An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
chapters: 21/21
Summary: Adrien’s favorite color used to be orange. Until Marinette.
An Adrinette fic with short, drabble-y chapters all involving the color pink
21. marinette
“Okay.” With a flourish, she finishes the swirl on the last cupcake and stands back. “Not bad, right?”
She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a tiny smudge of pink frosting behind. A lock of dark hair has escaped from her bun, threading down her shoulder.
“Adrien?” she prompts again. “What do you think?”
“You’re amazing,” he says.
Her lips twist into a smile. “I meant about the cupcakes.”
“Hmm. Let’s see.” He picks one up and raises it to his lips.
“Hey!” She tries to snatch it away, but Adrien has already stuffed the entire thing in his mouth.
“Too slow,” he says, cheeks puffed and voice muffled around a mouthful of vanilla and cherry.
Marinette puts her hands on her hips. “That was supposed to be for Rose’s party.”
He manages to swallow. “I’m sure she’ll survive with only nine hundred ninety-nine cupcakes instead of a thousand. Besides, don’t you want to hear my verdict?”
“Fine. How are they?”
Gently, he settles his hands on her waist. “Amazing. Because you made them. And everything you do is amazing, milady.”
She allows him to draw her closer, till there’s hardly any space left between them. “If you’re trying to be suave, it’s not working. You have frosting on your mouth.”
“Well, feel free to have a taste test.”
She huffs a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
“Oh, bugaboo. It’s pronounced ‘alluring.’”
“Cut it out with the bugaboos and miladys. You’re gonna give your identity away, and then Master Fu really will take our miraculous.”
He brings his face close to hers, so that their noses are almost touching. “He could never. You heard him. We’re the perfect partners. The dream team.”
She glances at his lips. “That’s … that's not what he said.”
“Close enough.”
He closes the gap between them, capturing her lips with his. Her arms come up to drape around his shoulders, and his own arms tighten around the small of her back.
"Adrien," she murmurs, sighing against his mouth. Then her lips slant against his again, and he’s lost in her.
Marinette is his favorite person, and pink is his favorite color.
Pink like pastries and cotton candy and bubble gum.
Pink like the frosting she kisses from his lips. Like her hands in his hair and his name on her breath. Like her cherry-blossom cheeks and her sunrise smile.
Pink like her heart, in perfect sync with his.
“I love you,” he whispers.
She pulls back, studying his face, like she’s committing it to memory. Her eyes are bright and focused—the way they are when she’s trying to figure out her lucky charm. Like she’s somehow looking at him and in him and through him, all at once.
“I love you too,” she says (pink, like a rose), and the words are washed in red.
They’re the same color, really. He knows that now. Tints of the exact same hue. Ladybug was always pink, and Marinette was always red, and now, with all the pieces drawn together, he can finally recognize all the shades that make her up—from crimson to coral, scarlet to strawberry, and everything in between.
She pulls him back in, lips warm against his, and he can feel her dye him from the inside out, all her colors bleeding through him till his very bones are stained with them. Till he feels them singing through his veins and swelling in his lungs. Till he feels like he might burst with it—his favorite color, the color of her heart.
