#liladrien week 2024

[unchataparis]

Liladrien Week 2024

Day Two: Red Carpet

Read the rest here on Ao3!

[liladrien-2024]

Rain

by jesuis_melodrama

"Adrien raises an eyebrow at her, mien disconcertingly neutral. Then, he holds out the handle of his umbrella to her. Lila realises she is supposed to take it. Hesitatingly, once she evaluated that there’s no detriment if she does so, she does."

Lila is having a bad day at school. And then it rains.

[unchataparis]

Colder Than Titanic Water

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Seven: Date

Lyle checks himself out in the mirror before he leaves. Red leather jacket, white shirt with a dramatic v-neck, distressed blue jeans – looking good!

The gold ring he wears on a near-invisible chain around his neck bounces gently against his chest as he scrunches his nose at his own reflection. The metal is warmed to skin temperature and its pretty metallic surface reflects the dim lights of his apartment. Lyle’s hands are covered with gel that he carefully applies to his pompadour.

One last spray of Acqua Dell’Elba’s Arcipelago and he is good to go.

Outside, it has started raining lightly. The faint aroma of petrichor begins to infest the city as Lyle makes the brisk walk down to his car. He shudders as he pulls himself inside his red coupé Porsche. As much as he had been enjoying Paris, its weather had been testing him lately.

As he drives through the streets, he sees mature women with children on either side of him. Cafés beginning to close as final coffee orders are called out. A bookshop with a black cat in its window front squints its eyes suspiciously at him as Lyle flips it his middle finger back. When the light turns green, Lyle makes sure to squeal his tires loudly enough to startle the wretched feline.

By the time Lyle pulls up before the great glowing mausoleum of the Graham de Vanily Estate, the Sun has all but set. The sky is a Prussian-indigo colour and the clouds are wisps of grey smoke.

Lyle leans out his rolled-down side window and quickly jams his thumb against the intercom button.

The speaker cracks.

“Yes?” comes an irritated, gravelly voice.

“It’s me,” Lyle says, just as irritated. The fucker can see him through the camera. He bears a toothy false smile at the lens. “I’m here to pick up Adrienne.”

The red light remains on for a few seconds more. Lyle imagines that Nicholas is debating whether or not it’s likely Lyle will leave if he ignores him. Fat chance. Lyle will ram his Porsche through the fucking gates of the Estate and make Nicholas pay for the damages to his baby.

The red light blinks off and the doors creak open, an electronic signal commanding them to part as slowly as possible. Lyle growls and flips up another middle finger at the dead security camera before driving through the gates to park neatly at the foot of the stairs. 

The doors of the Graham de Vanily Mansion are already cracking open, sending a pillar of aureate light to filter through like a hand reaching down from Heaven.

Émile Graham de Vanily, in white trousers and a cashmere sweater, beams at Lyle who has just slammed his car door shut and is moving up the stairs quickly, wincing at each cold drop of water that falls from the sky.

“Goodness,” Émile says, seizing Lyle by the shoulders when he reaches him. “You should’ve called ahead, I could’ve met you with an umbrella.”

“Ah, it’s no bother, Monsieur,” Lyle says. “A little rain never harms anybody.”

Lyle says this while wanting to throttle someone for the state of his hair.

“Come in, come in,” Émile says, gesturing for Lyle to walk into the warmth. “No need to catch a cold on this lovely night.”

The doors shut behind them and Émile leads the way into the foyer. Lyle squints down at the marble between his feet, trying to judge by his murky reflection whether or not he needs to duck into a bathroom to freshen up.

Inside the Graham de Vanily Mansion, every last light in each sconce and chandelier is on, making Lyle feel as if he has walked into a hardware store or a house on fire. The rain has started earnestly outside, fat raindrops the size of bullets hammering against windows and drizzling down. 

Lyle feels pity for any poor fucker caught in that storm.

Read the rest on Ao3 here.

[unchataparis]

Danse du Diamant Masqué

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Five: Incognito

Béyonce asked the most socially relevant question of their generation: what’s worse? Looking jealous or crazy?

Of course, Queen Bey doesn’t really have a leg to stand on taking Jay-Z back after making all that fuss about his cheating, it doesn’t really teach him a lesson, no? In Lila’s experience, people don’t learn unless they’re punished or suffers some kind of retribution for their crimes. Even the kindest, most well-intentioned people still fuck up when they’re not taught properly, and who can blame them? We’re social creatures, bred to survive in societies, and how can we learn if our society continues to accept us again and again no matter what we do?

