS: If you complicate this a little more, Deceit, I’m gonna get a headache.

DECEIT: Think about it. Think about Virgil’s name. He had that name all that time and we never understood it’s true meaning. Think about Logan and Patton. Logan is Logos, or logical thinking, and Patton is Pathos, or emotional thinking, as Greek philosopher Aristotle described them. Think about Roman too, he is romantic for romance and a Romantic author like Poe and so many others. But what does the name Virgil have to do with “anxiety”?

THOMAS: Well…

LOGAN: I think I understand. Virgil is no longer Anxiety… because he’s Vigilance! It can be a cause of anxiety but it’s not anxiety itself! That’s why he had always in his heart the wish of protecting you, which is the only thing strong enough to break depression’s curse. And I think Virgil has always been your vigilance, Thomas. He probably was a Light Side when he was born, but since Thomas’ first encounters with him were always a cause of anxiety, Thomas started repressing him early on and he turned into a Dark Side because of that. That can happen when Sides are forming at a young age, when they’re not totally defined. And now, Virgil has recovered his true nature.

VIRGIL: I… I don’t remember at all having been a Light Side at any moment in my life, Logan…

LOGAN: That’s normal. None of us should remember something that happened at such a young age of Thomas’ and ours. Also, you have always felt out of place all of your life, didn’t you? You said it once yourself: “I don’t fit in, that’s the problem.” Now you know the reason why you felt like that. If you still have doubts and need more proof, just look at Roman, Patton, Honesty and me. We’ve been in your room for a long time now. Do you see us with eye-shadow, our hair over our foreheads and acting as if we had drunk five gallons of coffee? You can no longer corrupt us because you’re no longer a Dark Side.

VIRGIL: This… is overwhelming… I don’t know how I should react… My whole life… has been a lie?

ROMAN: Virgil, there’s no use in asking questions about the past. Think about the present. You are a Light Side. And also think about the future. I love you and you love me, and there’s no longer anything that separates us. I’ll make sure to make you happy for as long as we both shall live, if you accept me.

VIRGIL: If I accept you? After all we both have been through? Could you ever have doubted it, my prince?

[This time it’s Virgil who kisses Roman]

THOMAS: Okay, guys, I think it’s time for us to give some privacy to a certain couple. [sinks down] Let’s go.

LOGAN: [sinks down] Gotcha.

PATTON: [sinks down] Bye, guys!

WRATH: [sinks down] And I still don’t know what is going on between them…

HONESTY: [sinks down] Don’t worry, I’ll put you up to date on the way.

[Deceit doesn’t say a word. He just sighs and sinks down]

[There’s a white flash and they all rise up in the living room]

LOGAN: Well, if we needed any other proof that Virgil is a Light Side, now we got it. We’ve all risen up instead of appearing from there. Are you okay, Deceit? And you, Wrath?

WRATH: [dizzy] I don’t know how you can do this thing of rising up… Ugh… my stomach’s not agreeing with it…

DECEIT: You get used to it after a few tries… But the first time I almost threw up afterwards… And for me it’s still unpleasant to rise up to some degree.

THOMAS: That’s something that has bugged me. Why do you have to suddenly appear? Why can’t you just rise up like the others?

DECEIT: That’s like asking why does the Mind Palace exist in the first place. I have no idea, Thomas, but that’s how it is. Now… if you excuse me, I’m going back to my room now. [sinking down] See ya.

THOMAS: Bye, Deceit…

HONESTY: I’m going too, Thomas. After all these emotions I need a calming tea to feel better. [sinks down] See you later.

THOMAS: Bye, Honesty. And Wrath. If Virgil’s room is gone, what happened to all the stuff that was in there?

WRATH: Have you ever watched Doctor Who, Thomas?

THOMAS: Have I ever watched Doctor Who? That’s like asking me if I have ever sung a song, Wrath.

WRATH: Well, do you remember how the TARDIS, in special situations where it needed extra power, it burned rooms inside of it to gain extra energy? It’s something similar. The room that belonged to Virgil was “burnt” and its remains converted into energy for the Mind Palace.

THOMAS: With everything in it?

WRATH: Not everything. If there was something important that needed to be saved, it would have been moved to where it is supposed to be, Virgil’s room in the Light Realm. The rest, of course, should probably be gone, but I can’t be certain of that, anyway. It is the first time that something like this has happened in the Mind Palace and I’m only theorizing. Perhaps I should go check if everything is okay in the Dark Realm.

THOMAS: If that reassures you, go ahead. Tell me if you find anything unusual. And be careful, there could be more Dark Sprites on the prowl.

WRATH: [sinks down] I will. Bye, Thomas.

PATTON: I’m so happy, guys. I almost lost my child today, but not only he survived! Now I’m getting a future son in law too! [sinks down] Who knows? Maybe soon you’ll have to call me Granddad…

THOMAS: [smiles, but with a concerned look] Yeah, who knows…

LOGAN: Are you okay, Thomas? You’re showing a worried face now.

THOMAS: I was thinking about that Dark Sprite… The Dark Master said it, he’s never gonna let me live in peace, but I didn’t expect he’d be giving trouble so soon, in the form of his Dark Sprites.

LOGAN: We all will have to be alert to them. They’re more dangerous than the original Sanders Sprites as we all can be victims of them. But we have faced tough situations in the past and we’ve endured. You’ll see how we can endure this too.

THOMAS: I hope so, Logan. These brief moments when Virgil was trying to put me into depression… were horrible.

LOGAN: Yeah, depression is a serious issue. You have been very lucky not to fall into it. Millions of people have to face it at various points in their life. It’s possible to get out of it, but it takes time and effort, and unfortunately not everyone manages to get out at all. We would have tried our best to support you, and so would have your beloved ones and the therapists that put you into the essential treatment to get out of it. We would have fought for you and you would have never been alone on your way. You know that, right?

THOMAS: Yes, I know. I love you guys so much.

LOGAN: Please, don’t use the word love, Thomas… even though the sentiment is mutual. [sinks down] And I’ll deny having said this.

THOMAS: [smiles] Of course, Logan… [to the camera] If any of you is suffering the effects of depression, I just want to tell you something. I know it may be possible that you don’t believe it right now, but there’s plenty of people around you who love you and who will always be there to support you no matter what. Depression is a serious condition that won’t be solved by anything I could say to you. Even though it’s easier said than done, just try to remember that it will get better some day. Ask for help if you haven’t already, because you are not alone and there will always be someone who will be willing to help you, to give you the strength you’re lacking right now. You can do this. Keep on fighting. I’ll always be rooting for you. Until next time, take it easy, guys, gals and non binary pals. Peace out!

[end card]

[Wrath is wandering around the Dark Realm, on the area were Virgil’s room used to be]

WRATH: Nothing… There’s nothing left in here…

[sounds of sobbing are heard]

WRATH: What? What’s that sound?

[camera pans and Deceit is over there, sitting down on the ground, crying, covering his face with his hands. The yellow gloves are soaked in his tears]

WRATH: Deceit? Is that you?

DECEIT: [scared, noticing Wrath] No! No, it isn’t… I…

WRATH: Um… You know I can see you, right? Are you okay? What’s wrong?

DECEIT: It’s… It’s nothing… Nothing at all.

WRATH: [approaches Deceit and sits down next to him] Sure, and you don’t have to put your gloves in the washing machine because of the tears either. Please, I know you love to lie but trying to lie under these circumstances and expecting me to believe it, it is insulting my intelligence.

DECEIT: Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

WRATH: Just tell me what’s wrong. Aren’t we friends? You were there listening to all the things that unsettled and distressed me. It would only be fair that I would be there for you when you need me. Come on.

DECEIT: Okay… But promise me that you will never, ever tell anyone. None of the Sides or Thomas must know.

WRATH: Of course I promise. No one will know from my lips, I swear. Now, tell me.

DECEIT: It’s just that… I don’t know if I should say it.

WRATH: Please, Deceit, level with me.

DECEIT: It’s just that… I love Virgil.

WRATH: I already knew that.

DECEIT: What?

WRATH: It was always crystal clear for me, ever since the old days in the Dark Realm, that you saw in Virgil more than just a friend. That time, when I told you that “sleep well, lovebirds”, I wasn’t just making fun of you. I knew that your feelings towards Virgil were stronger than what you were willing to admit.

DECEIT: Then why did you let me struggle to get my confession out of me if you already knew?

WRATH: Because you needed to let it go yourself. If I had forced you, it would have only made things worse.

DECEIT: Then you know why I’m like this, don’t you?

WRATH: Yes, I think so.

DECEIT: All this time I had my hopes high, because I knew Virgil was a Dark Side and he couldn’t be with Roman. I foolishly hoped that some day he would settle his eyes on me. But now that he’s a Light Side, my hopes are broken forever. I’ll never be able to be with him. I can’t be with him, because now it would be me who would corrupt him. So I must let him go. The only consolation I have is that at least he’s going to be happy with Roman. But it’s going to hurt me so bad, anyway…

WRATH: Oh, Deceit… Keep that thought in your mind. Keep thinking that Virgil is happy and Roman will make him happy.

DECEIT: He better will, because if Roman ever does something to hurt Virgil… I’ll make sure that he pays for it.

HONESTY: [Showing up next to them] He won’t do anything, Deceit. Roman loves Virgil with all his heart and he would never hurt him on purpose, you know it.

DECEIT: [startled] What are you doing here? How long have you been here? Did you hear everything that…?

HONESTY: [sitting down next to Deceit] Relax, Deceit. Have you forgotten that we have been sharing the same body for a long time and that we also shared the same memories for a long time? Many things have become blurry, but I still remember that you’re in love with Virgil.

DECEIT: Oh, you’re right… I forgot…

HONESTY: Don’t worry. I never told before, and I will never tell anyone. I know I’m Honesty, but I do not support brutal and hurtful honesty. One must know when to speak and when to be quiet, and I know. Perhaps there’s still a little dash of you in me that allows me to do that. Anyway, your secret’s safe with me. I promise.

DECEIT: Thank you so much, Honesty.

HONESTY: So this is all that is left of Virgil’s old room?

WRATH: Yes, it is…

HONESTY: [pointing at something] Um… what is that over there?

DECEIT: What?

[Honesty gets up and approaches what he has seen. Then comes back. It’s Virgil’s old black hoodie]

HONESTY: Didn’t this belong to Virgil?

[Deceit and Wrath stand up. Honesty gives the hoodie to Deceit]

DECEIT: Yes. It’s the hoodie he used to wear when he was in panther form, and the first hoodie he used when he acquired his emo form.

HONESTY: I think it would be appropriate that you kept it, Deceit.

DECEIT: Me?

