check yes juliet - Chapter 4

[clairelutra]

Preface

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

F/M

Fandom:

Miraculous Ladybug

Relationship:

Ladybug/Chat Noir, ladybug & chat noir, Adrien/Marinette Cheng

Character:

Marinette Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien | Chat Noir, Nino (Miraculous Ladybug), Alya (Miraculous Ladybug)

Additional Tags:

Angst, marinette loves her crime-fighting partner and no one will ever convince me otherwise, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Irony, Identity Reveal, Fluff and Humor, Friendship

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2015-10-14 Updated: 2017-04-16 Words: 22,928 Chapters: 5/6

check yes juliet

by clairelutra

Chapter 4 Part 1

Summary

He was never meant to hear it.

It was just a wry observation during a particularly smooth battle with an akuma, one she hadn’t even realized she’d voiced until her partner in crime stiffened beside her.

“If only asking out my crush was this easy.”

Chapter Notes

i haven't forgotten about this story, i promise!

so this got seriously long and, for the sake of my sanity, i've decided to split chapter 4 up into three parts. enjoy part one of chapter 4!

and if you don't know what boku no pico is, please do not look it up! it's incestuous pedophiliac yaoi porn okay don't put that in your mind or your browser history. it has scarred millions.

(alternate chapter titles:
"In which Mari gets her own back"
"Waiter, what is this fluff doing in my angst?"
"This was supposed to be 1k or less wha t hap p en e d"
"I am in Ladynoir hell. Please send help.")

“Okay, everyone take ten!”

Adrien didn’t even stop to stretch before he was diving for his bag so he could check his phone.

He’d had to take today off school to fill in for an absent model, and it was eating him that he wouldn’t be able to see Marinette today. Maybe I could convince her to patrol with me tonight…

(Patrol was never a necessity, and even less often a help in their mission to protect Paris (akuma were usually easier to find when you were around lots of people who would run and scream at the sight of them, or at least had phones with active news feeds reporting on them), but it was a tried and true excuse to spend time together, a code for ‘Wanna run across some rooftops, show off for each other and make the citizens feel a little safer?’)

She hadn’t responded to his last text (”Just watch it! You’ll love it, I swear :3″), which was to be expected, seeing as their class didn’t get a break for another half hour, but his heart still sank a little at the lack of incoming text notifications.

(They'd texted almost constantly these past three weeks since the reveal of their alter-egos, and it was the most fun Adrien could ever remember having in his life.)

He put his phone back in his bag — careful to put it in its pocket, not Plagg’s — and finally took his stretch with a little sigh.

He should probably eat something, he thought absently, holding onto his elbow above his head and twisting. This director was proving to be brutal. This was their first break since the full light of day had hit the set.

He didn’t really feel like eating food, though, not after a morning with nothing in his stomach. He dug around in his bag for something suitably not-food-like-but-nutritious (he was pretty sure Natalie had packed him a kale juice or something — she usually did) and found… a bakery bag?

That was strange.

Never once in his life could he remember Natalie packing anything that wasn’t low-carb, low-fat, cholesterol-free, or all three. Processed sugar hadn’t entered his diet until he was old enough to buy it for himself, and even then it was heavily restricted. He’d had to argue pretty hard even for his study session caramel lattes, because they were frequent (weekly) and contained caffeine and sugar and cream, and he was already getting terrifying amounts of horribly aromatic (and expensive) cheese (that he didn’t actually eat, but the staff wasn’t supposed to know that).

Which begged the question of how the small, sweet-smelling packet had made it into his things.

Somewhat wary, he peeled back the sticker sealing it shut (black, with an embossed gold letter ‘D’ in elegant script) and peeked into the packet.

Cookies?

He tipped them out onto his hand, and suddenly understood how they came to be in his bag.

Marinette.

Marinette, who’d been waiting for him after school yesterday. Who’d jumped guiltily at his arrival. Who’d given him a quick ‘good luck on your shoot’ and a gentle touch on the wrist that felt like lightning. That Marinette.

They appeared to be some sort of caramel colored sweet wafer cookie. Almond, probably, judging by the nut pieces he could see. Each cookie held a design in darker brown on top. The top cookie was broken, but the stencilled cat motif was still plainly visible. The second was unbroken, little ladybugs and hearts surrounding an elaborate ‘Good Luck’ in the same font as the ‘D’ on the sticker. The third and last had a cat playing with a ladybug, and more little hearts in the margins.

Maybe… maybe I could eat, he thought, chest tight, heart melting like candle wax, face aching with a helpless smile.

(The cookies turned out to be more bad luck than good luck; he got in trouble for smiling straight through the shoot, which was supposed to have a more sombre theme than his lovesick grin allowed for.)

