A/N: a lil bit of fluff i wrote for a tumblr prompt. i ended up liking it a lot so i'm posting it here too.

gh0sttrick answered your question: post - identity reveal, cuddling and falling asleep together!

Adrien lay face down on the lounge in Marinette's room.

His work had been canceled, his father had canceled, Nino was busy, and, all told, he was feeling a bit unwanted.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling-the first fourteen years of his life had felt like this, to be honest-but he was unaccustomed to it, after having Nino on speed-dial for so long.

Marinette was working, beading a blouse for Alya, but had accepted his presence easily. It was a bit like when he was a small child, Adrien thought. His father filling out paperwork while Adrien was made to play quietly nearby. Not quite attention and not quite neglect.

He felt himself slip in and out of a doze, waking dreams and sleeping thought mingling without rhyme or reason, memories and fantasies and nightmares switching places at the forefront of his mind so fast he couldn't tell them apart. It was peaceful here, was the only clear notion in his head. Peaceful listening to Marinette hum under her breath as she slipped her needle and thread through bead after bead after bead after bead after bead after...

He started out of his doze when she put the cloth down and stretched, then snapped fully awake with the satisfied, feminine sigh she let out.

Ah, hormones.

She got up from her seat and stretched the kinks out of her back in a thoroughly fascinating way, showing off perfect curves and lithe muscle with a little twist and a little arch.

"Awake, kitty?" she asked, cocking her head and smiling warmly.

"Am now," he mumbled, tongue thick.

She giggled and padded over. "Sorry about that," she murmured, trailing her fingertips through his hair.

Adrien shut his eyes, basking in the attention. This still felt like a commodity, a luxury, something to be treasured and savored and coveted, these easy touches she gave him.

He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat (he hadn't really been sleeping anyway), and reached blindly for her.

She slid her waist obligingly into the curve of his forearm, dipping the mattress with her weight.

He opened his eyes to find her sitting, smiling softly, fondly, down at him, and his heart gave a strange lurch, vertigo hitting him hard.

Oh, he thought, suddenly wildly out of his depth, feeling like 'home' was here and, at the same, time that 'here' was a foreign frontier. A hint of a strange, heavy, weighted feeling that crept up on him, threatened to suck him under and never let him out.

He couldn't look at her face, but he couldn't look away, either. Impulsively, he tugged her down to lie next to him.

She went so willingly, so easily and so pliantly, it made his pulse skip wildly. This was worse for his heart than her smile, he thought with a sense of impending doom.

She landed with a fabric-softened thump on the unoccupied end of the pillow he'd claimed for his own, and met his eye with a smile that would melt the hardest of souls.

Adrien's soul wasn't hard at all, and he found he was all the more devastated for it.

"Hi," she whispered, booping his nose affectionately and tangling her legs with his.

Hi, he mouthed back, breathless and trapped and, oddly, wanting to cry.

"Tiring day?" she asked sympathetically, initiating their first conversation since he'd come in three hours ago.

"No," he admitted, because it wasn't. It was trying in that it wasn't nearly tiring enough. "Just missed you."

That earned him a kiss where her finger had tapped just seconds ago. "Missed you too," she confessed, only drawing back a spare few inches. Their breath mingled in that space, his and her and theirs.

He had to look away, then, because thinking of anything as 'theirs' was a dangerous, dangerous road. He already had a hard enough time remembering that she wasn't his and he wasn't hers.

He used the excuse of drawing her closer and burying his nose in the crook of her neck, because he could never get enough of her scent.

She smelled like she always did-sweet perfume and vanilla and bread and skin-and he resisted the faint urge to run his tongue over her pulse, to see if she tasted the same. He had a feeling that that would get him pushed off the lounge.

She slipped her fingers back to his hair and stroked.

He sank into it, thrilling in the faint scrape of her nails against his scalp, the repetitively soothing motion of his hair being ruffled and smoothed in tandem. It wasn't long before he was back on the edge of sleep, in spite of (or maybe because of) the long line of her body heat pressed against him in this position, the steady rhythm of her pulse and breathing so, so close to his.

"My parents might walk in and see you asleep here, kitty," she teased, sleep-rough and intoxicating.

He hummed, unwilling to resurface. If that happened, he'd deal. It all seemed so distant, unimportant, anything that wasn't here and now and Marinette.

"Your funeral," she breathed and relaxed fully in his arms.

He felt her breath slowly even out as sleep pulled him under completely.

Her parents didn't catch them. Or, if they did, they didn't wake Adrien when they did.

Instead, he woke to the tail end of dusk in a dark room, lock of inky hair caught in his mouth and arm numb from being used as a pillow, more rested than he could remember ever being.

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and found Marinette, still very much unconscious, mouth hanging open ungracefully and red imprints on her cheek, carefree and messy and vulnerable, and he felt like the ground was rushing up to meet him, to greet him and to kill him on impact.

And, in that moment, he realized that he might be falling, that the ground might just be rushing up to meet him, to greet him and to kill him on impact.

He might be falling in love.