Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Fun Fact: ‘Le Chat Noir’ was thought to be the first modern cabaret where the patrons sat at tables and drank alcoholic beverages while being entertained by a variety show on stage.

12/16/19 - I have gathered all the images used in this story into an album which I compiled on my Facebook page.

Marinette had just finished putting the final elegant curls into her short raven hair when Alya arrived. She knew it was Alya without even leaving the sanctity of her bathroom vanity by the way her doorbell relentlessly buzzed. Alya was a leaner. With a beleaguered sigh that bordered on amused, Marinette unplugged her curling iron and went to answer the door.

Alya bounced in without preamble, looked Marinette over from head to toe, and gave her a cheeky grin of approval. “Damn girl, you look fine!”

As an aspiring fashion designer, Marinette never wasted an opportunity to use herself as her canvas for a new look. Unfortunately, living in Paris was not cheap and Marinette was the epitome of a starving artist. Though she worked part-time as a waitress at a café down the street, she dedicated herself to an unpaid internship at Agreste Fashion. Tonight, Marinette wore a vintage dress that she had repurposed and redesigned to save money on fabric.

Despite its humble beginnings, Alya’s words were true. The dress was beyond stunning. It sculpted to Marinette’s slender figure, complemented her pale skin and inky tresses, and was still hip enough to wear on a day-to-day basis. Marinette had started on a short red dress with ribbon-thin straps and a sensibly-cut neckline. She trimmed it short and daring, leaving a display of sleek sexy leg that would make even a blind man stare. However, Marinette liked to leave things to the imagination. To keep some modestly, she overlaid the red bombshell with a floral lace. It had three-quarter sleeves, a high neckline that opened the tops of her shoulders, and fell nearly to her knees. To tie everything together and keep an hourglass figure, Marinette finished it with a simple black belt.

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” Marinette said grudgingly and looked over her friend. “And what’s with your look? Is it lesbian-chic?”

“I resent that,” Alya snorted, “and I can sample the other side of the buffet if I feel so inclined.”

As a journalist, Alya usually went for a mix of comfort and professionalism. Tonight, she had dropped all pretense and rocked comfort. She wore her favorite skinny jeans that had been washed so many times they were ripped and faded beyond repair. However, they hugged her booty and made Alya feel like a million bucks. She had on a black crop top with open shoulders and tiny metal clasps between her breasts to bare as much caramel-colored skin as possible. To complete the look, she had on a long tribal necklace and silver stiletto heels.

Alya adjusted her breasts, seeming to consider popping another clasp. “Not everyone has to have your lame taste in blue-eyed blonde-haired white boys,” she retorted.

Marinette flushed despite herself. “I do not—”

Alya held up a hand for silence and began ticking off her fingers. “Chad, Brad, Rolf, Devin, and Spike,” she said plainly. “Especially Spike.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “So I have tastes,” she snapped at Alya.

“Although any self respecting woman would have gone after Rolf,” Alya continued as though Marinette hadn’t spoken. “He was finer than China.”

“He was German,” Marinette said and turned her back on her friend. She opened her closet, looked down at her few shoes with a sigh, and reached for a pair of black ankle boots with a low practical heel.

“Girl, if you put boots on with that awesome dress, I will kick you in the kneecap,” Alya warned.

Marinette sighed again, put the boots away, and produced a pair of heels with a Victorian flare. She sat down on the couch, tugged them on, and stretched her legs out for approval.

“Better,” Alya relented. From Marinette’s earring tree, she chose a pair of simple black flowers and handed them to her friend. “Less is more sometimes, but you still need lipstick.
Girl, it’s your birthday!”

Marinette almost dropped the earrings, surprise showing on her face.

“You didn’t?” Alya asked incredulously. “Marinette, you’re hopeless. How did you forget your own birthday?”

“I’ve been busy,” Marinette protested. “Gabriel Agreste is holding a competition next month. He’s going to choose an intern to take—”

“I know,” Alya interrupted. “You’ve told me a million times and I’m covering the story. But that’s next month!”

“It’s never too early to get a head start,” Marinette said keenly. She put in the earrings, smoothed her hair, and chose a tube of lipstick. After applying some, she dropped it into her purse along with her wallet, phone, and keys.

