#anyway yeah here we are asymmetrical horns and all

[bocceclub]

Ariahd as a tielfing

[2manyfandoms2count]

I love you (not) - Chapter 11

I'm back! Almost a month late, but exams got in the way of @marichatmay (how inconsiderate of my uni to hold them at this time of the year, really) The updates should be more frequent again, especially since I've got at least a couple of chapters planned that combine two prompts! Hope you enjoy this chapter xxx

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Chapter 11: In which, to quote Taylor Swift, dancing is a dangerous game

Marinette hummed happily as she inspected the dress on her mannequin.

Without tooting her own horn, it really was some of her best work; she'd chosen an asymmetric cut for it, slightly shorter in front, so the silk fabric teased the top of her knees. It was light enough that it could expand like a corolla if she twirled, but the shape of the skirt prevented it from hitching too high (one had to remain classy).

She was so pleased with the result. She'd fallen in love with the velvet lining of the cherry blossom pattern fabric when she'd stumbled upon it at the Marché St Pierre over a year ago, and had bought it on a whim. It had been safely sitting at the back of her fabric case ever since, for lack of a worthy project. She’d looked at it longingly every time she opened the box, hoping inspiration would strike.

She didn’t know if it was the upcoming class party, her strangely giddy heart, or the lovely late spring weather, but something in the air had titillated her creativity, and here she was, the proud owner of a beautiful dress, perfect for any occasion.

And what an occasion the class party was turning out to be. What had started out as a lowkey plan to celebrate the approaching end of the school year and the end of the brevet, had developed into something much bigger when the class had started discussing where to hold it, and Chloé had ended up suggesting the Grand Paris restaurant with a seemingly exasperated sigh. Marinette had seen her small smile when everyone had thanked her, though, and had made a mental note to suggest that they found a small present for her before the party.

Alya had been shocked when she’d voiced the thought aloud, asking if Marinette was feeling feverish, but her friend had shrugged the comment off. She just felt very light and breezy for some reason, and nothing could knock her off her air path.

She sighed contentedly as she put her pins away and opened a window to let the warm spring breeze in. This would do nicely. Even if she wasn't going to directly pursue Adrien, she was sure he'd notice the quality of her garment. And then, if he asked her to dance like the last time they’d been to a party at Chloé’s...

Oh, but what if we do dance like last time , she froze at the thought. I haven't made any progress in dancing, and even though I managed to not faceplant in front of him last time, I'm not sure that my luck will withstand a second time - what if I step on his feet? What if I knock into him and break his nose? Then he will hate me, his whole modeling career will be ruined, and Gabriel Agreste will make sure I never become a designer, and Adrien and I will never get married, have our house, three kids and our hamster named-

The lack of oxygen from her hyperventilating made her lose her balance and she caught herself on her desk. She breathed out slowly, relaxing as her eyes met Chat’s on their picture from the Café des Chats. She needed to stop catastrophising. It wouldn’t be a good idea to dance with Adrien, not while her “relationship” with Chat Noir was still "going strong”. She caught herself wondering how out of place it would be to invite him along to the party (it would definitely give her an excuse not to dance with Adrien), but promptly waved the thought away.

She went up to her computer and pulled up a dance tutorial to get her mind off of things. Just to be on the safe side.

"One two three, one two three..." She tried following the waltz steps, pretending to hold someone in her arms.

She felt a little stupid, but quickly brushed the feeling away. It wasn’t like someone was going to see her. She closed her eyes and let herself be carried by the music, picturing the movements in her head. It was easier this way.

“I must say, Marinette, you have excellent taste in music. Oh! Whatcha doing?” Her eyes flew open at the sound of a familiar voice and she stumbled backwards, crashing into her mannequin. Had she somehow invoked Adrien? A quick glance at her window and the smiling, masked face dangling upside down from it answered her question. "It really drags a cat- woah there, careful Princess!”

Chat leaped inside as his smile melted into a concerned frown.

“Would you stop sneaking up on me like that?!” She cursed as he helped her up, not admitting that she was actually kind of glad to see him. It had been a while. She immediately straightened her mannequin and started dusting off the dress.

