Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one in the history of the world can ever blame her for doing this, okay? This is just part of the entire personality that is Lady Noire. And there is no problem— ever— in being herself. Sure, maybe to some people there is, because she’s considered ‘violent’ and ‘volatile’, but usually those people who think that are affected with Akumas, or are created using a peacock’s feather; she has fun with those, shakes them between her teeth until they’re limp, but that doesn’t mean she’s always violent. She’s a good person!

The city of Paris likes her a lot, after all.

She’s considered Paris’s sweetheart, an absolute confectionary puff of a woman in the public eye. Children aren’t afraid to approach her and ask for help, and strangers always take the time to say hello. Sure, she’s bloody and screams and snarls and hisses at villains, but she’s a sweetie everywhere else. She’s won accolades for it. Maybe she bribed the judge with a bunch of macarons, but her point still stands, which is: she’s a sweetheart, not always deviating towards violence.

She’s just a kitty. Who blames her for biting?

Mister Bug knows that, too. He praises her and gives her affectionate headpats whenever they’re near each other and he can’t contain it, because she’ll give him her soft eyes and a little smile and he’ll snort, do this little thing with his nose that she absolutely loves, crinkling it under the hexleather domino mask, and reach over to pet her hair. She purrs and he laughs, and maybe sneaks in little kisses between the two of them, but they try their hardest not to show it in public. No one needs to know that the superheroes are dating.

That’s not enough, though. She needs more. She needs more kisses now. Anticipation bleeds on her skin the more she thinks about how much she wants it, imagining those beautiful lips pressed to hers. Would it be wrong to ask for a make out session? Just one. Just a teeny, tiny one… that’s not so bad, right?

Superheroes aren’t supposed to date.

But she can sneak into Adrien’s apartment while wearing the Lady Noire costume, can’t she? Who’s gonna stop her? Hawkmoth is terrified of her. No one even nearby has the sense to spot her on this balcony, because there’s no one on the roads, because practically no one’s awake. And certainly not the man himself, who’s currently busy drooling on his pillow, probably super asleep.

She’s a cat through and through, and seeing someone— her someone— asleep and cozy and soft and wonderful blossoms this type of feeling inside of her that is much too important to ignore. So what, if it’s super early in the morning? So what if she makes it through his window and quietly closes the latch back up? So what if Adrien continues to sleep all the way on the other side of his room, on his bed, hidden under a single, thin blanket because Adrien refuses to understand the concept of layers? The sight is important to her all the same.

Approaching him is almost far too quick, and she can’t even savor the experience of being in his room while he dozes off. It’s always so quiet here. Soft. Adrien decided to paint his walls a soft taupe color that borders purple, and had asked her if she wanted to help, but the walls are almost grey in the moonlight that scatters across Paris’s rooftops. At least he kept the painting on his wall. The shaggy carpet on the floor is nice. His bookshelves are kept clean but not sparse. He also has that same American-king sized bed, which is far too much mattress for a single man, but she’s never really complaining about it when she joins him for a snooze— all in all, Adrien is stuck in that transition look on his apartment, not quite sure what he’s doing with it yet, but he’s trying. 

At least there’s a bed.

And one handsome man in it.

Gah! So handsome!

Ah, she can’t contain herself. She can’t stop herself from tip-toeing close, hiding a smile behind her hands as she finally takes a look at him hidden from that single fitted blanket. He likes to burrow like a mole, hiding under a sleep mask he got accustomed to because of his childhood bedroom’s giant, sunny windows, only his nose peeking through the mess he’s made. She recalls a few years ago Adrien mentioning he used to be afraid that a vampire would bite his neck while he was asleep, and hides himself under the blanket as if it’ll protect him.

“Sunshine,” she whispers, waiting for a response. “You awake?”

Nothing except silence and a few distant cars beeping reply to her. 

“Wake up,” she tries. “Come on, please?”

Adrien stirs, but not by much. He’s on his back, now, only thing visible is his nose. Golden curls peek out from underneath the sleep mask, making him look oh-so-silly, and it’s too much to contain as she bites her lip. He’s just so cute!

So who blames her for crawling onto his bed?

