"Start walking."
The command is punctuated by the sharp click of stilettos dropped contemptuously on the desk in front of Marinette.
They are dangerously gorgeous, dressed in sleek, buttery black leather, and licked with iconic red at the soles. The spiked heel soars proudly to the towering height of 130mm, topped with a subtle scallop at the rim. It's designer, it's luxurious, it's painful.
It's trademark Laboutin; but more importantly, it's signature Chloé Bourgeois.
When Marinette glares up at Chloé, no doubt a fiery retort at the tip of her tongue ready to be unleashed, Chloé stops her with a cold smirk. A perfectly manicured hand braces against the desk as Chloé leans in closer, close enough to brandish her taunt like a burning brand.
"Afraid you can't handle walking a mile in my shoes, Marinette Dupain-Cheng?"
Each syllable of Marinette's name pops from Chloé's lips with the sort of satisfaction from someone who knows she's won.
This sort of retribution is more direct and personal than Chloé's usual response of dishing her problems to her father to take care of; but Marinette, who gets under Chloé's skin like no one else, who doesn't balk in the face of Chloé's willful demands nor her father's influential power, is a stunning exception.
No, what is more effective with Marinette is giving her a taste of her own medicine.
And it tastes ever so sweet, as Marinette levels a scowl bordering on venomous before yanking the stilettos towards herself and swapping them with her simple pink ballet flats. In pointed emphasis, she thrusts herself back from the desk and stands up straight, towering tall enough to stand above most everyone save Kim and Ivan.
The shoes fit her like a glove, elongating her toned legs and highlighting the sculpted definition of her muscled calves. She takes a wobbly step, then two, then three in steadier succession. Every person in their class watches her with alert attention never before achieved for the early hour before Mme. Bustier comes in to start the day. Chloé tracks her predatorily, waiting for the inevitable slip-up, the slippery crash to the ground, the ruins of defeat.
"I won't wear them for just a mile." The smile Marinette throws at her is more a baring of teeth. "I'll wear them around all week."
The bite back is something Chloé expects. It doesn't draw pain, but only an ironic sort of satisfaction.
Beauty, power, and prestige: those are pain. Chloé doesn't even notice it anymore. She haughtily wears it all like armour. Even better, she has learned to weaponize it.
As if someone like Marinette could understand the cost of appearance.
"We'll see about that," Chloé says before sailing back to her own seat. "Oh, and if you break those, you'll have to buy me a new pair."
"I won't break them," comes the confident retort before a yelp pierces the air. Marinette's grasp on her center of balance has always been a finicky thing. Years of class together makes this intimate knowledge for Chloé, which is why she has no problem laughing mockingly as the added height does nothing but throw Marinette completely off kilter. Marinette reels back ungracefully into her seat, her killer heels slipping on the wood floor.
The growl that tears through the room only makes Chloé smirk wider.
"I won't break them," Marinette repeats, electricity snapping through piercing blue eyes. Then, more directly, "I won't break."
"We'll see about that," Chloé purrs.
Class has never been more entertaining. Watching Marinette wobble up to the front to present her project; tracking her movements as she teeters her way to the bathroom and navigates the stairs during break; laughing knowingly- pointedly- as she grips walls and people more and more as the day wears on are all so sweetly satisfying.
The hiss that steams out of Marinette as she sits down and rolls her feet forward so her weight rests on the balls of her feet instead of her abused heels doesn't pass by Chloé's notice. Chloé laughs again and again before flicking her ponytail in a spray of molten gold: her own victory flag.
Still, Marinette wears them doggedly throughout the day. She even walks home in them. The following days bear witness to the same stubborn repetition. Chloé, and everyone else, even witnesses Marinette sprint in them during an akuma attack.
Chloé refuses to be impressed by this.
She refuses to be impressed still when she catches sight of Marinette bandaging the blisters that have bubbled up before standing and walking on again, tenaciously cutting her way through pain that Chloé knows too well.
Part of Chloé wonders how much of Marinette's stubborn strength comes from a refusal to show weakness in front of her, and how much is because Marinette has acclimatized to the challenge so quickly. As much as Chloé loathes to admit it, there is a small seed of respect that burrows into her mind as Marinette soldiers through the day on red soles of pain.
Though, she doesn't think highly of Marinette's continuous and then increased acceptance of help from others as the week draws to a close, as the blisters on her feet pop and bleed and bite her every step.
"Cheater," Chloé singsongs as she flaunts past Mylène and Rose supporting Marinette through the ordeal of climbing the stairs.
