Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ladybug swung through the window of her new apartment, cracking into the still-unfamiliar sill with her knee.  Reflexes dulled after a hard night, her body jerked violently at the impact, which would have been fine except that the vanilla schnapps in her non-yoyo hand tipped, sloshing out most of what little remained in the bottle.

“Gah-shiddin-fehkhg,” came the slurred curse, her distress more at the waste of alcohol than any pain.  The Ladybug suit was magic, after all.  Too bad it couldn’t help her hangover.   Or maybe…?  Nah.  There was no way Tikki would approve of Marinette’s current state of shitfacery.  Ugh.  Lectures from tiny gods were the worst.

But!  A groggy light bulb went off above her head.  Tikki was always concerned about Marinette getting her eight hours.  If she fell asleep transformed, Tikki probably wouldn’t rouse her just to scold her.   Hahaaaaa.  Loophole, sucka.   With very little further ado, Ladybug stumbled over to the crappy, new-to-her, dorm-issued bed and flopped unceremoniously onto it.

Only to leap back in surprise when she landed on a lump of blankets that had way too many arms and legs.

“Whah?” the lump mumbled.  A tangle of blonde hair emerged from the covers, followed by eyes that promptly flung wide in shock.   Probably at the sight of a superhero sprawled on the floor rubbing her ass, but honestly, who could say.  “Ladybug?!  How— what, uh, I mean, uh…”

Oh, snap.  She hadn’t realized she’d gotten fucked up enough for hallucinations.  She pulled herself together enough to sit back on the bed, blinking as a lamp came on.  “Holy shit.”   Nice one, drunk brain.  “Gotta say, not my number-one choice, but not bad.”   Wink.  “Not bad at all.”

“Wha-aaat?” the intruder squinted.   Oh, wow.  So that’s what bedroom eyes look like.

“Well, I mean, obviously this is a dream.”  And given who her brain had conjured up, probably a naughty dream at that.  Which seemed like her first stroke of good luck all evening, so she’d take it.  Him.  Both of the things.

“Ladybug?”

Oh, right.  Imaginary boy talking, mustn’t be rude.  In her defense, it was kinda hard to focus, what with her blood alcohol level and all.  “Sorry, what was that?”

“I… okay, nevermind, just— what makes you think this is a dream?”

“You mean besides finding Parisian it-boy and supermodel Adrien Agreste in my bed?”  Her balance faltered, but she played it off, swaying towards him and fluttering her lashes in a probably-good-enough facsimile of sexiness.  

“Your bed?”

For a figment of her subconscious, he sure did ask a lot of questions.  She aimed a flirty boop towards his nose and ended up poking him in the cheek.  “Silly heartthrob, this is my apartment.”

“Uh… Ladybug?  It’s really not.”

“Sure seems like it.”  Standard-issue dorm layout, built-in bookshelves, computer desk, stack of moving boxes.  Maybe a few things were out of place (but really, nobody could remember where anything wound up on move-in day.)  

He sat up straighter.  “No!  I just haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

She rolled her eyes and scanned the room.  “That’s my Jagged Stone poster.”

“I like Jagged Stone,” he defended.

She waved towards the TV stand.  “My copy of Ultimate Mecha Strike III.”

“Lots of people—”

“And do lots of people have a framed selfie of Chat Noir and Ladybug too?”

“Probab—”

She pointed to his chest in triumph.  “My Ladybug pajamas.”

He spluttered.  “They don’t sell them in men’s sizes!”

“They don’t even sell them in women’s sizes!” she countered.  “But at least I can fit into a children’s XL.”  She took a minute to appreciate his biceps in the tight red shirt.   Thank you, horny drunk brain.

“Huh?”

Oh crap, she’d said that out loud.  

“Besides!” she rushed on, “the window’s open.”  There’d been a floor meeting about how all the building’s windows were sealed shut due to some fire safety thing, not that anyone had factored superhero strength into those plans, so even if by some ridiculous coincidence she did live in the same housing complex as Adrien I-can-afford-a-penthouse Agreste, hers would still be the only open window.