“Speaking of getting a head start,” Alya said with a roll of her eyes. “Let’s go already!”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Marinette repeated.

Giggling, Alya pushed her friend out the door, barely giving Marinette time to lock up. “It’s a surprise!”

…

Paris was always sweltering in the summer, but now that night had fallen, it was delightfully cool. The Eiffel Tower glimmered like a fantasy castle on the skyline, lights danced on the undulating waters of the Seine River, and the streetlamps glowed like amber will-o-the-wisps. Marinette would have been happy to sit on the fire escape of her apartment building and sketch, but it felt like years since she had last been out with Alya and she couldn’t deny her excitement.

Marinette kicked the door of Alya’s car fiercely, which was the only way to open it, and climbed into the passenger seat. The interior was clean and neat, but the car had the worst curb appeal of any vehicle in Paris. “Are you ever going to get rid of this clunker?” she asked as Alya slid behind the wheel.

“Maybe when I get married,” Alya said with a grin. “I’m attached to it.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. Alya had had this beast of a car since they were in high school together. As a source of Alya’s constant complaints then, it never ceased to amuse Marinette that Alya would keep the car now that she had the money to bail it out or get a better car.

“I can’t believe it still runs,” Marinette said.

Alya pulled away from the curb in front of Marinette’s apartment building, eased into traffic on the main thoroughfare, and headed uptown. Marinette gazed out the window at the designer boutiques she dreamed of having stock her clothing line and picked at the hem of her salvaged dress. Though beautiful, it felt modest in the glittering glamour of Paris.

“Here we are,” Alya announced as she pulled into the parking lot with a bump.

Marinette tore her gaze from a haberdashery with a display of exquisite suits. She looked up at the black lettering, standing out starkly beneath bright yellow lamps and casting interesting shadows on the building. “Le Chat Noir,” she read aloud.

“Yup,” Alya said as she parked and shut off her car. She fiddled with the switch for her headlights, finally gave the dashboard a shot with her fist, and the lights went out.

“What is this place?” Marinette asked as she climbed out of the car.

“It’ll be better if I just surprise you,” Alya said mischievously.

A little bolt of worry went down Marinette’s spine. What on earth was Alya planning?

Together, they walked up to the front door. A tall broad-shouldered man in a black shirt opened the door for them and then Marinette found herself in a whole other world. Between the pulsing lights and the throbbing music, her eyes were drawn immediately to the elaborate stage. A man danced with wild abandon, his abs glistening beneath the hot lights, every muscle sliding beneath his chocolate skin. Dark tattoos circled his bicep, ringlet curls flopped in his face, and he smiled at the audience.

One moment, he had pants on.

The next just a g-string.

“Oh my god!” Marinette shrieked and her face flamed with color. It was only Alya’s hand in the small of her back that kept her from dashing right back out the door into the night. Well, that and her towering spike-heeled shoes. Running wasn’t really an option.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alya said sternly as she paid the cover charge and forced Marinette to hold out her hand for a stamp. “You are twenty-one now and you’ve never had a night of balls-to-the-wall fun in your life. You’re staying until I let you leave.”

Marinette stared at her friend with wide eyes. “What? But—”

“No buts,” Alya said sternly and slapped a wad of crisp bills into Marinette’s chest. “Here are some singles. Just let me know if you need more.”

“Alya!”

“If you don’t get some blood back into the rest of your body, you’re going to pass out,” Alya warned.

Marinette put a hand to her flaming cheek in embarrassment.

It was still early yet and the middle of the week so Le Chat Noir wasn’t as packed as it probably should have been. Alya had no trouble pushing Marinette through the crowd and sitting her down firmly at a table right in front of the stage. Marinette squeaked helplessly, staring up at the washboard abdomen of the current dancer as he twisted to the beat. He had a chain draped over his body, the links rattling as he swept them between his legs.

“Stay here,” Alya said over the music. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

“Alya!”

“I said stay,” Alya told Marinette and then she turned away.

Marinette didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. She tightened her fingers around the dollars in her lap and tried not to stare. The sight was captivating, if not for the nearly-naked man on full display than for the spectacle at least. Marinette found herself fascinated as he gripped a silk sheet hanging from the ceiling and swung himself onto it. She couldn’t imagine the strength it took to hold himself up by one hand, stretching the other imploringly to the audience as he grinned.

