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blood-red-ocean · 4 months

Note

really glad u loved the idea! i was afraid it's too silly cause I'm not thinking properly right this moment(it's past 3am in my country)

anyway, thank you for agreeing to write for femSal! can't wait to see what you come up with!

Sorry it took so long, this is my first request so I wanted to make it perfect!

Fem!Sal x Reader

The original request can be found here! This work is inspired by @classyfruit's genderbent Moreau art! Word count: 2.3k. Warnings: None

There may be typos <3 -----------------------------------------------------------------

The crunching of leaves underfoot ignited a kind of childlike joy in you as you wove your way through the trees. The snow was melting, the harsh winter finally coming to an end and at last, you were able to return to your favourite place in the Village.

The sun would no doubt have melted all the ice away by now – or at least you had heard from your neighbour that the lake was liquid once more, he had seen it on his way back from his foraging trip and he wanted to let the Village’s resident ‘water baby’ know. As soon as you had heard the news, you packed your satchel to the brim with your sketchbook, pencils, and snacks enough to last you hours, and off you went.

The sun warmed your shoulders and face as you went, and you took a moment to let your head fall back, relishing in it. Three months cooped up inside your house had taken its toll, and you were ecstatic to be out in the fresh air again. As you approached the lake, a slight breeze kicked up, sending the faintest of ripples across the surface, warping the reflections of the nearby trees. The ground was soft and muddy from the melting snow, but thankfully your usual spot – a large, flat rock, jutting out over the water – was free of dampness. You climbed atop it with a grunt and settled down, letting the sun warm you for a moment, basking in the feeling.

You frowned slightly into the distance a while later, your sketchbook open in your lap. You chewed absentmindedly on the end of your pencil, waiting for inspiration to strike you. The sunlight was casting thin ribbons of parchment-coloured light through the gaps in the trees on the opposite side of the lake to you, and you just couldn’t figure out how to encapsulate it within a drawing. But damn, you wanted to.

A faint splashing sounded from below the edge of your rock seat, and you put your sketchbook aside, leaning slowly over the edge and looking down. The sight of silver, shimmering shapes darting just beneath the water’s surface brought a smile to your face, and you readjusted to lay on your stomach, reaching down. As you gently trailed your fingertips along the surface of the lake, you giggled as the shimmering shapes nibbled your fingers curiously, some of them bumping up against your hand as they swam by.

“Well, hi to you, too,” you whispered. The fish swam beneath the surface of the water as if dancing, and you smiled softly, watching them. You pushed yourself back up to a kneeling position, feeling in your satchel for the container of mealworms you had brought with you, scattering some of them into the water. You sat back again and started to draw, oblivious to the larger rippled which were approaching from elsewhere in the lake.

The next day found you back at the lake again, not wanting to miss a day of being in your sanctuary. The sun was high in the sky, which was just as clear as the day before. You were distracted as you made the same walk as yesterday, and you didn’t notice the object on your rock seat until you were about to sit down. You made a noise of surprise and peered at it. It seemed to be an old boot, something from far before your time. It was covered in algae and aquatic moss, and the sole had been eroded over time. You looked around, thinking that somebody was playing a prank; but when you saw nobody, you simply shrugged and picked the boot up, placing it beside the rock in the soft mud. Again, you drew, this time paying close attention to the mud below the rock, trying to emulate the textures and patterns of it. Again, you fed the fish gathered near your seat some mealworms. And again, you were oblivious to the ripples rolling across the water’s surface.

The third day you went back to the lake, a sight saddened you somewhat. There, on the muddy bank, beside the untouched boot, was a small bone. Upon closer inspection, it looked to be a fish skull. You held it delicately in your hands, turning it this way and that, intrigue mixing with your faint sadness at the poor thing’s state. Holding it as if it were glass, you bent over by the edge of the lake and let it roll out of your hand into the water, fading from view as it sunk to the depths. You settled yourself down on your rock perch again, pulling your sketchbook out of your bag and, with one hand drawing and the other holding an apple you took occasional bites from, you began to sketch the intricacies of a piece of driftwood, floating atop the water. It bobbed up and down, slowly, as ripples coursed across the water’s surface. This time, just before you left to go home, you leaned over and whispered to the group of fish swilling in lazy circles beneath the steadily elongating shadow of the rock, telling them a fairytale from your childhood. Something you did quite often, even if it didn’t quite make sense.