HONESTY: Virgil’s obviously never gonna need it anymore. He seems pretty happy with his purple hoodie. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you kept it.

DECEIT: Yes… I guess so.

WRATH: What I wonder is how this didn’t burn with the rest of the room or reappear in Virgil’s present room. It just stayed there, forgotten…

DECEIT: I don’t know. But I’m glad that it didn’t go. Thanks for having the keen eye of spotting it, Honesty. You are a good friend.

HONESTY: The closest you’ll ever have. We’re like one after all, literally before and figuratively now. Now clean those eyes, my friend. Let’s go. I said I wanted some tea earlier, and Patton has invited us to have some tea and cookies. That’s why I came looking for you, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna miss out Patton’s cookies, they’re delicious.

DECEIT: Yes, I need something sweet to forget my bitterness…

HONESTY: He included all of us in the invitation, Wrath, you can come too.

WRATH: Really? Thanks. I never tasted cookies.

HONESTY: [in shock] You… what?

WRATH: No, there’s nothing of that here in the Dark Realm.

HONESTY: Then you’re in for a treat. You’re gonna love them.

[They all leave the Dark Realm. In the spot where the hoodie was lying, a sparkle can be seen… of two red eyes]

VOICE: [demonic] Too soon… but just wait for it…

[unsettling laughter from the demonic voice is heard and again the red eyes sparkle for an instant]

[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — shelter 3/3

Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir get caught up—in the rain and in each other.

Chapter summary: Interrupted kisses are so overrated... don’t you think?

Words: 6.9k

Rating: General Audiences

AN: This entire chapter was driven by the song Goodnight and Go, both the original version by Imogen Heap and the remix by Ariana Grande, which—if you know the song—will be pretty obvious here. Sorry for the long wait! Hope everyone had a nice holiday!

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Part 1 | Part 2 | [Part 3] |

goodnight n go

“Are you sure you have everything?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

“All your clothes?”

He held up two double-packed doggy bags.

“And my shoes.”

“The macarons?”

“Ube with a yema filling?” He held up his other hand where a pink box with the signature Dupain-Cheng stamp lay, brimming with the sweet, Parisian-Asian fusion treats. “Right here!”

“What about Plagg?”

She got him there but instead of admitting it, he laughed and kissed her dulcetly on the cheek.

“Madame,” Sabine groaned but leaned into the peck. “I've had the loveliest time this evening. You can't know how much.”

“Oh, Chat,” she sighed, returning his kiss with two of her own on either side of his cheeks. “You're free to visit any time, I hope you know.”

She hugged him and on the tips of her toes, she whispered in his ear.

“And feel free to use the front door when you do.”

Adrien’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and he choked on a breath. It was Sabine's turn to laugh.

“We do have two of those, you know,” she teased.

“Cat got your tongue?” Marinette snickered, meandering to his side in a way that told him she had not been privy to her mother's comments, otherwise she would have been flailing alongside him. “Or have you gotten another furball?”

He whined. “I do not spit furballs!”

“With how much you ate,” Tom jested, partaking in the ribbing. “I wouldn't be surprised if one or two of those popped out.”

“Ha-ha, you two are hiss-terical,” he deadpanned. “Truly.”

She smirked. “I am known to be claw-ver, you know.”

He gaped. “Y-you… you punned!”

She smirked and his heart skipped a beat. “I could kiss you!” he blurted.

“Bon dieu,” Tom sighed, shaking his head. “And you would have too, had I not been such a clumsy oaf.”

“Oh, mamour,” Sabine giggled, patting him on the shoulder in feigned consolation. Tom, as he was wont to do, leaned into her touch wholeheartedly as he buried his face into Sabine's hair and trembled with mock sobs. However, the whimpers emitting from the burly man were undoubtedly the result of crudely suppressed chortles. Somewhere amongst the ceiling beams, a purring cackle was heard.

(Traitors, all of them)

Adrien's (and Marinette's) cheeks stained a lovely red, but then again—what was new?

“Right,” Marinette coughed, determined to ignore her parents if the firm pout she had fixed onto her lips was any indication. With gusto, she grabbed at his shoulder before dragging him to the apartment door. Powerless with his hands otherwise occupied and unwilling to rendez-vous with the floor again so soon, he limped behind her. “It's getting late. We wouldn't want to keep Chat from his own home.”

“I think it might be drizzling too,” Tom commented, setting aside any amusements as he gazed out the windows at the grim skies with concern. Though it wasn't odd for nightfall to descend so quickly at ten in the evening this time of year, the clouds that muffled the blanket of stars over their beloved city of lights was out of the ordinary—an indisputable credit to the unexpected weather. “Would you like to stay the night?”

“‘Would you like to stay forever?’” Sabine quoted.

Marinette groaned even as Adrien barked a surprised laugh.

“They're quoting Mulan now,” Marinette shook her head, her hands on her hips as she appraised her parents in exasperation. “It really is time to leave.”

“I don't know, Marinette,” Tom replied, surveying him with a critical eye, though there was a sparkle to his look. “I could teach you how to make those macarons, eh? We could make a man out of you yet, Chat Noir.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or, at the very least, a baking man.”

“Mon dieu, Papa,” Marinette grumbled, but he could tell she was just as tickled. Adrien himself was sorely tempted to accept their offer. It wasn't as if anyone anything was waiting for him in the mansion, and if it was down between the cold and wide yet confining walls of his room or the sparse yet warm and cozy dwelling of the Dupain-Chengs, there was no choice. Still, he had a whole mantle of duties and responsibilities that came with wearing the Agreste name. So though he very much yearned to stay, this was not his home. And as much as he liked to pretend—every minute he was here, it was glaringly obvious that he did not belong.

(Despite the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Marinette, telling him how much he did)

“It would be an honor,” he acquiesced briefly, “but with the weather like this… I think I need to head back.”

“We understand,” Sabine said, holding Tom's hand as they walked him and Marinette to the door. “Another time, perhaps? The offer for baking lessons stands, of course.”

“I will definitely hold you to that paw-mise!” He replied with an enthusiasm he could barely contain. Despite his reservations, if this night had taught him anything it was that should any of them offer, he would never pass up an opportunity to spend time with the Dupain-Chengs—the chance to learn a new skill was just an added bonus.

They all shared one more raucous laugh that was sure to get the neighbors talking, but they didn't care. What were a few complaints compared to the endless fun that could be had when you were with people whose company you thoroughly enjoyed?

It was made this closing bittersweet. Because how could one say goodbye to that which—to those who had—filled him with such unfettered merriment it was almost like he had been alight?

(Spoiler alert: you could, but damn if it was easy)

With a final wave to both, the door to the Dupain-Cheng abode closed with a finality that felt like the end of a book—like all loose knots had been tied except the for the one directly to your heart, because you had grown so attached to the characters in the story, it left you satisfied yet strangely empty too, for how can the world keep on turning just the same when you had been forever changed?

He lingered for that very reason. And it was also for that reason that he heard a girlish ‘whoop!’ despite the thickness of the wood that stood between him and Marinette's parents. Tom's booming laughter followed.

“Wait, so does that mean we're team Chat Noir now?”

Well, he mused. He certainly hoped they were.

Sabine giggled. “Oh, Tom.”

“But I thought we were team…”

Before he could hear the end of that sentence, however, and have it finally revealed to him who it was Marinette had fallen for, she called for him.

“Minou?” she asked, her head the only visible part of her between the slats of the balustrade—that and her roguish smile.

“You could stay,” she continued. He swallowed the lump in his throat that had formed itself into a ‘yes’. He shook himself out of his reverie and followed her, trudging miserably down the staircase as if they were a mountain and not an ordinary flight of stairs. He had gone two steps below her when he noticed that he couldn't hear her light gait trailing behind him. He paused and looked up at her, one brow raised in the shape of a question mark.

“You were quiet tonight.”

That wasn't strictly true. He had been perfectly sociable, though he understood what Marinette meant. While he had been playful and courteous, there was a certain distance to his actions that he normally reserved for when he was Adrien and hid away when he was Chat Noir. But his axis had tilted, in a way that made both sides grapple for a chance to surface when really, all he wanted was to find a balance within himself. He didn't know how to explain that to her, didn't know if he could even if he had found the words, so he settled for, “I suppose…” he shook his head before shrugging at her. “I was trying to figure out who to be.”

She gasped, horrified. “You didn't have to be anyone but yourself!”

He gave a bitter laugh. “And who is that?” he sighed. “I don't even know, myself.”

She said nothing and he turned away from her, wishing he could shove his hands in his pockets and further shrink from the severity of her stare.

“I do,” she breathed after more than a couple heartbeats. “I know you.”

Confused, he chanced her gaze to find some sort of clarity in her molten, cerulean eyes. “Yeah?”

“For the legitimate first time, I'm starting to.” Her brow furrowed and he itched to sweep the evidence of her frustration till there was nothing but smooth skin and lines and curves that told only of her happiness. “Really starting to.”

“Would you tell me, then?”

“What fun would that be?” she teased. “You'll figure it out, Chat. You always do.”

God, you're amazing, he thought. In the distance, bells tolled.

Without quite thinking, he asked, “Can I visit you tonight?”

Something flickered along her face.

“I should say no.”

There was no helping the way his shoulders slumped and his face sagged. But with a sigh, he agreed.

“You should.”

“But…”

He held his breath. “...but?”

“But,” she continued. “It's not as if you haven't been before.”

“No,” he repeated slowly.

“And we would just… talk.”

He glared. “Of course.”

“Well,” she pouted. “You did promise more of later,” she reminded pointedly. He smiled albeit a slight one as he caught on.

“Yes.”

“And my parents did say you could stay the night.”

He bit his lip to contain the enormous grin that threatened to break free.

“They did.”

“There is one… tiny… detail, we're forgetting.”

He cocked his head, curious as a cat. “And that is?”

She smiled crookedly. “I'm in love with someone else.”

He raised an eyebrow again just as he raised himself another step. “Are you sure about that?”

She hummed, though a more serious expression seized her otherwise enthralling features.

“And you're in love with someone else.”

He went up another stair, lured by her gravity and more than willing to fall into her orbit.

“Are you sure about that?” he pronounced with equal weight to his intonation.

“Chat,” she whispered, licking her lips. The movement had not gone unnoticed by him, his eyes tracking its lackadaisical journey along the length of her pink and luscious mouth.

“Marinette,” he sighed softly. “Is it later yet?”

“Come here, and we'll find out.”