After all, she learned how to manage on her own, strutting on ahead and above everyone else who could trip her up. Let them dislike her; she couldn't care any less than if she bothered trying. Independence gives its own kind of invincibility to Chloé.
"There's no shame in accepting help from someone else," Marinette calls out to her.
"Your mistake," Chloé scoffs.
"My choice."
Marinette's words ring more knowingly, more powerfully than any telltale click of her heels. When Chloé walks away, she has to tell herself that it is not a retreat.
At the end of the week, the stilettos remain permanently in Marinette's possession, though that is not due to any victory on her part. In fact, neither of them really win. Sometime during the week, winning stops being the point: a shift orchestrated not by Chloé, but decidedly by all the magnetic influence that Marinette unconsciously wields.
Despite the fact that Chloé was the one to set the rigged playing field, Marinette never had to do anything more than to step up and stand tall for fortune to favour her.
But watching Marinette grit her teeth and staunchly walk on throughout the week had been a little like watching herself at times, if Chloé is being honest. They have both bled pain for the sake of appearance.
It's something, Chloé slowly realizes, that, despite their differences, they may have always seen eye to eye on.
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"Hey Max!"
The shout startles him from his conversation with Kim. When he looks up, Marinette is bounding towards him with her sketchbook clutched in her hands and a gleam in her eyes.
"Is there something you need, Marinette?" Max answers, properly puzzled as she bounces to a stop in front of him.
"Your suspenders!" she chirps brightly.
His fingers automatically fly to his striped suspenders in defense, though he's not sure what he's defending against. Possibly the strip of his clothing.
"Sorry, I meant, do you have any old suspenders that I may possibly have? I've been designing this outfit for a while and I couldn't figure out what I needed to make it work. Then I was looking around and-" Her sketchbook smacks against her hand in emphasis, "-suspenders! They're exactly what I need!"
Startled, Max does no more than gape at her for several seconds. Prior to this moment, the most personally he'd ever interacted with Marinette had been during the Ultimate Mecha Strike III competition- and he still remembers how that all turned out.
"Well, yes, I believe I could find an old pair or a spare," he says slowly. He adjusts his glasses in thought, not missing the way Marinette reacts to his hesitance.
"If that's alright?" she tacks on almost as an afterthought, hurrying to suffuse her words with careful concern.
It's not that Marinette is insincere, or manipulative with her empathy. Max just knows with the certainty of statistical proof how driven she can be: a fault that can blind her to the wellbeing of others, when she's set and locked on her goal.
Max wishes he hadn't experienced that particular side of her firsthand. Even if he doesn't remember his time as Gamer, he's still not proud that he had succumbed to Hawkmoth at all. He bears Marinette no ill will over the matter; he thinks he might even thank her for it, in a roundabout way. His own competitive nature is tempered better by the experience.
Still, there is always a flag of caution that rises up in his mind whenever Marinette comes up.
What makes his own relationship with Kim so easy is that Kim is always a steady, reliable constant. Marinette is, more often than not, an unknown variable. Not a volatile one, like Chloé, but uncertain enough to unsettle him.
Regardless, Max gives her a smile as he says, "It's no problem. I'll look for it when I go home tonight."
"Thanks Max, I really appreciate it." Marinette smiles at him again before Alya snags her around the arm and pulls her into the classroom.
Her request strikes him as rather odd. She could've easily bought herself a new pair, or asked him where he got his suspenders so she could go to the store herself... but she didn't. He wonders if she didn't go charging ahead with the first strike of inspiration that seized her mind; and then concludes, that is most definitely what she did. Not the most efficient solution, but certainly the most direct.
It doesn't take Max long later that night to unearth a pair of plain, black suspenders with silver buckles. They're serviceable, but not extraordinary.
The look of delight that brightens Marinette's entire demeanour when he gives it to her the next day suggests otherwise. The way her fingers run over the broad elastic makes him wonder if he missed something in his appraisal of its value; but the consideration in her gaze lets him know she is simply calculating a different kind of equation than he is familiar with.
"This is perfect! You're ok with giving this to me?" Marinette flicks blue eyes over to him.
"It's all yours," Max says. "May I ask what you're making?"
"It's a surprise," she says apologetically. "But you'll be the first to know, when I'm done!"
Realistically, Max knows the chances of that are rather unlikely; but the unerring confidence in her voice has him believing that she could be promising him a nuclear missile and he wouldn't even question it.