Men have it so easy. They can do whatever they want, break however many hearts, dispose of however many girls, and their statuses as mummy and daddy’s shiny perfect example of human perfection will never fade. Men can do whatever they want to their wives as long as they keep earning money, and everything will be seen as A-OK.

Paris’ Diamonds’ Dance is the most inane gala of its sort that Lila has seen. She had attended such events back in Milan and especially in the US – oh, those Americans were crazy about ostentatious displays of wealth –  except they called those what they were, jamborees and debutante balls, instead of this masquerade bullshit.

The venue is nice, Lila has to admit, and so is the catering. The techno-bass music is pushing it, through. What happened to good, ol’ classic Mozart?

White, as far as Lila can see, glossy marble tiles and reflective mirror ceilings and glittering ivory tables. Teenagers ranging from age twelve to eighteen meanderingand mingling on the monotonous disco dance floor, dressed in an array of blank couture.

The rule is that they could not represent brands, they cannot wear any shade apart from white. This is a serious , very important social occasion, after all, and not an opportunity to push the latest collection of whatever luxury fashion house they’re the brand ambassadors of. But that doesn’t prevent the attendees from showing up in the most outlandish garbs while following attire rules.

A girl ahead of Lila is dressed like a petunia flower, great big sails of ivory, crimp-edged fabric jutting from her rear and hips. Her friend whom she is talking to has a train nearly two metres long, flowing down her back like a cotton waterfall, which she has gathered up and is carrying in her arms after too many people had trodded on it by accident. Lila suspects that the decision was inspired by economic means as well as trying to prevent the foot-shaped stains from showing. A boy, who has tried to ask Lila to dance until she picked up his intentions and repelled him through the disdainful force of her glare alone, dons a top hat and a tailcoat, and is practising his pick-up artistry on two new victims. The most well-dressed person on the floor, in Lila’s opinion, is the man currently sampling from the buffet table, whose wool suit and iridescent coat are so uncomplicated as to be ethereal. But even he couldn’t compare to the King of the ball.

Ah – Lila feels like such a poor Cinderella, with none of the influence and the riches of her peers. Her dress isn’t haute couture, just a slinky, littlecream number she picked up from Ferragamo hours before the event and she did her own make-up.

An entire army of stylists and designers probably sweated over Tsurugi Kagami, her preparation probably started a week ago, with facials and massages and manicures, until she resembles a perfect scarlet icicle.

She sits there at the top of the podium in the ballroom, the only colour represented , a drop of blood in a glass of milk. Swathed in a scarlet kimono, her hair is pinned back by chrysanthemum pins and her lips are such a juicy cherry red, Lila would kiss them herself if Adrien doesn’t .

Adrien, right beside her, in an immaculate, tailored suit and satin tie. He appears almost simple, but of course when you look like Adrien Agreste, nothing is ever simple on you. They’re effortless, celestial, phenomenal. With golden hair and blond lashes the length of Lila’s badly-paintedfingernails and glass skin, Adrien could be twiddling his thumbs there in a white T-shirt for all anyone cares and he’ll still outshine the entire floor. 

FYI, the man with the wool suit and the iridescent coat is the best dressed. Not the best looking.

Read the rest on Ao3 here.

[unchataparis]

Don't

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Four: Solitude

Lila’s heels clatter against the cobblestone as she walks. When she brings her left foot down at an awkward angle, the stiletto point of her shoe dives into a crevice in the ground and nearly brings her off balance. But, elegantly, surely, Lila throws her weight in the opposite direction, manages to regain her balance, manages to not break her angle, and continues on.

It’s a cool night, not a cold one, but the brisk wind and the light rain make it feel as if it should be chillier than it really is. Along Lila’s arms, goosebumps are raised. Her dark red backless minidress looks good and costs a pretty penny, but doesn’t really do anything against the elements. Along Lila’s flank is an embossed black mini bag, containing her phone, her wallet, cosmetics, and nothing else.

Her reflection drifts alongside her in darkened windows and the glossy hoods of cars as she walks. Above, the sky is the shade of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet (1987). Lila could see cars in the distance. Lampposts flicker in and out.

Lila is far from the heart of Paris.