And because he was used to taking orders, he did not hesitate. He climbed the final stair, and it brought them to level in ways that felt significantly more than height or step. With this last footfall, he was shedding old mindsets and dropping previous beliefs. With this hindmost leap, he would stand before her, marrow and sinew changed and soul forged anew, bones shifting to make more room and heart expanding in the shape of the girl who captured it—captured him.

(But was it really a trap when he was so willing to be ensnared?)

He only hoped all that talk about her continuing to be in love with someone else was just that, talk. It was difficult to take her words seriously, not when every look she sent him was a living flame against his all ready fervent skin, not when the touch of her hands, tight around his waist, anchored him to her and to which he was very grateful for. He was positive he would float otherwise for so buoyant did he seem in that very moment, his happiness threatening to catapult him to the moon.

“Je vois de l'amour dans tes yeux,” he murmured. “Alors dans tes yeux je voudrais rester.”

“Then stay,” she breathed.

His bags and his box fell unceremoniously into a heap at his bare feet but he had no care for them. No, all he was was made of Marinette, as he cupped her face tenderly between his palms, his thumbs caressing lightly at the apple of her cheeks and with her eyes framed by his digits, again—tendrils of familiarity curled along the synapses of his brain, little impulses firing rapidly across his nerves till they were one huge blaze calling out a signal that told him this was Marinette but she was also more, a beacon that wanted to shout, yes, I know you. I know you, I know you, and we are one and the same.

He didn't want to close his eyes, but he was magnetized to Marinette's every move and at her pace, heavy lids fell over hypnotized orbs. As one, he bent his head just as she rolled to the tips of her toes to meet his waiting lips in a dance that bound lovers for all time.

They were but a period away when a heavy thud! sounded behind him.

Adrien chuckled. With his eyes still shut and voice pitched low so as not to be overheard, he asked, “Your parents are watching from behind me, aren’t they?”

She pressed her forehead to his and tightened her hold on his waist. It was all the answer he needed—well, in addition to the heatedly hushed cry of, “Oh my God, Tom, did you fall again?”

He nuzzled the crook of Marinette’s neck while she sighed her frustration. Then, with great pain, he lifted his head from the valley of her doughy shoulder so he could shout, “Bonsoir madame et monsieur Dupain-Cheng!”

There was a pause, as though they thought they might walk away without answering and thereby pretend they had never been caught in the first place, before a grumpy but all together embarrassed chorus of, “Bonsoir, Chat Noir...” followed.

The door clicked shut (again) and with a final sigh, he extricated himself from Marinette's embrace. She gave him a withering look, though he inherently understood it was directed at her parents and her voice rang clearly in his mind as if she had spoken it right in his ear.

My parents have the worst timing!

Hiding a smirk, he bent to pick up his bags, going down three steps once more to retrieve them.

“I should head home.”

When he straightened, Marinette was holding out the box of macarons. A compunctious grin was pasted on her features.

“Let me walk you to the door.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and through the glass panes of the entrance, he noted the state of the night sky before releasing a hefty groan.

The deluge had returned—full force.

“We all mean it, you know,” Marinette continued, looking amused by his aversion to the weather. “You're welcome to stay here.”

“Careful now,” he replied, tearing his eyes away from the outside so he could focus on Marinette. He made an effort to inject some levity to his voice but there was a sobering undertone to his words as he said, “You give this cat ideas and I'll never leave.”

She laughed, a hand splayed athwart his cheek while she cosseted the edges of his mask, as he found she was fond of doing—a teasing yet careful touch that straddled the line between curiosity and decorum, of do's and don'ts and wills and won'ts, like she was eager to know him, all of him, including the man behind the mask but was waiting for him to let her in.

(Not for long now, he imagined)

“My father did say life was just a dance,” she went on. She placed a feather-light kiss on his cheek and contrary as it was to her actions, he felt the sincerity in her vow even as she stepped away from him.

“You can sway my way any time, Chat Noir.”

He would have kissed her then, but thunder blasted over the skies, jolting him to the reality of his situation. Annoyed beyond belief, it was with agonizing reluctance that he summoned his Kwami who, he found, returned to him in a state of unprecedented bliss that instead of baffling him, only served to further his vexation.

“Where have you been?” he asked him.

“Heaven,” replied the tiny creature in dreamy articulations.

He turned to Marinette for explanation but all she gave him was an enigmatic, if not regretful, smile.

“Will you ever not be a mystery?” he asked aloud, unsure as to whom he was speaking to though he felt it was an appropriate question for both of them either way.

And as he expected, there was no answer. The only reply he was given was Marinette's held out arms, to which he passed his baggage. Plagg was still floating aimlessly above his head, lost in whatever fantasy beheld him, when he snapped with a sulky, “Maybe something waterproof, this time, Plagg? Can you do that?”

“Someone's in a good mood,” he jested, utterly unaffected as usual. “Fantastic,” he muttered, barely refraining a snarl.

“Plagg, claws out!”

He never thought he would reach this day, but it was with all honesty that he wished he could be rid of his suit. It must have shown on his face because then Marinette was there, smoothing the pout from his lips with a gentle brush of her fingers. Just like that, the irritation flowed right out of him.

“Will you be all right?” she asked softly. He nodded, taking his bags from her and holding them in one arm so he could grasp the hand that had been caressing him.

“Be careful,” she warned. He smiled.

“I always am.”

“I know,” she answered, despite the slightly dubious look etched upon her visage. He chuckled. “It doesn't stop the worry.”

His gratitude at her regard was another lingering kiss to her palm, right along the crease of her life line. Without letting him go, she opened the door. Yet it still felt as if a pit opened within him, a chasm to match the distance that would steadily grow between them with every stride, bound and swing he took away from her.

A blast of air hit them followed by a spackle of frigid raindrops despite merely stopping just shy of the threshold. His suit held, Plagg having heard him despite his halved attention. He had little knowledge of cloth despite having essentially grown in the fashion industry, but he assumed the material was a blend of thermal and leather as he seemed impassive to the cold. What little rainfall reached him slid right off the surface of his costume, assuring him that once he succumbed to the cloudburst, he would remain miraculously dry.

Just a little ways behind him, Marinette shivered, gooseflesh making highlands of her skin as they rose in hilly bumps. Still, she had the mind to advise him.

“Stay warm,” she prompted grimly.

With their fingers still entwined, he nudged at her chin with a knuckle before resting the pair of tangled limbs against her chest.

“I’ll try,” he promised with a lopsided grin. “Mon coeur.”

They remained clasped at the hands till only the tips of their fingers held adamantly onto their collision, separating only when they reached the brink of her doorway.

“Mon minou,” was all she replied, and for him, for always—

It was enough.

The trip home had been blessedly uneventful, his homecoming moreso. Yet, ensconced in his room once he had detransformed and checked that Nathalie nor his father found him missing, he announced, “I feel different.”

Behind him, Plagg snorted.

“You certainly don't look it.”

“I don't think I'm supposed to.”

“And you don’t sound like it, that's for sure.”

“I know, that's why I feel it. Wait,” he shook his head. “What is that supposed to mean? And hey,” he pinned him with a glare, “What happened to you? What were you doing in Marinette's room? You better not have made a mess in there!”

Plagg bared his teeth as he seemed to stifle a growl. “I didn't touch anything that wasn't mine.”

Adrien himself muffled the overwhelming urge to pull at his hair. Frustrated, he repeated with surly resonance, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you need to think now, Adrien.”

“About what?”

“Tell me something,” Plagg darted right to his face and he had to take a step back to keep from getting cross-eyed when he looked at the mildly threatening creature before him, taken aback as he was by his expression. He had never seen his Kwami so… feral. And he would have been frightened, if he wasn't so achingly confused. He would bear anything right now if it meant some semblance of clarity.

“You and Marinette were awfully cozy tonight,” he pointed out, voice laden with unnecessary sarcasm. “Could it be her bringing about this change in you?”

“What of it? You don’t approve?”

“What about Ladybug? What about your feelings for her?”

“So that's the issue. You don't approve, then.” Adrien said dryly as he flopped onto his bed. “What does my feelings for Ladybug have to do with Marinette?”

“It has everything to do with Marinette!” Plagg exploded.

“What is up with you tonight, Plagg?” He wondered. He couldn't possibly be hungry all ready? Then again, he should know better than to speak for his Kwami's appetite.

“Two millenniums is a long time to be away from the one you love,” Plagg sighed. “Even for me.”

The sound drew Adrien's gaze, for it was in shades of melancholy he was accustomed to. Plagg was always throwing his seniority around despite every other word out of his mouth relating only to cheese. The idiot he was, he was only now starting to realize that perhaps it was a front, for his Kwami had never appeared so old to him, looking every bit his incomparable age.

“But I thought… I thought Ladybug and Chat Noir were two halves of a whole. I thought that the person behind and in front of the mask were the same. I am Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien.”

“Yes,” Plagg agreed. “And though Ladybug and Chat Noir always found each other,” he said each superhero's name emphatically, “it wasn't always easy for their civilian selves. You have to understand, the world was so different then, Adrien. The strife of today seems miniscule compared to what my charges had to go through, and I'm not diminishing the problems of your generation,” he injected when Adrien opened his mouth to protest. “But people were not as accepting of well, anything, as they are now. Millions were being slaughtered on the daily and for things that were beyond their control—be it religion, race, social class… persecuted for something as simple as who they loved.” He shot him a pointed look. “Just imagine a line between freedom and dogma. And imagine being killed if you so much as dared to toe that line, never mind thinking of doing so. Why do you think we keep the Miraculous a secret? Why it's almost impossible to find traces of them throughout history?” Plagg sagged against the pillow next to his head. “Because that was the way of the world more than a thousand years ago. And so my charges, more often than not, chose not to be with their Ladybugs.”

Shocked, he could only shake his head in denial. He threw an arm over his eyes, as if it were enough to block out Plagg's words.

“How—how could they just… give up like that?” Their actions just didn't compute with what he knew about being a Miraculous holder, and his very foundation rocked at the revelation. “How could they choose not to fight?”

“Oh, they fought,” the Kwami muttered darkly before releasing yet another dejected sigh. “But… the world needed them more, and so the world they chose.”

He didn't say anything for more than a couple beats before he settled on, “Wow.”

Adrien swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling unworthy of the title, Chat Noir. Mon dieu, compared to what his predecessors had endured, what had he done that was worth noting? What had he ever fought for or believed in? What—

“Hey,” Plagg's voice was hushed and mellow. He wedged himself to his cheek so that Adrien was forced to lift his arm away from his face. “I didn't tell you all that so you could spiral,” he teased, even with his somber aura.

“Then why did you tell me all that?” he asked, voice watery.

“Maybe not everything's changed, but it's a whole new world now, Adrien.” His paw drifted to his forehead in comfort. “The choice doesn't have to be so hard.”

