A Masked Getaway

Ladybug

The sun really was an all powerful source, which knew how to send the most stable of people over the edge—especially when they were sleeping off a rather extreme intake of tequila from the night before.

Groaning, Ladybug pulled the covers over her head, wishing more than anything that the ache in her brain would disappear. She'd gone a little overboard last night, especially as she didn't usually drink, but she was just so infuriated. The whole quiz with Adrien had given her a lot to think about, but there was only one answer, Adrien was not the one for her.

It also came with two other realisations: Chat Noir really was her perfect match, and he loved Marinette as much, if not more, than he'd claimed to love Ladybug.

She always thought his love for her superhero form was superficial, that he couldn't truly love someone he didn't know, and she would stand by her point today and say she was right. But when it came to Marinette, there was something else there, something else between them.

He knew Marinette well (a little too well), and he seemed to really like her—flaws and all. The reveal should have caused her to collapse into a mess. She should be anxious and annoyed that he'd figured it out. She should be worrying about the repercussions. She should be angry. But apart from the pounding headache, it was the most relaxed she'd felt in years.

She needed to question him more, to find out how he figured everything out. But that could be a problem for another day. Right now, she wanted to remain in this little bubble—their bubble.

The way he'd kissed her last night was like a man starved, like he couldn't get enough of her—she most certainly couldn't get enough of him. The way his hands had roamed around her body, helping her to get closer to him, to feel every hard, toned inch. The way he trailed kisses down under her ear before venturing down her throat. She'd been all consumed by him, and a tingle ran down her spine at the thought of him doing it again.

There was no going back now...only forward. She wanted—no, needed—more from him. He was hers, and nothing had ever felt sweeter.

Rolling over in their bed, she forgot her hangover as she grabbed his pillow and cuddled onto it, basking in the remaining smell. Chat Noir had left fifteen minutes ago to find some breakfast for them—and some nice, strong coffee, too.

As if the day hadn't been mortifying enough, she'd pretty much (very much) passed out mid-makeout. He'd been sweet and moved her to the bed. He'd told her this morning that he'd tucked her in and left her to sleep—then he had said that she'd snored like a freight train with asthma.

Her being Marinette hadn't phased him at all. If anything, it'd only encouraged the situation, like a band holding so much tension had finally snapped, and he could move forward with her.

She smiled into the pillow and nuzzled into it a little more.

"I thought I was the cat." The deep tones of her partner's voice made her smile.

"We both know I rock the suit more," she sassed back, lifting her head out of the pillow to look at the most wonderful breakfast treat, holding a tray full of pastries, different juices and a single glass of chocolate milk.

"There's no denying that," he said. Amusement danced in his eyes, with a flicker of something else—more cat-like, more primal. He placed the tray down on the bedside table and sat with a distance between them, a distance she didn't like. Was he regretting it? "It's worrying how many times I searched that image up on the internet. Though, some I do want to forget."

Nope, definitely not regretting it.

He looked at her with a shy, nervous smile. "Good morning."