Not beta'd, not edited. Very rough. Stand alone. No more chapters. If I come to my senses and realize how much work this needs, I may take it down to edit it. Otherwise, expect "what you see is what you get."

Hawkz

After the day she had, Marinette relished all the tiny crinkles and pops of cartilage along her spine and neck as she stretched. A deep, satisfied groan worked its way up her throat. Long day indeed. Days like this called for certain relaxing routines: Teapot and favorite mug, a bowl of hand pulled noodles with Szechuan peppercorns and crumbled bits of lamb, sketchbook, pens—because tonight she felt bold—a crossword puzzle she printed off the internet, and solitude.

Hissing from the shadows put panic into her marrow.

Marinette had enough time to blink and for her heart to restart when the were morphed from the shadows of an adjacent rooftop to her balcony's railing.

He wasn't fully formed. Ears, claws, and tail twitched and flickered, but his body remained humanoid. The lack of white in his eyes, slitted as a cat—probably what his were spirit is, her mind whispered—those green orbs burned in the dark, the black of the night, the onyx of his fur. The darkness of his being and the darkness that surrounded him blurred until they looked indistinguishable from the other. His fur bristled about him in his half-transformed state, feral and wild, upon where her panic jolted into fear.

A were, an unstable, half-transformed, unfamiliar were, was on her balcony. Her parents were out and Tikki with them, plus her phone was on her bed underneath a trapdoor. Which was shut.

Fffffffuuuuu—

Marinette swallowed. His entire being honed to her presence at the sound. Green like copper-infused fire. "Hello." Whatever the were expected it wasn't that. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice. To Marinette, her voice sounded raspy, hollowed out by that fear clutching at the edges of her stomach.

A were. An unknown were is on my balcony.

Lots of things went wrong with feral weres. Marinette read the headlines and saw the pictures. Prejudice against them was frequent and ubiquitous. More than a few Frenchmen used it as a slur. People, adults, say its better than it was twenty years ago. Knowledge helps. Understanding helps. Kindness and empathy go long ways. Alya scoffs and quips that they still have a long way to go. The young witch doesn't think of any of this. Not when she can see its ribs and read deeper into its lifestyle by the quality of its coat, the thrum of its heart, and the state of its paws. (Hands?)

The were flinched and crouched into another hiss, more reflexive than voluntary. He came across less scary when his stomach gurgled, pitiful and low. The words rolled off her tongue, more reflexive than voluntary. "Do you like Chinese? Careful though; it's spicy." His stomach rumbles again, and Marinette can see his nostrils flare, mouth opening just enough to show off his canines. Very, very sharp canines.

Nerves burning and throat gone dry, Marinette ran a slow tongue over her bottom lip. This was going to go so badly for her. Probably. But… Marinette saw the were's protruding ribs and came to a decision reflected in her eyes. The were stiffened to attention.

He hadn't expected that—her leaving a bowl of lukewarm Chinese noodles in front of him—that much was obvious. His tail swished and bats and despite his nose turning up at the offering, his eyes drag back from where the smell emanated. He swallowed.

"Go for it." It sounds so casual, too casual given her circumstances, and Marinette thinks she's having an out of body experience. Maybe its shock? She's still thinking about it when the were dove for the bowl, much less grace than she thought a werecat would possess. She didn't offer chopsticks, though it doesn't look like it would have mattered. He's all teeth and claws and hunger.

When he gets the hiccups from eating too fast, the spell is broken.

Marinette guffawed a laugh or three, smiling. The feral were was looking at her, wide-eyed and startled. She muffled her laughter behind a hand, but her smile was wide and eyes crinkled. Marinette was not doing a good job of hiding her amusement as her visitor huffed, nose upturned again and went about licking his claws.

Marinette grinned into her palm. "Nice try, chat noir; alas, I saw everything."

He perked at that, focused in ways that have her grin slipping. Clearing her throat does little the help the spike in nerves. "I, uh, I don't have any more."

He sniffed at that admission, not pleased, but his eyes find her pot of tea and mug and covetousness colored his actions. Marinette sighed, resigned. The rest of her tea goes to him as well. His claws clink dangerous, involuntary intentions against the porcelain, her favorite mug, but he regained some sense of manners. He took slow, cautious, quiet sips. Apparently, it's too bitter for him as his nose wrinkled after the first sip. It doesn't stop him from drawing the mug dry and tapping the mug's sides, mournful for another.