---

“The third 'Annual Protectors Of Paris' Ball is coming up,” Nino mentioned, sliding a flyer into the center of the table as he retook his seat, peach smoothie in hand.

Oh right. It was.

It was a charity ball that celebrated the first (recorded) battle Ladybug and Chat Noir had fought against an akuma for Paris, and a big deal for everybody who was anybody in the city.

The upcoming date meant that their actual anniversary was also around the corner — it was two weeks before the day the ball was held every year.

Adrien should probably find the last few pieces of his anniversary gift to Ladybug soon.

“Don’t remind me,” Alya moaned, tossing down her pencil and resting her cheek on her fist, pouting.

Adrien smothered his amusement. Alya’s doomed attempts to get into the biggest Ladybug event of the year were a source of entertainment for them all between the announcement and the day of the event.

He shot an automatic glance at Marinette, only to find her scowling at her fingers.

As if sensing his concerned stare, Marinette glanced up and gave him a strained ‘it’s nothing’ sort of smile, eyes pinched at the corners despite her efforts.

Adrien wasn’t particularly convinced.

“You only say that because you haven’t read this yet,” said Nino, smugly sliding the flyer under Alya’s nose.

Alya snatched up the flyer and speed read through it. “What am I seeing?”

Adrien studied Marinette’s profile as she leaned against Alya’s shoulder to look at the flyer. She looked tired, he noted with a funny little ache in his chest. Irritated, maybe. Sleep deprived, definitely, judging by the pallor of her skin and the mug of coffee in her hands.

Nino got up from his chair and wandered amiably over to the girls' side of the table.

“Here,” he said, poking his head over Alya’s other shoulder and pointing out a line on the flyer. “Hosted at the Maison Souquet.”

Alya’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ for a second. Then she shot up out of her seat, grinning wildly. “Mama can get me in!”

Marinette was pushed off Alya’s shoulder, tipping to the side like she didn’t quite have the energy to immediately right herself. Adrien found himself getting more worried. If there was one thing he’d learned since they had started spending so much time together, it was that Marinette always had energy. Always.

“Yep,” said Nino, head cocked to smile easily up at Alya, having swayed out of bashing range at her leap before she could jam his jaw shut with her momentum.

“Nino, you’re a genius!” Alya squeaked, grabbing their mutual friend and shaking him in her excitement.

“Nah,” he said good naturedly, allowing himself to be shaken with little more than a wry, tolerant grin. “Just observant, dude.”

“What will I wear?” said Alya, letting go of Nino to clasp her hands, looking for all the world as though her fairy godmother had just appeared in front of her.

Maybe it had, Adrien thought, dryly amused. Alya had been looking for an awfully long time for a way to get into that ball.

Wait…

‘Wear?’

With a blinding flash of insight, Adrien realized the source of Marinette’s distress. She was designing Ladybug’s dress.

Adrien had never thought about it much, because Chat’s eyes and cat ears were too distinctive to substitute with fakes, Plagg refused to change his look at all, and wearing a tux in general would be a really stupid move. His father attended this event, and his father could be counted on to remember every piece of clothing his son had ever owned, even when he tended to forget his actual son. Not dressing up fit with Chat’s careless wild-child image anyway, so he’d tried not to worry about it. The suit was black; it was good enough.

He’d always assumed that Ladybug, having the more cooperative kwami between the two of them, asked Tikki to change her suit around a little to fit in with the overdressed elite they had to mingle with for a few hours every year.

Now he realized that that assumption was kind of ridiculous — Marinette was a designer. Of course she would design her own dresses. She probably sewed them herself, too.

Not only that, but given the guests that would be attending — everyone from his father to the mayor — the pressure would be on her to make something that fit the upscale party, while fitting Ladybug’s image, while still fitting within her budget and sewing abilities… she probably started stressing about it a month in advance.

Adrien felt like a bit of an idiot.

“I can make it,” Marinette offered to Alya.

Adrien shot her an alarmed look. On top of your own? he would have asked, if not for present company.

Alya squealed, all but glomping Marinette. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“It’s nothing,” Marinette demurred, giggling, face smooshed up against Alya’s collarbone.

They made an incredibly cute picture, Adrien couldn’t help but notice. Though it didn’t lessen his worry for Marinette’s mental state at all.

“So I’m getting us all in, right?” Alya wanted to know, letting go of Marinette with a little bounce.

“Yes,” said Nino.

“Er,” said he and Marinette in the same breath. They traded mildly panicked glances under Alya’s startled look.

Marinette went up to bat first.

“C-c’mon Alya,” she said with a wheedling smile, looking more tired than ever. “You know what will happen if I go, right? I’ll trip over a table and land on someone important.”