A week later, he thinks maybe he shouldn't underestimate her so much as a cry of "Hey Max!" pulls him out of a conversation with Kim and Alix again. When he turns around, he isn't confronted with Marinette's sketchbook this time, but with the fruits of her labour instead.
Her outfit is simple. Even if it had been any more complicated, Max wouldn't have been able to identify anything more than the most basic forms. Statistics are where he excels, not fashion, but even he knows enough that the pale pink blouse tucked into a high waisted, black skirt is a cute combination.
As people draw towards them- towards Marinette- Max catches terms like "Peter Pan collar", and "box pleats"; but what really arrests his attention are the suspenders. Clipped snugly to her skirt and lying stark against her pink blouse, the black elastic is embroidered with vines and blood red poppies, blooming. The embroidery bleeds into more subtle stitching on the skirt that he only notices when Marinette turns and the pleats flare out.
"Only you could make suspenders look good," Alix laughs appreciatively.
"Hey now-" Kim starts, a frown furrowing his brow as he glances over to Max. Before Kim can get any further, Marinette beats him to the punch.
"It was Max who gave me the suspenders actually. I only altered them a little, but he has great taste to begin with." Marinette levels an encouraging grin in Max's direction, and he's thrown a little off balance by the acknowledgement.
After a moment, he accepts her offering with good grace, drawing satisfaction that his contribution totaled to a significant percentage in her success.
Numbers are cold and safe, absolute in their certainty. People are much more unpredictable and incalculable, despite his best efforts.
He has a funny feeling though, that Marinette is used to beating the odds.
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A wing of black flies upwards, catching the light so a shimmer of cool blue crests along its curve before it settles back down.
A few moments later, it happens again. Upon a gust a wind, the wing rises up to fan out once more. For an infinite second, it hangs in breathless suspension before falling down in graceful disarray-
"Nathanaël!" Mme. Bustier's stern voice appears as a jerky slash on the page interrupting the curve of a pair of graceful, expressive hands- or are they feathers? "I hope you're paying attention, as this material will be on the next test."
A hasty and apologetic mumble falls through Nathanaël's lips in response but it's enough to satisfy their teacher. He silently thanks the world at large that she didn't demand to see his notes… or, the lack of.
Sprawled across his poorly hidden sketchbook are eye-catching figures that swoop and soar across the page, as eloquent and articulate as any word that could hope to define them. Arms flare out, often transitioning to feathered wings, or accompanied by a flaring round cape split in two.
Nathanaël sees Marinette walk and run everyday; but in his sketchbook, she flies.
It's not unlike the fragile flutter of wings that tickles his stomach every time he looks at her. Except these sketches have nothing to do with those butterflies (ok; maybe a little- or, a lot) and everything with the way she blows her bangs away from her eyes.
Her hair's gotten a little long, he notices, long enough for her to spend more time sweeping the raven's wing away from her eyes, and for her to entertain herself by angling her exhales to catch the feathery strands.
In contrast, Nathanaël tilts his head forward so his own curtain of red hides him from the irresistible sight of Marinette. He feels a little safer, a little more secure behind his red shield.
He wonders how Marinette does it: be as open and strong and kind as she is, without fear of attention or judgement. He finds it- he finds her- inspiring, and the proof is sprawled all across the pages of his sketchbook.
With Mme. Bustier's attention successfully diverted from him once more, Nathanaël studies his latest batch of drawings. No longer the swooning damsel in distress, Marinette is her own commanding champion. It seems more fitting, even if there is no room on the page for him anymore. After some consideration, he decides that the plain black ink hardly does her vivacity justice.
As he rummages in his pencil case for his markers, colours run through his mind: the clear blue of her eyes, the soft pink of her pants, the deep indigo shine of her hair. As he decides on the apple red of her cheeks to use, his fingers catch upon several small butterfly clips mixed in with his markers and pencils and pens.
There was a time when Nathanaël would pin his hair back before he'd start drawing. Even if he doesn't do so anymore now, he keeps them around more out of habit. The clips shift under his fingertips, restless with opportunity.
His eyes flick up to peer between the red curtain of his hair, catching sight of Marinette in the midst of braiding her bangs away from her face. Or, attempting to anyway. Strands keep escaping, until the wing of her bangs resembles more a nest.
He acts before he can think (and it doesn't pass by his notice, how often he seems to do that when he's around her). His red marker sweeps across the figures decisively, colouring in strong bold strokes that fill the page with wings of fire. The page is gently torn out and folded carefully with a cluster of butterfly clips nestled in its center.
