#listen we're just all going to be okay with the fact that i wrote 2.5k for this request

[omniswords]

#24 for felinette!!!!!!!! 🗣

24. Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer.

leave me a pairing and a number and i’ll write you a kiss!

ma’am i stayed up until 4am writing this nonsense, you’re WELCOME.

still connected to #12 and #16 because we love fake not-dating-shenanigans 😏

He’s really got to stop ending up at functions like this. And this one has to be even worse than the New Year’s Eve party.

Félix has never been one for anniversaries—never really saw the significance of them. So you’ve gone around the sun with someone twenty-five goddamn times. Or without someone for six. So what? No reason to commemorate it with the nonsense of balloons and music and food and… other people.

He wouldn’t say he’s spent the majority of the Bourgeois’ 25th anniversary party sulking, although he’s pretty sure it’s the word other people might use to describe him. Especially Mr. and Mrs. Bourgeois themselves, who are apparently bickering over the placement of the baby grand piano as though something like that can be fixed in the middle of an event. And especially Chloé, who—perfectly on brand, even at age twenty—is fawning over her mother and staring  at him as if to say, don’t ruin this for me.

As though this is her thing to have ruined.

Besides. He’s not sulking. He’s just very much preferring to be literally anywhere else, the way anyone else with a brain might feel. In fact, the only part of this whole affair that’s been even remotely palatable is the fact that the Dupain-Cheng family is catering. And it’s not because of the food.

Well.

Not necessarily.

It’s because Marinette’s helping. And as much as he needs to keep the opinion to himself, she’s very much a sight for sore eyes in the Grand Paris. Dressed in a black-and-white dress she mentioned making herself, and with her hair in a high ponytail, she pays more attention to her parents and the platters on the table in front of her than to the overly dignified laughter around her.

Admittedly, they haven’t been able to interact much; they agreed on that much as recently as the night before, along with a promise to make up the lost quality time later. This is her summer job, after all, and she says that means something to her. Besides, he has to make himself a certain percent sociable—with the Bourgeois family, with the Tsurugis, even with the Rossis—so everyone and their cousin doesn’t write him off as the Fitzwilliam Darcy of the Agreste/Graham de Vanily family.

(He doesn’t see what the big deal of that is, though. In fact, Marinette would probably agree with him, with that silly little giggle of hers hiding behind her sketchbook, and he’d think, perhaps, that she’d make the perfect Elizabeth.)

Still, it doesn’t sit with him particularly well to ignore her or otherwise treat her just like “the help”—if there’s anything his parents taught him besides their version of love, it’s to thank and remember the names of every person regardless of position. And on top of that, she’s been stealing more than her fair share of glances over at him, as if to invite him over. As if, for a moment or two, she might need some reprieve of her own.

He won’t tell anyone what a sucker he is for the blue in her eyes. He’ll take that to his grave.

It’s just as Félix is getting to his feet and making his way to her table, though, that Lila Rossi decides to try and make herself known. Again. He sighs; he really thought she would have gotten the hint by now. But apparently Lila is nothing if not persistent, even years later, and the way she greets him and all but latches onto his arm is so disgustingly syrupy that he feels the sudden urge to run upstairs and brush his teeth. “Isn’t it lovely?” she says, her fingers curling impossibly tight into the sleeve of his button-up shirt. “Twenty-five years. Can you imagine being invested in someone for so long? It must be beautiful…”

Félix declines to answer, feels his own eyes going dark, and finds a strange solace in the way Marinette, out of the corner of his eye, stiffens and clenches her fist at her side.

“Can’t you picture it?” Lila’s going on as they approach the catering table—doesn’t she ever get tired of hearing herself talk?—and she attempts to slip her hand into his. Smoothly and without missing a beat, he swipes his hand away, sticking it in his pocket with a pointed look. Manners be damned; he’d rather choke on a macaron than hold Lila Rossi’s hand. A cloud passes over her face, subtle and on the edges of manipulative where Chloé would burst out, but otherwise she doesn’t seem fazed. She’s probably developed more resolve, or perhaps more poison, ever since Adrien made it more than clear to her that his interests lay elsewhere. “Haven’t you considered it, Félix? My family’s done some lovely work in England—they’re Italian ambassadors, did you know?”

