A/N: It took A LOT of nerve for me to post and publish something like this to my accounts. This au, like all of it, is my darkest and most realistic take on a fic yet - especially in regards to its rating and stuff. So yeah, I pondered A LOT on whether to post this or not. In the end I gathered the gall, revised it and decided to post it.

To answer a million dollar question: yes, there will be smut. Sex is a large part of this fic - well the rating probably gives that away. But not just smut-wise. Ugh, it's a lot of components really. I'm not exactly a ten out of ten smut writer (gonna be real honest here) but I'm going to promise to do my best! Also we don't have a beta, so let's pray for my sanity and search history :D

Also fun fact: this fic's conception came from the clusterfuck that was The Idol. I have never seen something that is so horrible that it becomes laughable. The Weeknd really did not help himself with that series, like at all. That being said, dear readers, do not worry about this fic being exactly like The Idol. Oh fuck no. That's not where we're heading - I literally only took the cult and fame aspects and ran with it. That's it. I promise. (Don't kill me guys)

Well, I'm gonna leave it at that. Feel free to drop opinions of this weird idea of mine.

Till next time,

D.L.D

Chapter One: Glitter and Go

Glitter and Go: that was the very rule that Marinette Dupain-Cheng had lived by ever since she had turned eighteen years old. When things got tough you slapped on the glitter, swapped out the runny mascara for vibrant eyeshadow, and always ended up running far, far away from the very mistakes that encouraged all of the glitz and glam that thinly veiled your catastrophically shattered life in the first place. Then you'd repeat the cycle. Rinse and repeat. Again and again and again. Slap on the makeup, swap out the mascara, run away from the latest crippling mistake.

Damaged women, vulnerable women, were never respected much by society. Blind eyes and cold shoulders always barged them to the bottom of the barrel, forcing them to be soaked up within the predatory scum of society's rotting foundations. Marinette had learned that the hard way; left on her own, neck-deep in a lie that had been spun for way too many years, she had been left to ride it out on her own.

Now here she was, nearly a decade later, flourishing in the toxic musk of her new world. Her reality.

Each night, like clockwork, she would do the same thing: decorate her face with glittery, eye-catching powders and paints; shed her daytime disguise for her midnight uniform; put on the black stilettos. Never forget the black stilettos. By nine o'clock Marinette would become an entirely different girl, dark shadows erased and a scarlet smile spread on her cherry blossom lips.

La Femme Rouge: beautiful, enchanting, down-right intoxicating - she had gained so many compliments over the years. Once an awkward, quivering teen tugging on the choking material of her pink bodycon dress had now rapidly changed and morphed into a beautiful butterfly of a woman. With her colourful wings and biting remarks it was no wonder why so many of her patrons loved her.

Honestly, to Marinette, it was a miracle how much one face of makeup could change her; tragically, makeup was her only true escape.

"Another full house!" A cheerful voice boomed over the pulsing music, directed right into Marinette's left ear. Alix, dressed to the nines in her baby blue suit and matching cane. Cringing, Marinette turned to her excited co-worker, already anticipating the incoming praise. "Honestly, you work miracles for this place, Marinette. The club's never been so successful."

"I doubt I have anything to do with it," Marinette murmured in response, setting down the glass she had been drying. Sighing, she shook her head, staring at the lit up stage - already decked out with the current act to occupy the patrons. Coy women circulated about the space, some spinning on silver poles while others bent into strange contortions. "The club was doing well long before I joined it. It's only a coincidence."

As if it were a coincidence. Marinette knew - just like everybody else - that she had drawn every single newcomer toward this place. After her abrupt departure from another popular nightclub the crowd had followed; they always did. Desperate to get to know more about the woman behind the glitz and glam, desperate to claim her as their own, everyone always followed her about.

Yet Marinette wouldn't ever dare to call herself popular. No, she would never be popular. So many other women did what she did a thousand times better, looking a million times better. Local and close-knit, she simply had a more visible result.