With a bit of strategic timing, Nathanaël passes the package to Ivan, who nudges it down to Marinette.
Nathanaël's pretty sure he doesn't breathe the entire time he watches Marinette carefully unfold the paper, and he's not sure if the inability to see her amazingly expressive face is a blessing or a curse this time. Usually it's a curse, for her expressions are the most captivating part of her. He's spent so long trying to copy her emotions in his sketchbook before understanding that Marinette defies capture.
Instead, she inspires, and he finds then that she is that much more real.
Though there is nothing inspiring about the wings that beat harder and harder in his stomach as he watches her smooth his drawing out in front of her. The butterflies begin to sink like lead weights as the seconds tick by.
Just as he's wondering what would be the best way to retrieve his drawing and clips back and pretend nothing ever happened, Ivan slides a small paper airplane in front of him. Doodles of dresses and lace patterns scatter across the white paper, but scrawled across the broad wings in blue ink is Marinette's curly writing.
Nathanaël! The drawings are so gorgeous, I don't know what to say! Thank you for them :) And thank you also for the clips. My hair was driving me crazy!
When Nathanaël looks up this time, he brushes his hair clear from his eyes to see Marinette twisted in her seat to look back at him, her grin bright enough to light the room. Three white butterfly clips tuck the dark wing of her bangs back, clearing the way for the vivid blue of open skies.
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A sunset spills between Marinette's fingers, the liquid colours soft and rich against her calloused palms. The long, wide ribbon unfolds in rippling waves of shimmering purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, until a large square rests in front of her, more blanket than scarf. It is, technically, both. She is properly captivated by the dye job, the weaving, the sheen of high quality silk.
But she's not fooled and Gabriel expects this, even anticipates the sharp turn of thought in her mind. He can see the appreciation in her gaze give way to calculation as her fingertips catch on slubs left in the weave: imperfection purposefully left among perfection.
The gift is exquisite and thoughtful and entirely loaded.
"I was recently made aware that the blue scarf Adrien possesses was, in fact, made and given by you despite what he was led to believe. Consider this a thank you, for what you have done for both me and him." Gabriel deliberately leaves his tone professional, distant, and ambiguous.
He knows of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. How could he not, ever since he made it a point of collecting any and all information available on every one of Adrien's classmates when he started attending public school? He knows how much her parents earn; what grades she got all through collège, lycée, and university; and which extracurricular activities she's been a part of, to say the least. He knows of her talent for design, which was strong enough to win many of his competitions and land an internship with him; and of her ambition, which drives her to open her own design label someday.
He also knows of her relationship with Adrien.
Before, Gabriel had been satisfied of knowing Marinette simply in his peripheries. Involving Adrien however, instantly changes the game and turns her into a high priority key player.
He knows of Marinette Dupain-Cheng; now, he aims to know her.
"That was so long ago… It was my decision, to let him believe it was from you," Marinette says after a moment, her brows furrowed in caution and suspicion. Her eyes meet his unwavering gaze squarely. "I did it for him."
She didn't miss the slight intonation in his words then, the cadence that pointed more to a dismissal than approval. It wasn't entirely personal; but then again, matters involving Adrien had always been personal for Gabriel. Too personal, which often led to him retreating to the other extreme of being too distant.
Funny, how a slip of a girl had the nerve to reprimand him on that in a few words. Her impertinence should have guaranteed her immediate removal from both his company and his son's life; but truthfully, Gabriel is pleased by her fire and how she wields it to protect Adrien, even now.
"And as I understand, he was grateful for your deception," Gabriel says mildly, though there is no mistaking the double-edged reproach hidden in his words.
"It made him happy," Marinette says.
And that was that. They may have differing views of what happiness looks like but Gabriel would have to be a fool to miss the way his son completely lights up and becomes lost within his besotted smile whenever he mentions Marinette.
A fool, Gabriel most certainly is not.
"Then I hope you find the gift to your satisfaction," he returns, and the curl of Marinette's smile tells him that she doesn't miss his subtlety. He starts entertaining the notion that, despite being her superior with the power to ruin or elevate her career, she may have a slight personal vendetta against him on Adrien's behalf. It seems his son is not the only one entirely devoted to his partner.
What Gabriel doesn't say with words, he's already articulated in a single gesture. The blanket scarf is one of a kind, setting the bar for quality, standard, and expectations.
It is both a thanks and a threat.
"It's beautiful," Marinette concedes, as close to a surrender as she'll allow. The scarf turns over in her hands and for a moment, she looks ready to give the gift back. Instead, a new light enters her eyes: an idea. It infuses her smile, sparks her expression into something genuine, if not mischievous. "Thank you then. Or, I guess, you're welcome?"
