GASP! Did the one-shot suddenly become a two-shot? Yes. Yes it did.

He still doesn't know where he got the energy—he'd been so ready to collapse into his bed just half an hour ago, and the stubborn determination to at least hear Marinette's voice before he's dead to the world was the only thing that allowed him to hold onto consciousness for a little while longer.

He knows where he got the motivation. Jealousy is a powerful elixir, after all. (And, yes, Adrien is self-aware enough to admit that he'd been jealous. Of a fictional character. So sue him.) But motivation and actual, physical, sustaining energy aren't always the same thing, and yet, there he'd gone, bounding across the Parisian skyline, his veins pumping adrenalin fuelled by possessiveness.

That adrenalin is gone, however, instantly dissipated by Marinette's calming presence.

He'd known it would happen, and the plan was that Chat Noir would knock that tuxedo-clad loser out of his pedestal, fill Marinette's consciousness with the correct masked hero, and then leap out of her skylight again, leaving her hot and bothered and waiting in anticipation for when they'd see each other again… all in the span of five minutes. Any longer than that, and he'd probably faint.

That was the plan.

Except…things do not always go according to plan.

He'd gotten as far as having Marinette softly panting and unaware of anything else as she stared at his lips. But before he could even fully appreciate his triumph, he was reminded that Marinette, His Lady, has had plenty of experience in coming up with plans, herself.

It's not painful when she tugs on his hair, but the sharp sensation is a stark contrast to the softness of her lips, and it ignites all his nerve endings, from his scalp all the way to every single one of his extremities. If any cell in his body was still sleeping, they're surely awake now.

Always mind-boggling, how Marinette, the darling girl who was trying to persuade him to sleep, is the self-same beguiling creature that's setting him ablaze.

Even though this isn't the way things were supposed to go, he can't bring himself to complain. Not when Marinette leans back into the her pillows. taking him with her. Not when she arches her back to press herself against him. Not when she she breaks the kiss just so she can wrap her lips around his name.

It's "Chaton," this time. Earlier, she'd breathed, "Minou." He wonders which name he can draw out from her, next.

He runs a hand down her side and, gloved as it was, he still feels a change in texture, and he knows that his claw had slipped under her shirt. He drags it across her skin, gentle enough to not cause pain, but hard enough to make her hiss. He can't help the smug smirk that lifts the corners of his lips. He presses it onto the corner of her jaw.

"Better than Tux Boy any day, aren't I?"

"…Mmm, 'course you are," she hums against his earlobe, "but I was talking about you."

He stops. Moves away.

She whines. Tries to pull him back to her.

"Wait. What?"

She sighs languidly at how he's slow on the uptake, her eyes half-lidded as if she's the one who's sleep-deprived.

"You're tall," she begins, lifting her fingers to his forehead and burying them in his hair from there— "and intelligent," —her nails rake down his cranium— "with strong, sturdy shoulders…" —fingertips skitter down the exposed sliver of skin of his neck, then up again on his cheekbones.

Her blue eyes pierce his, and she lets that action fill the pause.

"And who else would I be fantasizing about aside from you, and…well…the civilian you?"

Hold on.

Hold one just one second.

So that whole description. The sighing. She was thinking about—

Did he really get worked up over nothing?

Oh, god.

He can already imagine Plagg guffawing at him. He'll never hear the end of it. From both of them. Maybe even Tikki, too; surely she heard the whole thing.

He hurriedly gropes for something to say as a recovery, something suave and debonaire or even a substandard pun or, screw it, something cheesy Mamoru Chiba might say. All the while, Marinette is still looking all sultry, as if she's a wielder some sort of ancient power—which she is, if you think about it—and she trails a finger down his throat until it hits the bell on his neck. She's the one pinned under him, but he is the one who is utterly and completely at her mercy.

"Stop talking about Tux Boy," she whispers, and starts to pull. The slow, sharp click-clack of his zipper disturbs the silence of the room, and ricochets between his ears.

Then, like lightning, it comes to him.

"Hey, we should be Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask sometime."

The click-clacking stops.

It's Marinette's turn to blink. "What?"

"I mean, you would actually be really cute with your hair in double buns. And I already give you roses, anyway…"

"Chat Noir, I swear, if you start with the rose puns—"

"But, My Lady, it would be irresponsible to not take the opportunity if it arose! No need to be thorny."

She groans, and it's not the sexy kind, but there's an undertone of amusement that only he can detect, and it squeezes his heart and makes him giddy. "Where would we even—"

"There's a few months until Japan Expo, so have time to— OH! Oh, wait. Ladybug and Chat Noir can show up as Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask. It's like… Mask-ception! And then people would come up to you and ask if you're Ladybug, right? And then I could swoop in and go, 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!'"

"That's it," she says, shoving him off of her. Despite her force, he still catches the smile she's fighting to keep down. "You're leaving."

"And do what? Moon around?"

"Go home, Chat Noir."

"'And from the rooftops, arose such a clatter…'"

"OUT!"