Alya’s surprise melted into suspicion.

Marinette hurried on, “Besides, I’m already going to be designing your dress — I’m not going to have time for another!”

Alya’s stern stance softened with concern. “You do know you don’t have to make my dress, right Marinette?” she asked quietly, brow furrowed. “If it’s going to be too much trouble—”

“No, no!” Marinette rushed to assure her friend. “I’d love to!”

“If you’d rather spend your time on your own dress—” Alya tried again.

“I don’t want to go to the ball,” Marinette insisted. (Adrien could believe that. Ladybug was never truly at ease at high class functions, and didn’t much like attending events held in her honor, and the 'Annual Protectors Of Paris' Ball was both.) “And I’d love to make your dress. Don’t worry about it.”

Alya conceded to that answer and turned to Adrien.

“Père won’t stand for it,” Adrien said quickly. “And he’ll be there. No way could I sneak past him.”

She tilted her head at him. “Papa Agreste doesn’t want his son preparing for what it will be like to run a company?” she asked shrewdly.

“Not when there'll be alcohol present,” Adrien retorted, happy with the watertight alibi. “And anyway, the company isn’t hereditary.”

Alya huffed and eyed them both suspiciously for a minute, before getting distracted by the reality of a chance at getting in. “Ooh, I wonder who else is going?”

Nino engaged her, leaving Adrien and Marinette to heave twin relieved sighs.

The rest of the study session passed by quickly, although not much studying happened after that; the upcoming ball was all Alya could think about, and she was the driving force behind getting things done at these meetings.

Adrien helped Marinette with the clean up afterwards, cherishing the chance to be semi-alone with her.

He wanted to talk her into taking back the offer to make Alya’s dress, because she was already losing sleep over the one and the ball was only a month away. But he couldn’t really speak against it, as much as he wanted to — it wasn’t his place. If Marinette thought she could handle making two ball dresses at the same time while she was already this stressed, then all he could do was trust that she knew what she was doing and offer his support.

“Listen,” he murmured to her, stopping her by the trash cans before they rejoined Nino and Alya, who were laughing just outside the entrance as they waited for them. “Relax. Breathe. Everything you make is brilliant. Don’t worry about it.”

There was, of course, a chance he was wrong, that the dress wasn’t what she was worrying about, but he didn’t think so. It made too much sense.

“What?” she asked, turning surprised, big blue eyes up to his.

He swallowed at the sudden proximity. The cold fall sunlight caught her irises, pooling in their depths and giving them an unearthly cast of blue fire.

“Y-Your dress,” he croaked, forced to look away for a moment, lest he drown or burn or both. “You’re worried about it, right?”

She nodded in his peripheral sight.

“Don’t.” He met her eye again, the need to reassure her overwhelming his sense of self-preservation. “It’s beautiful already, I’m sure. You’re an amazing designer. Don’t second guess yourself so much.”

He reached out to stroke her cheek, then thought better of it and gave a gentle tug on a lock of her bangs instead. Smile, he silently pleaded, letting the silky strands slide slowly from his fingers. Smile for me.

And smile she did — a fragile, vulnerable thing that fired a quiver’s worth of magic arrows into the dead center of his heart, cracking it painfully on contact.

Involuntarily, his fingers recaptured the lock of inky hair and tucked it behind her ear, a pathetic attempt to hide the caress they desperately wanted to give. The lock didn’t stay, instead feathering over his knuckles in its break for freedom.

She lurched forward, and suddenly he had an armful of Marinette.

She pressed against him from chest to knee, filling his nose with an intoxicating mingle of sweet perfume and female skin. Warm, soft, feminine curves and baby fat contrasted deliciously with lean, corded muscle under his hands, bringing home the fact that this was Ladybug in his arms, Ladybug thanking him for his reassurance, Ladybug who’d smiled at him like that, and he didn’t… he didn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, hot into the hollow beneath his ear, triggering a shudder that shot down his spine from where her arms were twined around his neck.

Unable to speak, he squeezed her a little tighter in response, shifting to wrap himself around more of her deceptively delicate-looking form.

He moved to give into his urge to bury his nose in her hair, glancing up at the entrance to the coffee shop as he did so.

Nino and Alya were there, watching the scene with eerily identical ear-to-ear smirks.

Adrien froze.

Their smirks widened exactly the same number of notches in perfect synchronization.

Adrien could feel himself start to blush.

“Adrien?” Marinette breathed, the name falling melodious against his skin.

“Uh,” he responded, distracted by the sensation.

She pulled back (he chased the contact thoughtlessly for a split second before catching himself) and glanced over her shoulder, following his line of sight.

The squeak she let out was much too endearing.

He exhaled a sympathetic laugh and took a reluctant step back to separate them.