“But where’s the fun in that? You’re cute when you’re dancing.” He felt his cheeks pinken, on par with hers at the compliment.

“Yeah, well, um…” She stammered, occupying herself by frantically checking for any sign of damage. “You could have ruined my dress!” She huffed.

“Ooh, is that what you’ll be wearing at Chloé… Bourgeois’ party?” He caught himself before he could sound too chummy about Chloé, but his face lit up as he turned around the mannequin to inspect it.

“What do you know about that?” Marinette crossed her arms and squinted suspiciously at him.

“Oh, nothing much,” he gulped, remembering how attentive to detail Marinette was. “I just heard about it through the grapevine, you know? I kind of keep a tab on events involving the Bourgeois, they tend to be at high akumatisation risk.”

“Clever kitty,” Marinette whispered under her breath.

“What was that?” Chat smirked.

“I said, that’s fair.” She cleared her throat.

“Right.” He nudged her. “Anyway, this dress is gorgeous, you’ve done an ameowzing job on it, Marinette.”

“Thanks.” She bit back a giddy smile, and cleared her throat. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I…” Chat hesitated. He wasn’t sure, really. He’d been relaxing in his room, gazing at his ceiling, when he’d suddenly felt an irrepressible longing to see Marinette, and had promptly been on his way. He wondered if he could invoke his right to want to see his girlfriend, but decided it probably wasn’t for the best. They hadn’t seen each other since their encounter at the flower shop (well, of course they had, but she hadn’t been aware of it), and the part of him who was still hellbent on ending this absurd arrangement was convinced that a bit of progress towards a potential breakup had been made; blurting out defining relationship terms would definitely not help go down that road. “I was just in the neighbourhood, so I thought I’d pop in and say hi! I’ve missed you.” He felt the tip of his ears warm up at his words.

“I’ve missed you, too.” She looked at her feet bashfully and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Both remained silent for a moment while the waltz music kept playing in the background, unsure what to say next. The silence was interrupted by a loud ad for Tsurugi cars on Marinette’s computer.

She jumped and went to close the tab, but Chat Noir caught the name of the video before she could do so.

“A dance tutorial?” He tilted his head inquisitively, and she froze. “What’s this for?”

“Well, I know it sounds stupid, but… I’m a little worried about the dancing part of Chloé’s evening.” She admitted, knotting her hands together.

“But you’re a great dancer!” Chat’s exclamation came out like a cry from the heart. “I mean, I suppose. How could you not be? You’re Marinette Dupain-Cheng! You can do anything.”

“Thanks, Chat.” She flashed him a bright smile, making his heart skip a beat.

“I’m only speaking the truth.” He bowed, and decided it would be for the best for him to change the subject, before he went down the ‘Marinette is amazing’ rabbit hole. The rant could easily last for a long time. Thankfully, the video came to his rescue. “You know, though, I hear kids these days don’t really waltz anymore,” he said conspiratorially.

It was true; even though his father had been adamant about him taking ballroom dancing lessons, claiming every respectable young man knew how to dance, Nino had been almost uncharacteristically mocking about how he’d danced with Marinette at Chloé’s first party when they’d discussed it later (he’d had to gush about how great it had been to dance with his good friend), advising him to update his dancing style. Adrien had therefore looked it up, and had found out that Rock’n Roll dancing seemed fairly popular still, and his father had approved the suggestion to add it to the acceptable dance list. He wondered if Marinette also knew how to dance it.

“I know people who still waltz,” Marinette replied, defensively crossing her arms in front of her chest. “And so what if it’s a little old-fashioned? I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

“It’s just not very twenty-first century, is all.” He shrugged, although he wanted to scream that he agreed with her. He was mildly afraid that she’d see that two of the people she knew who appreciated waltzing were blond guys with green eyes, about the same height and build, and absolutely fantastic, funny and well-dressed, and that she would connect the dots. He wasn’t sure Ladybug would be very pleased if his identity was leaked over a dance, no matter how trustworthy Marinette was.

“Oh yeah? And what would you suggest, then?” Marinette cocked an eyebrow.

“Ever heard of Rock’n Roll?” he asked.

“I don’t live under a rock, you know.” She rolled her eyes. “Pun unintended.”

