#i just love when people draw blade with his kitty self it's always so nice

[swishandflickwit]

Marichat — the season of giving 1/1

Summary: He remained on the floor as he sorted his thoughts. Marinette told him to make himself at home, yet prior to this moment she had always made it clear that he wasn't to touch her stuff. Was he really going to betray her trust and disobey her direct and concise command, all to satisfy his indomitable curiosity?

This time, he did not hesitate.

Yup!

Words: 3.1k

Rating: General Audiences

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

For Selina, who saw me—the good and the bad—and still, chose to stay. 

"Marinette?”

Chat Noir called hesitantly as he dropped in from her unlocked skylight and onto her bed. He’d been out on a solo patrol when he received a message through his baton from her, asking he come over as soon as he was able and that she'd leave the door open for him. Not 15 minutes into his patrol but deciding Paris was safe just then (or, as safe as it could be with Hawkmoth still at large after two years of measly Akumas), he set his course for her home.

Her missive had been far from urgent but Marinette was his friend. When it came to them, to her, there was no such thing as too secure. He found it was with good reason, as a quick examination revealed that she wasn't in her chambers. His heart kicked into overdrive. Though nothing appeared disturbed nor was it suggested that there had been a scuffle or a break-in, it was still with heightened suspicion that he took in her room and noted her trap door was ajar. But then—

“Just a second!”

Her sweet, nightingale voice wafted from beyond her entryway and the sound—so crisp and sonorous and alive—had him breathing a hefty sigh of relief.

“Everything okay?” he returned, if only to quiet the little doubts that festered his mind (and would undoubtedly remain till he could see her and touch her for himself).

“Yup,” she continued. “Just, make yourself at home!”

Oh, he mused. Now that he could do—and with almost embarrassing ease. The thought of being alone in this particular place might have filled him with tension if he hadn't all ready been tasting the remnants of his satisfaction of knowing she was all right. And maybe… maybe he was brimming with excitement—a little mischief too! Though visits to Marinette's were frequent occurrences whether he was Chat Noir or Adrien (admittedly, he came over as Chat Noir more often than the latter), an overture to her room was an uncommon privilege indeed, and even then, without exception, he was consigned to her chaise (because you unfurl a whole basket of yarn one time and suddenly you're forever branded a naughty kitty, sheesh). It was kind of a bummer, really. He may have been the one with an apartment for a room but Marinette's was spectacular in that, it was a perfect reflection of her beautiful mind—cluttered sure, but charming and lovely and creative, too. He could tell as much from his banishment place on her lounge and without closer perusal.

But now, she had left him here without supervision, which basically meant he had carte blanche, which basically meant he could look and touch which basically meant he planned to take full advantage of this rare stroke of luck—wasn’t there something about curiosity and cats, after all?

A perk of an ear towards her doorway had him surmising she was rummaging for something in the kitchen, and ascertained she wouldn't be coming up any time soon. On habitually silent feet, he descended her loft and prowled first to her dresser beneath, where most of her possessions lay.

(At the foot of her steps sat the elusive basket of yarn. The temptation to unwind the tightly woven, flaxen thread was compelling enough to stop him in his tracks. He dropped beside them and bit his lip. “Later,” he promised the glistening, colorful, spun wool as he ran a gloved finger lovingly carefully over the nearest roll)

Lingering on his crouch, he clambered closer to her desk till only his eyes were visible over the wooden ledge. He scrutinized the contents of her workspace with the same intensity as a detective in a crime scene, which may have been stupid but would he have discovered such a gem as this, if he hadn't? The gem, of course, being—

Her sketchbook.

It shouldn't have been so peculiar as to pique him. Marinette was a fashion designer and had no such qualms showing her designs (although, she was usually cautious about whom and where she showed it after the whole Hat Contest Debacle). But this was not just any one sketchbook, too. It was the sketchbook. The one bound in black leather—the smell of it so lemony and new and, well, leathery that he felt his knees weaken when he took a big whiff; he did so love leather—with the thickset drawing paper. It was the one she only ever brought out when she was around him, Chat Noir him, and yet never permitted him to see.

He reached out a hand to touch it.

Then just as quickly used the other to hold it back, the force of his clutch so dominant he knocked himself flat on his back.

He huffed a frustrated breath—though with whom it was directed to was anybody's guess.

He remained on the floor as he sorted his thoughts. Marinette told him to make himself at home, yet prior to this moment she had always made it clear that he wasn't to touch her stuff. Was he really going to betray her trust and disobey her direct and concise command, all to satisfy his indomitable curiosity?

This time, he did not hesitate.

Yup!

He rose and meandered to her table once more, affecting an unhurried amble if only to declare he wasn't too eager a kitty in case someone happened to catch him unawares. Which she wouldn’t, of course, because he was a professional. And he was dignified okay? He wasn't a wild animal! He had class and self-respect and self-contr—

He slammed the pad open.

And was robbed of all breath.

He turned the paper, and another and another, and like a sucker punch to the gut, he was struck by the images before him every time.

What…?

“You found it.”