“Well it isn't exactly a walk in the park, Plagg,” he huffed then ran a hand over his weary face. “They're both…” were there even any words in the entire history of languages that would encompass either women? “How can I choose? I've been in love with Ladybug for so long, and with Marinette—it's all so new but it also somehow feels all right.” He craned his head up at Plagg, who hovered serenely over him. “Can you be in love with two people at once?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“Adrien,” Plagg skimmed his golden tendrils before settling at the nape of his neck.

“You can't be in love with two people at once,” he whispered.

“I can't be in love with two people at once,” Adrien repeated, slowly, and again—his brain lit up as thousands upon thousands of impulses jumped along his synapses, every nerve burning with recognition.

“It's time to think now, Adrien.” Plagg pressed his paw firmly against his skin. “It's time to choose.”

“I can't be in love with two people at once,” he said, louder. And just like that—

“Because I'm not in love with two people at once.”

—everything, clicked.

He always thought this moment would come to him in an explosion; in bursts of colors, a heat of the moment or a grand gesture. He would never have envisioned it could be as simple as this—a piece of the puzzle falling into place.

With a laugh, he sat up.

“We need to go!” he exclaimed.

“We needed to go since yesterday,” Plagg whined. “But better late than never, I suppose.”

“What, no bartering for camembert first?”

He shrugged.

“There are more important things.”

It was one of the most controversial serious statements to ever come from his Kwami's mouth but the surprise was buried beneath his excitement—he could not stop laughing. He jumped off the mattress and didn't bother to put on any shoes, just his Marinette-made hoodie and the black sweatpants he elected to change into when he arrived earlier. He did have the presence of mind to grab his mask and tie it on before transforming. Plagg was only too gleeful to comply.

Anyone who happened to glance out the window would see nothing but a black blur as he passed, Adrien had never moved so quickly and so smoothly, too. He did not feel the rain, largely in part due to Plagg's modifications but he mostly attributed it to the joy that overflowed from him making him feel only good and wonderful things despite the downpour.

(And so the black cat can have good luck, after all)

When he arrived at Marinette's round window, it was to dim lights and no movement, apart from the covered lump on her loft bed. Maybe he should have taken it as a sign not to enter, but he had never been particularly skilled at reading those anyway (or it wouldn't have taken him this long to figure things out).

It was a little concerning, how easy it was to enter her room. Given who was living in it, he needn't have worried of course but, as she said, it didn't make it go away. As it was, it was a conversation for another day—because he had that luxury now, to have more conversations for later, as they were so fond of saying.

Balancing on her windowsill, he whispered, “Marinette?”

“Chat?” she whispered back as she popped up from beneath her covers so only her head was visible. “Allez! Get in before you flood my room!”

With a chuckle, he did so with care so as not to wake her parents, landing on noiseless feet and detransforming as he did so only to almost take back his progress when his bare feet landed on her floor.

Biting back a yelp, he raced to her loft and was grateful that she had tucked herself away once more as it was one less thing for her to hold over him. He was convinced she would have toppled over in laughter if she had witness him then, slinking inelegantly as he was to her side.

“Putain! Why is it so cold?”

“The heating may be down again,” Marinette grumbled. “It's an old building, it happens sometimes. My dad will take care of it in the morning.”

Nevertheless, he found his chuckles returning as he ran his hands over her sheets, albeit more than a little mindful of where they roamed.

“Where are you? I can't see you over this mountain.”

Without warning, a blanket was thrown over his head and beneath the darkness of her comforter, her eyes were the light.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” he echoed, his eyes surely glistening just as bright.

“You came,” she said, sounding almost surprised, as if she were just realizing she was someone worth keeping promises for.

“You said to keep warm,” he shrugged, keeping his tone flippant when he felt anything but, just to keep his nerves at bay because now that he was here, so had a thread of doubt appeared. “It's hard to do that alone, you know.”

What the hell am I talking about?

His agitation multiplied.

She raised an eyebrow. “Where's Plagg?”

“Oh, you know,” he waved a hand vaguely behind him, then dropped it. He was sure she knew what he meant, the Kwami having darted to Marinette's purse the moment they had touched down.

“Is it… is this okay?” Despite his mounting tension, he added—albeit reluctantly, “Should I not have come? Do you… want me to leave?”

“No!” she shrieked and he had to lean back as the sound was so contained within their downy fort. Calmer, she reiterated, “No, no. This is fine. You're fine.” She pitched her head briefly over her fleece. “I just don't want my parents to wake up and freak out,” she said once she returned.

“Oh,” he breathed a sigh of relief before hiding a smirk. “I'm pretty sure they know anyway, so—”

“They what?” she exclaimed in a voice that may have been a decibel higher than she intended it to be, if her goal was to keep his presence hidden from her parents.

(Though the rainfall did a pretty good job of quelling any wayward noises)

“At least, I think your mom does,” he placed a hand at the back of his neck. “You know, I never actually got to clarify, so…”

Marinette looked mortified as she landed face down atop her pillow. She groaned and he rubbed circles onto her back, even as he laughed.

“It's not funny,” she griped. She turned to him with a frown. “How are you not panicking?”

He shrugged. “The way your mom said it, I think she trusts me. I mean, with a face like mine—why wouldn't she?” While he waggled his eyebrows, Marinette's frown further deepened, unimpressed. He laughed some more, recovering his former ebullience in waves of giggles that seized his body. With a little more effort, he infused sobriety into his pronouncement so as to ease her mind.

“But more than anything, Marinette, she trusts you.”

A pensive expression dominated her dainty features as she mulled over his words.

“It doesn't make it any less embarrassing,” she huffed. “But I can live with that.”

With a (hopefully) final chuckle, he settled onto his back beside her. Marinette burrowed onto her side, facing him. She yawned.

“Tired?”

She shook her head contrarily. It was his turn to toss a disbelieving brow her way. She sighed. “It's the cold,” she admitted through gritted teeth, as if she were confessing a weakness. Perhaps it may as well have been, given who she was. “It makes me drowsy. Sometimes.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he muttered. She cocked her head in quiet inquiry. In lieu of an explanation, he mirrored her position then opened his arms.

“Get over here.”

She bit her lip. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

Trust me, he wanted to say. We've been in worse tangles than this. But he kept such thoughts to himself as he found that he was rather enjoying his furtiveness—at least for the time being—if only because the more he talked and looked at her, the more he saw the resemblance, and he wondered how he could have missed it for so long—how he could have missed her.

“Get over here,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. Without added objection, she snuggled to his side of the bed. Adrien drew her hands to his back, beneath his hoodie, and though he hissed at the temperature (she was not kidding about being cold!) and there were minor protestations from the lady herself, he ultimately had no trouble wrapping her arms around him. He arranged the blanket just under her chin and right by his shoulder, before winding his own arms at her waist. He purred, a long and satisfied sound.

“What a wonderful place to be,” he sighed, looking down at her as he spoke.

Marinette scrunched her nose. “My room? With the broken heater? Really?”

He laughed. “I was thinking more like, your arms.”

Her infamous blush made an appearance then, her mouth rounding into a soundless oh. Abashed, she didn’t say more after that.

“Marinette?” he began, breaking the pleasant pocket of silence that had overtaken them.

He sensed more than heard her responding hum, tiny reverberations that ran along the length of his body all the way to their entwined feet. Were he not all ready soothed from her warming skin, then the sound of her contentment alone would have banished any remaining frost he might have felt.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

It took a beat for her to answer her affirmation.

“Sure,” she whispered through a stuttered breath.

“I like you,” he murmured into her ear with a Cheshire cat grin. “I really, really do. And I hope,” he pulled away just enough so he could look into her eyes, “you like me too.”

“I thought you were in love with Ladybug,” he swallowed the bubble of laughter that bullied its way to his throat. Was that… was that jealousy he detected? “I thought you were destined to be together.”

“Here’s the thing,” he shifted onto his back, taking her with him so that her upper half was draped along his torso. “Ladybug and I are a team. One could even say that we couldn’t possibly function without one another. We complete each other.”

Confliction wrangled itself onto her visage.

“But,” he grazed the puckered line of her eyebrows. “It’s you.”

She shook her head. “What’s me?”

“Everything,” he asseverated with devout honesty. “A part of me will always love Ladybug. But you? It’s you I want. You, I choose. Every day, I choose you. Every time. Anywhere and anyhow, I don't care what They say.

“I. choose. you. Beyond doubt and beyond reason, I choose you. Without thought, without question, without fail and... without regret."

He cupped her face, affectionate hands catching any obstinate tears from falling any further from her chin.

“I’m not fond of the idea that there are forces out there beyond my control who get to decide who I be with. That is mine to make. That is my choice and no one else’s. And I choose you.

“It’s you, Marinette,” he was babbling, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. “It’s always been you.”

“Chat Noir,” she hiccuped, “I need to tell you something—”

“Kiss me,” he asked desperately. “Please, I need to—”

He didn’t know what the end of that sentence would be but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. With a sob, Marinette dipped her head, and what little distance remained between them evaporated at the touch of her lips to his.

He expected fire—he expected dynamite and orchestral music and fireworks. But again, the reality far superseded his fantasies because this was so much better than anything he could have conjured.

Fire became the heated flesh of her back as his fingers inched a path up the length of her spine. Dynamite became the caterwaul of thunder while the staccato beat of the torrential raindrops against her window pane became their harmony. Fireworks… fireworks was the way lightning twirled along her skin each time he deigned to open his eyes, illuminating her form so that she shone like a fallen angel above him, come to save him from himself.

For the most part, he let Marinette dictate the kiss—pulling when she pushed, bending as she molded herself to him even more, mouth opening at the slightest prod of her tongue till they were a knotted choreography of intimacy—because now he understood, truly understood, that life was a dance, and his every misstep led to every quiver which led to every spin till he was waltzing to his perfect partner. Choosing Marinette meant the calming of his senses… a tilted world returning to its proper axis.

Somewhere along the way they had swiveled so that he was on top of her, her legs buckled unyieldingly around his hips. He caressed one of her calves while the other followed the line of her arm where he delighted in the goosebumps that rose in his wake. She propped herself on her elbows and so Adrien drew back on his haunches till she was seated on his lap, the blankets pooling below them in a jumbled stack. It gave her added height as she towered over him. She ran the fingers of one hand through his undoubtedly messy hair, nails scratching cautiously at his scalp. Sparks of pleasure tingled down his spine. She kissed his forehead, then, lips moving sleepily over his skin.

“I need to tell you something.”

“I know,” he sighed, buzzing with tranquility.

“I don’t know how you’ll react.”

He smiled. “Something tells me I all ready know.”