The fourth day arrived and with it, dark clouds, heavy with rain. That didn’t stop you, though, as you simply grabbed your raincoat from the hook by the door and set out towards the lake again, slipping and sliding and laughing in the muddy puddles on the way. The lake had swelled with the overnight showers of rain, the boot now having been swept away. The rain had ceased for now, and you slowly climbed atop your rock again – stopping in your tracks as you saw something on the very edge. You peered closer and your eyes widened at the sight of an eel skeleton, curled up neatly on the edge of the rock. You looked around again, more vigilantly this time. The only footsteps in the muddy earth were that of your own, and the trees looked undisturbed, as well.

The eel skeleton looked beautiful, in a delicate, morbid way. You stepped off of the rock and to the water’s edge, where the mud was the softest, and you started to dig. With shaking hands, you very carefully lifted the skeleton and placed it in the makeshift grave, covering it up again and placing a rock on top. You took a moment to be pensive, and as you stared into the water, you saw ripples distorting the reflection of the trees. Following them with your gaze, you could see that they originated from the center of the lake. Stepping closer, just below the surface of the water you could see a faint, misshapen shadow lurking below. You frown and take another step, the water lapping at the toes of your shoes. Just as quickly as you had seen the shadow, it darted away, and the rain started to fall again, stirring the surface of the lake, rendering anything underneath invisible.

There were no peculiar objects on your seat the next day. The sun was high in the sky again, the lake still swollen from the previous day, and your fish friends had resumed their usual habit of circling for food beneath your rock perch. You laid on your stomach, fingers trailing through the water again as they swam excitedly. Lost in thought, the shadow moving towards you beneath the surface of the water went unnoticed. What was very much noticed, however, was one of the fish flying out of the water, soaring in an arc over you and landing with a wet shlap in the mud to the side. Gasping, you half rolled and half fell off of the rock, hastening to pick up the frantically flopping and flailing fish, gently placing it back in the water to join its friends.

“What the hell…” You breathed. There was another splashing sound and another fish flew out of the water, narrowly missing your face as it soared across your field of vision, landing back in the water. Returning to the rock and looking over the side of it, you saw all of the group still there, unharmed and circling as before. Mind reeling with questions and confusion, you looked around, trying to figure out what happened.

“I’m tryin’ to flirt with you!”

The sudden disembodied voice startled you, hands gripping the rough surface of your perch so as to not fall face first into the lake. Sensing movement out of the corner of your eye, you turned, and your gaze met those of someone almost completely submerged in the water. Their eyes were dark, a slight frown on their face as they stared you down. It looked as if they were wearing a crown of bones, and you gulped.

“Hey, are- are you okay?” Trepidation and intrigue combined in your chest to create a potent blend that kept you fixed to the spot.

The figure didn’t speak at first. And then: “I was tryin’ to flirt with you. Didya not like my gifts?”

The voice carried a tone of insecurity, confusion and determination. It was low and husky, like the vocal version of the crunch of gravel as it is stepped on – and it had a kind of warbled tremor, like the ripples of the lake itself. But it was pleasant, and you wanted to hear more. You sat back down on the rock and crossed your legs, pulling your sketchbook out of your bag and running your fingertips along the spine to soothe yourself.

“Flirt with me?” You asked.

“Yes,” The figure responded. The water rippled around them as they started to move up out of the water, and you saw that the figure was a woman, her skin tinged the same green-blue as the lake. “D’you not like my gifts?” She repeated.

“I… I didn’t realise they were gifts, to be honest.” The woman sloshed closer through the water, coming to fold her arms on the edge of the rock and rest her head upon them. You continued, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my actions.”