“And do you know how to dance it?” He took a step forward.

“I know the basics.” She shrugged.

“Would you like to practise? Just in case it turns out to be useful at Chloé’s…” He trailed off, trying to hide how excited he was at the prospect of dancing with Marinette again.

She wrung her hands together and pondered her options. It would be pretty stupid not to seize the opportunity, plus, she’d always kind of wondered what it would be like to dance with Chat. She didn’t know where the idea came from, although maybe their late night patrols in the moonlight played a part in it. “Are you sure you don’t have more important things to attend to?” She looked up at him.

“I’m free as a bird.” He grinned.

“Okay, then.” She found a playlist and launched it. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Chat Noir extended his hand and she took it. He pulled her in a little closer, twirling her in and back out before swinging their hands in rhythm with the music.

“The real pros trace little hearts to the beat, because your heart rate actually changes to match the tempo of a song,” he confided, before taking her other hand.

They met chest to chest a couple of times, then lifted their arms over their heads, letting go of one hand. Chat’s gloved hand hovered over Marinette’s arm as they moved just out of reach of each other, giving her goosebumps. Her breath hitched slightly, and she was fairly sure her complexion was now a couple of shades redder. Chat didn’t notice, or pretended not to, twirling her again, then taking her other hand again to go through a series of passes.

Marinette was impressed by how smoothly he led her, how natural it seemed to be for him. He smiled casually as they danced and she relaxed, effortlessly falling into rhythm with him.

As the end of the song approached, Chat got more confident that she could take more complex moves and picked up the difficulty. Marinette was slightly dizzy from all the twists and turns and was thankful for the pause he gave her after a string of moves. They stepped to the rhythm, her back to his chest, for a couple of beats longer than was traditional. She wondered if he’d sensed that he’d reached her limit.

“Hey, Marinette?” Chat’s breath tickled her ear as he whispered in it.

“Yes?” She looked up at him. Their faces were mere inches away; his gaze had an intensity she’d rarely seen him sport. She couldn’t deny it was a good look on him.

“Do you trust me?” His voice was slightly hoarse from the exercise.

“With my life,” she breathed, her eyes mindlessly landing on his lips. “Why-aaaah!”

She yelped as his hands dropped to her waist and he picked her up, then flipped her in the air.

He caught her before she landed, but her surprise made her fall more heavily than she would have with more notice, a loud thud echoing with her pulse in her ears as the song finally came to an end.

“Hmm, you should really rehearse that last move before the dance, you weren’t very light on your feet…” Chat bit back his laughter.

Marinette was about to punch his shoulder and yell at him to never pull that kind of thing on her again, unless he wanted to become cat food, when Sabine’s voice sounded from below.

“Marinette? Is everything alright?”

“Ah, er, yes Maman! Everything’s fine, I just knocked over my mannequin again!” She called out, frantically starting to push Chat up her stairs, towards her skylight. “You need to go, she can’t know that you’re here,” she added in hushed tones. If Sabine found him there with her… Well, Marinette had managed to convince her after the very first lunch that Chat and her wouldn’t work out, and she knew her mother had taken her word for it; she wasn’t so sure how she would react if she discovered that things were serious enough that he came around and danced in her room with her. Not that it was romantic in any way, but she knew what it could look like from the outside.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, “no need to be so pushy.”

“Consider it your punishment for almost giving me a heart attack,” Marinette shook her head. Her next words reassured him that she held no grudge. “See you later?”

“I’ll definitely cat ch you around, Princess,” he winked as he quickly kissed her hand. She rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “By the way, I’m sure you’ll do great, whoever you dance with.”

“Thanks, Kitty.”

As she returned inside, she reflected on their synchronicity, and wondered if it was all down to the couple of years of fighting side by side, or if something bigger was at stake, allowing herself, for the first time since it had happened, to think about her first kiss for a little more than a couple of seconds.

[anontrolls]

> Thistle: Break, don’t bend.

You find Thistle on the rocky path that winds around the side of his hivestem and leads to the small community garden he grows all his vegetables in.