Who blames her for slinging a leg over his hip so she can sit down on him?

Who blames her for placing her hands on his chest— or what she thinks is his chest— and starts to knead?

She’s just Lady Noire.

And yet Adrien makes a noise at the weight that presses down on his stomach, something also that sounds like a sigh, but less relaxed and more what just woke me up?

“Hi,” she purrs out.

“Mmmm,” is his reply.

“Whatcha up to?”

“Mmmm.”

“Oh,” she continues, cocking her head to the side. Adrien’s arms are flailing underneath the blanket; she scoots back just a bit to give him enough space to get his arms out, and while one of his hands reaches for hers, the other pulls up his mask to— see nothing, actually. It’s pitch-black dark in here, but her superhero suit gives her the advantage of seeing in the dark, so. “Yeah, I get that. Wanna wake up, now?”

His eyes are still very pretty, even in the dark. He’s got that expression on his face that is both disoriented and tired, blinking sleep out of his eyes with the way he creases his brows, as if thoughts are too difficult for his tired brain. She watches, enraptured, as blonde eyelashes hide beautiful irises in the color of emerald and deep forest green, and kissable lips turn thin at the idea of being interrupted from his beauty sleep.

He makes a noise that she can’t quite hear all that well, but she knows that it’s not a good noise. 

“Kitty?” There’s a pause as if he’s waiting for her to acknowledge him, but the two of them know better— if this were an intruder, someone that wasn’t her, he would’ve been much more awake, much more prone to pushing her off. “What… time is it?”

“Internal clock says five in the morning,” she chirps. She looks over to his night stand. “Digital clock says five twenty.”

“Why are you awake?” he asks, wheezy, tired, head going back onto the pillow. Morning voice laces his words like a warm blanket, and she likes it, kneading into his chest more and leaning down into his space. Behind her, her tail gives a slow sweep, even as she hums out something soft and delicate— Adrien notices how she suddenly turns catty and sweet, because his hand comes up to pet her jaw, even if he’s not looking.

They stay like this for a bit.

She likes that sleepy breath of his that is just so deep, that movement of his chest underneath her hands is methodical and nice. It helps that it’s a beautiful sight, too, but it’s just so sweet. She takes it all in; how his thumb rubs little circles on her jaw, tracing her cheek all the way up to her cheekbone where hexleather covers her face in a protective layer, and then back to her jaw. His touch is noncommittal and nonsensical, a patternless stroke across her cheekbones that reads lazy and tired. Still though, his touch is so comforting, and he smiles a bit when she leans into his palm to get more and more of it.

She purrs into his hand. “What do you mean? I’ve been awake since four.”

“Why—” Adrien seems to swallow his own words, realizing the predicament, because she’s the daughter of a baker and this is practically noon to her. “Okay,” he mumbles, voice soft and rolling, puffing out his breath. He rubs at his eyes with his other hand. “Why are you waking me up so early?”

“Because I missed you.” Duh. “We’re going on a date today, remember? We’re getting breakfast?”

She was promised croissants, after all. And pain au laits. Chocolate muffins? All things she can get at home, but it means something, going out with Adrien instead. She likes how he holds his coffee mug and sips; she likes how peaceful he looks while smiling at her from across the little breakfast table. She’s been looking forward to this all week, and had done her best to clear her schedule as much as possible, so they would have time to be together. It’s not easy being her— either Lady Noire or Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the two of them are always so busy. She’s living two lives, after all.

“Not at five,” he whines. His voice cracks. Her heart swells with affection, to be able to see him so vulnerable like this. To everyone else, Mister Bug is a monolith of pride and power, of strength and courage. To her, he’s just a man groaning into his elbow about the audacity of being woken up before noon. “Give me a few more hours.”

Adrien is not at all a morning person, which is such a shame, because he definitely should be. After all, Adrien’s the color of the morning sun with his amber skin and golden hair that he takes on after his mother; but looks aren’t everything, and she almost takes pride in the fact that he’s such a night owl. Adrien loves reading until it’s way too late in the morning, while she enjoys the sunrises and getting an early start to her day, and it would be funny and ironic if she didn’t find it as endearing as it is. She’s got a love-struck look to her, she does, because she can feel the way her lips pull to the side as she looks down at her boyfriend— her boyfriend!— who’s sleepily trying to go back to dozing off while she kisses his cheek.