One woman in a sparkly blue sequined dress that Marinette wouldn’t have been caught dead in rose onto the tips of her sky-high heels to put a dollar into his hand. He leaned down so close to her that Marinette thought they would kiss before whirling away with a smile. He dropped down onto the stage, turned his butt to the audience, and began shaking it to the beat of the pulsing techno music. The song ended before Marinette even grasped the steps to his dance. He took a bow and left the stage.

“Enjoying yourself?” Alya asked as she rejoined Marinette. “You’re drooling.”

Marinette wiped her mouth before she realized Alya was kidding.

“Here,” Alya said and handed over a fizzy drink she knew Marinette would love. “Don’t hate me, okay?”

Marinette didn’t’ have time to ask why before the music dimmed and the DJ’s voice blasted over the loudspeaker. “I’ve been told we have a birthday in Le Chat Noir tonight!”

She whirled around so quickly that curls blurred her vision. “Alya!” she shouted.

Alya did a little unsympathetic palms-up and took a sip of her drink.

“She turns twenty-one tonight,” the DJ continued. “She likes blonde hair and blue eyes. She designed her own dress and she’s sitting right here in the front row!” A buttery spotlight swept over the crowd and landed easily on Marinette, taking on a heart shape once it stopped on her. She was too embarrassed, too horrified, to even flee.

“And now, a man who needs no introduction, our very own—Chat Noir!”

The raging high-energy music faded completely and was replaced by the techno opening of “Put Your Hearts in the Air.” Marinette didn’t know if she should punch Alya or be overjoyed to hear her favorite song being blared to the soundtrack of the most embarrassing moment of her life. She didn’t realize she was gripping the dollar bills until her fingers went numb. Unwillingly, her eyes were drawn back to the stage as it filled with smoke that billowed as the curtains swept open.

Slinking from the recesses of backstage like an alley cat, Chat Noir emerged.

The answering scream of delight from all the women was deafening.

For her part, Marinette’s heart definitely skipped a beat.

At the moment, he didn’t have much skin on display, but she knew it was coming. He wore skintight black leather that hugged his every curve and muscle, leaving nothing to the imagination including an impressive bulge. A shiny gold bell jingled at his throat, a black tail hung between his thighs, and his blonde head was decorated with pointed black cat ears. If there was a stage name better suited to him, Marinette couldn’t think of it.

His lithe body twisted around and Marinette found herself staring into luminous acid-green eyes. Her heart rate doubled, but not because he was unbelievably handsome. In fact, she couldn’t see his face much more than the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his lips. He wore a mask. It covered half of his face, ending just at the tip of his nose and above his eyebrows. It added a lot to the allure of his costume, especially since it made his eyes more catlike than seemed humanly possible.

“Please excuse me if I sound rude,” Eric Saade sang and Chat Noir mouthed along with the words.

Silky, sultry, Marinette couldn’t tear her eyes from the display as Chat Noir slid across the stage towards her. She expected him to stay on it, but he jumped right off and landed with a thump in front of her. The spotlight followed, glinting off his bell and bright eyes.

She could feel the heat coming off his body and smell his cologne. Her heart stopped dead as he dropped to his knees in front of her and jerked her chair forward. She had no choice but to part her legs or risk jamming her knees into his chest. The hard lines of his ribs touched her thighs, searing like a brand. She was hyperaware of the fact that she was wearing a dress and that it was hitched almost indecently high. She clasped her hands to it, holding it down as dollar bills crinkled between her fingers. Chat Noir’s abdomen brushed her knuckles and he grinned.

“Not a typical nine to five dude,” Eric Saade continued and Chat Noir winked.

Chat Noir hopped nimbly onto his feet again, standing before her so that she was eye-level with his package.

“I put my pants on one leg at a time,” Chat Noir lip-synced.

Marinette knew what was coming even before he hooked his thumbs into his pants and smoothly ripped them off. His skin was the pale, made almost white when offset by his black leather. Thankfully, he didn’t have on a g-string, not that his briefs kept much more hidden.

“But they have chains, leather, and diamond lines,” Eric Saade sang with an edge.