A distressed noise escaped her so he eased her grievance with another languid kiss, tiny suckles of her upper lip and bottom lip, till she was chasing after him when he pulled away. She groaned a different sort of unsatiated need.

“In any case,” he dropped his forehead onto her chest before pressing a chaste kiss there. “Nothing you say will ever make me not want you, Marinette.”

Her hands, which had found themselves in his hair, tightened about the golden tendrils at the nape of his neck. He wanted to wax more poetic about how everything ended and everything began with her, but then—she unleashed a jaw-cracking yawn. He mewled a laugh, laying her gently back on her bed, her hair spilling like shimmering ink across the width of her pillow and framing her pale skin so that she looked like the moon in the middle of a starless night.

“Rest now,” he advised, propping himself on an elbow at her side. She whined her protest and so he trailed kisses from her brow to her eyelids, the tip of her nose and her cheek, then to the corner of her mouth. “The moon will set and the sun will rise and I will be here tomorrow.”

She hesitated for a fraction before asking, “Promise you'll still want me in the morning?” a quavering in her voice.

“Promise to want you forever, if you'll let me.”

She gave him a long, surveying look, a light entering her eyes as she reached some sort of conclusion.

“I know you,” she expelled slowly, susurrantly, one hand to his heart, the other edging at the bottom of his mask. He smiled.

“Sleep now,” he bid her. “We have time.”

She extended her arms to him.

“Get over here,” she commanded.

“As my lady wishes,” he replied. He situated himself into the arch of her neck, nosing at her inherent chocolate chip cookie and vanilla scent to lull him to serene slumber.

“You're right,” she mumbled sluggishly.

Above him, a whizz of cold air before the blankets were tucked around him. All the while, Marinette’s arms obstinately remained around him as if they were bound as one, her breaths even and the drum of her heart a steady and reassuring lullaby beneath his ear.

“It’s easier to stay warm when you aren’t alone.”

He smiled.

Was it really this easy? he wondered, as he fought the hypnotic lethargy that blustered to pull him under. Perhaps it wouldn’t always be. Perhaps in the light of day, things will seem different. But for now, he was certain—from the nails of his toes to the roots of his hair, from his nerve endings and his tendons and his cartilage, from his body to his mind to his soul, he believed—he would bear any sacrifice, he would endure any hardship... so long as at the end of the day.

Shelter would be found in Marinette’s arms.

AN: Thank you to @swanandapirate and @feyrearcherons! They don't even go to this fandom lol but they took the time to help me with the French translations I needed here.

Je vois de l'amour dans tes yeux, alors dans tes yeux je voudrais rester = I see love in your eyes, so in your eyes I would like to stay.

So the bit about the flavor of the macarons is all me, ube and yema are local to the Philippines which is where I'm from and they are phenomenal let me tell you right now. I've never had them in the form of macarons but in any other way they taste amazing so if you ever get your hands on them, you will not be disappointed!

So like, this has been the longest thing I have ever written for any fandom and I think I lost some steam for this last chapter but I'm very proud to have finished it anyway because I rarely ever do so when I start multichaps. Still, I had a blast writing it and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it too!

Come say hi to me! :)

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

Because I am nothing if not an entirely raging narcissist, the last headcanon I wrote inspired me to revisit my redheaded OC and expand Ignis’ portion of it into a longer fic. At roughly 6700 words, it might be a little on the lengthy side for readers who like their smut in shorter, more consumable quantities, but at the very least I can guarantee approximately 70% of it is high quality genital-mashing.

Also, because we’ve established that I am indeed a raging narcissist, I drew a picture that you might’ve seen floating around these parts as supplemental material to help my followers visualize the naughty scene I’ve set. I’ve copypasted the fic in its entirety below the cut, but you can follow the link I’ve included to my AO3 account if you prefer getting your rocks off over there. While comments and constructive criticism are not necessary, they are more than welcome and always appreciated. Happy reading!

Idiotically NSFW

They have a routine, the strategist and the redhead; she waits in the shadows of his apartment landing near midnight, listening for the audible click of his front door unlocking to signal that the coast is clear; he greets her with a chaste peck on the cheek and a steaming cup of Ebony when she finally tiptoes inside; they seat themselves around the living room and chat politely for thirty minutes or so, about this and that and all sorts of mundane things, until they both silently acknowledge the real reason why she is here and discard their clothes in the hall on their way to the bedroom.

It’s a comfortable routine, something she has to look forward to after a long day at the Citadel, something that hasn’t changed in the weeks and months since she’d involved herself with the strategist. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee always succeeds at putting her mind at ease, as does the deep vibrato of his voice when he mutters the latest complaint against his royal charge. Even the slight narrowing of his eyes indicating his desire for intimacy is customary, for Ignis Scientia is nothing if not entirely consistent in his mannerisms, and the redhead knows the only expectation either one of them will have for the evening is just how long it takes for her to cry out his name.

Which is why it’s decidedly unexpected when she sees him pushing a large rectangular box across the coffee table in her direction. “What’s this?”

“A gift,” he says, in the clipped accent they both share. “Of sorts.”

She peers down warily at the violet ribbon wrapped around the package before turning a dubious eye on him. “For me? I scarcely would’ve taken you for the charitable type.”

“More for me, actually. Although it would be an added bonus if it was to your liking.” He takes a sip from his Ebony, and then nods toward the box. “Go on—see if it suits your tastes.”

She hesitates, somewhat puzzled by this curious break in their habitualness, but concedes to his request and tugs on the end of the ribbon. Once she’s removed the lid, she is met with a plethora of tissue paper; it takes her a few moments to unearth what lies beneath, and she laughs aloud when she finally recognizes the shimmer of satin and lace textiles. “Really, Ignis? Unmentionables?”

“They can’t really be considered unmentionables once you’ve mentioned them, now can they?”

The way the corners of his lips turn upward into a faint smirk is both utterly endearing and entirely exacerbating, and she resists the urge to sigh. “And what, precisely, do you expect me to do with these?”

“Wear them, I would hope. Preferably for me, but I obviously can’t stop you from entertaining lesser fools.”

She pegs him with a tart glance before returning her attention to the contents of the package; a pair of sheer black stockings is nestled between a matching garter-and-panty set, and she catches a glimpse of indigo silk beneath the lacy undergarments.

She then withdraws the purple article from the box and holds it up teasingly. “Your fashion sensibilities are certainly predictable. Did you purchase this from the same tailor who designs your dress shirts?”

The boned corset in her hands is indeed crafted from a similar Coeurl-print pattern the strategist favors in his own wardrobe, although this evening he is sporting a dark button-up shirt and necktie, likely due to a late night council meeting. “Not quite,” he replies. “I picked it up from the department store yesterday when I was with Noctis.”

She is almost positive he delights in the look of horror that crosses her features. “With the prince? What in Astrals were you thinking?”

“Come now, I’m more discreet than that.” He crosses one knee over the other and swirls his mug around demurely. “Umbra showed up just as Noct was buying new tube socks, and he asked me to bugger off for a bit. I took the liberty to make my purchases and was back before he could finish dotting his I’s with little hearts.”

“And you weren’t the least bit worried about being caught browsing the ladies intimate apparel section? Not concerned with any… assumptions the cashier might’ve made about you?”

The strategist shrugs. “Not at all. Even if someone were to suspect I was buying lingerie for myself, the whole Citadel knows I have nicer legs than anyone.” He then tosses her a wink. “Your included.”

She has half a mind to swipe her foot across the sensitive part of his shins, but the sight of multiple zeroes printed on the label affixed to the corset derails her malevolent intentions. “Goodness,” she breathes, and draws the label closer to confirm her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

“Hardly,” he scoffs, draining the last of his beverage before setting his empty cup aside. “I merely wanted to ensure durable enough construction that wouldn’t fall apart immediately after putting it on. And besides—if you’d rejected my offerings outright without the tags, I’d be a few hundred credits lighter and nothing but aching testicles to show for it.”

She drops the corset back into the box with the other items and replaces the lid. “You could’ve always worn them yourself. Or perhaps your legs aren’t as shapely as you think?”

It’s admittedly one of her favorite aspects of entertaining the strategist, this delightful battle of wits; she cocks a mischievous eyebrow in his direction, poised and ready to counter his incoming barb with a pointed one of her own. But his green orbs soften behind his spectacles, and he surprises her—just as he did when he set the package in front of her moments ago—by reaching across the table and taking her hand in his own.

“I’d rather like to see you wear them,” he says quietly. “Won’t you consider humoring this stuffy chamberlain just for one evening?”

For a split second, the walls guarding her mind draw up; it was rather unlike him, the stoic personality he most often was, to reveal any signs of weakness around her, and the details of their arrangement never explicitly addressed the specifics pertaining to unusual fetishes or lewd requests. But his proposal wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for a lover—nor even particularly lewd, when the she really thought about it—and the earnestness in his eyes curbs her skepticism.

So she draws herself up from her seat without another word, the box of unmentionables tucked under one arm and her gaze trained on him as she strolls off in the direction of the master bedroom. When he’s out of her line of sight, she enters the on-suite bathroom and closes the door behind her; she then sets the package down on the marbled vanity beside the sink and removes the lid once more.

She hefts the bodice from the box and holds it against her torso, and her nose wrinkles as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. The redhead may have been the object of considerable desire within the walls of the royal palace, but she can’t even remember the last time she’d agreed to compress her organs for the sake of beauty. She wonders if perhaps the strategist is growing bored with her, dressing her up like a plaything in a final effort to coax the last remaining vestiges of attraction he still harbors for her, until she remembers that there are far more economical ways of getting one’s rocks off than dropping a few hundred Crown City credits on couture underwear.

She eventually discards the wardrobe she wore to his apartment and sets to work. The panties, stockings, and garter are straightforward enough, but the corset bindings are packaged separately from the bodice, and when she unravels them she finds herself tangled up in several meters of cording. She may be an expert at lacing a pair of combat boots, but ladies shape wear proves to be another beast entirely; it takes her ten minutes to thread the binding through the narrow grommets enough for her to squeeze herself into the overly complex garment.

When she moves to adjust it, however, she is left with an excessive amount of binding in both her hands; what the purpose was of having six feet of rope when she only needed two to hang herself with eludes her entirely, and she spends yet another ten minutes trying to figure out why only the bottom half of the bodice will tighten when she pulls on the end of the cords.

“Need a hand?”

She snaps her head around, and her eyes lock on to the lanky figure leaning against the threshold. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to recognize you haven’t the slightest clue how to lace a corset properly.” The strategist moves into the bathroom and stops behind her, gliding his fingers gently across her neck as he shifts her long tresses to one side. “Allow me to enlighten you.”