Ah, Paris, this lonely, dark, arrogant city. With its enviable history and funny people. Lila will never get over the way they pronounce gin . Seriously, walk up to a French person and ask them to pronounce gin.

Lila hasn’t been back in Paris for a long, long time, and she plans to thoroughly enjoy her temporary sojourn.

At the edge of an industrial complex, constructed at the mouth of a sprawling car park, is a closed travel agent’s office. Lila approaches the dim stairs that lead to the second floor above it and climbs.

Upstairs, it’s much warmer and sightly.

Lila sighs, relishing in the heat and the classy décor. Marble pillars and an under-lit bar table. Small clusters of plush armchairs are granted the veneer of privacy by their fences of giant potted leaf figs. A waterfall wall bubbles merrily on the far side from the entrance, glowing with neon light fixtures.

As Lila walks, her heels clatter on black-and-white chequered floor tiles before becoming muffled on scarlet carpet. She approaches the bar, clenching the edge of it coquettishly while the well-dressed and reticent bartender looks up from the silverware he is polishing.

“So, um…” Lila says, scanning the shelves of alcohol lined by along the glass shelves. “Could I have an…espresso martini, please?”

The bartender puts down his silverware. He starts up the espresso machine, which purrs like an awakening leopard. Lila leans on her elbows upon the bar, watching him work. 

He stamps freshly-ground coffee into a filter, fitting it tight into the grouphead . He lays a tiny glass cup beneath the drip and presses a button Lila can’t see. The espresso machine buzzes and dark, aromatic liquid flows down. Meanwhile, the bartender has obtained a bottle of Belvedere vodka and a bottle of Mr Black Cold Brew coffee liqueur from the shelf behind him. He adds ice into a silver cocktail shaker, then measures in two shots of vodka and one shot of coffee liqueur. A drizzle of golden honey syrup, the espresso shot is dumped in, and the entire thing is shaken economically and intently.

The final cocktail is poured into a crystal-clear martini glass; alcohol the shade of Lila's hair lightening and puffing into a foam the colour of her skin.

The bartender drops three whole coffee beans on top in the pattern of a trillium and slides the cocktail over the counter to Lila.

“Thank you!” she coos, tapping her black American Express card against the EFTPOS scanner.

After she tucks her wallet back into her bag, she drops it, letting her purse hit her flank. In the same instance, she picks up her cocktail and turns around, leaning on the bar while she sips.

Lila can hear the sound of the bartender cleaning behind her. Ahead, she could see the entirety of the demure, sophisticated little bar.

The wafts of cold and mist drifting up the stairs, losing the battle with the establishment’s artificially produced heat. The glimmer of the lustrous, dim lightning reflecting off metallic surfaces. The few patrons gathered at this hour talking to each other in low voices inside cushioned alcoves. At a table to Lila’s right, a silver fox conversing with an enchantingly sweet-looking minx.

Over by the lone table facing an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, is a singular man staring down at his drink.

Lila takes a sip of her martini while taking in the back of this man. She's interested because he appears to be her age, financially-comfortable , and stylish. Then, Lila pauses. And moves closer.

Adrien Agreste is nursing a half-drunk whiskey. One fingerpad circling the rim of the glass over and over again in hypnotic circles while the amber liquid glimmers like topazes. His eyes are misty and he appears to be deep in thought. He wears a black leather jacket with a white V-neck shirt, dark jeans, and YSL Wyatt Harness boots. The Tiffany & Co. silver dog-chain necklace dangling at the crux of his sternum is blank and innocent. 

“Hi,” Lila says.

Adrien startles and looks up.

“…hey,” he says.

Read the rest on Ao3

[unchataparis]

ENCHANTED

Liladrien Week 2024 - Day Three: Alliance

"Kitty, to your left!"

Chat Noir rips his right gauntlet out from the metal abdomen of a fizzing drone, once an apathetic and harmless industrial vacuum cleaner, it had been transformed into a vicious attack machine with a penchant for sucking babies up its floor brush. Chat Noir had shoved the screaming mother-and-daughter pair it had been chasing after and neatly disabled it with a single strike to the heart. Now, he turns around, in the direction Argos had been calling at, to see a silver Mercedes-Benz coupé flooring it towards a family in a van desperately losing the speed race.

With a grunt, Chat Noir propels himself forward, transforming into a black bolt of lightning and slamming into the side of the Mercedes so hard, it flips over.