“Morning breath,” he says, trying to complain. “I just woke up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Charming, I won’t kiss you on the lips. Even though I want to.”

“It’s gross.”

“Trust me, the things I’m willing to do with you, this doesn’t even come close to gross.”

He snorts, making a face that’s both him laughing at what she’s said, as well as thinking about it on his own.

She keeps giving him kisses. Smattering him with pecks and smooches on the cheeks until he turns red and embarrassed at how much she’s giving him is her favorite hobby, and she follows the contours of his cheekbones with precision and accuracy of someone who’s done this before. She lifts up his sleep mask to place more on his brow bone, purring louder until he laughs again, puffs of breath and low chuckles, with her claws gentle in his hair when she brushes her fingers through them.

He’s perfection.

“Come sleep?”

“I’m not tired.”

“Detransform,” he tries again, patting the empty space next to him. In an act of confidence that only ever oozes out of Adrien when he’s either Mister Bug or awake at five in the morning, he lifts up the single blanket, beckoning her to come closer. “Plagg is keeping you too much awake.”

She laughs. “Hate to break it to you, but this energy is all me.”

“You take your meds yet?”

“Not until breakfast, no.”

But Adrien, sweet Adrien, will not be convinced; he’s just as stubborn as she is, and much better at making her change her mind than anyone else. “You’re so warm. Come here. Cuddle with me.”

Awh, she just can’t say no to him, can she?

“I don’t have my PJs on.”

“You can steal one of my shirts.”

Of course she can. It would be a crime if she couldn’t. What’s a Kitty without anything to steal?

She’s quick to detransform, losing sight of that golden smile, casting his apartment room into shadow; she scrambles for his nightstand and grabs what she feels is one of his pajama shirts, the only person in her entire world she’s ever met that keeps their pajamas there. She’s able to change without problem, listening to the soft deepening of Adrien’s breath, indicating he’s falling back asleep, only to go pawing for him while she tries to get back on the mattress again. Plagg has disappeared; more interested in Adrien’s vast collection of socks where Tikki undoubtably is snoozing on her own. 

“Where are you?” Marinette asks.

“Over here.”

She practically oozes on him when they finally find each other’s hands. To be fair, he’s warm, and the chill builds up on her skin like frost now that she’s out of her suit; Adrien’s in a long sleeved sweater, and something soft for pants, so this is nice to cuddle into. How could she ever deny herself the chance to curl up to this?

There’s only one pillow in this giant bed, but they’ll make do, especially with the way that Adrien folds her in, tucking her under his chin. This feels like heaven.

“Sleep,” he mumbles.

“Do my eyelashes tickle your neck?”

He laughs a little bit. “Yeah.”

“I’ll try not to blink.”

“Close your eyes and sleep.”

In all honesty, it’s not that hard to fall asleep. Adrien’s breath is slow and tranquil, and his heart practically crawls because of his good health. It’s a metronome, just like the one he keeps on his piano, softly swinging back and forth with every tic of his heartbeat. He smells like his soap. The one that costs a ridiculous amount. The soap that she absolutely takes a bit whenever she’s showering in his bathroom, because it smells like him; smells manly, for lack of a better word, something strong in it to give it the impression that it was made for someone with money. It’s soft on his skin. It builds up on his neck and collarbones where her nose is pressed into, slowly slipping back into sleep with him.

Before she knows it, she’s out, too. The only man in the world who can possibly knock Lady Noire out.

Chapter Text

She should kill him.

Okay, no, she shouldn’t. Firstly, because that’s bad. Secondly, because she doesn’t actually know who he is. She should at least know a man before sinking her teeth into his neck, right? It’s common courtesy, and she’s not the type to just put her mouth anywhere without prior knowledge on where it’s been. At the very least, she should at least find out what his whole deal is. Didn’t Hawkmoth say something about bringing his family together? Something sympathetic yet twisted? Something about his son? She’s honestly got no idea— Hawkmoth is a theater man, always interested in making things into a spectacle whenever he can— so she’s not even sure what’s true and what’s just make-believe. He could just be completely lying, even if the whole family-man angle is honestly way too interesting to just leave behind.

