Summary: A designer/fashion show au, identity reveal, reunion and oneshot fanfic rolled into one lovely cinnamon roll. In which Marinette, having never found out Chat Noir's true identity, moves to America and becomes a successful designer. The night of her debut at New York Fashion week, a certain French model appears.
A/N: Indulging a guilty pleasure at 3am. Enjoy!
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Marinette Dupin-Cheng was always an independent person.
The night after the last akuma attack was illuminating, in more way than one.
It was all a blur of now blocked memories; but the outcome was always the same- no matter how hard she wanted to change it. She and Chat Noir lost their kwamis, the sources of their powers. Flung to opposite sides of the city during the fighting, Marinette quickly discovered that there would be no way to discreetly locate her partner. Paris was a huge city, with millions of people. If she ever went public, she and whoever Chat was would be forced to fend off paparazzi for the rest of their lives. Marinette would never put the burden on that person just so she could see him again. It would be selfish, and she'd essentially be outing them to the entire world.
But by god, did Marinette want to.
All of that had ended years ago. Marinette would never forget the experience- how could she? Those months were the most eventful and exciting time of the better part of her life. Even moving to America to pursue a budding fashion career wouldn't compare to fighting the disgruntled lost soul.
But she was no longer a lovesick high school student crushing on a hopelessly unattainable model classmate- she was now a twenty-five year old woman, bandaging her bleeding finger having just lodged a sizable pin in there.
Her studio apartment in Brooklyn was tiny. There was a kitchenette, a bathroom-shower, a bed, and a seating area that had been repurposed for seeing and design. A well-loved black Singer sewing machine was perched on a old school desk, found for free at a garage sale. The Singer was top of the line, a gift from her dearly missed parents, all the way across from the Atlantic Ocean. Marinette was lucky enough to have some of her designs featured in the window of the boutique across the street, but she wouldn't say she was making any real headway yet. If she looked out the small window, her gown and suit pair- a wine-red ballroom style affair and tailored suit with pocket square to match- would greet her.
There was a crisp, crème envelope on the table. Inside, was an invitation, creased from many reads, to submit a garment to a competition. The winner was to be featured at the upcoming infamous in it's glory, Fashion Week New York. Her design was ready, undoubtedly. It was almost embarrassingly Ladybug and Chat-Noir inspired, but her time as a superhero was the best muse for bouts of design. The hand-sewn pearl embellishments that lined the hem of the floor length curve-hugging gown were little silhouettes of cats, and the pocket square of the suit was a brilliant emerald green. Marinette had eve named her brand Lady Noir! If she got any more embarrassing, critics would label her an obsessed fangirl.
Yet, this was the design she wanted to send. She would never be able to go public, directly, that she was Ladybug, the famed hero of Paris. No, she'd allow Chat the privacy he deserved, and fade into obscurity. But maybe- maybe- He- whoever he was, might see her dress and suit in a window, or inside a magazine. Just by chance. And if he ever wanted to see her again, Chat'd-
Marinette was getting ahead of herself. Baby steps. So, the garments went into a special box, carefully packaged, and then off to the mail. And then she waited.
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The months later, the show mistress, Helga, was barking some command at her in the chaos of the backstage, models running around in half-completed looks to their next station, and Marinette sees him.
Her sordid high school crush, that even seven years of of school, made her heart flutter like a sixteen-year old.
Adrien-fucking-Argeste.
The French model entered from the side entrance surrounded by an impressive entourage, a shockwave of new energy reverberating through the cramped quarters. His white dress shirt was half open, tie hanging off the side of his neck. Judging by his state of half-undress, he'd just come off of some other runway in the facility and came straight to this one. Through social media (maybe one too many purchased magazines with interviews) she'd kept up with him through the years- Adrien had done extremely well for himself. He went to an elite French college to study business and overtook his father's company while maintaining his wildly successful modeling career. He'd dated here and there- fellow models and some actresses, but never more than a few weeks. Marinette suspected that those were tabloid fodder, but she also suspected that her suspecting might also just be linked to selfish jealousy.
His blonde hair stuck up at perfectly random angles and it always did, piercing green eyes a statement in the chaos.
(Green? Was she forgetting something?)
But her model to her "Chat Noir dress", as the garment was affectionately dubbed by the press (to her horror), had yet to arrive. The tingly feeling of seeing her high school crush was slowly being overtaken by rising panic. [What if she never showed? What then?] This set was the last of the night and incredibly important- Marinette knew for sure all of the other designer's models were scheduled to the "T", and she wouldn't have the time to make alterations even if a replacement was found.
To top it all off, Marinette hadn't even been told who the male model was for the marching suit- she has cheekily designed a wire headband and black mask for the suit, deciding to amuse the press. The accessories sat atop of plastic bust at her station, waiting.