However, unlike those other women, Marinette needed that. This occupation, this field of work, was her one lifeline. For now, as it had been doing for the past several years, this type of work was keeping her afloat. Being glamourous, being this over-the-top superstar, was the only thing keeping her from sinking to the bottom.

But no-one knew about that. Only she did. The Glitter and Go ensured as much.

Nevertheless, La Femme Rouge was gaining attention. Mass amounts of attention. Her name was becoming a local fixture, passing between the lips of both patrons and gossipers alike - something Marinette had never appreciated much. Unlike most girls in her line of work she had never wanted to gain fame. Hanging around the clubs and letting influential figures sink their claws into her was never part of her life plans.

Life changes though. Unfortunately, there was nothing Marinette could do about that. So instead she adapted, crafted herself a life jacket when no-one else would even try to toss her a well-needed lifeline - let alone push out a measly lifeboat.

Now, like it always did, society was trying to suck her back under. And, of course, the gaining traction of her local fame was going to be its number one tool in dragging Marinette back down to her spot with the scum and disease. Stuck at the bottom of the rotting, stinking barrel.

ight now, the rumours of La Femme Rouge were still word of mouth. Only verbally would the legends of Marinette's acts and performances spread around Paris. Yet she stilled feared their existence; gossip, rumours, were what stirred the pot. If people stirred enough, her entire life would be uprooted. That was the last thing she wanted. That was the last thing she needed, so many years in and so many lies spun.

Plus, she was growing comfortable now. Finding her way, carving her paths, Marinette was growing comfortable. That was something she didn't want to lose.

"Well, your little friend's waiting for your act again," Alix offered lightly, smirking as she rifled through the alcohol stowed under the counter. Nonchalantly, she shrugged, "And it appears that he's brought friends."

Glancing toward the tables, Marinette noticed that Alix's observation was indeed correct. Another full table - definitely filled with the expensive kind of customer - currently was being served by a waitress who grinned brightly as someone passed her a hefty tip, tucking it into her waistband. Nothing new - Marinette noted. That was something she'd grown used to over the years; that was something she had lived in the beginning, toiling away on the dance floor.

"You know how the game goes, Alix," Marinette sighed once more, shaking her head. Turning to her grinning partner, she continued, "People can't help but get attached- "

"Like a lost little minou," Alix finished, matching Marinette's deadpan perfectly. Snorting as Marinette rolled her eyes, the short-haired woman added, "Yeah, yeah I know that. But even so, you just have a way with people." Alix picked up a bottle of whiskey, placing it onto the bar top as she stood back up, "I don't know why, but you talk to them and they just... click with you."

"Click, huh?" Marinette mused, raising a brow.

Currently, she was now locked in an eye-contact battle, catching the gaze of someone new to the club. Tall, blonde, definitely somewhat sociable if he was with her friend, Luka. There was a serious edge about him, the same sort of edge that Marinette often encountered with powerful men, and yet she felt a softness, a kindness, wedged within it. That would be another thing linking him to Luka; Luka only liked to hang around the less pompous rich assholes of the city.

Often Marinette would try her best to scope out these types. Rich, powerful men were the ones on her target - and no, not for their cash. Information was a much more wealthy asset in this day and age. Plus, with her love of avenging victims on the internet, how could she say no to exposing rotten, selfish, powerful people? It was simply a service to society. It was her way of coping with her hopeless reality while doing something that wasn't self-destructive. Plus it did put a few extra digits in her bank account.

Smiling, Marinette offered a wave to the blonde stranger, hoping to catch the man off-guard. What she didn't expect was a smile in return, although much less innocuous and simple than her own. His was more purposeful, promising, creating a sharp glint to his vibrantly green eyes. It was almost ominous - like a warning dark cloud, signalling thunder. Already, Marinette could feel her gut bunching with nerves.

Yep. She got another one. Another pompous asshole.

But this asshole was one she'd been waiting for ever since she'd began working Paris' nightclubs.