“Yes,” Félix manages to deadpan, acutely aware of how Marinette turns away from them to unpack another box of ridiculous paper straws. “In fact, Miss Rossi, you’ve told me so frequently that I may very well develop that tinnitus you so often complained about before.” He tilts his head, deeply feels the shift in Marinette’s energy and how hard she must be trying to stifle her own laughter. “Remind me, have you gotten that checked out?”

Marinette has to dip behind the table; he has to try not to smile. If he can’t talk to her directly, he might as well amuse her.

“Oh!” Lila says. “You remembered. Yes, yes, of course I did. It took some extensive treatment, but the doctors say I should be cured by now. It’s miraculous, isn’t it?” She gives her hair a flip. “But really, Félix, you’ll consider what I’ve told you, won’t you? I hear your family’s in the film business, and—wouldn’t you know it, I’ve done quite a few photoshoots with your cousin. I’m sure he could put in a good word for me with your mother. Think about it, us starring opposite each other—”

Félix suppresses a sigh, honestly about to tell her that if she had any sense of his family, he would have known that his aunt was the actress. But before he can so much as open his mouth, Marinette clears her throat to get their attention. Her expression is sour, and her arms are folded. “If you’re not going to take any refreshments,” she chides, “I’m going to ask you make way for those who are. And by the way, it might help you to know that merit and tact get you much farther in life than empty flattery.” She clicks her tongue, tightens the apron at her waist, and turns on her heel. “You should try it sometime, Miss Rossi.”

He knows that expression. The Customer Service Smile, she branded it. It’s half-terrifying, seeing her actually unleash it. Half-terrifying, and half-vindicating.

From the corner of the hotel lobby, Chloé’s mouth falls open in elated shock. Adrien and Kagami pause their hushed conversation to look their way. And Lila turns a deep, angry scarlet. (Oh, Marinette’s gotten so good at getting to her. Perfect, perfect Elizabeth.) In seconds, she’s composed herself, thankfully all but unraveled herself from Félix, and she approaches Marinette’s parents—who are honestly lovely people, and don’t deserve whatever’s about to come to them. (Especially Mrs. Cheng. She’s snuck him into the house too many times.)

They don’t get it. Whatever words Lila’s gathering, whatever excuse me she’s trying to preface it with, Félix doesn’t let it out, and it’s certainly not for her sake or for the Bourgeois family. “Thank you,” he cuts in with a cordial smile, careful not to shake Mrs. Cheng’s hand while she’s handling food. “You’ve been doing wonderful work for this event. Might you permit Miss Dupain-Cheng a short break? I’m sure she could use one.”

It’s practically textbook. Compliment. Persuade. Twist the knife with a little kindness. Perhaps Lila Rossi hasn’t learned all the tricks just yet.

And he certainly won’t let her.

Marinette’s parents look to her, and she looks to Félix, and he raises an eyebrow, as if to say, You gave me an out. Now it’s my turn. She hesitates a moment, then gathers herself. “Actually,” she says, as if finding a second wind, “a break would be really nice. Papa, could you text me when you need me back?”

Her father lets her go—he’s always been good about giving her the things she needs, which is sometimes more than he could say about his own. None too quickly, she undoes her apron, takes a deep breath to center herself, and disappears into the carpeted corridor by the elevators. And Félix, with that twist-the-knife bow and a macaron in hand, dismisses himself from Lila Rossi and finds a new corner to occupy.

There. Now no one can say he doesn’t talk to anyone. And no one can say he sulks.

———

He makes it about three-fourths of the way through the macaron before he finds his out to the corridor. It’s fine; he knows he won’t be missed, and he made sure Lila was properly occupied when he slipped away. She can’t follow him if she doesn’t know where he’s going, after all.