Startled, he spun and tripped over his feet, his bottom landing sharply against the edge of her desk.

(So she had caught him)

“I-I'm sorry,” he stammered, panting as if he had run a marathon mere seconds ago. “I'm so, so, so sorry, Marinette—”

“Hey,” she murmured, placing the tray he failed to notice she had been carrying on her chaise before approaching him. A frown marred her delicate features and his panic escalated at having been the one to put it there. “I wasn't, I mean, I was but I-I didn't—I didn't know—”

“It's all right, minou,” she soothed. She rubbed circles in the space between his shoulder blades and he closed his eyes. With her simple touch, so lambent and familiar, she drained him of his tension. It shouldn't have surprised him. Her presence had the natural ability to bring him such warmth, it was powerful enough to melt even his most frigid anxieties.

With a final deep and cleansing breath, green eyes peered at her and found a sheepish smile stretched across her lips. He thumbed gently at an upstretched corner, before gliding smoothly to the dip of her chin where he stayed.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated more calmly though no less sincere. She shook her head.

“Don't be,” she insisted, withdrawing the hand at his back so she could wrap it around the wrist that cupped her face. She gave a genial squeeze. “If anything, I should be sorry. I should have made it more clear, I'm relieved you found it.” It was her turn to breathe in deeply. With her eyes closed and her nose scrunched, she was utterly adorable. He wanted to hug her and he would have, if his nerves hadn't returned tenfold at the intent way she beheld him when she pronounced her next words.

“I wanted you to find it.”

His arms fell limp at his sides, perplexity making a rag doll of him. He found it incomprehensible that she would want him to seek it at all, and a million and one questions spun in his brain—why had she done this? What for? Why did she want him to find it? Why here? Why now?

But a simple, “Why?” was all he managed to splutter.

A blush filled her cheeks though for once, she did not tear her gaze away.

“You know how, when most people give gifts, they like to wait for the receiver's reaction?”

She didn't wait for an answer as she barreled on, not that he could have given her one anyway, seeing as his brain was stuck on the word gift.

“Yeah, I'm not one of those people,” she tittered nervously. “I didn't have the courage to hand it to you directly so I left it and a couple of meaningfully crafted words in the hopes that your curiosity would do the rest. It's actually nice,” she teased, levity trickling into her articulation, “how that one's without fail.”

“Me-owch,” he quipped, though a crooked grin still stole across his lips.

She rolled her eyes even as she laughed. “Those terrible puns, too.”

“Like you can do any better!”

“I'm a-pawlled you think I'm not claw-ver or punny enough to deliver the purr-fect lines—”

He gaped. “Oh my god.”

“Purr-haps you should consider the paw-ssibility that my litter-acy in the art of puns is purr-etty paw-esome—”

Two in a row! He was laughing so hard, he had to grasp her shoulders to keep upright. “Marinette.”

“And if you were my real furr-end you would sup-pawrt me with a better cat-titude than that. Don't you find me hiss-terical?”

Without quite knowing how, his arms had twined themselves around her shoulders and waist till his body was a perfect extension of hers, his tremors echoing through her as his laughs dwindled into sobs. Marinette bore it the way only Marinette could, with an understanding that negated the need for words... with that soft and quiet comfort only she could provide, as she knotted her arms around him in kind and became home. Because as he had lately come to realize, home was so much more than an incomplex word, it was a feeling, and it wasn’t so much a place but a person and this—she—was it.

She was what truly made a home.

“Merry Christmas, Chat Noir,” she averred mellifluously into the damp skin of his neck. “Or Hanukkah or, you know, whatever it is you celebrate. Happy holidays, from me to you.”

He held her to him tighter. “I don't even know where to begin thanking you.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me if you liked it?”

He pulled back just enough so that he was but half an arm's length away, limbs resting firmly on her shoulders. He shook his head, and her face fell. Then, with a knuckle, he tipped her chin up so that their gazes collided, green eyes brimming with unmistakable clarity.

“‘Like’ is… it's too small,” he whispered vehemently. “I just—thank you. A hundred, no,” he pecked her cheeks, “a thousand times,” he kissed her neck and she squealed, peels of laughter rumbling from her chest to his, “a million times,” he whispered as he framed her hips and kissed her forehead, “a billion, billion times,” and tinkling giggles gave way to heated sighs of indulgence, “a trillion times,” he soughed, making pathways of her face where he found respite on her chin, and rest on the corner of her mouth.

“Thank you,” he asserted.

I love you.

The words writhed and slithered in his brain, between the spaces where his impulses thrummed from one neuron to another, because his body was fuelled and Marinette was the fire that ignited his senses, little sparks of longing spiraling the length of his spine and blooming along the muscles of his arms so that they pulled her flush to him before he could even catch up with the direction of his mind.

I love you, he thought, unbidden. And though he was very much in love with Ladybug, when it came to Marinette—he found he quite meant it, anyway.

I love you, the intimation burned his throat.

“I love it,” he affirmed instead, tongue laden with blacken soot and the taste of ash in his mouth.