The family escapes, untouched, into the sunset.

"Come on," Chat Noir growls, back in 3D and ripping out chunks of the Mercedes’ tubes and engine and pipes, trying to stop its wheels from spinning. Alas, no matter what he does, the Mercedes revs and attempts to flip itself over. It must be sending help signals too, because Chat Noir can see a forklift truck, one perfectly capable of rightening 2t vehicles, approaching in the distance, beeping.

Chat Noir gives up.

"Cataclysm!" he roars, and slaps his charged hand onto the surface of the car. Immediately, rust spreads out from the point of contact, peeling away the glossy paint, eating into the metal, until there is nothing left but a pile of nuts and bolts.

The approaching forklift truck, as if wailing over the demise of a loved one, beeps louder, its pointy prongs headed straight for Chat Noir's head.

Chat Noir shakily stands up on his two feet, wondering whether or not Cataclysm will destroy the truck before it skewers him.

Argos is there, suddenly, and he neatly swipes his Fan through the truck’s body. He does so, so smoothly, that the truck itself doesn’t realise it's sliced into two until it travels a couple metres further and its top half falls to ground, its disected anatomy fizzing and on display for all to see.

"I told you not to use Cataclysm anymore," Argos says, approaching Chat Noir in disapproval, the violet of his eyes always make his scoldings all the more caustic.

"Well, I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?" Chat Noir spits, barely managing to remain upright, Cataclysm disabled, his hands gripping his knees.

Argos raises an eyebrow.

"…sorry," Chat Noir says glumly.

"You’re exhausted," Argos says. "Come on, we need to take a break."

"We can’t afford to–"

"I'm sure we won't be scalped for daring to take a break," Argos says, looking around at the orange horizon, the drones buzzing like mosquitoes in the air, the highway around them littered with roasting tires and bits of brick and fallen streetlamps. "No one is going to gain anything from our exhaustion, least of all us. Let's just go and sit down for a moment."

Chat Noir doesn’t argue, partially because his mouth is so dry, his tongue is sticking to the roof of it.

Argos sighs. "Come on, cousin," he says, lifting one of Chat Noir’s arms around his shoulders and wrapping his own around Chat Noir’s waist. "Let’s get out of here."

Argos leaps, and half-carries Chat Noir to a secluded rooftop of a semi-tall office block where they can look down on most of the city, just not the Central Park Tower. It’s a dusty little spot messy with abandoned timber, sheets of green canvas as large as ship sails, and enough pigeons that Chat Noir starts sneezing immediately. Argos snaps out his Fan and sends a gust of wind blowing through the rooftop which scare all the pigeons away and which hopefully should get rid of most of the feather proteins.

Argos gently lowers Chat Noir down. His Ring has been beeping all throughout their journey here, Plagg trying to keep the transformation maintained when Adrien had been pushed to his limit. Finally, Adrien could de-transform with relief. His head droops as Plagg emerges after a chartreuse flash.

"This is not how I imagined our New York vacation going," Adrien says, massaging his neck. He cricks it. "Ow."

Félix, de-transformed, is looking over the edge of the building, trying to peer through the windows to its interior but it is impossible with the glass reflecting the orange sunlight. Félix winces and squints as a glare of UV light sears his eyes so brilliantly, he loses vision for a second.

"You two make yourself useful," Félix mumbles, rubbing his eyes and inspecting his fingers just in case the redness in his pupils will also translate to blood leaking out of his tear ducts. "Giant fucking building, there’s gotta be some food and water in there."

"Sure," Plagg says. "We’ll steal from the first terrified hostage we come across."

"It’s an office," Duusu adds. "All its workers must be trapped by their computers and money counters and printers." His eyes light up. Duusu loves printers. He loves scanning himself and converting all his bright plumage into technicolour and pasting himself around Félix's rooms.

"Just please get some food first?" Félix asks, and the two Kwami makes themselves scarce, diving into the building directly under Félix's feet.

Read the rest on Ao3!

[unchataparis]

Lip to Lip

In celebrating of Secret Identities.

