Enemies to Allies to Lovers
Villain x Villain Timinette imagine how fun that would be
"You don't trust me?" He asks Marinette, who was warily looking at her own glass of wine. She looked at him and felt a shiver run down her back. "I don't have a reason to yet."
Tim rolled his eyes at her. "While your paranoia is what rightfully kept you alive, it'll be the death of you. Know who you can trust." Marinette's brow arched at that. "I know who I can trust, and I can assure you that you're not in that miniscule list."
Tim moved forward to delicately pluck her glass from her hand but she kept a steady hold on it. He raised a brow at her. "What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?"
"Proving that you can trust me, obviously." She pulled back the glass, stood up and walked over to the side. Tim watched her with a curious gaze. "Now what are you doing?"
"Proving that I can trust you, obviously." She lifts Tim's chin up and pushes his head onto the back of the couch.
"What, are you going to kiss me?" He asks, a smirk on his face.
"Do you think I'm that daft to offer you a kiss? No." She steadies the glass above Tim, tilting it to readily pour wine.
"Open your mouth, you're going to finish my glass ‘til the last drop."
...
Why is it that Tim often finds himself at the bottom of her shoes? Literally, in this case. Tim sits still on the couch underneath the weight of her high heeled shoes, a glass of champagne in his hand delicately carried by the stem of the tulip glass. Her piercing stare seemed to burn his soul while her shoes stain his black button up shirt. “...is there anything I can help you with, my dear?”
“Fix my shoes for me.”
It should irritate him, being told what to do once again, but with her all he wants to do tease her and do it anyway. “Am I your servant? Should I call you master, Marinette?”
She shrugs, pushing her right foot harder. Tim cringes internally at the stain his cleaner would complain about. “If you want to, I won’t complain. I just want you do fix my shoes.”
“And tell me,” Tim says, pausing to sip at his champagne. “Why should I do that? Especially when you didn’t even say please. Has your mother never taught you manners?”
“Of course she did, it’s just that you’re not worthy of them.” She lifts her foot higher right over his neck and Tim’s breath hitches. “I don’t think a lady should lift their leg so high, especially when she’s wearing a dress.” Her dress leaves only a scrap for the imagination, skin tight and red as bright as his old costume, sleeve-less heart shaped-dip dress that flows down to a skirt that sways with the heavy weight of literal colored metal. She was dressed like a flame on top of burnt wood, ready to rise up and burn whatever else she wants to.
“And I don’t think we’d be in this position if you’ve followed my command.” Tim tuts at her and hands her his glass, shaking his head as he ties the black high heeled lace shoe properly. “Do I have to kneel down on my own floor or would you prefer to step on me again?”
She smiles like a nightmare in the night before it scares you, shakes you and wakes you up terrified. “Good boy for asking.” She puts her foot down and steps on him again, this time with her left foot. “I’ll have you kneeling some other day instead.”