She regained something of her composure, re-tucked the same lock of hair he’d tucked behind her ear a minute ago, and gave him a shy half-grin up through her lashes, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed.

He met it with one of his own.

“We’re going to hear about this, aren't we?” he asked ruefully.

“Probably,” she admitted with cheer, half-grin blooming into a full on giggle, lilting and girlish.

Worth it, he couldn’t help but think, for that smile.

---

"There! The roof has a trap door.”

Chat bounded across the last two roofs and alighted on top of the bakery, next to the trap door the girl in his arms had pointed out. Kneeling by the entrance so she could reach to open the door, he peered in at a dark, oddly-patterned floor down below.

The two of them had been racing home over the rooftops in the aftermath of an akuma battle when Ladybug's transformation had worn off, forcing him to catch her mid-leap. She’d fussed at him at first, but had eventually agreed to let him carry her the rest of the way ("It’s only a block! I can walk!” “It’s only a block. I can carry you. How do you plan to get in without waking your parents, anyway?” “Ugh.”).

Now they'd reached her home, and he would have to give up the pleasant weight and warmth of her in his arms. A clock tower chimed midnight in the distance across the chilly Parisian skyline, marking the new day as he reluctantly loosened his grip on her legs to let her down.

“Hey, wait,” said Marinette, clutching at his shoulder before he could lower her. “Come inside for a minute.”

“My lady,” he couldn’t help but leer. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It was Ladybug who rolled her eyes at him as she slipped from his arms and through the trap door. “Five minutes. That’s it, kitty.”

He stifled a laugh, following her nearly blind. “I’m wounded. Do you really think so little of me?”

The patterned floor he’d noticed earlier revealed itself to be a loft bed.

Who puts a trap door over a bed?

Well, it was pretty convenient, he had to admit.

—for landing pad purposes, obviously. Not—

…Yeah, he was just going to stop there.

“Sorry,” she sing-songed from somewhere below the loft. “Should I give you ten minutes instead?”

He realized that there was light coming from that direction and peeked over the edge of the bed, curious. Despite all the time they’d known each other, this was the first time he had ever been in her room.

His first impression was pink.

And cramped. But mostly pink.

Wow, that was a lot of pink.

Chat wondered why he was surprised. It was a very 'Marinette' room, and the pink only amplified that.

But, wow, that was a lot of pink.

“Ten minutes would be an improvement,” he said, latching back onto the train of conversation now that he’d taken in the sheer pinkness of the room. “But still not nearly long enough.”

Marinette giggled from somewhere underneath him (no, brain, don’t go there), which had been his intention… mostly.

(It was partly also because he just didn’t know how to stop as Chat. Impulse control was not his transformation’s strong point.)

“Hang on, hang on,” Marinette mumbled to herself. Shuffling things, probably, judging by the noise. “Where did it… go…”

Curious, Chat crawled to the ladder and pulled himself upright so he could swagger down — the steps were placed just far enough apart to allow him to do so.

From the middle of the room, her space looked much larger. He spied a desk and a lounge and a pull-down — projector screen? Calendar? something — hanging by her computer. Other than a few dressers and a table, the rest was open floor space. A nice layout, for not having much room to work with.

There was a great deal of red and black cloth strewn around. Probably the start of the dress. Dresses. Why had she wanted to make Alya’s dress again?

He shook the thought off (not his place) and looked at the walls next.

The wall behind her computer was covered in pictures. Magazine clippings, posters, pictures of Alya and Nino and a few of other classmates. But it was the magazine clippings that caught his eye first.

About half of them were from general fashion magazines… and the other half featured him in his various modeling shoots.

He didn’t know he could purr, but there was a rumbling, bubbling something in the back of his throat that wanted out, because Marinette liked looking at him enough to cover a good chunk of her workspace with pictures of him.

(They could just be remnants of her (past?) crush, but he tried not to think about said crush much, because it sparked feelings that hurt in their intensity — uncertainty and hope and longing and fear and happiness and want.

Oh, god, how he wanted.)

“Ha!” said Marinette, having apparently found what she was looking for. “Here, kitty.”

Chat dragged his eyes away from the last photo, schooling his expression into something he hoped was normal.

(It was a single picture of the two of them as Chat Noir and Ladybug, hung directly to the right of her monitor: a selfie taken on their first anniversary, ridiculous grins smudged with whipped cream and crêpes in their off hands, her arm around his neck and the Parisian sunset painting the skyline behind them. It had been their first ever ‘patrol’ together, and one of the very few times they’d spent time together not fighting for their lives prior to revealing their identities.)

Marinette smiled softly, offering him a bundle of red and black cloth. “Happy anniversary, Chat. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

The midnight bells, he realized with a start. They’d marked the sixth of November, their real anniversary.