That still doesn’t stop the urge to throttle him, though.

She could kill Hawkmoth. But she won’t. But she could.

It is the middle of the night and this Akuma is absolutely miserable, but at least it’s over with. Maybe she’d pressured the Akuma a little too hard to hurry up and move along, but it wasn’t a bad thing. If anyone asks, she did it for the safety of the city; was it important that she threatened to rip off the Akuma’s arm if he tried dazzling her with that wand of his? No. But. Paris’s safety still is a thing.

“Kitty?” Mister Bug asks, a knowing smile on his face, as he comes back from the van. “How are you doing?”

She’s sitting on the curb of the sidewalk, giving the victim some time to breathe— victims don’t know any better, since they’re technically not sentient at all when they’re Akumatized, but she still recognizes his face and knows that he’s the reason why she’s awake at this hour and it’s causing her to hiss. Hard. A lot. The social worker van is here to pick up the victim, a common sight whenever she’s in this suit and has debris in her braid from a fight, and they’ll be taking care of the victim and making sure that they’re okay, and has the man who’s made her night a living hell for the time being currently wrapped up in a thermal blanket. After all, no one ever wants a recently-purified Akuma walking around without any additional help, least of all her. She’s not a monster, she’s a sweetie.

Mister Bug always does his best to comfort them the best he can. He’s a natural at it. People look up to him with stars in their eyes, so thankful for someone so calm and collected during moments of peak stress.

Usually she’ll join, offer a few jokes and have a snack or two with the person in the back of the van, offering to open the packet of crackers in that weird cellophane that never tears the right way. She makes sure that they have their standard, government-issued, thermal-saving blanket on their shoulders. And makes sure that they know, above all else, that superheroes will never hold a grudge to them. Because they’re victims. And got taken advantage of from a super villain. That’s the whole point.

She’s still hissing.

So, she’d put herself in time-out.

“How are you awake?” she mumbles, scooting over on the sidewalk to make room for his shoulders when he sits down. He’s got kilometric-long legs, and he folds himself in like a burrito in an attempt to sit down next to her, just trying to be close to her without being completely in her space. They’re superheroes. Not exactly dating in the public eye. He laughs, something silly, nudging her with an elbow in friendly banter.

“Because it’s ten at night.”

“It’s not.”

“Might be ten thirty by now,” he continues, with what she can only identify is a smirk on his face. He looks way too smug. Oh, doesn’t he look excited to finally get her right back. “Did the Akuma wake you up?”

She’s in the middle of yawning. “You noticed?”

Another laugh, wrapping a giant arm around her shoulders, sneaking a kiss to her forehead by pretending to whisper in her ear instead. “Something like that.”

It’s the only app on her phone that she keeps to ring when she’s on ‘do not disturb’ for the night. She kind of has to; it’s either that, or have Plagg play guard-dog and watch the news all night from her computer and wake her up if he needs to, but she’s not sure that much screen-time for him is doing the Kwami any favors. Maybe it’s better that he’s not so in touch with the internet. He can barely handle radio.

“I don’t think there’s going to be any other Akumas tonight,” Mister Bug mumbles. “Maybe you should go home and get back to sleep.”

Another yawn, but she powers through. “You should come over.”

They haven’t really been able to talk much today, but they’re just so busy. She’s still working two jobs, and that consists on running across the city to satisfy her family’s intense work ethic, so it’s not like she has all the time in the world to text. She does try, sending pictures of funny things she’s seen throughout the day, spare pieces of thoughts she’s had that don’t provide much context to him while he’s currently studying in University. From what she remembers, he has a midterm coming up. Wasn’t that what he was studying for when she was there two days ago? She doesn’t even remember, more interested in his bed, piling all of his blankets from the linen closet on top of her and dozing off from the weight.

But she hasn’t properly talked to him in forever. Going longer than twelve hours is practically a crime, and she’s not one to break any rules unless it’s intentional.

“Can we finish the movie today?”

