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kittyscabin · 11 months ago

Note

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose.

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now.

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples.

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two.

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends.

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed.

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable.

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized.

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture.

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase.

Hoffman had spoken, then.

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.”

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter.

Why did that make something strange stir within him?

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired.

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence.

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men.

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?”

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive.

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already.

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt.

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips.

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?”

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.”

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued.

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.”

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet.

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?”

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say.

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways.

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf.

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.”

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.”

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!”

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic.

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair.

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury.

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused.

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head.

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him.

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply.

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.”

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place.

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him.

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.”

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.”

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused.

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?”

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment.

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer.

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds.

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful.

“He does not ‘have me’.”

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.”

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…”

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts.

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.”

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone.

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce.

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…”

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.”

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say.

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse.

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.”

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said.

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage.

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited.

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity.

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder.

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal.

Tamed. Domesticated.

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree.

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly.

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

#saw #coffinchain #chainshipping #hoffstrahm #coffinshipping #hoffstrahmdonheight #asks #jennilah #I LOVE YOU JENNA I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #these are supposed to be short fics . uhhhhhhhh #i prommy i'll get better at this whole ficlet thing #anyways god i hope any of you like this bc i already hate it LMAOOO it's mostly dialogue and idk if it's anything #oh well #sometimes you write 3k words and then just go 'this sucks' and post it anyways #could've been softer given the song i rolled BUT i wanted to ease y'all in since this is technically my first posted coffinchain fic #pls tell me if you do like it ;w; and also don't be afraid to keep sending ships/characters bc i'm still up for this song lyric prompt #writing #fanfic #peter strahm #mark hoffman #adam faulkner stanheight #lawrence gordon #ughgg i love them. i really love them i wish i could do them more justice than this

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arts-and-drafts · 4 months ago

Text

Someone New (Miraculous Ladybug)

Or; Adrien Agreste Does Drag (The Complete Novelization). I am just in love with Fem!Catwalker AUs I couldn't resist

AO3 LINK

Adrien groaned audibly and dropped his head in his hands after looking in the mirror to see Chat Noir for the thirteenth time.

"Claws in," he moped.

"This isn't working." Adrien complained, as soon as Plagg rematerialized. His kwami rolled his eyes and floated over to his desk to pick up another rancid slice of cheese.

"Just try harder, kid!" Plagg replied, oh-so-helpfully. "Really feel the role! Aren't you supposed to be an actor?"

"I'm a model," Adrien grumbled the correction, with no real bite behind it. Plagg made a flippant 'same-difference' gesture with his paw, his mouth full of camembert. He must've realized how genuinely upset Adrien was right now, because usually the kwami would talk with his mouth full, regardless of how much Adrien hated it.

Well, it was nice to know at least someone was taking his feelings into account.

Adrien shook the thought from his head. It was his own fault he had to be doing this, right now, trying to find a way to be someone he wasn't just to be Ladybug's partner again.

He couldn't pin his bitterness on her. He'd known how she felt for a long, long time.

’I'm sorry, mon chaton...there's someone else.’

Adrien locked eyes with his reflection. It looked sad.

"Alright-" Plagg announced, making a show of cracking his back and neck as he floated back over to Adrien. "Ready for round fourteen?" The kwami asked cheekily.

Adrien rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the mirror, scrutinizing the reflection looking back at him. What wasn't he getting? Something was missing, something he needed, but he couldn't begin to figure it out.

Feel the role.

But he was trying, and it wasn't working.

"Hey, what'd the mirror do to you?" Plagg asked, pulling Adrien from his thoughts. He turned to his kwami, hoping his despair was clear on his face.

"Aw, come on, Adrien, it's really not that hard!" Plagg said, flying around to Adrien's other side and turning his chin to look back at the mirror. "Maybe don't think of it like acting. Think of it like...wearing the scent of a new cheese!"

Adrien couldn't help but scoff, a traitorous smile quirking at the corners of his lips. Plagg continued on, undeterred.

"You're not trying to say you hate cheese." Plagg said. "You're just expressing another cheese that you like!"

Adrien blinked.

Somehow, this time, Plagg's cheese metaphor made sense to him.

"I'm still me." Adrien said slowly. "I just...need to be a different part of me."

Plagg made a delighted noise. "Finally! I get through to you! About time you started listening to my genius."

That got Adrien to actually laugh, and he turned to his kwami.

"Alright. Let's try again."

Plagg nodded, and floated up to eye level, looking at Adrien with confidence. Confidence in him. Confident that Adrien could do this.

How could Adrien have ever thought that giving him up was the right thing to do?

"I'm...sorry, by the way." Adrien admitted, looking his kwami in the eyes. "I didn't consider how backing out of being Chat Noir would make you feel."

"Pshh." Plagg waved his paw in the air fervently, like he was swatting a bug. "Enough of that mushy stuff. I have my favorite kitten back, and that's all that matters."

Adrien smiled so wide his cheeks hurt.

"Plagg, claws out!"

Adrien couldn't sleep.