Her smile has Gabriel wondering what she's playing at. Experience has taught him to value her ideas, though in this moment it only makes him curious and cautious. Satisfied that his intended message has been received and understood by her, he simply offers her a nod before turning heel and distancing himself back into his work.
Sharp as a knife, rather self-righteous, and fiercely loyal. He has a funny feeling that she may actually be perfect for Adrien.
Love is not always enough though, this Gabriel knows from first hand experience. He loathes being wrong, but he hopes Marinette can be the exception for Adrien's sake.
It's years later when she matches him, after she and Adrien have built a life together in their new home, slipping on matching wedding rings, and tucking in their firstborn baby girl for the first time.
The invitation to visit Emma is not unexpected, but it still takes Gabriel a week to face seeing his first grandchild. He's always been aware that while he is a successful businessman and a gifted designer, he has never been the best parent.
An abandoned husband and an absent father already decorates his list of personal achievements. There is shame that he has never been beholden to face until now.
His trepidation ebbs in slow retreat as Marinette passes over Emma swaddled in a familiar, exquisite blanket the rich colours of a sunset. A grandfather's embrace, warm and assured before Gabriel has even seen her.
It is both a kindness and an admonishment.
Carved edges soften and relax, allowing for a genuine smile to settle naturally across Gabriel's face. His arms around Emma are instinctive, if a bit stiff; but Emma is already tenderly and gently cradled by work wrought by his own two hands. A little stiffness, a little structure then is perhaps necessary for some support.
Marinette's smile is knowing when Gabriel looks up. A single nod conveys his gracious acknowledgement and respect of a game well played.
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"I thought you couldn't eat this for a long time because it would be toxic for you. And it's also your favourite berry."
"... Strawberry… and chocolate?"
Ladybug passes the other half of her macaron as her answer, the reward for guessing correctly. With quick, delicate bites, Chat polishes the treat off with an appreciative hum. Small red crumbs fall from his clawed fingertips to join the confetti of crumbs decorating the stone beneath them, as multicoloured as the stained glass rose window at their backs.
His hand dips into the paper bag between them and surfaces with a violently pink macaron. He chews thoughtfully as Ladybug watches the twinkling lights of Paris in slumber before them, waiting for him.
Despite the late hour, there are still a few people in the open square before them. One young woman looks up, spots them, and waves. Ladybug is waving back before Chat can react, and he treasures the smile that lights her expression.
They're an easy duo to spot up on the balcony of Notre-Dame. The stonework is lit aglow all night long for the tourists, staining the cathedral the colour of old gold, turning their red and black figures into stark icons.
"It's… it's a type of fruit, I think. Foreign. Sweet and pale-"
"Lychee," Ladybug guesses confidently.
"I feel like you have a distinct advantage in this game," Chat grumbles as he passes the remaining half of his macaron over.
"Maybe, maybe not," she singsongs before shooting him a cheeky grin. "Guess that means you'll have to keep eating and practicing."
"My Lady, are you trying to sweeten me up?" he teases, laughing as Ladybug flicks crumbs in his face in retaliation for the pun.
"You were doing so well too," she sighs dramatically, but she's smiling and poking at his arm and the world has never felt more perfect. She reaches into the bag, rummages around, and frowns. "I think we finished them all."
With practiced familiarity, she folds the empty bag into a small square and hands it Chat, who tucks it into one of his zippered pockets to dispose of later. His fingers run along something else he has stored in his pocket, reminding him of what he brought tonight.
"Wait," he says, his voice soft with nerves and excitement. "There's one more thing."
Curious, Ladybug swings her legs up to sit cross legged, shifting so her attention is fully on him. Her mask only makes her blue eyes that much more luminous, that much more arresting, but her encouraging grin serves as courage enough.
"Happy anniversary, Bugaboo," Chat murmurs as he draws two long ribbons from his pocket, bright red and slender. They ripple from his fingertips, light enough to flutter in the cool breeze that wraps around them. "I know you're not really one to celebrate these kinds of things, but I saw these and thought of you."
"Silly kitty, I would've gotten something for you if I'd known you were going to do this," Ladybug laughs wonderingly.
"Every moment with you is a gift," Chat declares. "And the macarons are a nice bonus."
"Just when I think you can't get any cheesier," she groans, but her tone betrays her fondness. "Thank you, Chat." The ribbons twist in the wind to reach towards her, and she catches the ends instinctively.