He accepted the bundle like it was made of gold. In fact, he didn’t think he treated actual gold with this much care.

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “Your gift is still at school.”

She smiled a bright, sweet little smile. “Just wanted to be first, kitty.”

He unfolded the bundle.

It was a hoodie, dark red with black spots, very obviously Ladybug-inspired but still masculine in style. The fabric under his fingers was of amazing quality, every seam that he could see pressed flat and guarded against rough edges. He could tell just by looking at it that it would fit well — it felt tailored, with the way the lines of it shifted in his hands.

He looked at Marinette, who smiled nervously, glancing between him and her gift and biting her lip.

Why? She had to know by now that she could get him the most random, unhelpful, trashiest piece of junk ever and he’d still adore it because she’d given it to him. She had actually made this; it was automatically one of the best gifts he’d ever received.

He shifted the hoodie so he could pull down the zipper (cool metal of a high quality make that didn't catch his fingers when he stroked down the line of teeth, a guard flap behind to protect his skin from it during the colder months), then shrugged it on.

He was wrong. It didn’t fit well.

It fit like a dream.

He had been modeling since he was eleven years old and not once had he ever worn something that fit like this.

He carefully tugged the zipper up, still marveling at the fit, the quality, the attention to detail.

It glided easily, locking in place the moment he smoothed the tab down.

“This…” he started and trailed off. “This is amazing.”

Marinette beamed at him for a second, then stepped up with a critical eye for her work. She reached out and tweaked the fabric, settling it around his form with careful, brisk professionalism, then stepped back to eye it once more.

He waited for her sharp nod of approval before saying, “Really… this… this is…” He shook his head. “Thank you.”

She had to have heard the catch in his voice. This was easily the most precious gift he’d ever received. He felt like his chest was going to burst.

“Of course,” she said, with a little grin and toss of her chin. “Only the best for my kitty.”

He laughed breathlessly, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her. His palms tingled in protest, turning his attention to the slight flush in her cheeks and the graceful lines of her throat.

His fingertips brushed against something on the inside of his pocket, an odd rough pattern lining the inner curve. He blinked and looked down (as though it would help — it was in the lining, doofus), running his fingers over the patch more carefully.

“Oh!” said Marinette, noticing his confusion and scratching the back of her neck, no longer smug. “That’s my signature. I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any other good place to put it — everywhere else was too obvious or would end up scratching you.”

Marinette, read the embroidery. He ran his fingertip back and forth over the little patch, again and again. Marinette, Marinette, Marinette.

“I love it. Thank you.”

She dropped her hand. “Like I said, only the best for my kitty.” Then she glanced at the clock. “But we do have school tomorrow, so...”

“Yeah,” he agreed, reluctantly pulling his hands from his newfound pockets (Marinette) and unzipping his gift.

He folded it carefully and cradled it as he climbed back up the stairs to her bed and the trap door above.

A thought occurred to him. “Hey... how did you get my measurements?”

A hollow metal noise sounded behind him, like she’d slipped on a step.

He looked back in concern.

She’d caught herself on the railings and was staring down at the step, surprised.

Chat breathed a sigh of relief.

“...Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, a little shaky from the fall.

Well, that was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one.

“How mysterious,” he drawled, grinning, because he learned from his mistakes and he knew she didn’t like to be pushed. “You realize this means I'll just imagine the answer to that, right?”

She glared, but her blush hadn’t faded in the least, he noted with glee. “Just— go.”

“Yes ma’am,” he quipped, climbing onto her bed and reaching for the lip of the door, laying his precious gift on his shoulder.

“And Adrien!”

He didn’t let go of the lip, just glanced down. “Hm?”

Marinette's grin was full of mischief, face bathed in midnight moonlight, and Chat's stomach flipped. “Wear it to school tomorrow!”

“Roger that,” he said, once he remembered how to speak, and then he was gone.

---

Adrien pushed his dinner around on his plate, appetite at zero and thoughts a million miles away — or rather, five miles away, which was the distance between him and the Dupain-Cheng bakery.

The reason Marinette had asked him to wear the hoodie had become apparent the moment he walked into school: she had one to match.

A zip-up Chat Noir-themed hoodie, complete with leather ears on the hood.

He'd spent the entirety of his day at school hating the fact that he had to sit in front of her, rather than behind, and was therefore deprived of drinking in the sight of Marinette wearing black with cat ears.

That kind of sight should be made illegal, he thought, despondent, as he continued to play with his food. The kind of illegal that led to people downloading it off the internet to feed their hungry hearts; the kind that led to drug addicts being thrown in jail.