"Marinette!" Alix sharply clicked her fingers in front of her face, startling the young woman. Blinking, Marinette stared - wide-eyed - at her coworker, completely stunned. Alix smiled apologetically, scratching her short pink hair sheepishly, "Sorry. You kinda just zoned out there and I panicked. Plus you're on in five minutes and..."

"It's fine," Marinette grinned, placing a gentle hand on her coworker's shoulder. "I shouldn't have zoned out. But thanks for the warning." Her smile grew more sly as she adjusted her dress, ensuring that it encapsulated just the right amount of flair and sparkle. "It seems I have to put on an extra good show tonight, Alix. Adrien Agreste is gracing us with his elusive presence!"

No other words said, Marinette left the bar and marched toward backstage, ready to initiate phase one of her plan. A plan that would finally put her years of suffering to rest.

Another night spent in smoke and mystery - the usual nocturnal activity for Adrien Agreste, son of Paris' fame Gabriel Agreste. Neon nightclubs and shady booths were nothing new to the well-known nepotism baby of Paris' most esteemed designer. With the fast-paced, carefree and hedonistic lifestyle often intertwined with the celebrity limelight, Adrien had been surrounded with the glitz and glam of a good night out ever since he was old enough to swallow his first shot.

Tonight, though, the last thing on his mind was getting blitzed with the masses. Business was the main cause of tonight's meet, hosted in a club owned by a shared acquaintance.

Luka Couffaine, a successful music artist, was a pretty well-known name to Adrien Agreste. Thrust together into the spotlight of Paris' media headlines by prying journalists and eager bloggers, both he and Adrien had formed a rather tight bond - a pretty unshakable bond. From as far back as their adolescence, Adrien and Luka had been grouped together as France's next generation of wealthy, successful men, claiming the positions once taken by their predecessors.

Nevertheless, unbeknownst to most of the public, that story couldn't be further from the truth. The truth - it was something that would shake Paris' social foundations to the core if anyone were to find out the full story of it all. Better to leave it untouched than to trouble it at all; that's what Adrien had always been told to say. The truth was never an easy thing to swallow.

So here Adrien was, still dressed formally from a company dinner, shadows cast over him by the wavering neon lights. Easily, he could spot Luka. A bright bundle of energy, his table was, filled with people who exuded youth and noise and carefree indulgence. Nothing new for the music crowd - they always were the bigger personalities of the celebrity world. It would be a miracle if they were quiet.

"Glad you could make it, Agreste," Luka had grinned broadly when he'd first arrived, pleased to catch an in-person sighting of the increasingly elusive blonde. Months had passed since they'd last met up, the growing responsibilities of their respective duties cutting sharp lines between their once taut ties.

Back in the day the pair used to wreck havoc on Paris' best nightclubs, hopping from place to place with crowds of people that they didn't entirely know. Countless models, endless wannabe celebrities and fellow nepotism babies had piled into their vehicles, going in whatever direction the wind took them. Sometimes they would end up at Andre Bourgeois' hotel, Chloe Bourgeois always being privy to an impromptu gig back at her place; other times they would wander the streets until six am, red-eyed and completely sloshed as more respectable business owners began to open up shop.

Nowadays such meetups were rare between the pair, Adrien consumed within the mountains of work that his father endlessly dumped upon him. Sometimes it would be modelling gigs, compulsory for selling the glowing, youthful image he had perfected in his teens; oftentimes it was more gritty work, pulling on the mask and gloves and hopping into a plated car, on his way to the beat the ever-living shit out of someone on his father's blacklist.

"Well, I couldn't turn down business," A teasing grin worked its way onto Adrien's lips as he took a seat at his friend's full table. Countless other people were seated about him, most absorbed in their own conversations as they eyed the stage. A familiar place, a setting Adrien had been in multiple times over the past several years - however it had changed.

Last time Adrien had set foot in this building he had been around nineteen, swimming in the success of his first real deal carved without the meddling hand of his influential father. People were excited, rushing to spill into the club. Booming music blasted through the walls, giving the room a lively feel despite the dim strobe and neon lights. People, by the dozen, were packed onto the dance floor, tight dresses and scruffy business attire mixed and matched along the room.