The woman stared up at you for a long moment. “Nope,” She said. “I see you here a lot. You’re good to the critters here.” As she spoke, you could detect the faintest lilt in her voice, which somehow made you want to hear her speak even more, if that were possible. Silence fell between the two of you, and without knowing what else to do, you grabbed a pencil from your satchel and started to sketch, not really paying attention to anything but her proximity.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Huh? Oh—” You glanced down at the paper before you, realizing that you had absentmindedly begun to draw her. “I’m just sketching. Would you like to see?”

You held the sketchbook up before you, going back to the first page and flipping through them one by one, telling her the backstory of every sketch. The view of the mountains from your bedroom window, the jewels of dew on a spider’s web, the iridescence of a raven’s wings in flight. Her eyes studied your sketches, focusing hard as she listened. Without a word, she splashed back under the water, leaving you alone. You couldn’t help but feel disappointed as she left and, with a dejected sigh, you turned back to your work, the pencil scratching over the paper.

“Look out! Outta the way!”

“Wh—Woah!” You leaped back as she emerged from the water, her arms full with weeds and grasses from the depths of the lake. She sifted through them, inspecting each piece and discarding some of them with an unimpressed grunt. You turned back to your artwork, but you were distracted now, curiously glancing up at her every so often. Her deft fingers worked at the pieces of grass, twisting and turning them in her hands, and after a moment you realized she was weaving something. You became mesmerized by her movements, a slight frown on her face as she concentrated.

By the time she had finished, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, the surface of the lake reflecting its orange glow. She held it out to you with a wide grin, your fingertips brushing her palm as you took it from her. She had weaved the grasses and weeds tightly into the shape of a fish, mirroring the fish that you often fed. It was intricately weaved, and your head spun trying to make sense of where each piece of grass started and ended. Gazing back at her, a blush crept up your neck at her intense gaze. As the chill of the night air started to settle in your bones, you were tempted to stay here for a while longer, if only to see her grin again.

“Thank you…” I trailed off questioningly.

“Name’s Sally. Sally Moreau,” She grinned, making your heart jump in your chest. “But you can call me Sal.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Sal. It’s beautiful.”

“So’s you, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

Her boldness made your blush grow even more, and you shivered regretfully against the chill of the growing darkness. “I…” The words were hard to force out, as you slowly packed your things back into your satchel. “I should go home.”

Sally’s shoulders seemed to drop a little, but she kept the grin on her face. “Comin’ back tomorrow?” She asked, hopeful tones lacing her voice.

“Yeah,” You smiled. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” That night, you fell asleep with a smile on your face and Sally’s grin burned into your mind, the woven fish standing proudly on the top of your bookshelf. Somehow, you knew that today had been the start of something wonderful.

#horror #resident evil #resident evil 8 #resident evil village #sally moreau #salvatore moreau #request

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avelyst · 7 years

Text

Impulse

After a cold, snowy night in Marinette’s room, the last thing either hero expects are the new discoveries that follow. Things can only get more complicated from here.

Chapter One

Marinette likes the winter. She likes the warm apparel, the foggy windows, the snow piled high in the streets. She likes to curl up in her blankets, sketching designs as the snow falls. And on particularly cold days, she likes watching the steam curl up from a fresh mug of hot chocolate, specially prepared by her father.

But even as someone that doesn’t mind the cold so much, there are some things Marinette just doesn’t like about the season.

One of them is roaming the rooftops of Paris in spandex, when the temperature rivals the freezer in her parents’ bakery.

And on a night like this – when her nose is pink and her face is nearly numb from the wind’s bite – she is reminded that, while she thoroughly loves this season, it is certainly not her favorite.

Marinette breathes into her cupped hands, shivering under the breathable material of her suit. She’ll have to look into finding fabric for a coat that allows flexibility and movement.

It’s been a long night. She didn’t want to patrol at all, originally. But lately there have been several akumas, and the crime rate has spiked exceptionally. The colder it gets, the more desperate people become – and standing on a ledge, overlooking the city lights and thick sheets of snow, Marinette can almost see why.