"Marinette Dupain-Cheng! How many years has it been?" A warm and vibrant voice called from behind her, and Marinette flailed awkwardly, obscuring the bust with the ears and mask perched on top of it with her body. She saw his shoes first, a pair of elegant oxfords. Looking up, she was met with the same green eyes and infectious smile-
(green, green, green, green-)
"Adrien! It has been quite a while!" Trying her best to conceal her thundering heart, she straightened, and clasped his outstretched hand with her best smile.
Adrien steps to her right, giving the dress a once-over. "Your designs- they're beautiful. I always took Alya for the huge Chat Noir and Ladybug fan, I had no idea you were too!" Marianette gives her best awkward laugh, knowing that Adrien would probably never understands the true weight of his statement.
"Oh, you know. Paris' finest heroes and all that. Who wouldn't think of them as the best muse?" He laughs in response, a wonderful and lively sound.
(it'a godamn familiar too. who-)
Adrien gives her mostly empty station a once-over, thoughtful. "So, who's the lucky girl who gets to wear your dress? I'd like to know who I'm walking with, just so I can find her before we go on. Wouldn't want to mess up your aesthetic, right?" He grins toothily, and Marinette freezes.
(did he just say "who I'm waking with? He couldn't possibly-")
"Are you wearing my suit, Adrien?" The words came out before she could process them, and he beamed, Adrien fucking Argeste beamed at her.
"Of course! I mean- you and I are friends, and I thought this would be a good chance to catch up with you," Were the tips of his ears turning red? "You should have seen it! All of the designers in my office were so impressed with your entry, you're practically world famous right now." Marinette's face went up in flames, but the shrill voice of the show mistress saved her from saying something stupid.
The petite woman stormed into her station, not a single bobby pin on the table touched or fabric moved. "Argeste! I don't care how stupidly rich you are, if you are not in that suit and onto the runway in fifteen minutes, so help me god this godamn show will end, and there will be words spoken. Not pleasant ones." Turning in her impressively high red-heeled black louboutins, she focused her wrath on Marinette shortly after.
"Dupain-Cheng! Where in ever loving f-k is your model?!" Reeling, the former baker stuttered. "She hasn't arrived yet, I was told to wait-"
"THERE IS NO TIME FOR THAT, you are the closer of this show, which will end hell or high water in fifteen minutes." She flipped impatiently through her clipboard, waving an assistant with a laptop over.
"There are no models who are free right now, and pulling one from another show isn't possible..." The woman muttered to herself. Marionette felt her heart sink. She'd be crushed if every pin-prick she suffered from hand-embroidering the pearl appliqués went to waste.
Adrien turned to her, suddenly. She'd forgotten he was there in the chaos, a feat to say the least. "Wait! That dress. It looks like it'll fit on you, don't you think? She could walk with me." Did he seem unnaturally flushed or is it simply the lighting? It must have bed the lighting. Helga snaps up from her notes, and considers it for a moment.
"It could work. Girl! Into makeup!" Marianette blinks, and suddenly there's an octopus of hands on her, some unbuttoning her shirt, other taking her sewing materials out of her hands. She's reduced to her bra and underwear when Adrien snaps her out of her stupor, also missing a shirt.
"You'll be great! I'll help you through it." He smiles that million-watt smile that would make all the girls swoon dramatically. Marinette felt the need to be embarrassed about her state of undress, but there were so many hands doing thing and [holy shit her dress was coming off of the mannequin]. She remembered vividly stitching every pearl, ironing every crease.
"The dress fits!" A stylist exclaimed, after some prodding and manhandling of her stomach area. There was an assault of different powers being applied to her face, false eyelashes; the stylist even managed to get some eyeliner on her even though her hair was being done simultaneously. Adrien stood in front of a long mirror, calmly tying his own tie. [The emerald green pocket square look so good!] Marinette smiled to herself, the joy the quickly draining as they slipped her into a pair of four-inch stilettos (that she totally didn't think that she'd be the one wearing.)
"I can't wear these!" She panicked, teetering dangerously with a death-grip on some poor male assistant, nails with a fresh coat of fast-drying red nail lacquer digging into his shoulder. The heels, an adorable affair with a diamond cat-ear motif at the tips of the toes were far higher than Marinette herself ever ventured to wear. Her transformation must have been complete, because the-ten man mob stepped away, revealing a fully suited Adrien, offering his arm to her. The mask, the wire cat ears on his head and his green, green, green eyes stirred something deep within her.
(you must be him-)
Reluctantly, Marinette released her death grip on the poor stylist and latched onto his, wobbling still. Smiling, he starts leading her on a brisk pace towards the runway. "You look wonderful. I'll guide you through every step of the way."
