Chains held him to the ground, kneeling and bolted at the bottom of the staircase leading to her throne.

She wasn't there though.

It gave him a moment to appreciate the room, admire the thought put into it.

A dark, royal blue seemed the theme, with stair runners and throne cushions and velvet drapes. Silver set it off in almost a wintery aesthetic, although roses were far more present than snowflakes. Roman Composite columns of white quartz he recognized from his architecture classes seemed to hold the roof in place, an illusion of holding up the very night sky painted on that ceiling.

It really was a lovely scene, giving off the most enchanting glow. Moonlight streamed through the stain glass windows, one of which spotlighted down from the thrones to him, a long oval of light illuminating the stars of the show.

His eyes wandered down to the tile, following the pale blue veins running through the marble.

The sound of a door in a distant corner of the castle brought him back to the here and now. After a moment another door followed. And another and another and another.

And then she was there, on the far right corner of the room, looking as hauntingly beautiful as she had when Hawkmoth first took her.

Her hair was down, flowing in some secret wind and framing her face in an ethereal shadow. Her already pale skin had gone even paler, likening her to that of the moon and she was dressed in a true black, cotton lycra, mermaid-style gown. Though she had a slightly more youthful look, Marinette, or Princess Justice, he should say, reminded him of Morticia Addams.

She even had the black lip.

But those sweet, blue eyes he loved were gone, replaced by pitch black irises that seemed to suck the soul out of everyone around her.

But not her, no, she, she was untouched by the dull, lifeless figures surrounding the room, unmarked by the evil lurking in the corners, unaffected by the fire coursing through his veins.

She sought his eye contact and he turned away, aware of what those eyes could do, aware of the secrets they could extract from one's soul, afraid of what he might be forced to tell her.

"Oh, Minou…"

He couldn't tell if that word doused or fed the fire inside him.

The sound of heels grew closer, the soft rustle of fabric, and the dangerously sweet sound of her breathing creeping towards him.

She settled in front of him, sinking to the floor with her dress pooling around her. The moonlight danced off its surface as if dancing for a queen and it rippled across her skin hypnotically.

His eyes stayed on the ground.

A shiver ran through him at the soft touch of the back of her nails running down his face, and he closed his eyes as she came to palm his cheek, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb.

His name, a soft "Adrien" spilled from her lips, filling the space between them. If he'd known her any less, that would've meant nothing more than a plea for his attention, but they'd spent too many hours of precious existence learning the other's language for him to pin it down as something so simple. No, Marinette was not a simple person, she was an enticing, colorful, whirlwind of a puzzle that he'd vowed he'd spend the rest of his life piecing together.

We're all destined for something.

No, he couldn't pretend he didn't know what she was saying, the message she was trying to convey through the sound that was his name. She wanted so much more than his attention.

She wanted what he couldn't give her, not when she was Princess Justice. She was asking for something reserved for a side of her untainted by the powers of the butterfly miraculous, a side left untouched.

Her hand left his face and trailed downwards towards his wrists, nails running the full length of his arm. His eyes opened. If nothing else, she still knew how to get to him.

A drop of blood trickled down his palm and she wiped her finger up it, leaving a smear of red against both of their skin. She watched, mesmerized, as the pool on her finger seemed to seep below the surface and stain her very flesh.

A snarl built in the back of her throat. This was not what she told anyone to do.

"Get these off him."

The words echoed through the space, harsh and unforgiving, accompanied only by the sharp footsteps of mindless guards moving.

She wasn't ready for the bloody mess his wrist were as the chains fell away.

Silence rang, strange after the clash of metal had reverberated off the walls.

Finally—

"What did I do to you?"

She didn't say it as an accusation. Really, it was more of a question to herself, a realization of sorts. A quiet, horrified whisper.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, startled by her terror, only to find tears streaming down her moonpale face, black surging from her eyes until they were the crystal clear orbs he could have drown in.

Even in his exhausted state, his body reacted to her, his hands moving to her face this time, cupping it as he met her gaze.

For the first time since he'd been forced through the gates, he felt it within his power, within his right, to speak and yet all he could muster was the soft, dedicated, and gentle sound of her name.

"Marinette."

She alone would know the speech behind that whisper, that breath. She alone would know the meaning he couldn't say aloud. She alone would ever understand what he was really saying.

Her eyes held a thousand confessions and he was going to know every one of them, as soon as she gave the signal.

All it would take was her cue…

"Do I have to ask?"

Her whispers always did seem to fill the space, staking her claim with a quiet command.

Never one to make her wait, he pressed his lips to her without preamble.

It was a natural as it'd always been, as soft as it'd been before Hawkmoth had taken her, as perfect as it should have always been. It almost made him forget the months spent running, running from the love of his life, the very torch that kept the cold from his naïve heart. Running from what only he had the power to stop, to help, to save.

It'd been selfish of him. He hadn't wanted to do it, what would eventually have to be done, and so he left. Even Tikki berated him for it.

It hadn't stopped him. Or her. Running never had deterred them. She'd hunt as long as he ran, knowing he couldn't—that he wouldn't—run forever. That eventually, the sense of responsibility would return and the need to have her would win out. That eventually, she'd have him back where she wanted him.

We're all destined for something.

Oh Dieu, he'd missed this though. The knowing her, the seeing her, the kissing her.

Those sweet sounds of pleasure and desire and want she made as they moved against each other, the way she could burn or she could sooth, the way she could twist it from sensual to sexual and back again. The way her tongue would dance against his in a waltz they'd choreographed and perfected ages ago, one where they always remained on equal footing.

He'd missed her.

But oh, how she burned. She told him once they were playing with fire. He should have know she would never waste such a tense line for the mere sake of saying it.

Had he wavered in indecision when the masks had first fallen for them, he may have thought of the dangers of being so willing to dance through those flames with her. Might have pondered the way the smoke could fill his lungs and sting his eyes, might have considered the scars he'd have to acknowledge should he ever leave.

But when he was in that blaze with her? He felt as if his entire life had been lived in the heat, in those scorching waves, lit by the bright, orange glow of comfort.

Even as they parted for air before coming back together again, even as every adoring nickname he had for her poured from his mouth to hers, even as the moon waned behind cloud coverage and a brightening sky, he knew he'd burn in her bonfire forever, a willing participant in their fiery tango.

After all, we're all destined for something.

Holy crap, this might be the most emotionally intense scene I've ever written. Wow.

Lemme know if y'all want more, I'm not completely out of ideas for this