There were tons of people at the club last time. Different people, young people, fun people were all wedged against one another, dancing away to the boosted bass of some popular hit single. Back then Adrien hadn't though much of it; he'd drowned in the ecstasy of youth and carefree hedonism, diving headfirst into the pleasures of Paris' nightlife. That was until he'd bumped into a pretty young face, giggling away with her friend as she swayed on the dance floor, the cherry of her cocktail twisted by its stalk between her dainty fingers.

Too easily she'd dared him to entertain her, to pop that sweet cherry of hers. Obliging, he'd taken it right from her and crushed it between his teeth, successfully indulging her. Her response was to buy him a drink. Between them so much alcohol had been consumed, too much alcohol. By the time Adrien woke up the next day, head pounding with a splitting headache, he'd found evidence of his drunk mistakes right at the foot of his bed: a ladybug-patterned thong.

That was the last time he'd set foot in the club - back when it was rocking more of a drunk night out appeal, catering to the university students and wayward souls of Paris' public. Now it seemed to have brushed up its act, changing its appeal and hiring what appeared to be incentive for Paris' ageing fat cats.

"You always were the workaholic," Luka joked, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, when Adrien failed to join in with his reverie, the young man sighed, "So I guess you wanna get straight into it?"

"Pretty much," Adrien shrugged, already bugged by the pulsing tune playing from the speakers. Oddly, it sounded familiar. Catchy notes, a nice voice: he'd probably heard it somewhere on the radio a while back. "I don't have any time to waste these days."

"Hm, the biz has really changed you. What happened to the Adrien I grew up with?" Luka chuckled, nudging the somewhat stone-like blonde. Over his shoulder, he signaled to a nearby server - a raven-haired woman dressed in a tight white tank top and ridiculously short black mini skirt. "All the tabloids have gone on a stint saying that you're a perfect angel, but people I know have been saying otherwise. Apparently you're a pretty bad apple now, cursing and threatening and whatnot. God, you didn't even swear until we were like, what, eighteen?"

"Eighteen and a half," Adrien corrected. "And people change, you know how it goes." He sighed, not at all in the mood to delve into his current lifestyle and affairs. There was too much mess, too much baggage, that came with the Agreste name and lifestyle. Over the past few years Adrien had barely any time to think about how it affected him - let alone people he used to know. "Plus my father's pretty strict on the whole taking the legacy thing seriously. He's giving no room for slack."

"Sounds like him," Luka mumbled, nodding. Gabriel's behaviour was no secret between them. Nevertheless, Luka still grinned, his mood appearing to brighten up as the waitress stood before them, empty tray in hand and a bright smile on her metallic blue lips. "But since you're such a dry-ass grandpa now, I'm gonna make it my mission for you to let go a bit. Tonight we relive the glory days."

As he said this, Luka handed over a hefty cost of one hundred euros to the woman, plonking it down on her silver tray.

"We're still in the glory days," Adrien chuckled, finding it impossible to ignore the infectious joy that just... oozed from Luka. Always carefree, always going with the flow, Luka never failed at showing the silver linings to a pretty shitty situation. Even when they were kids, stuck in the overwhelming shadows of their fathers' fame, Luka managed to show Adrien how he could carve his own path, how they could be themselves within their fathers' images.

If Luka hadn't shown Adrien that then he never would have survived these past few years. If anything, he would have already signed his own life away.

"You know what I mean," Luka rolled his eyes, before turning to the waiting waitress. "Get us the strongest stuff possible. Blondie here needs a nightcap," Once she left, he turned back to Adrien, a smirk worming its way onto his lips, "Plus I called you here tonight because they have pretty good entertainment. You heard of La Femme Rouge?"

"What? The floozy on the pole?" Adrien raised a brow, pointing toward a woman currently grinding away at the metal pole onstage. Long brown hair swished as she moved, her olive green eyes piercing through the gloom. For the past few minutes she had been watching their table, watching Adrien, her flirty grin offering anything other than an innocent night out on the town.