Almost predictably, Marinette is still outside the elevators, pacing back and forth in front of them and only making way for the people coming out. She catches his eye and pauses mid-step, and then collapses by one of the carpeted staircases with her head in her hands. “That was stupid,” she mumbles. “I was stupid.”

Félix doesn’t give her what she’s probably looking for. Instead, he holds his hand out to her and says, “Come with me. It’s suffocating, being in there.”

To his relief, Marinette takes the out. Her hand feels so small and so soft in his as he helps her up, and they slip into one of the elevators; all at once, he’s grateful for the hotel room that accompanied his invitation. They don’t say much, don’t do much even though they finally have the privacy for it. In fact, Marinette doesn’t crack until the elevator door closes behind them and they’ve begun to stroll down the blissfully quiet hallway. “I was working,” she sighs. “And I get it, it wasn’t professional of me to say something like that on the job. Especially during someone’s entire anniversary.”

“On the contrary,” he says, his hand finding a home at the small of her back; he’s relieved that she doesn’t protest, and instead leans into the touch for comfort. “I’ve never heard someone vocalize a middle finger quite as subtly and as eloquently as you.”

“It was hypocritical, Fé,” she points out. “You know I used my connections to get into university, too.”

Félix gives her the type of look that he hopes says, are you kidding me. “You asked for letters of recommendation. Which, as you may recall, is standard for university applications?”

Marinette looks like she wants to find other points to argue, like she’s really racking her brain for it. Eventually she stops, and sighs, and unties and reties her hair. Which is killing him on the inside, but he doesn’t dare say so just yet. Not when she’s still got steam to blow. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I should have let you handle it. You can hold your own.”

“Oh, please. To me, she’s a nuisance at best. A sycophant and a sour taste in my mouth. To you, she’s been a terror.” He tosses her a smirk. “I’m impressed that you have the capacity to dislike someone so deeply and so honorably. I should’ve expected something like that from you.” He glances behind them, just to make sure they’re truly alone, before he slips an arm around her waist, pulls her close and murmurs against the shell of her ear. “Were you jealous, love?”

It works. He can practically feel out her goosebumps, the way her muscles relax, with every sense he has. “Félix…”

“Well?” He hardly moves away from her, noses right into the flyaway hairs her elastic didn’t catch, into the sugar-and-almond scent she’s been carrying all day. “Were you?”

Marinette doesn’t bother to look his way. She stares straight ahead, and folds her arms across her chest. “Why should I be jealous?” she says. “You’re mine.”

Dear God. If he wasn’t attracted to her before, he certainly is now. He can feel the flare of it in the pit of his stomach, and before even he knows it he’s kissing the comebacks off of her tongue, pressing her against the wall just a few doors down from his room. He sighs, all but covering her mouth with his, and his hands catch on her dress on the way to tugging her hair tie out and securing it around his wrist for safekeeping. He always knew that sleight of hand would prove useful someday. “Yours, huh?” he hums in between kisses. “Is that how you feel?”

“I’m not wrong,” Marinette argues back, tugging him back in by the lapels of his jacket, and he’s far too busy tangling his fingers in her hair and mouthing down her neck to dispute it. And even if he weren’t busy, he certainly wouldn’t want to. Not when she sounds like that.

He pauses to laugh into her ear, her hair spilling over her shoulders as his hands find a home at her waist. “Don’t you have guests to cater to?”

Her lips are as red as her cheeks, and as far as he’s concerned her eyes are hooded beyond redemption. “Don’t you have a couple to congratulate?”

“Why should I? I’ve got something worth celebrating right here.” He grins faintly, steals another searing kiss, runs his hands up and down her sides and jumps at the opportunity to slip tongue when she gasps. “And she looks so good in wrinkles and a peter pan collar.”

Marinette’s breath hitches.

Bingo. And here she probably thought he didn’t pay attention to her fashion rambles.

Her eyes are sparkling by the time he pulls back enough to look at her.  She looks him up and down, stops his hands, gives them a squeeze.

“Where’s your room?”