She imagines her bed, and the thick, cozy blankets waiting for her there. Just the image of it is enough to make her ache – or, that could also be the frostbite in her fingertips.

As she contemplates, Chat slips up behind her, nearly undetected. Nearly, because the crunch of snow gives him away.

“You look a little under the weather, My Lady.”

Marinette cradles her elbows, rubbing heat into them as she turns to meet Chat’s gaze. Her lips press into a thin line, and she dismisses his playful grin entirely.

“We should call it a night, I think. There will be a storm moving in,” she says, trembling.

His lips curve devilishly as he notes her shuddering, the clatter of her teeth.

“If you’re looking to warm up, I’m always at your dis-paw-sal, Bugaboo.”

Marinette shakes her head, turning her gaze toward the streets below so he won’t see her amused smile. His cheeky tone doesn’t mask the shiver the travels down his spine, and she imagines that he’s also probably colder than he lets on. Cats aren’t fond of the cold, and she’s fairly certain his suit is just as thin as hers.

“Go home, Chat. We’ll reschedule the patrol for a different night.”

He looks ready to protest, but she’s too impatient for his bravado or flirting, and she’s already hooking her yoyo onto a chimney in the distance, lunging off the roof.

She dashes across the buildings, leaping through the cold night toward the bakery. When she looks back over her shoulder, he’s already gone.

Good. Maybe the silly cat will be sensible.

Chat is not sensible.

He knows it’s cold. He can’t feel his face, or the snow that catches in his lashes and clings to his hair. But he doesn’t want to go home – not after the afternoon he spent grueling over studies for a Chinese exam and sheet music for his piano lessons. Nathalie had slapped a whole stack of it on his desk before exiting his room briskly, pulling the door shut behind her. And being the dutiful son he was, he’d gone over all of it.

It was all he could do not to transform and jump out the window before nightfall, before the actual patrol was scheduled. Sitting there, bent over the papers with heavy eyes, all he longed for was Chat Noir’s freedom.

Now he has it, and an impending winter storm isn’t going to take it away.

His mind wanders, and he recalls Ladybug’s cool, level gaze. The pink splotched across her face, pooling in her cheeks and collecting in the tip of her nose. The shake of her head at his joking tone, the small smile that threatened to curve her lips.

He wonders what she does when she goes home – when the cold closes in and she’s resigned to the confines of her house.

It’s probably warm, wherever she is. Saturated with her scent, undoubtedly.

Chat has to stop himself. The path those thoughts follow is a dangerous one to tread, and he’s worn his way through it so many times, he’s well-aware what lies at the end.

When he looks up, he recognizes his surroundings immediately. He’s circled this part of the city a few times in the span of an hour, his hair whipped back and tipped with frost, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides to urge heat into his fingers. He can make out the outline of the school, illuminated from the streetlights. A sign hangs over the bakery across the street from it, the light dim but familiar.

If he passes the bakery during the day, he can usually smell the baking bread, the fresh scent of cookies and pastries. But at this time of night, he can’t smell anything.

After a few seconds, his eyes settle on the balcony.

Marinette’s balcony.

He wonders what she is doing right now; probably holed up and attempting to keep warm – the second sensible girl he’s run across tonight.

After a few seconds of contemplation – and another chilling breeze in his hair – he shoots across, landing on the uneven shingles of the neighboring roof. Chat scales the side of the bakery, clawing his way over the railing of the balcony.

The plants are withered and dead, caked with snow and buried beneath the weight of it. He can see distinct footprints in the packed ivory, much smaller than his own, leading to a trap door that has been cleared.

Chat shakes the snow out of his hair, a shiver running across his limbs as a gust of wind hits his neck. The wind picks up, and he sways on his feet, struggling to suck in an icy breath. It’s a reminder of Ladybug’s warning about oncoming weather, and Adrien chastises himself for being reckless and ignoring it.

He tries to recall what he knows of Marinette. She’s shy and reserved, easily flustered and possibly clumsy. She’s hardly spoken a word to him without stumbling over herself, and she is fairly withdrawn from anyone aside from Alya.