“Welcome to our first-ever premier of Face to Face !” A woman with garnet-ruby hair, the strands bordering on aubergine depending on what light she walks under, beams at the camera. She wears a navy blazer and sensible, tailored khaki trousers. One of her hands rests on her lap; the other is gesturing at the grand set around her. It appears that TVi spared no expenses for Nadja’s prime-time show. The backdrop is fitted with floor-to-ceiling OLED displays, currently playing a slow pan of the romantic Parisian nightscape, the Eiffel Tower lit up in gold and twinkling like a phantom. The cushy white canvas armchairs are a pure contrast to the russet-brown timber floor, waxed to a shine and reflecting the gloss of the lights overhead. Potted tropical foliage – blush-pink begonias and fragrant frangipanis and leafy miniature palm trees – tastefully decorate the surroundings and brighten the awkward, empty spaces. They also grant the illusion of homeliness and zen. Viewers watching at home can imagine that Nadja is sitting right beside them, chatting to them from their own couch. Guests are fooled into believing they’re in a safe space. A resort of frondescence paired with a friendly, calming voice to vent to. Never fall for this daydream. Nadja Chamack is a shark. “Tonight, we have two very exciting guests for you, the heroes of Paris themselves: Chat Noir and Volpina!” Nadja’s lips tilted downwards at the corners, her upset expression dramatised by her bright carmine lipstick. “Unfortunately, Ladybug could not be here today. But, worry not! Her two partners have plenty to share. This will be the first time the heroes of Paris have ever given an exclusive interview! So, stay tuned! Tonight will be an exciting exposé. Drama, secrets, and the mysterious private life of our masked superheroes will all be revealed tonight! Keep your eyes peeled; we’re breaking for commercials but we’ll be back in ten!” Nadja keeps her pageant-winning smile plastered across her mouth, artificially-whitened teeth glistening, rouged cheeks plump, until the stage manager gives her the thumbs-up behind his camera. If Nadja looks to her right then, she’ll see a live video of what TVs across France are showing right now: a Mercedes advertisement promoting their latest off-road, hybrid electric vehicle. A smooth baritone voice that is equal parts bored and excited introduces the 0.8m fording depth and integrated AI virtual assistant feature. Instead, Nadia covers her microphone, stands up, and screams: “WHERE THE FUCK – ?”

See the rest on Ao3 here!

[liladrien-2024]

Are you all ready for Miraculous's first LilAdrien week? Coming this June, 10th-16!

[liladrien-2024]

boyfriend

Adrien and Lila meets at a party, neither expecting the other. Lila fantasises.

Based on boyfriend by Ariana Grande and Social House.

[unchataparis]

Iris Verdi

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Six: School

Adrien has started to call neo-Françoise Dupont the ‘green school’, although this probably wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else.

After all, to specifically attribute such an adjective would usually mean that the place stands out for it. No one would call a Haussmann terrace in the middle of Paris the ‘limestone house’ and no one would describe a specific cow among a black-and-white pasture as the Holstein-Friesian cattle.

Neo-Françoise Dupont is surrounded by buildings just as frondescent, just as sustainable, just as solar punk. Ink-dark glass panels installed upon rooftops, slanted on both sides, to catch every last drop of UV light. Lively lavender and frog-green ivy climbing up brick façades, low buildings, and a community garden in each apartment park – appropriately named because with the rise of interest in human-centred, hands-on community hubs, each residential area in Paris is now built around children’s playgrounds.

Still, when Adrien bikes to school this morning, waving hello to neighbours and fellow students – bikes because there are no longer any needs for individual cars and he lives too close to the school to rely on the entirely electric mini buses –  he pulls up to a Françoise Dupont that seems a cut above the rest of regenerated Paris.

Apple and tangerine trees planted in the courtyard bloom generous fruit in the height of spring, a warm breeze ruffles the verdant leaves. Colour-coded bins are clearly marked Déchets, Recyclage, and Compost. Stickered rainwater tanks decorate corners and crevices. 

Members of the student council and volunteers are manning the morning breakfast program. Fresh juice, waffles, cereal, yoghurt, eggs, and bacon are divided in catering trays and sampled freely by hungry students bearing wooden plates and metal cutlery.

In Adrien’s new homeroom, manned by a newcomer to the school named Madame Beaumont, most of his classmates are already gathered and they cheer to see him.

“Morning, Adrien!” Kim bellows across the room. He’s wearing a recycled polyester and cotton-blend hoodie with thrifted jeans. Beside him, Max dons a tunic weaved from hemp linen.

“Morning!” Rose chirps.

“You’re almost late!” Alya teases.

