The vile incubus lay spread-eagle on the bedroom floor below her, teasing all her senses, promising sinful falsehoods to coax her down from her hiding spot as Marinette shuddered under her blanket.

She had retreated, step by step, inch by inch, from the thing that had been taunting her, seducing her slowly as she gave her insidious tormentor a wide berth, for hours. However weak Marinette might have been, there was no way on Earth that Ladybug was going to succumb to that strange primal tug that warmed her belly and made her feel like a woman rather than a girl – someone sexy and desired, and not some spastic child.

Having noped right on out of that painful situation, she was now hiding under her blanket (and under her bed), peering over the edge of her loft to stare at her foe, whose body was unfurled on the floor, splayed out to show her every fine line and subtle tempting curve, exposing everything in wanton disregard for her nerves, decorum, and any semblance of morality.

Yet at the same time, so innocent, as if every gorgeously cut inch of her beguiling adversary was whispering into her ear filthily innocuous things that were really alluring lies – the best kind because she so wanted to believe them: she could just have a little touch, a little sniff, a little taste.

It wouldn't be all that bad, would it?

No one but us has to know.

It will be our dirty... little... secret...

Trying to coax her down to pick it up, telling her that it was alright, just pick me up and wrap my sleeves around your head and cuddle me to sleep so that you can wake up smelling like Adrien.

Slimy, seductive Lothario, she cursed it mentally, glare intensifying.

Adrien's sweater leered right back at her, her ire only making it smile wider with its dumb... shit-eating shirty smirk. The fold that creased it just in the mid-section that had covered Adrien's delicious abs was without a doubt a self-satisfied, sexy grin.

There was only one thing for it.

She had to be brave. Strong. Steely-eyed and iron-willed.

Just chuck it out the window while she had the chance, before it made its move on her while she slept.

She could make Adrien a better one, and, fortuitously, she still didn't have a gift for his sixty-fifth birthday. How could she be so sloppy and thoughtless? At least now she knew what to design for him.

Still, dragging her thoughts back to the moment, she realized that her bedroom wasn't ever going to be safe with... it here.

Why had Adrien forgotten it when he had been called away, late because they'd gotten caught up in video games? He just had to go shucking it when the bakery warmth of her attic room got to him, and he revealed the tight tee-shirt that looked like it was painted onto his chest and thick, rippling, sinewy, sexy biceps that were thicker than her thigh and could cradle her head perfectly and would probably taste like sweat and mint because Adrien looked like he tasted like mint just like the ice cream cone that she'd gotten and he'd be so hot eating ice cream and dribbling green cream over his lips so that a little bit splattered on his naked chest and he invited her to bend down and lick it up and then down his...

Oh, God. The lewd sweater was in her head.

It was starting to think for her.

Tossing the blanket aside and shimmying out from under her bed in this renewed surge of determination, Marinette crept down the stairs that led to the main floor of her room. A quick check confirmed that her window was open a crack, which was all that she needed to stuff the demon out of her room.

Crawling closer on hands-and-knees, she kept her eyes keen and focused on her adversary, checking for any sudden movements as she arrived before it and stared down at the green folds of perfectly-tailored Gabriel-brand immaculateness.

It was the serpent in the garden of Eden, asking "Did God really say...?" - a cloying, hissing voice, like a gentle loving hand that caressed her jaw, throat, and ears, that plied her with such world-shattering questions: "Would it really be so wrong? Would that really make you a creepy stalker fan-girl? Is it really fetishy if you just take one tiny, little whiff rather than carting me to bed and letting me ravish you?"

She picked up the sweater he left behind. Now the questions were in her own mind. She'd started thinking like the monster, but it was too late. Would it be creepy to sniff it? ...Just a small whiff? With thoughts of Adrien the Fragrance, she brought the sweater closer to her nose and...

EWWWWWW!

For a boy who is known for taking so many showers, he sure did smell of stinky cheese.

And a little bit like...

...Chat Noir?

oh god in heaven no


"Uh, what are you doing, Milady?"

"Be quiet, Chat," Ladybug replied as she stood with him on their rooftop rendezvous spot for this evening. "I'm sniffing you."

Chat thought about that for a moment, languid kitty-brain processing.

This was an acceptable development.

"Okay."

And indeed she was, pressed up against his body, her hands fisted in his hair to push his head to one side so that she could gain better access to his throat.

He nearly screamed when she licked her lips and he felt the rough, wet tip of her tongue just graze over his hammering pulse-point by accident, he presumed, because if not he was going to die and that was alright.

Good-bad-touch.

It was also perfectly fine for her to keep dragging her huffing nose up and down the crux of his neck, little flutters of her nostrils sending gooseflesh rolling out along his throat and shoulders in the wake of her breaths while he squirmed at the sensation of her pinning him up against the brickwork behind him, lips hovering over the juncture of his neck.

Her boobs were against his chest...

He could live the rest of his nine lives and die happy in each of them.

Unbidden, his belt tail curled around her lower leg, but she didn't seem to notice and he really wished that he could feel through his tail.

Little tremors rocked him, leaving him on the legs of a little, unstable, innocent new-born lamb as she kept on breathing in his scent, mouth just millimetres away from his throat like a vampire savouring the last few seconds before sucking his blood clean out of his body.

The fact that Adrien was a good student in literature class and knew that Dracula was really, like, some kind of xenophobic metaphor for the contamination of innocent young maidens by the sexual predations of a foreign invader that sucked out their life essence and possessed them body and soul while serving as a vector for a quasi-venereal disease had him giving two mental thumbs up to vampire-Ladybug if she was into that sort of thing.