He’s such a night owl. They’ve been trying to finish this movie for a week now, but she’s just capable of staying awake after dinner without snoozing on his chest. It must be lonely, trying to watch a romantic movie, only for her to snore. She’s asked continuously if he wants to watch it earlier, but they just never have the time. It’s not something they have control over.

“I’m probably going to end up falling asleep,” she replies honestly.

“That’s okay. Another time, then.”

“Still want to come over?”

“Always.”

So, he does. She’s practically limping by the time they make it through the balcony window of her parents’ apartment, because it’s too late at night for her to care and keep up appearances and people aren’t really paying attention, anyway. She’s stolen a croissant from the bakery, shoved half of it in her mouth while she paws open for the latch; her mother’s at the TV practically in the dark in the living room, watching highlights of the news of the latest Akuma attack. The walls bleed that off-white blue color that always permeates the background of the news, and it reflects off her mom’s face when she turns to face them.

“Baby, is that you?” her mother asks.

“Oh, hey mama. Why are you awake?”

“Your dad’s snoring kept me up,” she admits, though Lady Noire knows better than to assume it’s the whole truth. Her mother doesn’t know how to stay calm when there’s an Akuma on the loose, and refuses to go to bed until she knows for certain that her only daughter is back in the house or at least texts to let her know that she’s fine. It’s endearing, if not a little frustrating, to know that she’s not able to do much about the worry that crosses her mom’s face. They’ll just keep dancing this little dance until one of them admits to it.

Lady Noire closes the latch behind her after Mister Bug manages to get his legs through. They’re just too long. He’s folding himself in some more as if an origami paper, making some weird choices with his feet so that he can squeak his way through the small opening and get his shoulder through in the right angle.

Ever the courteous man, Mister Bug waves and smiles at her as Lady Noire wipes at her eyes again and makes her way to the staircase. “Hello, Madame Dupain-Cheng.” 

“Oh! Look who it is,” she laughs. “Have you eaten dinner, yet?”

“I have.”

“There are leftovers in the fridge if you want some,” Sabine offers, intonation in her voice implying he doesn’t have to be shy about being hungry. He’s been inhaled into the Cheng family, after all, and Lady Noire can admit that she likes it a lot that no one in the family ever goes hungry if there’s something to be done about it. 

Nevertheless, Mister Bug is quick to reassure her that he’s okay, telling her to have a good night; with the courage of a man possessed by good luck, he climbs her staircase without a lick of embarrassment. Not that there should be. Both of her parents adore him.

The two of them detransform and Marinette is desperate to hit a nearby dimmer switch before Plagg starts complaining about the light.

“Scram,” she tells her Kwami, who’s already starting to open his mouth. “I’m not hearing it, little Chef.”

“Princess, you’ve got to learn to keep the lights off before heading out.”

“Hush,” she whines into her hands. “Sleep time. No arguing. Did you brush your teeth, or am I going to have to do it for you?”

Plagg suddenly is nowhere to be found, most likely hiding in the peace lily on her desk, fleeing at the mere thought of having to deal with mint-flavored toothpaste. Tikki isn’t nearby either, and she suspects that she’s probably made her way down to go be with Sabine in the living room downstairs and try to get something to eat before coming back up. That’s fine. Marinette knows better than to stop Tikki from being with her former Guardian, after all.

In her room, there are plenty of options for Tikki to choose to fall asleep when she finally comes back; there are plants galore, turning the place into a forest, each pot with a convenient little pocket dug into them for a perfect cubby for a Kwami since Plagg enjoys terraforming with his little paws when he’s bored. Not only that, but she still keeps her dollhouse next to her bed, with doll-like furniture and an actual closet full of handmade clothes she’s made for Plagg over the years. Sometimes she’ll catch Plagg napping in the doll bedroom, if he’s not interested in the potential chance of getting squished by her head in her bed.

“And what about you?” Adrien asks. “Did you take off your makeup?”

“How do you know that I’m wearing makeup?”

“I know the color of your lips,” he mumbles, and something about it softens her into goo. “You’re still wearing that long-lasting lipstick from our date earlier today. Let me go get the makeup remover in your bathroom.”