The tightening around her ribs eases abruptly, and her spine begins to tingle when she feels his warm breath on her shoulder. “It’s not polite to sneak up on people like that,” she says in a low voice. “I didn’t even hear you open the door.”

“I’ve made a career out of sneaking up on people. Are you really surprised?”

“Hm. I suppose not.”

His hands move quickly, tugging on the binding and rethreading them from the bottom up. When he reaches the grommets centered near her waist, he picks up the other end of the cording and begins lacing them through alternating holes from the top down. She studies his face in the reflection of the mirror while he works, his bespectacled features furrowed with the same razor-keen focus he would dedicate to any other task, imperative or otherwise; she has witnessed his awesome powers of concentration before, whether he is channeling the celestial magic of the crystal the sovereigns of Lucis have bestowed upon him, or taking notes in a boring council meeting, or even—nay, especially—when he is making love to her in the earliest hours of twilight.

“There’s a method behind lacing a corset,” he explains, tying off the ends of the cord at the two lowest grommets and tugging on the excess binding looped at her waist. “Pull on these ones”—he clutches at the bottom strands—“and it tightens the lower half. Pull on these ones”—his grip switches to the top strands—“and it tightens the upper half. Makes it easier to distribute the tension more evenly.”

As the compression surrounding her ribcage equalizes, the redhead surmises she learns something new about him every day; how he takes his coffee, what section of the newspaper he prefers to read first, how deep the rabbit hole of his perverted psyche actually goes. “You seem to be quite the authority on corsetry.”

He secures the loops of the binding into a snug knot; then he slips a hand around her waist, drawing her close and touching his lips to her ear. “I like my presents wrapped as much as anyone.”

Her eyelids flutter shut when she feels his arousal pressing against the small of her back. “Seems a shame to go through the trouble of putting everything on, only to take it all off again.”

“Who said anything about taking it off?”

Finally, she turns to face him. “You’re going to have to,” she says, gesturing to the panties that are trapped firmly between her stockings and garter belt. “Unless you plan on fucking me through my underwear somehow.”

Neither one of them was in the habit of employing vulgar language with any regularity; they both had reputations at the Citadel to uphold, and at times it seemed like they were the last two remaining consummate professionals amidst the likes of bawdier individuals like Gladiolus Amicitia and Libertus Ostium. Still, the occasional use of more… colorful vocabulary held a certain measure of gravity, and indeed her expletive has its desired effect; his cheek twitches as he takes a step toward her, and she can see the fire of lust flaring behind his emerald eyes.

“Is that a challenge?” he asks.

It’s rather unbecoming of her to bait him like that, and she knows it; he may be The Strategist, but he’s still just a man, and it was hardly fair of her to tease his ardor without giving any serious thought of following through with her insinuation.

But then she’s reminded of all the times he’s held the upper hand and delayed her gratification to agonizing lengths, and there was something about wearing a corset and thigh-highs that is making her feel empowered besides; she meets his gaze with a wicked one of her own, and reaches up to loosen the tie around his neck. “Since you managed to persuade me into donning this little outfit of yours,” she purrs, “I was wondering if I might make an inquiry of my own.”

His jaw clenches in visible restraint as she slips the tie out from under his collar. “But of course.”

“How much do you trust me?”

His gaze then drifts to the knot she is suddenly tightening around his right hand. “About as much as I trust anyone fettering my wrist with my own necktie, I suppose.”

When she is content with the strength of her makeshift shackle, she guides him to lean his lower back against the vanity countertop. “It’s just that you have a tendency to make sure my needs are met without ever giving any thought to your own. I find that rather troublesome.”

His face betrays the faintest hint of apprehension as she snakes the long end of the tie around the back of the sink faucet. “I’m certainly not feeling neglected, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Be that as it may, there’s a notable disparity between my efforts and yours. I was hoping to rectify that particular oversight.”

Only when she attempts to seize his unfettered wrist does he finally interrupt her machinations. “While I wholly appreciate your concern,” he says, raising his left hand away from her and out of reach, “I’m not sure if this is the best solution to an imaginary problem.”

She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching her leap futilely after her target, so she levels him with a steely gaze instead. “Afraid of turning the wheel over to someone else, for once?”

“No, but in my experience, bondage without the advantage of forethought rarely ever goes as planned.”

The hairs on the back of her neck tingle in mild irritation; she drops the end of the necktie on the vanity and lowers her voice to nearly a whisper. “I never ask you for anything, Ignis. You’re the one who leaves your front door unlocked every night, not me.”

The words left unspoken linger like a specter in the tiled room; she had no way of predicting from the start where exactly this dalliance of theirs would take her, but she’d done all she could to play by the rules, her rules, the ones that explicitly stated this was merely an agreement between two consenting individuals, where they could express themselves privately in ways they otherwise could not. She certainly would never have been able to envision herself clad in nylon and expensive silk with her buttocks on full display, at the behest of a man who had cooked for her and shared his bed and had even engaged with her in the occasional lover’s spat, and who for all of Eos felt like a loyal and doting husband in everything but name.

He adjusts his spectacles across the bridge of his nose, and she can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing her desire to please him against his need to always be in control. After a moment, he heaves a long-suffering sigh and extends his left wrist in her direction. “I suppose we ought to agree upon a safe word.”

She can’t quite conceal the smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and moves to secure his outstretched hand with the remaining slack of the necktie. “I’m not sure that’s necessary. The worst that could happen is you uproot your faucet.”

“And send a geyser flooding through the apartment?” He shakes his head woefully. “My renter’s insurance would positively skyrocket.”

When she is finished tethering his wrists to the polished brass fixture behind his back, and is confident he won’t be able to immediately break loose the instant her mouth meets any sensitive flesh, she traces her fingers lightly across his smooth cheeks and draws him close. “I’ll try not to be the reason for any permanent water damage,” she says, as the distance between their lips vanishes, “but I can’t make any promises.”

It’s a wholly unique experience, kissing the strategist whilst his arms are bound; his hands are usually everywhere at once, tangled in her hair, caressing her breasts, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties to massage her aching nub. But the tables have suddenly turned, the onus of his pleasure firmly in the palm of her own hands, and she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she isn’t having to clutch at the walls just to hold herself upright under his devilish ministrations.

Almost.

His shirt is still buttoned and, without the present use of his limbs, it might’ve remained that way for a while longer if her desire to undress him hadn’t been entirely innate. But since the instinct to strip the clothes right off his back was as involuntary as breathing, she doesn’t even need to break their kiss for her fingers to find and unfasten the top three closures; two more, and she’s drinking in the flavor of Ebony and spiced cologne as she explores his tongue; the final two, and she’s parting his tunic like the curtains of a window and pressing her body tightly against his warm chest.

His mouth drifts across her cheek and follows the outline of her jaw, but his lips stop just shy of her left earlobe when his restraints prevent him from leaning in any farther. “I hope you don’t intend to imprison me like this for too terribly long,” he says.

His shoulders flex under the hand she is gliding over his collarbone, presumably testing the durability of the tie against the strength of his own wrists. She then trails her fingers down his abdomen, encircling his navel once before untucking the hem of his shirt from his waistband. “I loathe to disappoint you, but I’m only just getting started.”

A curious noise bubbles out of his throat just then, scarcely audible enough for her to hear, but sounding halfway between a frustrated whine and a carnal growl. The expression settling in across his features conveys a more telling tale; his lips are parted and his jaw is set, and he lowers his chin to his chest when she presses the palm of her hand against the bulging in his trousers. Her other hand is snaked around his neck and gripping at the base of his scalp—just the way she knows he likes it, because of course she knows, because tugging on his tawny hair only served to urge his arousal onward in the past.

But he can’t do anything about it like he could before, since the tie fettering his wrists has held up remarkably well thus far; he conveys his annoyance at being shackled against his will by biting gently on her lower lip. The hand she has resting on his groin moves to tackle his belt buckle, and she releases the zipper of his trousers with deft fingers before pulling away from him and dropping to her knees. The strategist didn’t spend several hundred credits on intimate apparel just to view the evening’s entertainment from the nosebleed section, however, so the redhead makes sure her posture is such that the lacy undergarment dividing her backside is suitably conspicuous from his birds-eye perspective.

“I just had a thought,” he says suddenly. “The bathroom’s not exactly the most hygienic place for this kind of activity. Perhaps we should move into the bedroom?”

“And spoil my fun? I think not.” She glances up and cocks a teasing eyebrow at him. “Besides—knowing you, you probably sterilized every square inch of this apartment with industrial strength bleach before I arrived.”

“Regardless if that were true, the floor tiles can’t possibly be comfortable on your kneecaps.”

She then threads her fingers beneath the waistband of his fitted boxer briefs and tosses him a wink. “Itching for release, are we? I’m getting there.”

He doesn’t get the chance to counter her argument before she is tugging down on the garment and liberating him from the constricting fabric. For a brief moment, her pride swells at the sight of his warm and rigid flesh; any and all doubts she had about boring him are quickly forgotten upon seeing his erection standing at full attention. She wraps her fingers tentatively around the base of his shaft and slips the other hand beneath the hem of his shirt, tickling his hip; her eyes lock onto his for half a heartbeat, long enough to enjoy his expression of pleasure mingled with sheer torture when she finally takes him into her mouth.

“Be reasonable,” he says hoarsely. “You can’t expect me to remain upright in this position if you continue like this.”

She subdues his protests by drawing him in closer; a silent gasp escapes his lips when the head of his shaft meets the back of her throat, and she can feel his right leg quiver slightly through his trousers. She drops the hand she has at his waist and squeezes his thigh to ease his trembling, withdrawing from him briefly to focus her attention on the sensitive tip. As she traces circles around it with her tongue, she catches a glimpse of his face out of the corner of her peripheral vision; his eyes are closed, his forehead furrowed in concentration—or is it dread?—and his lips are pressed together in a thin line.

She hears a soft clank when she returns him fully back into her mouth, and glances up to see his shoulders working against his restraints. “Please consider reneging on your proposal,” he whispers, his eyes still firmly shut. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before I break something.”

But she doesn’t consider reneging on anything, not even for a nanosecond, because it’s not often she has the chance to witness the strategist at his most exposed, and the look of pure, naked vulnerability on his face has lit a fire in her belly that is quickly turning into a roaring blaze. Instead, she redoubles her efforts and encompasses him nearly to the point of choking herself on his flesh-and-blood sword; the trembling in his thigh has grown more pronounced, and the muscles of his bare abdomen twitch furiously with every flick of her tongue. His spectacles have shifted and are creeping down the bridge of his nose, so he throws his head back and grits his teeth to stifle the cry of ecstasy clawing its way up his throat.