No, that’s not entirely true. He remembers her run for class president, and her straight-forward confrontations with Chloe. In the past she’s been indifferent toward Chat, with a considerable amount of spice in her personality once the two of them spent more time together – albeit, as brief as it was.

So, there must be something more there, underneath the timid blue eyes and embarrassed smile.

Chat kneels next to the trap door, swiping at the fogged glass to glimpse into the room below. She might be asleep, and if she is, he doesn’t want to disturb her.

Warm light splashes onto her desk from a lamp, illuminating an array of sketches. Various designs are outlined in charcoal and colored pencil, a sketchbook open and forgotten underneath one of Marinette’s hands. Her hair spills over her slouched shoulders like dark ink, released from her usual pigtails. Her lashes cast dark shadows over her cheeks, lips parted in unconsciousness. It takes him a moment to recognize her lovely features, under the unusual lighting and without her signature hairstyle.

Someone has draped a blanket over her back, and a cooling cup of hot chocolate sits on her desk, nearly empty.

Chat crouches next to the trap door, uncertainty flashing through him. She looks so comfortable and cozy; the sight causes his numb hands to ache, down to the bone.

Ultimately it’s the wind, pressing and relentless, that urges Chat to drop down from the balcony and round the corner of the building – to her window.

He peers into her room, revealed in a new light from this angle. He can see her slumped form from here, warm and inviting. Chat raps on the glass, his luminescent, green eyes darting from her desk to the little door in her floor. Hopefully he won’t be alerting anyone else in the house to his presence.

He can only imagine her father’s reaction if he saw a strange, masked boy outside her window, lurking out in the cold. The thought is almost more intimidating than a possible akuma attack.

As though sensing his presence, Marinette startles, several papers fluttering from the desk onto the floor. He’s barely tapped on the glass again, and her eyes drift to the window, bleary and disoriented.

They stare at one another for several seconds as she seems to collect herself, registering the sight of him. The recognition surfaces in the furrow of her brow, her blue eyes rounding. Chat grins broadly as she pushes back out of her chair, crossing to the window.

Marinette fixes him with guarded eyes as she unlatches it, shoving it open. A rush of warm air tickles his face, and he unconsciously leans into it.

“Chat Noir?” she sighs groggily, rubbing her eyes.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

His smile is impish – daring.

Her pajamas look flannel, the top button open to glimpse a soft collarbone. A tinge of pink warms her face, undeniably inviting to a shivering cat, grasping anxiously at her window frame with frigid claws. Marinette’s hands fall away, and frustration flickers in her tired gaze. She seems to bridle it, schooling her features into nonchalance. The display of expression in that one moment is more than he’s experienced from her in over a month of fumbling for conversation as Adrien.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone. Do you have any idea what time it is?” she asks sharply.

Chat digs his digits into the structure, shifting his weight. Puffs of hot breath steam from his lips, curling into the air before dissipating between them. Marinette stares at him pointedly, unfazed by his visible shuddering.

“A hero’s responsibilities are never off the clock,” he quips.

She frowns at him, and his eyes follow the movement. The downturn of her lips, the slight knit of her brow. Her hair is disheveled from her nap, the impression of lines from notebook paper on her right cheek. And despite the button-down pajamas, she still manages to look resolute.

“I was patrolling,” he admits finally, “I was lost in thought, and it grew cold. When I saw the light from your window, I thought…”

The last part isn’t entirely a lie, he reasons. Her gaze is unwavering, but he can see the gears turning behind it.

“You thought you’d just come scratching at the door, and I’d let you in.” she says plainly.

“A storm is coming,” he adds.

He can’t read her expression, but he can see the way something shifts in her features. There’s a part of her he’s rarely seen – the part that thinks practically and evaluates a situation.

When she lets out a sigh, her fingers hooking in his collar – dragging him in over the threshold with surprising strength – he can sense the resolution there. A satisfied smile flits across his face at her consent.

Marinette has never considered herself a cat person.

She’s not especially fond of their self-entitled attitude, or their demanding need for attention. As she sits at her desk, her chair swiveled to face the boy perched on her chaise lounge, she’s reminded of the most distasteful similarities between her partner and the real animal.