“But—”

She moved the finger that was still pushing at his cheek and pressed it to his pretty, pretty lips.  This fantasy had gotten really conversation-heavy, and she was wasting valuable REM time.  “Listen, hot stuff, do you want to talk about whose place this is, or do you want to not talk?”  She waggled her eyebrows just in case he didn’t get the picture.  “You know?”   Wink.  “Wink?”

“Did you just— mmmph!”

Gentle hands grasped her shoulders, prying her off before she could deepen the kiss.  “Ladybug.”  He hung his head with a sigh.  “LB, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” she huffed.  Wasn’t he here for dream sex?  What was so wrong with her?  Last she checked she was still a fucking superhero.

“You taste like a distillery.”

“And you’re kinda picky for someone who’s not even real,” she shot back.  Then her actions registered, and a familiar prickling in her eyes turned into an onslaught of tears.  “Oh god, I’m a jerk.”

“What?  No!”  He started rubbing soothing circles into her upper arm.  “No, why would you say that?”

“Because!  I can’t just assume that because you’re a hot guy and you’re in my bed and this is a sex dream that you want me to kiss you!  I’m such a creep!”

“Aw, Ladybug, you’re just… it’s late, and you’ve been drinking, and—”

“I’m a bad person!” she sobbed.

“No!  You just don’t have your usual filters at the moment, that’s all, right?”  His fingers fidgeted, torn between pulling her close and staying on their comfy shoulder-perch.  

She tipped forward, rubbing her sniffles into his chest.  “I sexually harassed you!  I’m a sexual harasser!”

“Shhh, hey, shhh…”  He settled a hand on the back of her head, petting in calm strokes down the side of her neck.  “Look, I would love for you to kiss me if you were sober.”

She pulled back a fraction, blinking wetly.  “Really?”

“Really.”

“I didn’t nonconsent you?”

His face scrunched up on one side.  “I mean…?”

“Oh, god! ”  Sobs turned into full-out wails as her forehead thunked back into his shirt.

“Ah, fuck.”  His arms tightened around her as she cried it out, murmuring soft reassurances in her ear and combing through her hair with his fingers.  Once the waterworks had dissipated to a manageable level, he carefully sat her up and brushed her bangs out of her eyes.  “Want me to make some tea?”

She hiccuped, searching her brain to remember if she’d unpacked her electric kettle yet.  After a beat, Adrien flushed and started to scratch the back of his neck.  “Or um, I could bring you some water?  Gatorade?”    His eyes darted to the bottle of schnapps laying in a puddle on the floor.  “You should try to stay hydrated.”

She peered at him in mild distrust.  “This is a really weird dream, I hope you know.”

“That’s because it’s not,” he chuckled.  “But I’m still happy to take care of you.”

“Whatever you say, Dreamdrien…  Wait."  She could do better.  "Adream Agreste."

“Hey, you punned!”  He grinned impishly, proud for some reason.  “So… if you’re sleeping right now, does that mean you’re getting some beauty Agreste?”

A grimace twisted her mouth.  “I tried getting some, you dork.”  She slumped at the reminder of how he’d shot her down.  “And why are you channelling Chat Noir?  Is everyone gonna act like him today?”   What the hell, drunk brain.

“Oh…”  Adrien went quiet, guilt flashing over his face, which number one, made no sense, and B, ticked her off.

“Yeah, oh.  Anything you want to ask?”

“Did…”  He cleared his throat.  “Did  something happen with your partner?”

“No.”  She let out a long breath.  “Not really.”  She pressed a hand to her stomach just as it burbled.  “Man, a baguette would be really good right now.  And some ham.  Anything, really, to soak up the booze.”  Adrien scrabbled over to his desk and came back with a power bar, some weird brand her parents must’ve snuck into her snack stash.  “Thanks, I’m starving.  Oh, guh.  Hold on.  Okay, maybe it’s just—”  

One and a half burps later, she felt good enough to continue.  “So earlier this guy, he helped me move a few boxes in, and he seemed nice, you know?  Not like a Nice Guy,” she tipped an invisible fedora, “a regular nice guy.  And we were talking about art, and I thought, ‘Oh, good!  A cool neighbor, that’s good!’  But, noooo, of course not…”   Rambling, Marinette.  Apparently that particular bad habit followed her even into her dreams.  “This guy Theo, you won’t believe how he tries to pick up girls.”