He'd tried and failed to transform into someone new over and over after his and Plagg's "heart-to-heart", despite the advice his kwami gave him. He just couldn't see himself being anything other than what he was. Chat Noir.

Sometimes, being Chat Noir felt even more right than being Adrien Agreste.

Most times.

Adrien groaned and pressed his pillow over his face.

Maybe it would be better to just go back to Ladybug as himself. Apologize, and ask to be let back on her team. On their team.

Jealousy, hot and guilty, clenched in his gut at the thought. He'd do anything for his lady and her love, but he wasn't willing to resort to crawling back to her like a street cat, desperate for a home.

He was better than that. Or at the very least, he was more stubborn than that.

"What's eatin' ya, kid?" Plagg asked, curled up on his own little section of Adrien's pillow, his eyes softly glowing green in the dark. Adrien lifted the pillow from his face to cut a glare at his kwami.

"Geez, I was just asking." Plagg replied, his brow furrowing. "Are you really that caught up on the transformation thing?"

"Of course I am, Plagg!" Adrien cried, throwing his arms up hopelessly. "This is the only way I can be with my lady again and I can't get it right!"

Plagg made a gagging sound, which did not help Adrien's mood.

"I'll never understand how mortals are obsessed with anything other than cheese." Plagg sighed wearily, and then floated upwards off the pillow. "Okay, kid, let's go."

"Go where?" Adrien asked, his bad mood faltering a bit.

Plagg zipped over to the window. "To somewhere that will really help you transform. In any way you want."

Adrien squinted suspiciously, but sat up in bed all the same. "...What place can do that?”

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Adrien seethed, mortified, his face flushed and hot as he stared up at the neon sign that Plagg had led him to.

"What?" Plagg said, smugness in his tone as he poked his head out of Adrien's coat pocket. "There's no better place in Paris to find such masters of natural transformation. And you have superpowers at your disposal, too!"

"No better place than a drag bar?!" Adrien asked, his voice shrill as it could get with him still whispering. Plagg narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you dare talk bad about drag bars! One of my past holders got his start in one, you know!" Plagg reprimanded, sounding unusually serious. Adrien stammered.

"I don't—Plagg, I don't care that it's a drag bar!" Adrien tried to say. "I just—what if anyone sees Adrien Agreste lurking around a place like this! My father would-"

"Calm down, Adrien, sweet brie!" Plagg rolled his eyes. "I'm not asking Adrien Agreste to go in there."

Adrien went quiet as the wheels turned in his head.

"Wh—Chat Noir?!" Adrien balked. Plagg stared at him deadpan, like he was stupid. "No, obviously I mean Hawkmoth. Of course Chat Noir!"

"That's not even legal! I'm not eighteen yet!" Adrien tried to argue, though he was pretty certain nobody would question Chat Noir's age. Plagg scoffed.

"Your human lives are so short." Plagg complained. "Why would you wait for anything when every moment is so important? I'll never understand it."

"Claws out." Adrien commanded instead of answering, closing his eyes as the magic washed over him. He didn't want to risk another second being here as Adrien Agreste, even with his coat hood up.

No sooner did he open his eyes as Chat Noir, his paranoia was rewarded.

"Hey, kid, you okay?"

And Adrien turned to see the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She was tall, with a wig that added two feet to her height, clad in a flattering hot pink skin-tight dress. What looked like a coat entirely made of baby pink feathers was draped over her, to combat the cold.

The most striking thing was her face. She was wearing lots of makeup, not just to look pretty but to also stand out, every stroke of eyeliner and every brush of lipstick and every pad of foundation expertly placed to accent her handsome features in all the boldest ways.

A drag queen. Adrien had never met one before.

Is this what being starstruck was like?

"Not the well-mannered type, are we?" The queen teased, and Adrien quickly snapped his mouth shut, his face going scarlet. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Easy, honey. I'm only kidding." The queen stood back to her full height from where she bent slightly to address him, and Adrien had to crane his neck to look her in the eye.

"What's Chat Noir doing around here?" The queen asked, and Adrien knew she wasn't being accusatory, but his heart rate picked up anyway.

"I—a friend told me—" Adrien stammered. "I-"

"You're here for the show?" The queen guided his question gently, and Adrien tried to get a hold of himself.

"Um...I-I don't know." He said, deciding to be honest. "I wanted to see how your...makeup is done?"

Blessedly, the queen's eyes lit up.

"Oh, of course!" She said, smiling. "We love teaching the next generation. It's not often we meet a lot of younger ones interested nowadays."

Oh. She thought Adrien meant he wanted to see the makeup to do it himself.

Though...isn't that why Plagg brought him here?

"It's just—really impressive," Adrien tried to pull off his regular superhero charm, and it wasn't a lie. He'd been around makeup his whole life, people all around him powdering and painting him to make sure he was the epitome of perfect before a shoot.

But this, this was...something truly incredible. This queen wasn't using makeup to cover her imperfections. She was using it as an identity, as much of a mask as his was when he transformed into Chat Noir.

Something clicked in his head all at once.

