#mulmouse

His eyes are wild in hopes that he spots his little mouse in between roofs and chimney tops. His feet slap against the tiles agilely; every so often stopping to catch a closer look of his surroundings.

The skies of Paris on this late night are mostly clear; strands of thick, rounded clouds are sparse across the sky and display themselves amongst the bright moon. While the air is crisp with the chill of night, Chat feels no cold when he stops to observe his position.

A silent giggle has his ears twitching and he advances his body towards the noise that echoes against the walls of two buildings. Jumping off the roof he was perched upon, he lands with a soft thud in the entrance of the alleyway. At the end stands Marinette, extravagant in the beauty that is wielding the mouse miraculous. Nothing could have prepared him for what she would become.

He runs, and the little mouse stands still with a smitten smirk plastered across her face. Once Chat is in close enough proximity he wraps an arm around her waist solidly and plants his other onto the wall behind them.

Marinette squeaks; her exhale airy from running but more so the fact that the entire front half of her body is pressed snugly against Chat’s. She can feel his fingers spread wide across the arch of her back and she craves more of his touch.

Her cheeks are flush from the brisk air, along with her lips that are vibrant and pink. She breathes deeply along with Chat. His fixated gaze upon her own is intense, and her cheeks heat up once more.

“I caught you my little mouse.” He says, voice husk. His eyes never waver. Marinette leans forward, outstretching an arm over one of his shoulders.

“What are you going to do about it, Chaton?” she whispers, voice inaudible. He pauses briefly before swooping down and pressing his lips onto hers.

Against the cold temperature, their bodies are warm and the sensation produced from their intertwining lips feel as if they are burning. Chat urges forward, fingers digging into the meat of Marinette’s back and she squeaks into his grasp. His teeth find her bottom lip and he tugs gingerly; taunting his prey.

Marinette’s arms slide their way over his shoulders to clutch the bottom strands of his hair, or to run her fingers down his scalp and spine. Chat’s left art remains extended out on the wall. Canny, she parts her lips and lavishes herself into his broad frame.