Adrien’s brow furrowed, but he tilted his head in silent encouragement.

She leaned forward and  waved an imaginary coffee cup.  “Can I tell you a secret, beautiful?” she smarmed, in a nasal imitation of Theo’s earlier line.  “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m Chat Noir… and I’d love to be the cat that gets your cream.”  

“The hell he did,” breathed Adrien.

“Mm-hmm.  Super gross,” she agreed, dimly noting how Adrien’s jaw had clenched.  “I guess it’s not a huge surprise that someone’d impersonate us in order to get laid, and this fucking clownfish didn’t even look like Chat, plus, I know my kitty’d never treat his identity like a goddamn wingman.  I know that.”  She scrubbed at her face, muffling her next words.  “But still, for like, two tenths of a second, I almost…”  Her breath hitched.  “Arrgh, people suck.”

“Ladybug.”  Adrien’s fingers curled tentatively around hers.  Oh sure, now he gets handsy.  “Do you want to know who Chat Noir is?”

“You’re my subconscious,” she peeved, picking at the bedspread.  “Shouldn’t you know?”

He swallowed.  “Pretend I don’t.”

“Ugh, fuck!”  She threw her hands up and glared.  “You need me to say it?  Of course I want to know who he is, I’m in love with him!”

“Wh— you— uh?”  Adrien gaped at her, and honestly?  She was fucking done.  Because he looked downright flabbergasted, like it was so inconceivable, like— like just because she had to keep cool and composed in front of Chat, she couldn’t possibly have feelings for that selfless, brave, punny, sex-haired motherfucker.   And Adrien kept staring, mouth like some terrible species of surprised blonde carp, and she felt her face heat up in annoyance, because yeah, she might be forced to lie to everyone else in the world, but damn if she was going to lie to herself.

“That’s right!” she exploded.  “I’m head over heels for Chat Noir!  I mean, how could anyone not be!  Well, except the assholes he lives with, which, whoo boy, don’t get me started.”  She barreled on, ignoring the statue Adrien had turned into.  “But it doesn’t matter, because Hawkmoth is a butterfly-shaped pile of expired taco meat who would probably murder my entire family over a piece of fucking jewelry, so I can’t slip up for even a second.”  

She jumped up and started to pace, arms flapping as she built up steam.  “Anyway, when a huge dude in Supreme Court robes is throwing razor-sharp window blinds at you,  there’s not exactly much time left for romance, you know?”  Her nostrils flared.  “I love being Ladybug, but sometimes?  Seriously, fuck my life, because if I get distracted by my stupid crush and his stupid ass, millions of people could die !”  Fists clenched imploringly at nothing.  “I mean, God, it’s impossible.  Do you know how tight Chat’s suit is?”  She got in his face.  “Do you?! ”

He squeaked out, “I, uh, might have some idea?”

She grabbed her pigtails with both hands and pulled, hard.  “Just once, just one of these days I’d love to go, ‘Hey, Chaton, I know you think I don’t realize how much you like me, but I actually feel the same way, like really super hard, but it’s kinda killing me because as much as I want to push you against a chimney and try to count your abs with my mouth, my fucking earrings are beeping again!’”

She cut off suddenly, her harsh breaths the only sound in the room, and the energy drained out of her as quickly as it had come.  “And now I’m talking to myself in the middle of the night.  Yay me.”  She sank back down onto the bed, leaning heavily into Adrien as his arm automatically rose to support her.

“Oh, my Lady,” he whispered.  “I had no idea.”

“What are you talking about,” she grumbled, pushing her face into his sleeve.  She was so tired.  “By the way, your shirt’s covered in snot.”

“Bugaboo,” Adrien crooned, palming her cheek and lifting her face to meet his eyes.  “Have you really been hiding your feelings from me all this time?”