"That's sweet of you, honey." The queen brought him back to reality with a smile. "I'd love to tell you how it's done, but I go on in five." She said, turning away from him to shuffle through her bright pink clutch she procured from her feather coat.

"But," she continued, and held out a card to him with a smile. "I have a backstage VIP class on how I apply my look, and a behind-the-scenes tour. Just give my manager a call."

Adrien took the card, glancing a look at it. In swirling purple letters were the words 'FELICITY VALENTINE', followed by a phone number.

"Felicity?" Adrien looked up, and the queen flipped her hair. "The one and only," she confirmed with a wink.

"And, hey." She said, her voice turning gentle. "Take it at your own pace, okay? No pressure."

"Thank you," Adrien replied, startled by her sudden change.

Felicity Valentine smiled at him, waved her acrylic-nail accessorized fingers, and with a swish of her feather coat, disappeared into the bar, her only goodbye being a call over her shoulder. "Ciao, whiskers!"

Leaving Adrien dumbly standing with a business card in hand, staring at the doors of the building.

He oddly felt that her words of encouragement weren't just talking about giving her a call.

Back in his bedroom, Adrien laid flat on his back on his couch and stared at the ceiling. It was well past 2:00 AM now, but he wasn't tired in the slightest.

A weird buzzing had overcome his chest after he got home. Something like giddiness, but much more tinged with nervousness instead of excitement.

He couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

Something about the way Felicity looked at him. Like...she knew something. Something that he didn't know himself.

Her words continued to rotate in Adrien’s mind until they didn’t sound like words anymore.

’Take it at your own pace. No pressure.’

He thought about how Plagg compared drag to being a mask, a new identity.

Adrien sharply sat up, fueled with new determination. He quickly went to the mirror and flicked on the overhead light, his kwami uttering a sleepy mumble.

“Kid…? Wha’ are you doin’?” Plagg yawned, exposing his tiny needle-like teeth.

“I’m gonna try again.” Adrien replied, staring his reflection in the eyes.

“Can’t it wait til’ the morning?” Plagg grumped, but floated up from his little pillow despite his complaining.

“Claws out,” Adrien replied, and Plagg’s sleepy yelp was lost in the transformation.

Adrien opened his eyes, and saw-

Someone new.

He gasped, raising a hand to his masked face. His clawed gloves had been replaced with fingerless leather, the tips of his fingers now adorned with neon green acrylic nails sharp as claws. His mask was much more angular and lined in bright green, much more akin to a masquerade mask. His cat-like eyes were complimented by long, neon green eyelashes in the corners of his eyelids. His cheekbones now looked sharp as knives, the magic of the transformation having worked actual magic with his makeup and foundation.

His lips were painted black, though outlined with that same striking green. His blond hair still kept that short and shaggy look from Chat Noir’s persona, but it looked like a blown out perm that was now longer in the back, of course all pulled together by signature cat ears.

His suit was still the same skintight leather-like material, but it was now complemented by green line patterns starting at his wrists and ankles and climbing up to his knees and elbows, mimicking a fishnet texture. His boots had become platform heels with green soles, seamlessly blending with his suit. His belt-tail was now that same neon green, which hugged his waist flatteringly and pulled the eye to his figure.

Adrien uttered an awed laugh, turning to look at his—her—reflection over her shoulder and striking a pose.

“Me-ow.”

Adrien set off the next morning, after snatching a few hours of sleep that finally came after taking a liberal amount of photos in the mirror of the new and improved Chat Noir.

No, wait, he couldn’t be Chat Noir anymore. What would this—well, drag persona of himself be called?

Adrien chewed on the question as the “new” Black Cat Miraculous holder deftly leapt over rooftops in search of her lady.

She spotted (ha) red and black while flying over the Louvre, and redirected her course to land in front of Ladybug.

Ladybug gasped, stepping back with wide eyes. “O-oh, Plagg did it…”

Adrien fought to not smile. His plan worked perfectly, if he could even fool his beloved lady into thinking he was someone else.

Instead, she crossed one platform-heeled foot behind the other and curtsied with an imaginary skirt, her eyes on Ladybug.

“Ladybug,” She said, emulating Felicity Valentine’s confidence. “Your new Black Cat is here, upon request,” She winked, and Ladybug went as red as her suit.

“I-I can that see—I-I mean! I can see that,” Ladybug stammered, her eyes wide. “What—what should I call you?”

Adrien paused, thinking about it. Thinking about Felicity, how she effortlessly strutted like she owned every step, out to perform for another night.

“Catwalker,” She decided, unable to resist.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous fic #meraki post #genderfluid adrien agreste #featuring an honest to god oc for the first time ever in my fic writing career!#I hope y'all like felicity she's so cool :)#catwalker #ladywalker #? is that the ship?#ladynoir #technically #oh shit is this my first miraculous fic??#POG #more coming soon :)!#felicity is inspired by trixie mattel and persephone valentine #I just think drag is so cool guys #ALSO PLAGG AND ADRIEN I LOVE THEIR RELATIONSHIP #I hope I wrote it okay 😅#oh and featuring bisexual disaster marinette because of course

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