Chat stretches out over the piece of furniture, rubbing his face into a pillow. He looks absolutely content, the dark flush in his cheeks receding as he acclimates to the temperature of the room.

The frost in his hair and on his suit melts, and she chastises him lightly for getting her things wet. But her irritation ebbs as she watches him stretch out, his chest rumbling with delighted purrs as he sinks into the cushion.

Marinette collects the papers from the floor to busy herself, arranging them into a neat stack. It’s quiet in the bedroom, snow falling hard and fast outside, a hushed consistency. The only sound between them is her quick, nervous breaths, and the deep vibration in Chat’s throat. She fingers a loose thread on her leg, suddenly self-conscious.

She’s comfortable with Chat – she knows Chat.

It’s not the first time she’s been unmasked with him, and it’s not like he seems to suspect anything. But this is the first time she’s been alone with him – really alone with him – as herself, and not Ladybug, with no civilian eyes or meticulously aimed lens to follow.

Chat holds no affection for Marinette – it’s Ladybug that he’s infatuated with. So she really has nothing to fret over.

And yet.

Those thoughts, those inward reassurances, do nothing to snuff the anxiety in her stomach from the proximity.

“I’m sure a very busy hero like yourself has important things to do,” she says in an even voice, “So whenever you’re feeling better, feel free to let yourself out.”

She tries to sound light, casual. But there’s a quiver in her voice, and she prays he doesn’t notice.

A pair of bright eyes consider her from beneath the pillow, slit with leisure.

“Are you so eager to be rid of me, Princess?”

“Oh, no! Of course not. But I’m sure Ladybug would worry about you,” she clears her throat, adding, “And my parents have a strict no-pet policy since we live above a bakery.”

A chuckle escapes Chat. The sound is low and warm, like the shift of sheets on skin. Instead of answering, she can see his gaze flit over her head, examining something on the wall behind her. After a few beats, he sits up on the chaise, and there’s something in his eyes. It races across his expression fleetingly – surprise, interest, and then genuine amusement. It unnerves her, the way the corners of his mouth lift.

“You’re a big fan of fashion…or one model in particular?”

Comprehension splutters through her, and Marinette’s face flushes. She twists around, eyes widening, her ears growing impossibly warm. Posters, magazine clippings, and various illustrations of Adrien Agreste adorn her wall, littering every open space that’s not occupied by her own designs. The meager light from her lamp casts shadows over the room, but it escaped her that Chat can see in the dark. Embarrassment crawls up her neck, blooming in her cheeks as she averts her eyes, pretending at indifference. She can feel Chat’s piercing gaze, settled on the back of her head as she glances guiltily toward the framed picture of Adrien on her desk.

“I’m a fan of Gabriel Agreste’s work,” she says feebly.

“And of his son.”

There’s that smirk. She can hear it in his voice.

“He’s a talented model,” she argues.

But there’s no denying the stutter that threatens to disable her explanations, or the darkening blush that pools in her face. And it too late, because Chat has already taken notice, and she can feel his attention on her. She expects him to tease, to haggle her for her juvenile crush.

Instead, there’s an underlying range of emotions that play out behind the eyeholes of his mask, and Marinette looks over her shoulder at him, pausing as she notices it. She’s barely recognized the uncertainty, the indecision in his eyes, before he’s risen to his feet, rocking back on his heels.

The energetic surety of his posture returns in that split second.

“It’s late for a school night,” he circles around her room, curiously inspecting the things on her dresser, “What are you doing up at this hour?”

Marinette turns back to her desk, tracing the outline of her latest work with gentle fingertips. Her eyes roam the discarded pencils and tools, the shavings and pieces of lead strewn across the surface. She really gets engrossed once a design sets into her mind.

The moment she returned from the patrol, she had enough time to let the transformation drop and settle down at her desk, before the papers in front of her started to become hazy. Between half-conscious sketching and dim lighting, she can’t remember when she drifted off.

“I’ve been working on a project,” she answers vaguely.