Marinette looked at him skeptically, only catching glimpses of herself in mirrors as they walked. There were pearls in her hair, long trials of diamond earrings, forearm length gloves. All eyes were on her from the second they left the station. Whispers of "she's too fat to be a model" and "she's ugly, she'll just fall on her face," were swimming around in Marinette's mind, but Adrian effectively stopped all of her thought processes.
The entrance to the runway was right there. He bent his neck down to her, whispering in her ear. "I've finally found you, Ladybug," accompanied with a laugh, "Only you'd match a pocket square to my exact eye color."
(wait what?)
He pulled her onto the stage with a downright wrecked grin. "Shall we go, my lady?"
(it can't be-)
There are a hundred thousand flashing lights, but all Marinette felt was the flush of her cheeks and the feeling of Chat Noir- no, Adrien Argeste's hands wrapped around her back. The heels pinch forwards ever so slightly, but her head's so in the clouds that she doesn't think she'll be coming down any time soon.
(she found him. she found him.)
The whole world might as well lay itself at her feet by this point.
They edge the end of the platform, and Marinette looks head on into the blinding lights with her best Ladybug-ish confidence. She is no longer Paris' greatest superhero, no, but she [was, is] Ladybug.
She forgets the walk back, all a wonderful flashing gold blur, but the second they're off the stage two [very warm, strong] arms wrap around her and Marientte's pulled into the tightest hug she's felt in a while. Adrien's hand is tangled up her hair, the other pressing into her back.
"You were purr-fect, my lady." Marinette resists the real urge to swat him, letting the two identities collide in her head. Chat Noir, her partner-in-crime (hero-ing?), her incorrigible flirt, the person who always had her back even when a budding was collapsing around them. Adrien, the boy (man, now) that she'd crushed over, hopelessly, for years and years. So different, yet oddly coherent when matched.
(should have seen it years ago-)
"I've missed you, Chaton." Marinette whispers into his chest, so only he can hear. The hum in his chest, low, alerts her that he understands. That he too was also lonely, after all of these years. That he wanted her also. It's an addictive feeling, Marinette notes, being in his arms.
There's flashing lights an uproar of sound- the press going crazy, people whispering, but she doesn't care. Not in the slightest.
Convinced that she wouldn't pop out of existence if he let go, that he wouldn't wake up from a dream (she wondered the same, no way in hell that this was reality, she just passed out on her desk again probably-), Adrien loosened his grip. Shooing away eager cameramen, he led them both back to Marinette's booth.
Still for a moment, her hand still in his, he was about to say something... When the octopus of gushing stylists descended once again give their congratulations, as well as change her into something more suitable for the after party that she'd completely forgotten about. Her dress was carefully removed and placed back into the mannequin, replaced with a short black dress of her own making and another pair of horrifically high heels, dripping in their own scarlet red color. Hair now cascading down her back but makeup left alone, she was once face-to-face with Adrien, wearing his signature tailored suit but still the pair of wire cat ears, and his- Chat Noir's- signature shit-eating grin.
"So. Would you do me the great honor of being my eye candy for the rest of the night?" Marinette swatted his outstretched arm away playfully.
"I think I deserve more than eye candy, don't you think?" She reponded, teasing. Fingering the headband, he almost looked... Shy, which was definitely not a look that Marienette ever thought she'd see on him.
"Well...," A moment fidgeting. "I'd ask you to be my date, but I wasn't completely sure if a girl like you would want someone like me." Marinette must be dreaming. She's on a different plant, somewhere outside of the solar system, if Adrien-fucking-Argeste has the wherewithal to look embarrassed.
"What?"
He shifts, scratching the back of his neck. It should be illegal how good his arms look in expensive textiles. The "You were Chat Noir's idol- my idol, y'know. He lowers his voice, "As Paris' greatest superhero. I'd of followed you to the ends of the earth if I knew who you were." Marinette sputters, and they're both proper and red now.
"Me?! No- you don't get to say that to me." She slaps a hand over her face. "I had the biggest crush on you- the model you- for years, this cannot be happening-"
Adrian, closing the gap between them, gathers her hands in his, and she looks into his eyes tentatively. They're as focused and intense as Adrien's always were, with a hint of playfulness that she recognizes solely as Chat.
"What do you say then, my Lady? You and I give it a try?"
"If I don't have a heart attack by the time the pictures come out, I'm all yours."
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A week later, Marinette's jumping up and down in the apartment, gold embossed letter in hand. Adrien, half-dressed and grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips looks on, thoroughly amused.
"A FIFTEEN-PAGE SPREAD IN VOUGE?! ADRIEN, WHAT DO I DO, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, HELP-"
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Years later, when Alya flies in from Tokyo to conduct their tell-all interview that she'd always wanted to film, Marinette talks about the color of Adrien's eyes for so long the usually suave Parisian model is reduced to blushing tomato status. It is glorious.
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A/N: Drop a review, if you will? Feel free to send other AU ideas, if you'd like.