She is employing every tool at her disposal to please him now—she’s appropriated the fingers of her right hand into a makeshift cock ring, trapping his member between her thumb and forefinger to prevent the flow of blood from exiting the tissue of his shaft, while the ones on her left gently massage the delicate part of his scrotum. Her slow oral ministrations have given way to a more rigorous pace, and the copious amount of saliva that is currently coating his loins provides a suitably slick lubricant with which to prime her throat. She takes him in deeper, but he doesn’t thrust against her; if anything, he appears to be yielding away from her, and for a moment she wonders whether his reticence is a result of her accidentally nicking him with her teeth.

But then she hears the sound of ragged gasps rattling around in his lungs, and is alerted to other signs of his imminent climax approaching; his flavor on her tongue has changed slightly and the temperature of his skin has risen, and the base of his shaft is pulsating as his body prepares to conclude its natural cycle. Maintaining a steady rhythm is key, she knows, so she reaches for the pockets of his trousers and clutches at his hips—partly to balance herself from her increasingly vigorous movements, and partly to ensure the strategist has no way of escaping the inevitable.

She would’ve patted herself on the back for her near-record time it took to bring him to orgasm, had her hands otherwise not been occupied; the sound of his breath catching in his throat is drowned out by the clank clank clank of his wrists wrenching violently against the gilded faucet. “Darling, I—I can’t—”

She has but a moment to decide which way the next few seconds will go. Hold fast, and her throat might reject his milky offerings; withdraw, and he’ll spill his seed all over her expensive corset. It’s his own damned fault for spending such a ludicrous amount of money on lingerie, she thinks, but she’s far too pragmatic to allow fine silk to be ruined over a few teaspoons of semen; in the end, she takes her chances and silently prays her body won’t betray her.

It’s not so much the flavor that catches her off guard, but the heat; for a man christened after fire incarnate, it ought not to have surprised her to discover his seed ran as hot as his libido. She presses her eyes shut out of fear for how her mouth will react to the intrusion, but—mercifully—her gag reflex remains dormant, so she relaxes into him and allows the warm fluid to pool on her tongue. He tastes slightly bitter, but not overly so, certainly no more than a slightly unripened apple, and when last of his pelvic convulsions finally slow to a standstill, she finds she has very little trouble containing the bounty of her efforts.

He is slumped against the vanity when she rises to her feet, his head angled forward and his spectacles displaced halfway down his nose. She isn’t sure if the way his nostrils are flaring is simply due to exhaustion, or whether it is a more foreboding sign; she takes a tentative step toward him and places a gentle hand on his chest. “Is everything… all right?”

“Please untie me.”

He doesn’t look up when he says it, and the redhead surmises it’s about the most animated reaction she can anticipate from a man who practically sharpens his teeth on his rookie lance pupils without even breaking a sweat. She reaches behind his back and fumbles with the end of the tie, half-expecting him to recover his dignity and march out of the bathroom the instant his left wrist is freed; he remains stagnant against the marbled countertop instead, moving only to return his spectacles to their proper place across his nose.

The heat of the moment is quickly dissipating with his ominously silent mood, and she frowns. “Are you angry with me?”

He finally glances up at her, his head tilted to one side, his eyes betraying nothing. “No.”

Her frown deepens. She’s seen the strategist grow aloof in the aftermath of their relations before, but there is something wholly distant in his expression she can’t quite put her finger on. “Then what is it?”

The necktie is still knotted around his right wrist, and it trails after him as he reaches out to caress her cheek. “Come here. I want to hold you.”

A queer sensation trickles down her spine; a few harmless pet names and bending the hours of their arrangement was one thing, but he was far too steeped in his devotion to the crown to show affection outside the confines of intimacy beyond the occasional peck on the cheek. “Are you feeling all right?”

The corners of his mouth curve upward faintly, and his hand falls to her waist and draws her close. Her eyebrows are knitted at this unusual display of tenderness, but she nestles herself between his legs—his erection is still hard as a rock, she notes—and leans to rest her chin on his shoulder.

He then snakes his arms around the small of her back and buries his face in her red locks. “You look magnificent,” he says quietly.

Her throat tightens, and she bites the inside of her cheek to stifle the feelings that are threatening to manifest themselves into tears; she’ll never have him the way she wants him, not entirely, and not because of their duties to the kingdom of Lucis, but because she knows deep down that the Six did not breath life into a man of his talents without a having a greater calling for him in mind.

His hand glides up her spine and stops at her neck, brushing her hair away from her shoulders as he touches his lips to the soft skin beneath her ear. Her own hands tighten around his chest, and she leans into his embrace; there will be plenty of time to fret about divine destinies later, and the gentle nibbles he is trailing along her jawline are admittedly working wonders to take her mind off of the hypothetical.

So she nuzzles her nose against his feathery temple and breathes in his scent; her ministrations from earlier must have been more laborious on his resolve than she first realized, because she is only just now noticing the light sheen of perspiration that dots his forehead. He finally pushes away from the vanity and draws himself up to his full height, guiding her hips with strong hands to the bit of marble countertop he just vacated, and braces his arms on either side of her to corral her in place.

“Darling,” she whispers, as he rakes his teeth across her collarbone, “you don’t have to continue for my sake. You must be utterly exhausted.”

“What was it you said earlier?” His hand finds the waistband of her panties and slithers beneath them. “Ah, yes—‘I’m only just getting started.’”

She snorts softly against his neck, but her amusement at his cheeky turn of phrase is short lived when he presses his long fingers inside of her. Then her beguilement is all but forgotten, and replaced by the singular desire to feel his warmth fill her entirely; she locks one ankle around the back of his knee and grinds her pelvis against his hand, and her insistence is rewarded when he massages his thumb across her sensitive hood.

His mouth returns to her face and he brushes his lips lightly against her own; she has little time for his chaste and gentle probing, however, and chases hungrily after his tongue instead. She is unable to stop the whine of disapproval from bubbling out of her throat when his hand disappears from between her thighs, but the strategist has a plan—just like he always does—and it requires the use of both hands to grip at her hips in order to lift her onto the edge of the vanity.

At the back of her mind, she can’t quite help chuckling quietly to herself at how ludicrous they must look in that moment; his necktie is dangling off of his right wrist like a wet noodle, his shirt rumpled and unbuttoned, his trousers and briefs halfway down his buttocks as he claws at the infinitesimally small strip of fabric separating his cock infuriatingly from her cunt. In truth, though, the redhead lives for moments like this, when their guards are down and their humanity is on full display, because even though he addresses her with cool and cordial formality at the Citadel, she knows the strategist has the same needs and desires of any other hot-blooded man that has fire coursing through his veins.

He shifts her weight in an attempt to displace the lacy accouterment, but it remains firmly wedged in her backside. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you had just let me take off my stockings,” she laughs.

“Remove my favorite accessory?” His spectacles lurch as his face crumples into a scowl. “Not on your life.”

Finally, he manages to push the stretchy fabric aside adequately enough to gain access to her warm folds. Her hand is already between his legs and gripping his shaft, her urgency to end this lustful torment as great as his; he clutches at her thigh to steady himself before he is plunging his searing heat inside of her like a pike impaling a fleshy target.

The air in her lungs all but evaporates, and her fingernails dig into the thickest part of his shoulders. His reaction is more subtle—not even the faintest cry of rapture escapes his lips—but she can feel his body shudder slightly when the full circumference of his girth meets the edge of her resistance. For a long moment, neither one of them moves, and the only discernible noise coming from the bathroom is the sound of their hearts beating furiously inside both their ribcages; then he is withdrawing from her, slowly, gently, agonizingly, returning his lips to the crook of her neck and nibbling at the baby soft skin there, before driving his hips forward again and resuming his occupancy fully inside of her.

How he is still so hard is beyond her, but she doesn’t protest or complain; if anything, the way the elastic of her wayward panties is capturing her nub between the base of his shaft is a miraculous serendipity that sends chills firing down her spine. The strategist notices this little development as well, she realizes, which really shouldn’t have surprised her in the least—it was his job to extract knowledge from the most trivial pieces of evidence, after all—but her eyes widen just the same when she feels him angle himself against the garment for a snugger fit.

Is he competing with me? she wonders. Was this all just a wanton race to see who could bring the other one to climax the fastest? She would’ve admonish him if she’d had authority over her own voice, but the only thing she is able to utter in that moment is an unintelligible moan of pleasure. And it doesn’t really matter anyway, because the familiar pressure spreading throughout her lower belly is growing stronger with each passing thrust of his hips; her hands glide down the back of his dress shirt, unconsciously and autonomously, and clutch at his buttocks as her resolve frays like a quickly unraveling thread.

She can no longer see his face, because he is resting his chin on her shoulder now—bracing it, really—as he moves between her legs with methodical precision. But she can hear his breath shortening, his exhales breaking in time with the heart she feels thumping inside his chest. Her own pulse is screaming in her ears, but she ignores it in favor of focusing her attention solely on the sensation of his warmth grinding against the most tender part of her sex. When she closes her eyes, she can almost visualize her climax hovering on the edge of her consciousness; her nub throbs every time he eases away from her, only to glow like a star on the cusp of going supernova when the pressure resumes.

Two more thrusts and her vision begins to swim; another three, and the scales are tipping rapidly out of her favor; one final push, and she’s reached the point of no return. “Ignis,” she whispers, the thread disintegrating, the star finally exploding. “Ignis—”

He tightens his grip on her thigh, although whether it’s to balance himself or merely to calm the violent tremors ripping through her body, she isn’t sure. Each wave of her orgasm takes with it a piece of her voice, until her loud cries of ecstasy finally fall silent and she is gasping desperately for air like a dying Lucian carp. Her fingers are suctioned to his lower back like barnacles, as are her legs that have captured his slender waist in a vice grip, and she holds him close for what seems like an eternity as the spots of light dancing across her vision slowly fade.

“Drat.”

The strategist’s benign obscenity returns her to the here and now, and she finally loosens her grip over him. She then glances up at his face, only to see him staring down between her legs; when she follows his gaze, she sees the fabric of her undergarment clutched in his hand, tattered and ripped at the side seam.

“So much for quality,” he mutters. “I’d have thought for the money I paid, it would’ve held up at least a little better than that.”

A small smile touches her lips, and she traces her fingers lightly over his cheek. “I’m not quite sure lace is rated for this kind of strenuous activity.”

“Indeed.” He releases the scrap of fabric and readjusts his spectacles once more. “I suppose I’ll just have to take my business elsewhere next time.”