It was a thoroughly distracted Adrien who’d wandered through his day, bumping into things and trying very hard not to hug Marinette every time she spoke to him. Overenthusiastic displays of unsolicited public affection were frowned upon in polite society, he had been told.

(Natalie had taken him aside the night before his first day of public school and given him a long, embarrassing, very informative list of things he wasn’t supposed to do in polite society. ‘Overly enthusiastic displays of unprompted public affection’ was the one item he hadn’t thought he’d have trouble with, then.

Oh, how times had changed.)

He could make a case for the ‘unsolicited’ bit, but the rest...

He exhaled on a dreamy sigh and set his fork down, happy bubbles fizzing up from the pit of his stomach and filling every part of him, leaving no room for things as arbitrary as dinner.

The sound of footsteps on the tile of the hall next door tugged him out of his daze.

Natalie entered first, reading off her tablet in her usual quiet tones, which meant that the person following her was...

Adrien jumped to attention, snapping upright sharp and model-straight. “Père,” he greeted, nodding his respect.

“Adrien,” his father returned, dismissing him with a flick of his eyes and passing over Natalie without even that much.

Adrien let out a little breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and settled in to wait until his father finished his business and left.

“Sir, this shooting in Germany needs your attention immediately. Do you want me to reschedule your seven o’clock fitting?”

“What is the nature of this emergency?”

Adrien listened to the ensuing tale of debauchery and scandal with mild amusement. He remembered that model; the incident seemed entirely within her scope. It was surprising the company had kept her, in his opinion, given that the last time she’d nearly caused an international incident, but he guessed she was a) not publicly addicted to anything, and b) had a nice figure, and having both at once put her head-and-shoulders above the rest.

Natalie and his father walked as they talked, passing down the long dining table.

His father was seven feet from the door when he stopped. He turned slowly in Adrien's direction, and walked towards him.

Adrien blinked, happy fizz giving way to cold fear.

"Père...?"

Had he done something to displease his father? Disappoint him? Adrien wracked his brain for a reason his father might be paying him heed.

His father reached out, and Adrien had to suppress a flinch. His father had never raised a hand against him before, but in absence of any positive reason for his proximity, the worst scenario was all that came to mind.

Gabriel took no heed of the tiny movement, instead plucking at the hood of Marinette's gift.

Huh?

He watched, perfectly still, as his father twisted the material in his fingers, examining the black-on-black ladybugs embroidered into the dark base of the hood with cold, dispassionate eyes. "Where did you get this?"

Adrien jumped, stammering his reply.

"My..." —girlfriend? She wasn't. (Yet, he hoped, wished, prayed—) My partner? He couldn't say that to his father. My friend? He couldn't say that, either, not after how long it had taken his father to accept Nino. My Marinette? See item one. "My... classmate made it for me."

"Classmate?"

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," Adrien supplied on automatic. "She won a few of your design contests." All of them, actually.

"I see."

His father plucked at the fabric of the sleeve, using the exact amount of pressure needed to move a mannequin's arm, and Adrien gave over his limb like it belonged to someone else.

"She does good work," his father noted in a strange tone of voice, turning the sleeve this way and that.

"She does," Adrien echoed, blank.

His father met his eye, irises like chips of ice, blue like antifreeze, and Adrien's breath caught, a hot ball of panic burning in his stomach.

"Tell her that," his father said.

Adrien dimly realized the that strange tone of voice had been approval.

He let go of Adrien's sleeve and hesitated, hand hovering awkwardly between them for a moment, before giving Adrien a single, perfunctory pat on the shoulder, and walking past.

Natalie fluttered after him, after giving Adrien a look that was about as baffled as the teen felt.

The front doors boomed shut behind the two, the roar echoing through the empty hallways of his chilly home and leaving Adrien with the funny realization that he couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him voluntarily.

---

He didn't realize his hands were shaking until he'd fumbled the doorknob to his room three times in a row.

He got it on his fourth attempt and shut it quietly behind him, not wanting to hear the boom echo around his empty home again. He slumped against the door the moment it shut and slid down, incomprehensibly overwrought.

"Time for some cheese?" Plagg wanted to know, zipping up to hover at Adrien's eye-level.

Adrien didn't respond, just scrubbed his hands over his eyes. The hoodie, which had felt so utterly wonderful just minutes ago, chafed under his skin everywhere it touched.

Plagg watched him for a few seconds, then zipped off again.

Adrien released a breath, slumping where he sat.

His father smelled like nothing.

It was, perhaps, an odd thing to notice now, but he did.

He held the scents of aftershave and cologne, of course; the nostalgic smells Adrien could remember from his early childhood. And more faintly of dry cleaning chemicals, of hair and nail products, even of what may have been food, but under that...