You think, pretty much immediately, that you shouldn’t have come. This would have been a better thought to have had the last three times you showed up on his step, and he didn’t answer his bell, and - well, now you look sort of like a stalker, and he looks like an antlerbeast caught in headlights. He’s clutching a watering can, and you wonder if he’s been keeping out of the garden just to avoid you.

“Hey,” you mumble lamely, and drop your hand from where you’d raised it to waggle your fingers in a wave. “Uh, I know this isn’t... I mean, I just thought, we haven’t talked in ages.”

Thistle doesn’t say anything, and you watch the light breeze ruffle his hair. It’s long, bleached white, and pin-straight. The total opposite of yours, and you always liked winding it round your fingers and playing with it.

You swallow, and rock back on your heels. You know. You know he would’ve answered your texts, or his door at least, if he wanted to talk to you. It’s just...

“Not since - that night, I mean,” you say, and you are going to say ‘not since I got kicked out,’ but you’re not trying to make Thistle feel guilty, here. It’s not his fault. It’s never been his fault. You’re the one that got him in the papers - and, sure, maybe it wasn’t his face, but it was his clothes, his hair, his horns. His hair was gold last time you saw it, metallic and shimmering.

“And I was just wondering,” you go on, because that was the second long, awkward pause you’ve inflicted on this conversation. “About what... I mean, if we were still friends.”

Thistle finally moves, and it’s to lean down and set his watering can on the ground. He presses his hands to his face, shoulders shaking - and you think you’ve made him cry for a second, until he barks a laugh and you think you’ve made him go nutters, instead.

“What the fuck, Lee?” he half-yells into his hands, still blocking himself from looking at you. “Are we still friends? After - I was in that photo, too, you know, and Lionel fucking Prince isn’t stupid, he knows - yeah, Lee, sure, we can still be friends, because apparently why the hell not, long’s you say sorry nice enough - just get on your knees and kiss my boots, or something.”

His shoulders are still trembling, and he makes some sort of queer keening noise that dissolves into mildly hysterical laughter, and - you try to laugh, too, but you only manage to wrestle about half your face into some mangled attempt at a smile. Thistle shudders.

You lean over and get on your knees.

You can tell the exact moment Thistle finishes dragging his hands down his face, because he sputters loudly and then something yanks sharply up at your shoulders. You don't even have time to get the knees of your pants wet on the rocky pavement before he jerks you roughly to your feet.

"What," Thistle presses his thumbclaws into the insides of your wrists, "The hell are you doing, Lee?"

You sag in his hold, relieved he's back to his old self. He's always liked yanking you around - it feels good for a warmblood like him, you think, cold flesh and wrists thin enough for him to wrap his whole hand around. Exotic, maybe. You never pull away, really, and you like that he likes tugging you around. You like that you can be what he wants. It doesn't make you feel good this time. You can’t meet his eyes. You can’t even think, really, because you were about to - you were about to - Thistle stopped you, Thistle was clearly, indisputably, obviously not being serious, and you’re so fucking mortified that you think you might just die. You shake your head, mute, and run your tongue over where your lip's cracked. You haven't been drinking enough water. Or maybe just drinking too much alcohol. Regardless, you're too sober to figure out how to navigate the maze that is this conversation - everything you try results in you running into the proverbial thistles. Thistle's claws are hot pricks of pain at your wrists, and you desperately don't want him to let go. Thistle shoves you back anyways, and you knock into the decorative brick wall of his hivestem’s garden behind you. Your hand goes to wrap around your opposite wrist, but all your cold skin does is chase away the warmth of Thistle's. "This," he says, and you think he sounds angry. He flings his arms out to gesture at... all of you, really, and it looks more like he's slapping some invisible assailant. "This is why I can't do this, Lee. Just - just stop looking at me like that." "Like I'm upset you're dumping me?" you ask, because you can't help it, and you don't mean for it to bite. Whenever you bite at Thistle, it just comes back around to bite you. Case in point: "Like I'm the last troll on this planet," he blurts, "And I've left you at the altar, or something." He makes a small jerk of a motion towards you, barely a half-step, and he must see how you lean in at that, because the gesture stops short, aborted. "We're not handfasted, Lee," he says, more softly, and you must still be looking at him like he doesn't want you to, because the little bit of skin between his brows furrows, right where he has two asymmetrical freckles that he always rubs at when he's thinking. "We're not even really quadranted, are we? You just - I do love you, Lee, but I can't love you in a way that fits and I can't keep worrying about how - how messed up it is that you think licking someone's goddamn boots is okay if you just like them enough, if I'm also thinking about kissing you. I just can't." "You can kiss me all you like, darling - and do the other thing, too, if it strikes your fancy," you offer, instead of addressing the rest of the issue. You're already trying not to think about that. It does make your smile come out a little sickly, though. "No," Thistle murmurs, and the low lilt sends a shivery chill pricking its way down your spine. "I really can't. You're too much, Lee. I can't do it all myself. You let people get away with too much." This time, when he steps into your space, your back presses to cool brick and you squeeze your eyes shut. You press your palms to the red stone, and it's barely enough to ground you at all. Something dry and warm brushes against your bottom lip, and when you peer out from under your lashes, Thistle has his thumb up to your mouth. You kind of want to turn your face to kiss his palm, or maybe get cheeky and just nip his finger. Sucking it into your mouth is probably not tonally appropriate. You don’t do any of those things, though, because you’re just looking at his face and you can’t breathe. Last troll on the planet? He looks like he’s burying you.