Blood-play was a-okay, as they said.

Well, at least someone in the world must have said that.

There were eight billion people, so...

She was smelling him.

His scent was in her nose.

Moist, opened-mouthed puffs of air washed against his jaw as he just stood there and let her wrench his neck a little further and kind of sexually molest him in a way that he was completely comfortable with encouraging, tamping down on a moan, her every heated and ragged breath filling her up with his essence.

Holy crap. He was inside Ladybug.

And she was inside him. Mmm. Vanilla and fresh bread.

She pulled back, eyes narrowed. Dangerous.

"You smell like stinky cheese."

...not what he had been expecting.

"What?! Oh, shit, Ladybug, I-" Mortified at the possibility that he – or Plagg vicariously through him – had been stinking up their partnership, he nearly smacked his forehead into Ladybug's face as he turned to sniff at his own shoulder... and slightly lower. No. Nothing unpleasant there. A little musty and musky from the mystical-leather, but the spice of his deodorant was the strongest, and quite pleasant, odour. Not too heavy on the Camembert.

"And Adrien Agreste," she finished in a growl, hands to her hips in a defiant pose.

What?

"Adrien?" he began. His arms began flailing at his sides like he was trying to flap himself away from the roof like some kind of ... pigeon-cat. "What?"

"Let me make one thing crystal clear to you, Chat," Ladybug growled, sending shudders down his spine because she didn't even use that tone with Chloe, Lila, or Hawkmoth. It meant business and promised dismemberment ... like the removal of his most precious... member.

Sheer force of will and a decade of modelling wherein he had to school his reactions and pose perfectly hour after hour was just enough to keep him from cupping his groin in abject horror.

Her hand curved around his bell, a quick flick of her wrist tugging him down to her level, and even icy-blue, her eyes were gorgeous so maybe neutering wouldn't be all that bad, and then he saw the sneer that spread across her face and made him think that she was planning on using a pair of dull, rusty scissors.

Really not okay.

Bad-bad touch.

She drew close. Too close for him to do anything but tremble while she traced the piping of his suit.

"If you break his heart," she whispered, nearly against his lips, "I break your spine."

And with that, she shoved him down to the ground, sending him tumbling onto his butt.

"What?" he asked, completely baffled while watching as Ladybug stretched her arms out above her head, limbering her shoulders. In the glimmering lights of the Parisian night, all the silvery subtle line work of her costume exploded in myriad shimmering hues, leaving her a radiant spectrum of gleaming reds, all shifting.

"And stop using me as your beard!" she screamed while taking a flying leap off the edge and casting out her yo-yo to grapple onto a Parisian gargoyle and swing away.

He looked around him, checking for ... he knew not what in the corners and crevices of the rooftop, only his eyes moving as the rest of him was paralyzed as if every muscle was frozen by a pulsing electric current like he'd swatted a power line with his baton.

"What?"

It was in that moment that his transformation dropped and the malignant high-pitched laughter of the God that Trickster Spirits prayed to resounded over the Parisian rooftops.

With a heaving sigh, he turned to watch Plagg spurt out of the Cat miraculous and splat face-down onto the ground, heaving massive chuckles and pounding away with a little fist.

For his part, having no way to actually get down off the rooftop without a rather dangerous climb to the nearby fire escape – and he was considering it at this point – Adrien merely settled himself against the bricked section of the roof that housed the locked doorway to the building below.

Several minutes passed with the kwami only intensifying his hysterics, rolling, flailing, kicking his legs and arms into the air as if he was playing with an invisible ball of yarn, and screaming in laughter.

"If you're done," Adrien groused with a long-suffering eye roll, arms folding over his chest when he could, at last, take no more, "can we go home, please?"

"Why?!" Plagg screamed the question, probably waking half the apartment complex beneath them. "Got a booty-call with your boyfriend, Adrien?"

"Please stop," Adrien begged, banging his head against the brickwork behind him. Ouch.

"I can't stop!"

And, indeed, Plagg kept laughing, almost in a terrified, wide-eyed paroxysm of horror and delight at once, black paws curling around his midsection that undulated with his guffaws.

"Oh- oh God! I- I c-can't!" he squealed, rolling about the dingy rooftop while literally crying. "I think I'm having a stroke! It's just too good."

"Yeah," Adrien muttered as he collapsed into himself in a violent huff. "Swell."

"Don't pout. You'll get to see your boyfriend soon enough. Get 'em-" Plagg snorted and Just. Kept. Cackling like the little imp that he was. "Get 'em all slathered up in Camembert 'cause – oh god – that's your fetish! Bwahaha!"

Then the kwami began to choke on his own spit, still trying to laugh as his face ballooned up purple and red and he clutched and clawed at his throat.

Adrien refused to help.

It wasn't like the kwami could die, and at least this shut him up.

Spending the night on a cold and lonely rooftop while he waited for Plagg to revive granted him ample time to ponder and put the pieces together. Testing his theory the next day when he stopped by the Dupain-Cheng home to pick up his sweater, he prodded Marinette with a few questions, to which she eventually responded, snarling, that she wished him all the best of luck with Chat Noir.

Then, he pressed his nose to her neck in a way that had her radiating heat like the sun, particularly when he mentioned how lovely his Lady smelled, vanilla and fresh bread, although that paled in comparison to how she... burned for him when he licked her throat in a way that was totally and completely not accidental.

Then they made out... after she got him to take a shower and change clothes because he still smelled of Camembert.