“Ah,” she yawned.   Well played, drunk brain.  “I get it.  You’re Chat Noir now?”  As if she needed any more proof this was a dream.  She dragged a hand limply through his hair and squished his chin with the other.  “Alright, I could see it.”  She snuggled into his neck and closed her eyes, just for a second.  “Now  will you make out with me?”

An airy laugh escaped his throat.  “Still think this isn’t real, huh, Bug?”

“Don’t care anymore,” she mumbled, slipping further down the blankets and trying to tug him with her.  “You’re warm.”

“And you still need to drink some water.”  He nuzzled her forehead.  “Just a second, okay?“

“Mmm,” she grunted, fresh past the point of coherence.  She felt Adrien stand up and head towards the minifridge in the room.  After a moment, he attempted to press a dewy bottle into her hand.  “Nnn!” she whined.

“Come on, my Lady, just a couple sips.”

She groaned and lifted her head just enough for a few decent-sized swallows, before a trickle snuck down her neck.

“Fffff!  Cold!” she groused sleepily, and rolled away in protest, burying her face in the pillow.

And instantly jolted upright.  “What the fuck.”  She swiped a hesitant hand across the slimy stuff now smeared on her cheek.

“Is that Camembert ?”

~o~

Chapter Text

The first thing Marinette noticed was that she was not in her bed.  Her sheets weren’t this silky smooth, for one, and she’d never worn aftershave, so there was no reason for them to smell like that.  Squeezing her eyes even further shut against the dubstep thudding inside her skull, she whimpered.  Did I hook up with some rando last night?  Wouldn’t that just be the fucking cherry on the shit Sunday she’d been having.

The second thing Marinette noticed was that she was far too warm, and couldn’t move.   Trapped.  Not good.  Kidnapped?  Akuma?  Thinking was hard.  Weak panic set in, limbs struggling dimly against their Egyptian cotton prison, as she peeled her eyelids apart like a stubborn grilled cheese sandwich.  

The third and possibly most important thing she noticed was the nausea-yellow feeling of impending vomit bucking urgently against her diaphragm.  “Nngh-hmm! ” she protested, wriggling her way to the edge of the mattress in a desperate bid for someplace to throw up.  Some people had bedside toilets, probably, right?   Note to self: find patent lawyer.

Thank Tikki, her Ladybug luck kicked in and she managed to tag the small trash can that had been strategically placed for just such a mess.  Mostly.  Well, at least the floor wasn’t carpeted.  She let her head hang limply off the side of the bed, exhausted from the impromptu caterpillar impression that hadn’t even dislodged the bedding holding her hostage.

“Knock knock, blanket bug-rrito!”  A cheery voice forced her eyes towards the doorway, her bleary gaze skimming up well-toned calves, athletic shorts, and somewhere around eleventy abs (seriously? ) before landing on the sunflower face of one Adrien Agreste.

“You… are still here.”  So maybe he wasn’t a hallucination.  She was willing to admit that now, because she was mature like that.

“Told you it was my apartment!” he announced happily.  “Let me get that for you.”  He quickly tied off the garbage liner and double-bagged her vomit into a larger bin, all the while whistling—actual fucking whistling —some cartoon theme song.  Any second, woodland creatures were going to show up and start doing the dishes.

“Oh hey, I didn’t notice you detransform!”   Crap.  So that was a thing that had happened.  He walked over and crouched in front of her with a scrutinizing frown.  “Huh.”

Get your washboard stomach away from my face you goddamn marble-cut steak.  She clamped her eyes closed, because her hangover made her sensitive to light and that apparently included this fucking sunshine child.  

“You know what, LB?  I think you made a hat for me a few years back.”  He considered her for another second before snapping his fingers.  “Yep!  You’re pigeon hat girl!”  

Why me?  I’m a good person.  I water my plants, I pay my taxes, I try to save Paris.

“Where’s your kwami?  Does he need anything?”  