“I don’t know how to be less,” you whisper against his hand, barely a breath, and - you want to bite your lip, to worry a fang at the little cut he’s got his thumb pressed against, but you’re too scared to move.

Thistle’s shoulders hunch even further. “I know,” he tells you, and all you can think is that it hardly seems fair, then. “Do you even remember where you got this?” It takes you a second to realize that referring to your lip, close as he is, because you sort of feel like he’s taken all your warmth and he’s this close to leaving and keeping it forever. Then it takes you another second to figure out how to answer without doing something upsetting. He’s still touching you.

“M’not drinking ‘nough water,” you mumble, shrugging carefully so as not to make him move. “S’just a split.”

Thistle shakes his head ‘no,’ and drops his hand. You immediately pull your bottom lip into your mouth, biting over it defensively as your arms cross over your stomach.

“No, Lee,” he says, and you hate how he’s saying your name. It’s not how you say his, not how you call him darling. He says your name the same way other people talk to their lusi after they’ve gone and shit on the carpet, but they know that dumb animals can’t help what they are and they just need to be patient.

“You were being a little shit because you thought it was cute, and I got properly annoyed and you let me bite you,” he says, “Like we’re pitch, even though we were kissing like we’re flush, even though-” And here your cheeks are flushing hot again, and you finally find where your warmth is and all you want is for it to go back, because it’s pooling in the corners of your eyes- “Even though,” he goes on, “We’re supposed to be pale.”

“You love me,” you tell him, and your voice cracks in your throat. “What’s it matter what color it all is?”

Thistle makes some inarticulate noise of frustration, and some sort of gesture. You don’t see it, on account of how blurry everything’s gotten through the tears, and you’ve gone and returned to staring at the ground. At his stupid boots.

“You think I don’t feel terrible?” he asks, and if he wasn’t so quiet it would practically be a wail. “For Empress’s sake, Lee, I’m not trying to make you cry, here, I just...”

“I can’t s-stop,” you inform him, and now that you’ve both acknowledged it, your shoulders start shaking in earnest. You press back into the wall, and shove the heels of your hands against your cheeks as if it’ll keep the tears in. “Would if I - if I could, da-da-arl-.”

You don’t bother trying to finish the word, and bend over in two, hiding your face in your hands. You can’t stop, you can’t, you wish you could just stop doing all of these things, stop running into red flags and conversational hedge walls or whatever metaphor you were trying to make earlier, stop being too much. You’re always too much, or not enough, and for as long as you remember you’ve been trying to be less and more and just get people to like you every once in a while. And now you’ve got someone that does like you, and he’s leaving you anyways, and of course you can’t stop yourself fucking crying about it.

Gravel crunches as Thistle steps forward, and he presses a hand to your back, rubbing slowly down your spine.

He stays there for as long as it takes for your tears to run out, and you don’t quite bring yourself to hug him back. You’re not sure you have the right to. When you finally manage to bring yourself to be still, his hand slides off your back, and you watch his boots as he leaves.