"That's it, kitty. No more." As if in commiseration, her stomach emitted a squealing whine. He did just eat her dinner, after all. Marinette had some choice mutters about that and immediately flushed as his ears swivel in her direction. Right. Were. Keen senses. Like hearing.

More unfortunate was that he heard her mention dessert. She had been saving those macaroons for later this evening. When Marinette doesn't fetch them, the were fidgets until he's facing her, expectant. "Seriously?" Marinette sagged into her chaise. It's a secret stash, under the table housing her teapot and behind a deceiving slab of wood. She took two, out of spite and hunger, before giving him the rest of the box. He grumbled over that, tail swishing.

"Tough," she chewed out. "You just got my dinner, my drink, and my dessert, chat noir. Generosity, unlike greed, has limits you know." By the third cookie, the taste finally registered as his gaze jumps up from the cookie to her, back to the cookie, to her again, and Marinette feared he'll give himself whiplash if he keeps doing that. "Pretty good, right? Best bakery in Paris." The were chewed more slowly, more carefully, savoring the taste. That's what Marinette told herself anyway.

He doesn't linger after that, just long enough for Marinette to blink twice, because he looks at her and—

Did his eyes just dilate?

"No! No. We are not making this a regular thing!" She probably should have said this at the second time, not the fifth and certainly not the seventh, but Marinette was saying it now. The were ignored her. "Chat Noir! You! You—urgh!" She had no other title for him, he gave no indication that his tongue was capable of speech in this state, and familiarity bred boldness.

She smacked his claws away from her second favorite mug. Technically her favorite now, given what happened to the last one. Her index finger flicked his nose, precariously close to his teeth—a thought she thought less nowadays—and gave this command one last try. "I am not adopting strays. In fact, I shouldn't have fed you. Or named you, or—"

Great. He was purring. "No."

Now the kitten eyes. Marinette huffed and turned away. He batted at her dressing gown's tie, playful then sullen.

She must still be piqued over what he did to her mug. Guilt gnawed at his insides over that. It was an accident. (Sort of.)

Chat Noir—he liked that name—pulled out his trump card. Winding around her legs and leaning on them just so tangled her up enough to fall on the chaise with a thump. Curling into her backside, he unleashed a mighty loud purr. It vibrated up her spine and tingled her nerves. He continued to rumble and purr until she slumped against his form. Her sigh was his sound of victory.

"I know you are grinning. Stop." He ducked his head into her shoulder blade, realizing later that she could feel it pressed against her skin. His tail batted happily. The purrs grew genuine, softer, when her fingers worked their magic, combing through his locks of blonde, nails scrapping his nape to make him arch so, down his back, along his spine, patting his tummy, then back up again in no discernible pattern. Chat Noir loved her hands. Warm. Loving. They weren't like the hands back home. Sometimes they stilled or slowed down over his ribs, and Chat Noir had an inkling as to why.

Food could always come later, come after this. This was more important. Always. Chat Noir hummed and dug his head under her arm so that she might take the hint to scratch his ears. (She took it.)

Marinette left him when he was lost in his affection high, retreating down the trap door to fetch two bowls of leftovers and a plate of unsold pastries. Chat wasn't picky when it came to food, though he liked his tea sickly sweet, which made him an easier intrusion—visitor? certainly not a guest—than some. He had his surprises though, his skills with chopsticks one of them.

His preferences for her macaroons—hers, not her dad's—was another.

Marinette passed by Tikki on her way up the ladder. The fairy hummed her disgruntlement. She was not too fond of the late night visitor, antenna tweaking in that way which illustrated her displeasure. Cookies and other bribes helped, but time and exposure may be the best remedies. Unless Chat Noir tried to eat Tikki again.

Their evenings go by quietly, and Marinette resigns herself that they will be their evenings from now on, never hers, where he lounges by or comes close enough to touch. Either way, he seeks her presence in visual or tactile form, but he lets her be otherwise. Sketching, humming, sometimes just thinking. (However, if she's thinking, she better be petting him. Marinette has suspicions that he's trying to condition her into a habit. One for his benefit.) Some nights she speaks to him, thinking out loud or even telling him of her day. He never speaks back. Warbles and chirps and meows but no tongue of human speech. It doesn't surprise her. Not all weres remain capable of speech post-transformation and he is one of them it seems. Besides, sometimes it's a comfort, having someone who can only listen.