“Hey, guys.” Adrien looks down at the front row where Marinette is sitting. Hair tied into pigtails with gingham ribbons, lids and lips tainted with cocoa-butter-based cosmetics. She beams, clearly waiting for him and demurely pats the seat beside her. Adrien drops his canvas satchel and blows a gentle kiss towards his girlfriend. Marinette’s cheeks darken even further, already adorably flushed, and although she trembles, she doesn’t panic. Adrien is so proud of her. Marinette is growing over her fears admirably, conquering past trauma bit by bit like a champion.

“Alright, class!” Madame Beaumont announces, clapping her hands together to rein some control over her raucous homeroom. 

Nathaniel is doodling in a kraft paper sketchbook and Mylène is showing off her homemade bead jewellery to Juleka and Ivan. In the row behind them, Alya and Nino had leaned over to start talking to Adrien and Marinette about plans for the weekend. The Seine is crystal-clear and smells of salt and algae, perfect for swimming in. And afterwards, how about a picnic at the Jardin du Tuileries?

“Class!” Madame Beaumont repeats sharply. “Please – your attention, please!”

Voices settle down and rears are fully planted down on benches.

Madame Beaumont clears her throat before the classroom’s interactive whiteboard. Adrien sees the plans for today’s lessons floating there: agriculture lectures and an introspective analysis of Dead Poets Society.

“I’m very happy to announce that we’re going to have a new student join our class today,” Madame Beaumont says. “Her name is Iris Verdi and she hails all the way from Italy. This is her first time in France and she’s still getting a little used to the language. So, please give a very warm welcome and a friendly greeting to our new friend!”

Adrien claps along with the rest of the class as Madame Beaumont gestures for someone outside the classroom to step in. Adrien claps along with the rest of the class as an unusually tall girl saunters her way beside Madame Beaumont. Adrien stops clapping when the girl turns to face them with a smile that borders on a smirk, but no one else does.

The rest of the class continues clapping for this girl. She has long, nearly-yellow blonde hair twisted into a low chignon. She wears a red wool beret and matching blazer, a smart grey vest, a pleated black skirt, and polished leather boots. Her eyes are vixen-like and rimmed with black, her lips are pouty and glossy with the colour of ripe apricots.

“Bonjour, everyone!” she says in a sweet, melodic voice. Her nails are almond-shaped and painted the same colour as her lips. She has slung upon one shoulder a brown leather schoolbag. “It’s so nice to see you all.”

“Hi, Iris!” the class choruses.

Adrien looks behind him to see all of his friends beaming at Iris with nothing but geniality and sociable curiosity in their eyes. Adrien looks to his right to see Marinette nodding at Iris with warm welcome.

“As Madame Beaumont told you all,” Iris says in an accent that is different to the one she used when she came to their school as a new student last time. Less high-pitched, more sensible. With an undercurrent like trickling water. “This is my first time in Paris and French is a third language. Please forgive me if I make any errors.”

“Nonense!” Rose cries. “You sound fine.”

Everyone chants in agreement.

Iris’ eyes curve with her smile, her hands coming up to cup her mouth in faux overwhelm. 

“Oh, you guys are so kind!” she coos. “I can already tell I’m going to have the time of my life here!”

“French is your third language?” Marinette asks. “What’s your second?”

“English,” Iris replies easily. “Although that’s only because I’ve spent half of my childhood growing up in California.”

“California?” Alya says, perking up as she always does whenever anyone makes the slightest mention of the U.S. 

“Isn’t that where Hollywood is?” Nathaniel remarks.

“Yes!” Iris says. “Actually, I lived with my uncle just on the outskirts of LA where he owns a vineyard. It was a super cool place to grow up, because you get to meet the fanciest people and celebrities who come to tour.”

The class whispers their excitement to each other.

“How exotic!” Madame Beaumont says.

“If everyone’s willing,” Iris says, unclasping the magnetic flap of her bag. “I could show you all some pictures–”

“Excuse me,” Adrien says, speaking up. He feels as if he had been submerged in a dream-like trance where he was nothing but a helpless and doomed witness to pre-destined events. He listened to the inane conversation and if he himself lacked a mouth to speak with and a will to act with. Adrien snapped out of his stupor because Iris’ act of opening her bag reminded Adrien intensely of her opening her bag when she showed Adrien her faux-Fox Miraculous almost exactly one year ago. “But aren’t you Lila Rossi?”

Read the rest on Ao3 here.