The ribbons string between them, arcing in the wind and shimmering with gold light.
Subtly, Chat pulses the pressure of his fingers gripping his ribbon ends, transmitting a message down that he knows she cannot hear or see; but hopefully one she already knows. The ribbons aren't tin can phone lines... but the funny thing, he finds, is that Ladybug inspires belief in the impossible.
Sometimes, he can find small moments of the past with her: happy moments, important moments. Usually, he revels being in the present with her, saving the people and city he loves with his best friend by his side. And always, she gives him a reason to believe in the future.
Ladybug saves Paris. And every day, she saves him a little bit too.
"If you wanted to play cat's cradle, you should've just said so," she says, looking up at him beneath her lashes.
Funny, how she can do that too with just a single look. Turn his heart into bells thundering at her command..
"No need to tie yourself up in knots over it." He flashes a grin that he hopes isn't too transparent at her.
Another flicker of her eyes up at him tells him she's not fooled. She always could read him best.
Gently, she tugs on her ribbon ends; and he lets go.
"Hilarious, coming from you. How many times have you been tied up by an akuma exactly? I'm starting to think you might actually like it when that happens," Ladybug says as she loops and knots one ribbon to a pigtail before doing the other.
"Hey! They catch me by surprise. I create diversions for you, then I'm not paying attention, and really, it was all for the greater good," Chat huffs, his cheeks pinking much to his embarrassment. He neither confirms nor denies the latter part of her observation. "Besides, you always help me out when I'm in a bind."
"I'd never leave you." She meets his gaze squarely, fiercely, her fingers falling away from her hair. Behind her, the two ribbons swoop and twist in the breeze, crimson cursive in the night air.
"I know," he says softly, his confidence and trust in her absolute.
Sometimes, Chat wishes she would because a queen shouldn't be held from securing a checkmate by saving an outmaneuvered knight. He takes those hits because he's selfish enough to sacrifice himself for her.
Ladybug unfurls a small smile at him before looking out over the city once more. Light gilds the edge of her profile and rides along the curve of pigtails down to her ribbons, muting the rest of her features in shadow. She looks a more like a young teenage girl than a superhero who stalks forward into the face of danger to fight, to win.
But Chat remembers, one year ago, how uncertainty and doubt carved unforgiving shadows onto her face as they were harshly told to leave Stoneheart to the professionals, to those who know what they're doing. How fear was the strongest weight that dragged her down, down until her eyes dimmed and her shoulders hunched and her back bowed in defeat.
And he remembers a moment, where his palms gripped her shoulders gently, desperately, because he couldn't allow her to believe her fears. He felt her listen and trust his words, felt when her insecurities burned out so courage could rush into the empty vacuum and reinforce her spine with steel.
That was the moment Ladybug began believing in him. When he became her catalyst.
Chat thinks she may just be a bit selfish for him too.
"Are the ribbons lopsided?" Ladybug asks, her voice quiet enough to meld into the faint ambient noise of the sleeping city.
He knows he's staring, tracing the curves of her cheeks and nose, jumping from each freckle that peeks shyly from beneath her mask. His gaze automatically slides to the ribbons trailing down her back and onto the gold-lit stone of the cathedral.
"I was just thinking they look beautiful on you, my Lady," Chat says, before grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "My belle."
"I'm going to make your ears ring for that," Ladybug fires back, her eyes sparking with familiar humour again. Stained glass rose windows have nothing on how colourful her expressions can be.
"Ah, but you already make my heart sing!" he sighs dramatically, earning him a snort from her.
"We both know you can't carry a tune," she reminds him. "Good thing you come with all sorts of bells and whistles already." Playfully, she reaches over to tap his bell, sounding a clear chime in the air.
"And now you do too," Chat says, reaching back and threading his fingers carefully through her ribbons.
He hesitates, searching for her permission and approval before receiving it as she scoots over to sit right next to him. Gently, slowly, he combs his claws through her pigtails, the soothing motion lulling them both into quiet.
The ribbons curve up and twine through his fingers in a sentient manner similar to his tail. They flutter and flirt around his claws, subtle as a heartbeat.
The red silk curls against his palm before he lets them go, his hands open for whenever they choose to return.
AN: I'm afraid the third chapter will take a little longer to come since it consists mostly of characters I'm least familiar with. I'm also still in the process of planning/writing my flowershop/tattoo au fic so it's a feat of juggling that I'm working on here. As always, I'd love to know who's your favourite character/part!