She’s hardly aware of his presence over her shoulder, the inquisitive eyes that sweep over the sketches under her hands, until she feels his breath stirring her hair.

“You’re very skilled,” he says.

His voice is silky and quiet, interest lacing his tone. He shifts behind her, his hand crossing over her shoulder to touch one of the drawings. Marinette grows still.

“This one – the lace is detailed. Delicate work, but it complements the neckline nicely.”

There’s a scent on his suit, on his hair as he leans over her. Has he always smelled like this? The cologne is familiar, but she can’t place it, and it’s unbearably distracting as his fingertip traces the drawing. Marinette’s eyes fall closed as she breathes it in, her head growing light. It could be that she’s still tired, still half-awake, and the light from the lamp is pleasant and homely…

“-mind, Princess?”

Her eyes snap open, “What?”

“Is there something else on your mind, Princess?”

There’s that amusement from before, rolling off of him as he laughs quietly. Marinette’s face burns.

“You know a lot about fashion,” she points out, “For a cat.”

Chat hums low in his throat, and the sound is almost as hypnotizing as his scent.

“A coat is only as good as its grooming,” he says.

“Going by how cold and miserable you looked out there, your grooming must be subpar,” she sniffs – and a waft of that sweet, musky smell assaults her senses.

The glee doesn’t leave his tone, and she’s starting to think he’s enjoying this.

“The whole point of spandex is that it’s flexible and breathable. If I wore a coat, it would only be a restraint during a fight.”

His hands find her shoulders, and her stomach dips at the unexpected touch. The chair swivels, and Marinette’s breath hitches uncertainly as she’s pulled around to face him. Chat leans into the space between them, palms resting on the back of her chair, his presence caging her in. An unfamiliar heat wedges in her abdomen as he eyes draw over her.

“Does my princess really think my grooming in sub-par?”

His pupils are blown, set against a vibrant shade of emerald. In the shadows of her bedroom they are incredibly bright, flecks of yellow and vivacious green, smoldering from behind the confines of the mask. She can’t remember his gaze being this intense before – or a time where she would have ever used the word ‘mesmerizing’ to describe any part of Chat.

“I’m not your princess,” she says softly.

The vivid, cat-like orbs crinkle as he smiles.

“Ah, yes. You already have a prince.”

His attention darts to the picture frame behind her, and she bristles at the hilarity in his tone. He’s entertained by this – by the childish notion of her interest in a boy. In someone unattainable. His ability to flip between being flirtatious and taunting is striking.

Who is he to joke about impossible relationships? Just over an hour before, he’d been practically fawning over Ladybug.

Marinette hackles with annoyance, her cheeks puffing indignantly.

“Better a prince than a pushy stray.”

The smirk slides from his lips, his expression hardening unexpectedly. He considers her carefully for a moment, as though deliberating.

“And what if your prince were a frog, hm? What then?”

Marinette’s heart lurches as he bows toward her, the cool tips of his hair grazing her cheeks.

“Would you still kiss a frog?”

This close, she can’t escape his scent, or the burn in his eyes. She’s still upset, still frustrated, she reminds herself desperately.

“At the end of the day,” she breathes, “A frog is still a prince underneath.”

Their noses almost touch, and Marinette can feel his breath on her face. She’s sucked into the unyielding slant of his eyes, the sharp curve of his jaw as it works.

When Chat breaks away, his hands falling from the chair, her heart is thrumming. Marinette watches him move to the ladder, climbing to the secluded nook where her bed is tucked away.

Frantic thoughts race across her mind, panic lodging in her throat. Countless scenarios surface in her imagination, unbidden and each one more ludicrous than the last.

“Wha- Where are you g-going?”

Chat peeks over the edge of the loft, his eyebrows raised.

“To take a nap – unless you have a better way to pass the time?”

Marinette reddens, glancing toward the window. The snow is still falling, and so is her sensibility.

#i figured it wouldn't hurt to share it on here too #miraculous ladybug fanfic #miraulous ladybug #Impulse #marichat #my writing #mine

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