"Nah, she's classier than that," Luka shook his head, snorting at Adrien's remark. However, just as quickly as he snorted, the man frowned, appearing slightly offended. "And don't call her a floozy, she's an old friend. My sister's friend actually."

That made better sense to Adrien. Luka wasn't the type to introduce him to a random stripper or hooker he'd met while partying around the world. He knew Adrien's limits, knew his standards when it came to the seedier side of society. However, time did change people; people always seemed to change. Adrien himself had changed. So a part of him was still hesitant toward Luka's preposition - especially since she was the reason why he'd met up with him tonight.

"Sorry, I didn't know that," Adrien sighed, making a note to reign in his more lighthearted side. Clearly Luka was unused to the humour he'd been surrounded by. That, or he didn't expect Adrien to say such things.

"It's fine," Luka smiled a little before pointing toward the counter a little ways from their table. Behind it was a pair of women, one dressed in a bright baby blue suit and the other in a silky red material that smoothly wrapped around her silhouette. Easily, they both chatted away behind the bar, the blue suit woman ducking down to sort through something beneath the counter. Beside her the woman in red rolled her eyes, turning toward their table.

Their eyes met. Just for a second, a prolonged second. But it felt much longer as she stared at him, bright blue eyes almost sparkling as she brought her lips into a stunning smile. One that would have knocked the breath out of Adrien's lungs if he was not so used to such smiles. Yet he could've sworn that he'd seen it before, hidden in the murky gloom of the club's shadows.

"That's her," Luka grinned as she waved toward them, totally not noticing the way in which she had looked at his friend. Turning back to Adrien, he raised a brow, "She's pretty great, huh?"

"Yeah, if you have a thing for dancers," Adrien responded, not quite sure how to take their shared glance. The way she had looked at him, stared at him, was almost as if they had met before, known each other before that moment. But that couldn't have been true. Right?

Deciding to brush that feeling to the side, Adrien cracked a lighthearted jab, "You sure she's just a friend, Couffaine?"

"God, if she ever suggested otherwise don't you think I would've taken it?" Luka groaned, all smiles and giggles. By now the waitress had returned, planting their hoard of strong stuff on the table and disappearing with a nice tip tucked into her waistband - courtesy of Luka's brood of friends. "Seriously though, Marinette's great. If anything, I kinda wanted to meet today to talk about her."

"Uh huh," Adrien nodded, following along as he took his first drink of the night. Burning. Tart. Electric. He had forgotten how it felt to have strong alcohols in his system. "And why's that?"

"She wants to be famous," Luka stated, throwing his hands into the air. Rolling his eyes, he continued, "You know, big lights, cameras flashing, fan-club kind of famous. Ever since I met her, this girl's been dying to become a world-renowned designer like your old man."

There it was: the catch. Right there in words, plain as day, Adrien was gathering Luka's true intentions for agreeing to the meetup. Head filled with stars, mind skewed by the masked midnight-haired beauty behind the bar, he was trying to get her a way into the fashion world. Whether it was because he was trying to get his way into her pants or her heart, Adrien could easily identify the determination blazing in Luka's eyes.

Question was, why did he ask Adrien of all people about this?

"You want me to help her?" Adrien questioned, raising a brow. Already he could feel the disappointment building on his friend's side, urging for Adrien to say yes instead of the definite no he had been trained to say all his life. A true Agreste would shut it down. A real Agreste wouldn't even humour the idea. That was what he was told to do.

Frowning, he began, "Luka I can't just let anyone get into the company. They have to- "

"Oh, she's got talent, Adrien, by the bucket-load. If she has to prove herself, she can totally do it," Luka interjected, something like a frown furrowing his brows as he shook his head. Gesturing toward the stage he huffed, "If you don't believe me, see yourself. That dress she's wearing was made by her own hands."

As if on cue, the lights cut out and all music abruptly stopped, a single voice speaking out into the darkness:

"Are you ready?"