He bit his lip. Some brave lion he was! But it wasn't fair anyway—he couldn't give away parts of himself when both Marinette and Ladybug deserved more. They deserved the very best parts of someone, no matter if it were with him or another, so long as they received everything.

So he cupped her face and spoke with his eyes instead, in the hopes she might hear that which he could not yet find it in himself to say—that she might feel what he so badly wanted to reveal.

“I'm glad,” she hummed, palms molding to the curve of his own cheeks as she wiped away the remnants of his liquid emotions. Then the smile slid from her lips as a concerned frown took its place. “But something tells me you're… bothered?”

“I just…” the tips of his ears sunk into his head as he tilted his head down, silken strands brushing the bangs that lined her forehead. He struggled to grasp at the words. “I don't—”

So of course Marinette would seamlessly evince the painful right ones.

“You think you don't deserve it.”

“It’s too much.”

And it was. Marinette had given him more than a gift, it felt like she had given him freedom—she had given him life. A sketchbook with page upon page of images of him in various, almost intimate, occasions. An amusement-invoking portrait of him doubled over in laughter—so life-like—he felt the giggles reverberating in his belly. There was a depiction of one of his battles so precise in its likeliness that impossible though it may have been, it was as if she was by his side when it had occurred—a testament to Marinette's genuine talent, of that he had no doubt. Then there were the pictures that made him blush, not because it contained any scandal or debauchery, rather for it's innocence—a delineation of his profile in saddened thought, his whole face downcast from his limp locks and trodden eyebrows to the decline of his mouth. There were illustrations of his form in quiet repose just as there were of him in agitated slumber, naps he had taken in the periods when he'd visit but collapse beneath the weight of his exhaustion because he trusted her enough to let his guard down. There were sketches of his hands, his eyes, his mouth… and through it all were traces of Marinette—from her subtle signatures, to the way every line or curve was purposely done and to the evident consideration for each drawing. Because she had taken him in, had looked her fill and inspected all of him, from the literal and figurative mask he wore to the deepest, darkest, ugliest fragments of him and still, she hadn't found him lacking. Still—

She had made him beautiful.

“Why?” he asked again, voice hoarse with the aching need to know.

“Oh, minou,” she cooed, yet the vehemence with which she spoke thrummed forcefully through his veins and straight into his heart. “Because you do deserve it. Because I don't think you realize how wonderful you are. Because I believe not enough people appreciate you but I hope you know that I do. Because I wanted to,” he was hyperventilating, he was dreaming, “but above everything else—it's because I see you, Chat Noir. Here,” with one hand, she brushed feather-light fingers along the length of his forehead, “and here."

With that same artist's hand, she outlined him, from the side of his face to his neck, digits charting filigree across his collarbones till she settled on the space above where his heart lay, and every point in which she touched him felt engraved into his very soul.

“I see you,” she blazed, “and you're magnificent,” passion in her words and fire in her caress. “You. are. good.”

His tears streamed afresh. It made waterfalls of his face and splashed onto Marinette's skin as he closed his eyes and rested his forehead atop hers.

“If I am good,” he confessed, “it’s only because I have you to remind me.”

“You give me too much credit,” she giggled even as her face transformed into a rose.

“Not nearly,” he shook his head, gazing at her solemnly. “Not enough.”

She conceded with a gratified purr and again, the words boiled at just short of his lips.

“I—” he tried, choking at the efforts. But he wasn't ready, and like smoke, it had gone.

“I know.”

(And though he shouldn't have been surprised, it was any wonder how she heard it at all)

She nuzzled his nose with her own and for more than a couple heartbeats, they remained. It was as if time suspended just for the two of them, that they might have this quiet moment and have it be prolonged in its perfection.

“Can I show you through it?”

“Again and again, till you tire of it, Princess,” he returned. “And even then, once more.”

They took the forgotten mugs of hot (now cold but no less scrumptious) chocolate and a couple of blankets up to her rooftop where they settled onto her chaise, his back against the lounge and hers to his front. She weaved stories of her experiences for each etching—what they had been doing and what they had been speaking of. Some he remembered (his favorite being that of her gorgeous rendering of the landscape from the balcony he had taken her to the first time he sought her out for no other reason than to bask in her presence), but most were lost in Marinette's private recollections and from her own unassuming observations, in the moments when he allowed his vulnerability to cloud their time together—because he had been tired and because he had been sincerely happy.

When she had finished, he made himself a haven as she fell back against his shoulder and slumped over in exhaustion. He wrapped the blanket tighter around her svelte frame, and from its place by their knees, he regarded the sheepskin book. Honestly, it was a work of art. But it left him exposed, and he felt naked at her scrutiny but—strangely strong, too. Because if Marinette had stripped him, it was only so she could build and shape and forge him anew.

“Merry Christmas, Marinette,” he whispered, as he pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head.

So though the gift had been a culmination of his portraits, he couldn't help but feel—watching the steady and reassuring rise and fall of her chest, sleep-warm skin seeping through his suit and into the marrow of his bones… the sunset casting a halo around her raven locks and breathing embers onto her flesh—

The true gift had been her.

AN: Happy holidays everyone!