Double crap.  Tikki.  Logically, she really ought to panic about Tikki first, since her kwami would probably kill her for detransforming so carelessly, no less after a night of increasingly poor choices.  At least after Tikki murdered her, hopefully by finishing off the asphyxiation job this blanket had started, Marinette wouldn’t have to think about how she’d morphed into a human trashcan fire last night in front of her celebrity crush.  (And possible love of her life, but she was still fuzzy on that—god, she had a headache.)  Marinette gingerly turned until she saw the little red blob curled up on the pillow, sprawled in a nest of blue-black hair.

Huh.   Tikki might only be about as big as a minute, but she could snore like a grandpa with a broken sleep apnea machine.

“She’ll wake up on her own, I think?” croaked Marinette. “But, cookies…”  She let herself trail off, too drained to complete the thought.

“Aw, yes!” he verbally fist-pumped.  She half-expected his face to turn into an emoji.  “My Lady, I just bought cookies!  Living on my own is so amazing,” he gushed.  “You sit tight.”

“I’m literally stuck here, but sure,” she called after him.   Ouch.   No more raising your voice for you, Marinette.

Adrien rummaged through on a desk drawer, eventually waving around several crinkly bags with gusto.  “Pick your poison.  We have mint fudge, cinnamon crispy ones, and chocolate chip.  If you ask me?  The cinnamon ones are worth giving up your miraculous for.”

Marinette burrowed her head into the mattress with a whine.  Was it biologically possible for someone to be this perky in the morning?  “Chocolate chip.  Can you free my arms now?”   So I can go dig a well and hide in it forever.

“Hmm…”  A familiar look of mischief scampered across his cheeks.  “I don’t know, Bugaboo.  How many times have you left me tied up in your yo-yo string?”

Well, ass.  There was no question of that now.  She let her head fall back, pulling up her mental day planner and scheduling a freak-out session for when it no longer felt like her eyebrows were attached to her forehead with spikes of broken glass.  

“You fucking cat, I swear if you don’t set me loose me from this goddamn straightjacket you call a bed right now I will throw everything you love in a volcano.”

“Better get ready to jump then, Snugglebug, because I lava you best of all.”  He started to untuck her from her swaddle, grinning like an idiot.  “Before you ask, this wasn’t my idea.  You said since you smelled like cheese you wanted to be a crêpe.  You can be really stubborn, you know that?”  He beamed.  “Then for a while you flopped around the floor saying ‘Tequila worm!’ until you fell asleep.”  He ruffled her bangs.  “Your hair looks cute down.”

“Ughhhh.  Why are you like this.”  

“Parental neglect?” he shrugged breezily.  “Oh!  I got you a fresh toothbrush.  You’ll probably want it, you know, for the…”  He mimed throwing up before his face resumed its gleeful smirk.  “Do you need to borrow some clothes?”

“Only if you have more in my size, you weirdo.”  His giddiness was making her extra cranky.  Truly, Ladybug and Chat Noir were all about balance.

Adrien grabbed a cup and some kind of powder from the minifridge.  “So you do remember last night.  Good!”  

“Whoa, no.  We are not having that conversation right now.”  For one, her tongue felt like she’d dragged the goddamn Seine with her teeth.

“As you like,” he hummed, undeterred.  He handed her some greenish concoction that smelled like dirt.   Speaking of sludge.  “Okay, I spent a while this morning looking up hangover recipes.  This one’s probably the most medically sound.”

“So you’re a doctor, now?  Here I thought this was fashion school.”  She took a trial sip.  “Oh, fuck me, that’s horrible.”  She managed to down about half the glass before she shook it at him in utter disgust.

He took it from her with a look she’d come to refer to as his “sparkly eyes,” one she’d catch every now and then before their standard post-akuma fist bump.  Seeing it now on his bare face, she had to stifle a snort at how useless the mask actually was.  

A dazed sigh came from his doofus mouth.  “It’s so cool seeing you like this, Bug.”

Marinette’s answering glare rivaled the destructive power of Cataclysm.  “Yeah.”  She carefully spat out, was that part of a twig?  “I bet I look awesome.”

