"I have learned that to be with those I like is enough."
― Walt Whitman
V.
"One more," he says, caught somewhere between laughter and a whisper.
Marinette obliges on the heels of her own hushed laugh.
Ducking beneath his arms, she presses her lips to his neck. Humming, she presses a second kiss to the underside of his jaw. A third kiss she places just beneath his ear.
The tickle of it sends a shiver down Adrien's spine. Marinette grins into his neck, the air heavy and electric as he whispers hoarsely, "One more."
Marinette arches back, pressing him farther into the bed. She could do this forever and never tire of it, trading kisses and fragmented words in the dark, tucked secretly into the Agreste mansion.
"I don't believe you," Marinette teases, hands on Adrien's shoulders. She crooks another smile at him through the curtain of her hair. Her vantage point above him offers the best view in all of Paris – the flushed face of her partner and boyfriend, Adrien Agreste. He looks up to her, half-lidded eyes dark and hair mussed. Such a beautiful boy.
She could take a bite out of him, so she does, slanting her mouth over his.
Their noses bump, a coil of affection, protectiveness, and want, pulsing between each point of contact. She brings her full weight down on him, legs on either side of his. His musician's fingers reach into the thicket of her loose hair, exploring and anchoring her before she has a chance to return aloft.
When they break apart, breathing heavy, he can't stop the thought: this moment is the closest thing to perfect.
Marinette is the most beautiful thing, lit like a sprite by a cut of moonlight shining through his windows. His best friend, his partner, the only person in the world who holds every piece of him in her palm, backlit by a silvery beam of light. She's looking down to him like she's just as happy.
"One more-" he starts, but Marinette cuts him off with three quick, successive kisses.
"Un, deux, trois," she says between each, a staccato of words and lips.
Before he can reach her, she's rolling off him and already at work with smoothing down her mussed hair and clothing. Maybe she's not in her suit, but she's nimble when she needs to be.
"Marinette." Adrien isn't proud of the Chat Noir-esque grumble in his voice, but there's nothing wrong with letting a little alter ego slip out now and again. Especially where one's girlfriend is concerned.
"It's getting late," she laughs, dodging his outstretched hand as she peers into the darkness of Adrien's room. "Plagg, Tikki?"
After a moment of squinting and searching, twin flashes of color rattle out of a drawer from the second level. Tikki and Plagg, indistinguishable flashes of red and black, circle each other as they tag and play on their way to their partners.
The kwamis' quiet laughter fills the space as they poke and prod, tease and tickle. Marinette's eyes go to Adrien's. They grin.
"Ready?" She asks as Tikki lands on her shoulder, giving a quick nuzzle to Marinette's cheek.
Marinette dips one quick bow to Adrien and Plagg. "This bug's gotta run."
Adrien rolls over onto his stomach, face half-buried into his pillow. Lazy chat. "Make sure you use the right window."
AKA, the one window in his room that is just miraculously out of a camera's reach.
"Will do, mon chaton."
With one quick smile, and one quick transformation, Ladybug disappears into the Paris night.
Sneaking out of the Agreste residence undetected is not sweat for Ladybug. In her suit, she can tumble and soar – and she's faced much worse than predictable security cameras. Even Gabriel's on-hand staff is child's play when you've got spots.
It's a simple swing from Adrien's window, a leap or two, and a final jump out of the compound. She anticipates everything. Every moment, her body navigates its next move before she even has a chance to think on it. All steps in a dance to get her from Adrien to the outside gates of his mammoth of a home.
She slips over the wall with her last acrobatic feat. She won't say so to Chat Noir, but her landing is graceful enough to be called feline.
Satisfied, she throws one last look behind her. As she turns around, ready to map her next move, Marinette stops in place.
What she didn't anticipate? Nathalie Sancoeur.
"Nathalie," she gasps, startled out of her manners.
There's a moment of stillness, surprise mirrored between civilian and superhero, as they each sink into understanding. Instantly, Marinette's blood turns to ice.
The reality unfurls before her like the inconvenient thing it is: there is no good reason for one half of Paris's superhero duo to be launching herself outside the home of Gabriel Agreste. At midnight. Without her partner. From within the Agreste residence.
Nathalie moves first, tucking away her amazement in one smooth adjustment of her glasses. In one fluid turn of her hand, she's back to the assistant Marinette is used to seeing. Placid as can be, flattening the paperwork in her arms.
It shouldn't surprise Marinette that she is so economical, even in present circumstances; she knows Nathalie is not a woman of waste. It is not an easy thing, being the right-hand woman of Gabriel Agreste. Every move must be calculated, every word articulated as intended. Everything to the point. "Ladybug."
The only indication this is not business-as-usual is the slight quirk of a single eyebrow.
"I'm just…" Marinette begins but stops. She's just what? She's definitely told some wild stories as Ladybug, but she's never had to explain herself out of a situation quite so…incriminating.
Nathalie casts a quick glance past Marinette, in the direction of Adrien's wing. No light shines through his windows, but Nathalie's eyebrows knit together in thought.
Marinette sucks in a breath – she can only imagine the details Nathalie is carefully combing over. The flush of Ladybug's cheeks, her swollen lips, her poorly concealed guilt. The general direction she came from.
She opens her mouth to explain, willing any reasonable explanation out–
"Patrolling at such late hours," Nathalie says, as if plucking the prayer from Marinette's mind. Her tone leans grateful, although in her typically clipped and careful way. "If Mr. Agreste were here, I'm sure he would thank you for diligently keeping watch."
Marinette can't believe she didn't think of that. It's just vague enough…just routine enough to fudge. Everyone knows Ladybug and Chat Noir patrol, oftentimes into the late hours of the night.
There is the little matter of coming from within the Agreste household, but Nathalie seems willing to set that aside. Marinette's not going to complain about that.
"Ah, yes, patrol. One never knows when Le Papillon will strike!" Marinette winces at the high squeak of her voice, but she can't help but feel like she was just granted a small miracle.
Lady Luck, indeed.
Nathalie nods evenly, gripping the documents in her arms closer to her chest. "Yes, one never knows."
An awkward moment or two lingers in the air between them. Nathalie does not seem interested in disturbing it; in fact, she seems rather content with surveying her unexpected guest from head to toe.
Marinette would rather not be under the cold scrutiny longer than is necessary. She grabs for her yo-yo, scanning eagerly into the skyline about Nathalie's head. She's about two seconds from sweet, sweet escape.
"Well, gotta go…you know, patrol!"
Before Nathalie has a chance to reply, Ladybug vaults past her. In a gust of red and dots, she escapes over the streets and buildings above.
Nathalie waits a moment, the winking figure of Paris's superheroine growing more and more distant. She waits until she can no longer pick Ladybug's outline out of the sky. In a matter of moments, the girl is well and truly out of each.
For the meanwhile – if Nathalie has learned anything in her line of work, it's that success is the sum of smalls efforts. She is nothing if not a patient woman.
"I wonder," she says, casting one last look toward Adrien's rooms. She adjusts her glasses again and reaches for her phone.
It doesn't take long for him to answer.
"Mr. Agreste? There's something we need to discuss."