He then withdraws from her and helps her down off the vanity. She has to hold the two torn sides of her panties at her hip just to preserve her dignity, although considering he had himself buried to the testicles in her sex moments before, she supposes there isn’t much modesty left to be lost between them. He returns his own equipment to his briefs and zips up his trousers, but he leaves his shirt unbuttoned, and his necktie is still wrapped around his wrist; she is tempted to make a wry quip about his unusual lack of fastidiousness, but she knows his persnickety side will eventually spur him to cover himself, so she simply enjoys the sight of his taut abdominals on display for her viewing pleasure for as long as she can.

She then reaches for the binding of her corset to ease the tension in her compressed organs, until another thought suddenly occurs to her and stays her hand. “Do you mind if I stay for a little while?” she asks.

He is already at the threshold of the doorway, no doubt longing to excuse himself and his mild germaphopbia from lingering in the bathroom any longer. “Not at all. Don’t feel compelled to stay in that outfit, though—I’m sure your spleen is begging for mercy.”

“It’s not so bad, once you get use to it.” She releases the torn ends of her ruined underwear and lets them fall to the floor. “Besides—for what you paid, you ought to get a bit more of your money’s worth out of it.”

One quizzical eyebrow rises above his spectacles. “What precisely did you have in mind?”

They won’t always have this routine, the strategist and the redhead; the Empire was building garrisons across Lucis at that very instant, and the Astrals would undoubtedly intervene in her happiness once they finally revealed the celestial plans they had in store for the prince’s most loyal advisor. There were times when the reality of their fragile agreement cut through her heart like a cold dagger, its icy tendrils suffocating her with the same lethal proficiency Ignis Scientia reserved only for enemies of the crown.

But this was not one of those times, and their illusion of normalcy remains intact if only for a brief moment longer. “I don’t believe our arrangement forbids any party from brewing a pot of Ebony without wearing appropriate undergarments,” she says, as she struts past him and out of the bathroom. “How about another cuppa?”

[kuriquinn]

Prompt/Request: Kakashi’s Troubles

Anonymous said:

After the 3rd time Kakashi has to fire team 7 from Anbu, he drags himself through the door with his sleepy eyes drooping longer than usual. Manako greets him with a quirked eyebrow and he sighs, "extra paperwork. Long story." Manako snorts, "What did your old team do this time? Those three are about as subtle as the last Icha Icha movie when they get toget her. Serriously, how did they even get into Anbu?" Kakashi's cheeks redden over his mask, "well..." 

Masterlist & Disclaimer

Summary: Behind every great Kage is a partner that doesn’t bother with the bull$#!%.

Rating: T

Warning: Mild OOC? They’re characters that grew up differently than the canon, so a little bit of change in personality. There is are OCs in this fic (Manako Inuzuka and Kakashi’s children). Don’t like it, don’t read (but I’ve had pretty positive feedback about them, so your loss).

Canon/Fanon Compliance: AU ‘verse. Sasuke left Konoha, but he came back right away or right after training or something. Team 7 went on to become ANBU

Kakashi arrives home three hours later than he usually does, retinas bloodshot and eyelids drooping. His jaw feels numb from the amount of times he had to clench his teeth today, and his arms might as well be lead weights for all the use they provide.

He doesn’t bother using the door—the window’s always open anyway—and when he gets inside, he barely gets a chance to note the room is empty of either expected occupant before he topples face first onto the futon. It’s his default position these days, but it doesn’t even matter because being horizontal feels so good…

Until something nudges him in the back.

He groans, either a complaint or a request to stop, but it doesn’t help. Again, he is poked, this time near his ribs, and he sighs, forcing himself to turn over on his back and glower (well, he tries to, anyway, his facial muscles aren’t exactly cooperating) at the offending toe, and the woman it is attached to.

His partner stares down at him, one eyebrow quirked in either amusement or concern. She is unselfconsciously nude but for a pair of boxers—his, he’s pretty sure—and her dark hair haphazardly tied out of the reach of grabby fingers. The tiny pink lump of their youngest son is nestled into the crook of her neck.

“Are you alive?” she asks him, voice low so as not to wake Obito.

“No,” he mumbles.

“Great, I get all your worldly possessions then,” she says, nimbly climbing over him.

“You’re heartless.”

“No, I’m practical. I have four mouths to feed.”

“Gai doesn’t live here.”

“Three mouths to feed,” she corrects, leaning over using one hand to help him remove his thick vest. Then, she arranges the baby on Kakashi’s chest. In spite of his heavy arms, he reaches up to keep the infant steady.

“Any trouble getting him to go down?” he asks, wishing he could have been home in time to put his children to bed.

“With this one?” she snorts. “I think he’d sleep all day if it weren’t for the other two poking and prodding him at all waking hours. I had to bring them to one of the training grounds and let them run back and forth after each other until they passed out.”

“Trade you…”

“For what, extra paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she tells him unabashedly.

“Heh. That’s what I figured.”

She slowly peels his mask from his face, and the cool night hair hits his skin. “Isn’t Shizune supposed to have all that organized for you?”

“She did. But there were…complications.”

Manako snorts knowingly. “What did your three brats do this time?”

She likes to joke that his former genin team are his “other” family and she’s their wicked stepmother. Which usually has him making some cheese remark about how ‘wicked’ she can be, and her to complain that his attempts at innuendo are horrible, before going on to prove his exact point.

At least, that’s how it used to go. There’s been a lot less of that since he became Hokage.

Naruto needs to hurry up and take over this stupid job.

“It’s a long story,” he says eventually, deciding his brain can’t take thinking of his former genins’ antics anymore today.

“Those three are about as subtle as a sock and a brick,” Manako informs him with a shake of the head. “How the hell did they ever qualify for ANBU?” Kakashi’s cheeks flood with colour and he busies himself with admiring his son’s downy hair; Obito is the only one of their kids that takes after Manako’s looks. His partner makes a tch noise. “Let me rephrase my question: how did someone with such horrible judgement as you have ever become Hokage?”

“How did a miserable shrew like you become a Hokage’s wife?” he counters.

“Fake wife. I’m pretty sure there was alcohol involved,” she tells him seriously. “And maybe a trip to Tanzaku Town. I don’t really remember.”

“You and me both…”

“Either way, it’s not legally binding. I can leave you anytime.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I just happen to like living in sin,” she teases. “It gives the old gossips something to talk about, and pisses off all the traditionalists because their revered Hokage has a dirty mistress.”

“Whatever would I do without you to keep me grounded,” Kakashi deadpans.

“Exactly. “So. Should I be preparing the village’s explosive stocks for impending war with Kiri?”

“No. They fixed it in the end, but…” He trails off and sighs. “I had to fire them.”

“Again!?”

Her exclamation makes Obito stir, grumbling in his sleep and pressing his cheek more closely into his father’s chest. Kakashi takes a moment to observe him, a smile playing at his lips, and doesn’t answer. Manako allows him this, and for a spell they just sit in silence.

She breaks it, however, with another snort. “Well, maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson.”

“Learn my—” Kakashi cuts himself off and shoots her a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean? They’re the ones that have to get it together.”

“No, Scarecrow, that’d be you,”

He’s too tired to follow his partner’s usual complex thought processes. “Explain.”

“You basically have a group of teenagers that have already surpassed the Konoha’s Legendary Sannin—teenagers whose judgement is worse than yours and affected by stuff like hormones,” she reminds him. “And, on top of that, unlike their predecessors, your brats really took that bell-test thing to heart. They really do believe that the three of them are one. And while that makes them strong, it also makes them dangerous and irrational in the lengths they’ll go to keep each other safe. Not exactly best suited for wimpy ANBU missions.”

“ANBU is wimpy now?” he prompts, amused and grateful for her candour.

“You know what I mean. Stealth isn’t something they do well, unless you split them up; otherwise, they just feed off each other. Sasuke and Naruto still compete as much as they ever did when they were kids, only now they can level an entire mountain fighting it out and Sakura can do that by herself. And other than that, she’s the boss—the guys will never do anything against her wishes. Sasuke would burn down the world if something happened to the other two, and Naruto would probably let himself be flayed alive to ensure nothing did. And you’re too damn blinded by how much you love them that you’re trying to keep them close,” she concludes, and her expression softens a bit. “They’re adults now, babe. They can function outside of their little three-man squad. It doesn’t mean they’re going to get too old for you.”

And, as usual, somehow his partner has hit the heart of the matter. He doesn’t feel like admitting it, though.

“Alright then, Oh Wise One,” he drawls, “what would you suggest?”

“Leave stealth to Sasuke, diplomacy to Sakura and have Naruto keep the home front safe. He’s got to get used to staying behind anyway once he takes over from you.”

“Assuming he doesn’t get himself killed before then,” Kakashi sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want to be Hokage? You’d be better at it.”

“Are you kidding? And give up my carefree life of spit-up and runny diapers?” Manako gasps in mock horror. “I couldn’t possibly trade that in for hours of paper work and sitting in a chair…” She adopts a smug smile. “At least I still get to blow things up occasionally.”

Kakashi scowls. “You know, for a fake wife, you’re not great at offering comfort. I should just drown my cares in alcohol.”

“Careful. That kind of thinking is what landed you with a fake wife in the first place.”

“Don’t remind me,” he says lightly. “Times like this, I think I ended up with the wrong Inuzuka.”

“Well, Kiba doesn’t swing that way, and honestly, you never had a chance with Hana. She’d insist on you put a ring on it,” Manako says easily. “Besides, she has something I don’t.”

“What’s that?”

“Standards,” she replies, leaning over him and kissing him lightly.

She begins to pull away, but Kakashi wrangles his free hand upward, tangling it in her hair and keeping her close. She makes a surprised noise, which turns into amused approval as he deepens the kiss, tugging at her bottom lip until she allows his tongue entrance.

Despite his exhaustion, he thinks he might actually be able to summon some energy for this, but then Manako pulls away.

“I’ve got to put him in his bassinet,” she reminds Kakashi when he makes a noise of protest, and then lifts the tiny body off his chest. There’s logic in this, he knows, but he wishes she’d hurry up about it.

It appears his mental demands are to go unanswered, when she straightens up and pauses.

“Hold that thought,” she groans. “I think one of our monsters climbed out of his crib.”

He doesn’t question her; her hearing is better than any baby monitor.

“I thought you said you tired them out,” Kakashi grumbles.

“Demons don’t tire out, they just bide their time,” Manako says seriously, climbing off the bed and heading out of the room.

Kakashi sighs at his ceiling, wondering when this became his life.

And thanking whatever gods exist that it did.

終わり

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! I’m only able to keep writing as I do thanks to the encouragement of readers like you, so every bit of support helps!

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Sequel here