That Chat is an absolute sap for anime and cartoons and movies, especially the sentimental kind, is both an amusement and irritation. For once she buys non-fabric things with her allowance. Nino knew the best electronic stores in Paris, especially the second-hand and pawn shops, and the day spent with Alya and Nino, hunting down something affordable and within her budget, was a nice treat. Even better was the find of an old, boxy TV, definitely a 90's relic, with a clerk kind enough to discount the dvd player so she could get both. Well, the clerk was kind enough after going a few rounds with Alya. Haggling is an art form she perfected, Alya liked to say.

She hadn't expected to do this. Hadn't expected any of this. But one visit saw him limp and despondent and though he curled up into her side—or perhaps because of that—he ate little. Attention was his only goal but he grew restless and left in the span of an hour. It bothered Marinette more than she cared to admit. Which led to the surprise on one of Chat's subsequent visits. She cornered him, cocooned him in blankets, mindful of the claws, and herded him onto the chaise. It was a rapid affair of events that left his expression wind-blown and bedazzled—cute, was the next adjective that came to mind—where Marinette got out snacks, another blanket, and turned on the movie.

The Aristocats.

Marinette didn't have the words to describe his reaction nor his expression to what she did, yet, Marinette knew how she felt when she saw it. Knew that she would do things like this for him often enough that he wouldn't look so surprised the next time.

Perhaps, because he was now so sweet, acted so young, grew a bit more plump, coat shinier and sleeker, that Marinette forgot what she knew when she first saw him. That Chat Noir was a feral were.

She certainly knew it now, the thought crashing against her skull in time with the heart battering her ribcage.

Marinette swallowed.

Bad move.

Marinette licked her lips.

Really bad move.

Marinette shifted on the chaise.

You know what? Just, don't. Move.

Could she breathe? She better start breathing. Her heart was pumping blood at an alarming rate but there was about to be a lack of oxygen in her veins. It was a stuttering, unsure thing, breathing, and it brushed her chest against Chat Noir's. Dark or not, Marinette saw his irises constrict and contract. Focused.

"Chat?" He was breathing as unsteadily as she was—not necessarily a good sign—and his claws dug into the cloth behind her. Puncturing it with terrible ease. "Chat, I swear to god, if you break any more of my things—"

He paid her no mind. (They really needed to work on that.) Rather, he made himself busy dragging his nose along her collarbone down to her belly. Giggling at first, she yelped when Chat buried his nose under her shirt.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not happening. Uncertainty or not, Marinette bucked him off the chaise. Chat Noir looked as happy with that as with whatever he smelled on her. "What is with you," she hissed. "You don't get to prance in here most nights, smell me, then tackle me to the chaise just because you don't like what you smell. New flash Chat! I will always smell of flour and sugar and probably vanilla, too!" He continued to growl and pace. Worse yet, Marinette knew that pace. He wasn't sulking; he was looking for an opening.

"Don't you—" He pounced again, this time not underestimating Marinette's core body strength, rolling around until he pinned her. Then he tried working off her shirt. His opponent cursed and elbowed his jaw but Chat played dirty. If he couldn't get the shirt off cleanly, then in tatters would do just as nicely.

Marinette didn't think so.

She decked him soundly, bringing stars into his vision, and wiggling out from under him to reach the trapdoor but Chat found one of her ankles and dragged her back. Now he had her right where he wanted her. Marinette tensed as he proceed to rub himself all over her, going so far as to lick her stomach, collarbone, and neck several times. She was red from forehead down (and plotting murder) though Chat looked especially pleased with his work.

"Bad. Kitty," she grit out. And the day had been so pleasant. She had lunch with Nino and Alya. Chloe was sick from school today. She visited a pet shop with Rose and Juleka. She…wait.

"You cannot be jealous of a kitten."

Chat Noir growled. Ire made her audacious.

"Tomorrow I am going to hug all the kittens. All of them. Kiss their noses, too."

Chat growled again, louder, warning.

"Not to mention the puppies."

Ire also made her forgetful of the fact that she was not wearing a shirt. Chat's eyes narrowed into hard, razor-thin slits. Then he grinned, macabre and full of teeth. Teeth that he sunk into the soft side of her belly. No amount of yelping or bucking got him off. The sensation of teeth and wet and heat imprinted into her skin was not a nice one; it felt too much like an intrusion of foreign magic. While it did not feel like a kiss nor resemble anything akin to a hickey, it was a mark, a brand, and its affects Marinette experienced the next day.

Rose wondered aloud why none of the animals would go near her, especially compared to how affectionate they were the other day. Marinette huffed and sulked and refused to talk about it.

This, this right here is why you don't take in feral strays.

End.