Under that, he smelled like nothing.

Plagg zoomed back, holding something in his forepaws which he tossed at Adrien's stomach with surprising accuracy.

"Your girlfriend texted," the kwami said, almost kind.

His girlfriend.

Marinette.

'Tell her that,' his father had said.

Adrien set his phone to the side, mouth tightening over the taste of soured sugar on the back of his tongue. "Not in the mood."

Plagg muttered something that sounded a lot like 'never thought I'd see the day,' but fell silent after that.

Adrien welcomed the silence, scrubbing his scalp and trying not to think about his father's utter lack of aromatic fingerprint or the fact that Marinette had done with a single well-made garment what he had been trying to do (what felt like) his entire life.

He knew that she was good — Paris' own Lady Magic and Lady Luck, winner of every fashion contest she entered, sweet and kind and skilled and inspired and original and... he could go on for days.

But did she have to be that good?

"She said something about something called Boku no Pico? Wanting to watch it?" Plagg said, scratching an ear.

Adrien had never unlocked his phone so fast.

Whatever you do do not watch boku no pico

DO NOT

What?

BOKU NO PICO

DO NOT WATCH

Okay?

Where did that come from?

You weren't wanting to watch it?

No

...

Thank kami

You weeb

What's so bad about boku no pico?

It has scarred generations

And?

What do you mean and

You don't just end the story at "it has scarred generations" adri

What do you want me to say?

HOW it scarred generations maybe? :P

Princess that is a very dark road that we don't touch

We ignore it in hopes that it will go away one day

Oooh dramatic~

Adrien found himself snorting, bitter bile at the back of his throat receding and the fabric of the hoodie gentled once again.

Don't mock boku no pico princess

It's not something to joke about

And here you are, refusing to explain why

I guess I'll just have to watch it to find out

NO

:D

Don't

It's pedo yaoi okay don't go down that road

Pedo yaoi?

Pedo yaoi

Look just watch kill la kill or flcl or something and save your sanity

Isn't flcl the really crazy one you were talking about before

Exactly

Okay, no boku no pico

Got it

...how do YOU know about it?

Uh

Anyway, if you weren't texting about boku no pico, what were you texting about?

A~dri~en~

You realize this means I'll just imagine the answer, right~?

A laugh startled out of him at the echo of last night. His heart gave a faint, quick flutter before he realized just what sort of things she might wind up imagining — and none of them were good. His fledgling grin dropped fast.

...the internet okay

Those were dark times

Poor baby XD

Yes yes I was an innocent child forever scarred

Thankfully you won't go down that road

But what was it you wanted?

Can you give me a second opinion on these shirts?

Curious, Adrien scrolled up past his panicked attempts to save Marinette from the horrors of Boku no Pico, remembering the "You have 3 new texts from My Princess 💘" notification that he'd caught a brief glimpse of.

Adri

Alya wants to go to the movies

Can you tell me which of these shirts go with the pants better?

The timestamp was nineteen minutes ago. His Boku no Pico panic had taken about twelve of those minutes. Good timing.

His phone buzzed.

He scrolled back down to find a photo.

[IMAGE]

Shirt #1

He didn't actually see the shirt at first. Her adorable smile and adorable flush and loose, curled hair took precedence.

Loose.

Curled.

Hair.

Fuck.

He had a reply of 'you look absolutely purrfect, my lady' half typed out before he realized that she wanted an opinion on her shirt, not on her smile or her hair (her hair) or her face.

Then he finished typing the message out and sent it, because leaving those things unremarked upon would have been a crime.

Hehe thank you <3

But look at the other one first

He had yet to look at the first shirt, so he did that while he waited for the second.

It was a white button-down over a black camisole with a lace neck, buttoned below her breasts and rolled up to the elbows. The lower hem was cut into tails in the front; the back as well, judging by what he could see of it. The tails had cutwork embroidery in a pattern too intricate to make out in the low-resolution picture, but he knew Marinette, and he could make an educated guess as to what it looked like anyway.

The overall effect of the look, combined with her jewelry and hairstyle, was...

Cool.

Mature.

Confident.

'She does good work,' his father had said.

The pleasant tightness gathering in his gut dispersed on a sigh, and he exited out of his photoviewer.

Speaking of

My father noticed your gift

He said to tell you it was good work

He slumped a little further against the door and flipped his phone over so he wouldn't have to look at those three little texts.

He waited until his phone had buzzed a few times before checking it again.

[IMAGE]

Shirt #2

Wait what

?

Really?

Gabriel Agreste said my work was good?

Really?

Adrien swallowed. Plastered a smile on his face, even though she couldn't see it. Answered:

Really

I was surprised too

I wasn't expecting him to be home

—and waited for the outburst.