The cotton pad on her face is cold but soft when he finally starts to wipe. She doesn’t want to flinch, but it’s habit; he follows her with his other hand right at her chin, keeping her still while he works on cleaning her up. He’s methodical in this like he with everything else, making sure to be careful around the eyes and not injure the delicate skin there, and she watches, enraptured, as Adrien’s face is so… close to hers. Endeared, if that’s even a word. He’s got a look to him that reminds her that he loves her, even while she’s cranky and tired, and it makes her want to purr.

He traces her skin like he’s kissing her with that cotton pad, following the edges of her cheeks with it and going up to the brows. A swipe against her mouth feels like yet another kiss, wiped clean yet slightly damp with a dry cotton pad.

“That’s better,” he says with a smile. Her face is damp and shiny, feeling clean now that he’s used micellar water on her face. “There. Perfect.”

She should kiss him.

God. She should kiss him.

He does it first, leaning into her to press his lips against her mouth before she can even blink, turning around to walk back to the bathroom before she can pull him closer on instinct. Damn it!

Adrien’s currently fighting to paw away a vining plant that’s just too long to not hit him on the forehead while he goes back to the bathroom to wash off the makeup pad, but she pays no mind to his struggles, more interested in faceplanting into her mattress with a groan and a blush that is heavier than a thousand suns. Her head is pounding. Why did she get interrupted from her sleep? That should be illegal. Shouldn’t someone be fined for this? At least yelled at? Growled at. Hissed. She’ll take a meow. A mewl. Whatever— she should not be awake past nine at night if people want a socially acceptable Lady Noire prowling these streets. How in god’s name did she ever do nightly patrols? She must’ve lost her mind at some point.

Behind her, Adrien laughs, going through one of her pajama drawers to re-steal a politely-permanently-borrowed shirt that just so happens to be his size, odd circumstances it may be. He’s pantsless. She heard that zipper of his jeans come right off. She doesn’t have the heart to find out what color underwear he’s wearing, because that’s not a thought she wants to follow with his migraine she’s sporting.

“You’re going to scoot over, right? Please don’t make me sleep on the floor.”

“Mmmm,” she replies, into her blanket.

“I’ll let you play jetpack.”

“Mmmm.”

“Give me a good night’s kiss?”

“Mmmm.”

He laughs again, voice suddenly closer. “Alright, Kitty. Hold on.”

Giant, gentle hands attempt to scoop her up from the mattress. She’s not helping, because she’s pouting and she’s tired, so she’s dead weight; Adrien grunts, cusp end of a chuckle that sounds warm and soft, as he gathers her up in his arms and does his best to shift her over just a handful of centimeters over so that he can join her in the bed correctly. By no means is her bed considered massive; it’s a couple’s bed in the most basic, rudimentary sense of the word, though it never had Adrien in mind. It doesn’t help that the mattress is filled with cat stuffed animals lining the headboard and pillows, because they take up quite a lot of headspace and cause his feet to almost stick out… and yet he never complains, even though they both get better sleep on his mattress. When he’s finally got the blanket out from underneath her and covers her up with it, he’s no less closer to actually making her give him enough space to reasonably exist.

He cocoons her with his giant, massive arm. In the end, he ends up being the one who jetpacks her, though it’s more like a big spoon and a little spoon. He can even reach the nightstand to find the remote to turn off the dimmer switch, though it takes him a few seconds to find it in the middle of the mini forest that populates the surface, trying to get the lucky bamboo out of the way enough to snatch it. He kisses her hair, mumbling about something that sounds like he’s saying he likes her shampoo, but she doesn’t really hear much of it. She’s more interested in that hand, that thumb, that slowly traces the skin on her hip where he’s got his hand on her as she’s lulled to sleep.

Their legs are intertwined. Maybe it’s an attempt to placate her into not putting her cold feet on his ankle and making him squirm. Maybe it’s because he likes how silly it is when she rubs her legs together like a cricket and wants to keep his feet nearby so he knows when she’s about to do it. Maybe he just knows that she likes being covered up in him like he’s a weighted blanket of her own, still smelling like that soap she likes from his house, like he’s her stuffed animal.

Either way, she’s practically flat-lining into her pillow.