“No, you’re a mess!” he chuckled.  “But before, we’ve almost always been in the middle of a battle, where you’re obviously at the top of your game— I mean, you’re amazing: strong, resourceful, gorgeous, so badass—”

“Get to the point, Chat.”

“Well, you always protect the city and fix everything, and it’s just nice that I finally get to take care of you for once!”

“The fuck are you talking about, kitty.”  She levered herself a little more upright, but kept one hand on the wall.  “You constantly take care of me.  You literally kill yourself trying to make sure I’m okay.  It’s awful and I hate you.”

“Aww.”  How was it possible for such a shit-eating grin to gleam so white?  “That’s not what you said last niii—”

“No.”

“You looove m—”

“Nope.”

“You wanna lick my aaabs—”

“You’re an ass.”

“I remember what you said about my ass, too, Buginette.”

“That’s it.”  She slipped off the bed, jabbing him in the chest on her way to the sink, and started tying up her hair.  “I give up.  Hawkmoth wins.  Nothing is worth this.”  She splashed her face before rinsing out her mouth.  “Tikki!  Wake up!  Chat’s ego took up the maximum room occupancy.  We gotta evacuate!”

“You can’t go yet!” he cajoled dramatically.  “I don’t even know your name!”

“It’s Marinette,” she deadpanned.  “I made your hat.  This isn’t fucking Cinderella.”  She let out a huff at the snoring bug-god.  “Tikki!”

Adrien hopped over to a pile of laundry in the corner.  “Plagg!”

“Plaque?”   Ew.  Weren’t models supposed to be really careful about their teeth?

“Yeah!” he stalled.  “Don’t you want to meet my kwami?”

“Leave me out of it, kid,” came a gruff little voice.  “That monster sat on my stash.”

“Plagg, can you just, for once ?  Please?  Just be cool, just for like, a second ?”  Adrien turned back to her, a furry black blur resting in his palm.  “See?  …He’s cute!”

Marinette crossed her arms, her heel grinding into the floor.  “Damn it.”  He was like an itty-bitty cat bobblehead.  Her forehead twitched from the strain of not squealing and clutching him to her heart.

Plagg flew in between her eyes.  “You might have a miraculous, Pigtails, but mess with my cheese again and you’re looking at 5000 years’ worth of whoop-ass.  Got it?”  

It was too much.  

“Eeeeep!” she whispered.  Her crossed arms shifted until she was hugging herself in delight.  “He’s so grouchy! "  She turned to Adrien in awe.  "I love him.”

“Sure, him you love at first sight,” Adrien pouted.

She rolled her eyes, exasperated fondness tugging at the corner of her lip.  “Shut up, he’s cuter than you.”

“I’m a model.”  He (and his dumb cheekbones, and his ridiculous muscles) sauntered closer.

“Oh my god, we get it already.”

“Not yet, but you will.  Something about pushing me up against a chimney?”  His hands came up to cradle her cheeks.  “Or were you just… blowing smoke ?”

“The only place I’m gonna be pushing you is off the damn Eiffel Tower.”  It would’ve been a great comeback if her voice hadn’t picked that moment to try out mountain-climbing.  

Adrien’s thumbs smoothed along her jawline.  “I look forward to it.”  

Curse you and your stupid face.  She lifted slightly onto her toes, leaning in.  This was such a bad idea.  Nevertheless, lips hovered; noses brushed.  Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and she congratulated herself on the fact that this time, her shallow breaths had nothing to do with a dry heave.

Fuck it.  This was, after all, her weekend for bad ideas.

“Ahem.”  A miniature throat cleared, drawing their attention.  “Kid, as much as I don’t care about whatever this is with you and other-kid, you two have clearly forgotten something.”

Right.  With a long exhale, she dropped her head.  Of course, Paris had to come first.  Safety, Hawkmoth, the whole superhero schtick.

“Tikki’s still out of it.”  Plagg floated over to where Tikki lay, blithely deforesting acres in her sleep.  “So the big question is…”  He rubbed his tiny paws together, a wicked green glint dancing across his eyes.  
“Who has a Sharpie?”

~fin~