Oh gosh

AaaaaaAAAAAAAH

MR AGRESTE SAID MY HOODIE WAS GOOD!!!

!!!!!!!

MINE

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Adrien's smile felt a little less forced as he watched the explosion of ecstatic texts across his screen. At least one of them was happy.

You have won every design contest he's hosted at our school

He likes your style

EeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

He scrolled back up to 'Shirt #2' and opened the attached picture, ignoring the rapid-fire texts from Marinette's end. (They were mostly variations of 'oh gosh,' 'oh my god,' and 'oh wow,' with a few typed screams for good measure.)

The picture loaded, and Adrien found himself swallowing again.

The second picture had her posing, hip cocked and pressing a little kiss to her fingertip with a wink and a smirk.

The shirt itself... 'flirty' was the word that came to mind. Soft, flattering, wine-red lines of what looked like silk cradled her curves, clung to her hips. The sash around the empire waistline was Ladybug-spotted, tied in a generous bow off to the side. The neckline dipped low on her chest, just enough to hint teasingly at the existence of cleavage.

Over it she had slung a loose-knitted, long-sleeved, cream-colored shrug that ended just above the bottom of her ribcage. The garment was too loose-knit to provide any actual protection from the cold, and was probably there to balance out a lack of sleeves on the blouse under it.

He bit the corner of his nail.

She looked inviting in a way that he was forced to realize he didn't like. At all. Not when she was going to be spending all night out and about with her very platonic, very female best friend.

The frantic buzzing of his text notifications had tapered off, and he went back to check on the conversation.

Fourteen new texts, and the last one was:

Adri?

Sorry

I was looking at your second choice

You're a brilliant designer, you know that?

Ehehehe :D <3

So

Which do you like better?

Possibly the worst thing about this situation was that he couldn't, in good conscience, tell her that her first choice went better with her pale blue capris. It didn't, and he hated the six-year modeling career that had taught him that.

Trick question princess

You're in both of them ;3

Adrieeeeen

What?

Give me your Expert Model Opinions

His 'expert model opinions' said that her second choice was visually balanced and very appealing.

His 'boy head-over-heels for someone who didn't call herself his opinions' said that he didn't want her wearing that for anyone but him.

It depends

>:(

On whether you'd rather look like a princess or a queen

He couldn't tell her that he'd rather she went with the first choice. It wasn't his place.

(He probably wouldn't really want to say it if it was — if she had been his, he wouldn't be worrying over what other propositions she might accept.

Right now, she was free as a bird and he hated it.)

So you're saying I should go with the red one?

That wasn't what he was saying at all.

I

I guess

???

Adrien?

He typed 'No' and then stopped.

Started, 'Actually the first'—

Stopped.

Deleted the message.

'It looks great!'

Backspace.

'It looks'

He took a deep breath. Hit send.

It looks like something you'd wear on a date

Oh

Her choice, he reminded himself. He had no right to be upset over admirers she might not even get-

Who was he kidding. Looking like that? She was going to need a stick to beat them all off.

He buried his face in his hands and waited for a response.

It was a few minutes before he got one.

The first one doesn't look bad, right?

I mean

I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm on a date with Alya or anything

It was a flimsy excuse — it wasn't as if she really cared who thought she was on a date with her best friend — and it made his heart skip wildly, his tenuous hopes only growing stronger.

The first one looks amazing

You look good in everything

But that especially

;3c

[IMAGE]

Guess I'll just have to save this one for a hot date then, huh? ;)

He opened the image and choked on his tongue.

She was sitting on her lounge, legs folded under her and fingertips touching the coy little smile aimed up at the camera, floral nail art and big blue eyes on display. She'd let the shrug slide down her arms in a way that bared her shoulders and pinned the knit just below her breasts, and that, combined with the angle of the camera, gave him a view straight down her silk blouse.

Had she... meant to do that?

He had to reread her text three times before he could summon a response, and even then his numb fingers fumbled the keys.

Guess you will :3

;)

Thanks for your help!

Alya's gonna be here in ten minutes so I gotta go

Talk to you later!

Later ;3

Guiltily, he reopened the last picture, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat and closed it again, face hot.

He staggered upright on weak knees and decided to get ready for bed early, because hell knew he wouldn't be getting any homework done tonight.

Guess I'll just have to save this one for a hot date then, huh? ;)

...If he was completely honest with himself, he probably wouldn't be getting much sleep either.

Chapter End Notes

adrien's name for mari, 'my princess,' was actually supposed to have a heart with an arrow through it at the end, instead of a plain one, but ao3 was dumb and refused. please imagine a little arrow going through that ascii heart. <3

EDIT: ao3 updated and let me put the heart!!! :D

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