Numb with shock, Marinette didn’t protest as Chat Noir bent low over her. His breath was sweet and warm on her face as he took her hand, guiding it to the zipper at his throat. His gloves were soft, tipped with small hard claws. Marinette gripped the zipper despite herself and Chat Noir smirked as he tugged her arm at the wrist. The jacket opened like the petals of a night-blooming flower.

Marinette’s mind blurred at the sight.

“I feel a twitch without my melodies,” Chat Noir mouthed. He rolled his hips enticingly.

Marinette practically heard Alya’s voice inside her head, insisting that she slide one of those dollars into a place that would make every woman pray they were put back in circulation. She glanced down at the money in her lap, standing out pale and green against her red and black dress.

“I’ve got no switch to stop my fantasies,” Eric Saade put in silkily.

As though to prove a point, Chat Noir twisted before her in such a way that allowed her to see every inch of his chiseled torso. The bell at his throat jingled, glimmering like a promise, and his black briefs hugged the swell of his ass. He pushed his gloved clawed hands through his golden hair, shaking his head slightly. Marinette’s mouth went dry.

The chorus rose, slamming through Marinette like a drug.

“So put your hearts in the air,” Eric Saade sang.

“You gotta love being you,” Chat Noir lip-synced. He bent down again, hooking his fingers beneath her chin as though to entice a kiss though he never closed the space. His fingertips slid along her cheek and twisted a curl around his finger. “Do it like I do!”

He was so close, so warm, and he smelled wonderful. With a surge of confidence brought about by her favorite song and the burning spotlight, Marinette put her hand on his hip. His skin was warm and soft with such strong muscles beneath, like velvet covering steel. She felt the elastic of his briefs, tugged a little space between the material and his skin, and slipped she didn’t even know how many dollars in.

His smirk could have burned her.

All around them, Marinette could hear cheering.

Beneath the sounds of music and yelling voices, Chat Noir leaned down and whispered, “Happy Birthday.” With that, he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek and then stepped away. He jumped back onto the stage, spinning his tail as he rolled his hips.

“Good job, girl,” Alya said happily and clapped Marinette on the shoulder. “I thought you were going to put those singles in your nest egg.”

Marinette sucked in a breath, suddenly aware of how little she had been breathing while Chat Noir was in her space. “Alya!” she hissed. “I can’t believe you did that to me!”

Alya grinned. “Just admit you liked it so we can enjoy the rest of our night,” she said curtly.

Marinette sighed heavily. “He is pretty cute,” she admitted to Alya. “But what’s with the mask?”

Alya shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “It’s probably just part of the show,” she said.

Marinette folded the remaining bills Alya had given her into a neat pile, picked up her drink, and took a long swallow. The alcohol warmed her from the inside out, making her insides tingle and relax, but Marinette didn’t let herself think about how her cheek still seared where Chat Noir had kissed her.

…

Midnight approached and Le Chat Noir became suitably busy. Women and young men were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, standing room only, and the bartenders were pouring and mixing drinks by the dozen. The music was turned up so loud that Marinette had to shout to be heard by Alya who was inches from her. The dancers now came out in groups of three and four, choreographed to the music that played. A rendition of ‘It’s Getting Hot in Here’ with gorgeous firemen had just ended.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Marinette shouted to Alya.

Alya gave her a thumbs up. “I’ll guard our drinks and your seat,” she shouted back.

Marinette nodded, stood up, and smoothed her dress.

Alya swung her leg over Marinette’s seat.

Now that she was standing, Marinette could feel the effects of the alcohol. She had always been a lightweight and now was no exception. Teetering in her high heels, Marinette picked her way through the crowd in front of the stage. The bathroom was clean, lit brightly with simple wall sconces, and blessedly quiet. Marinette leaned on the sink and took a deep breath, hoping to clear some of the alcohol from her system with willpower alone.

When that didn’t work, she wiped off her smudged lipstick with a paper towel and splashed some cool water on her face. With a sigh, she ducked into a stall, relieved herself, and washed her hands. Reapplying lipstick so Alya wouldn’t whine, Marinette fixed her disarrayed curls and exited the bathroom.

She walked right into the arms of a woman who was three times as drunk as she was. Taller and stronger than Marinette, the woman didn’t so much press her into the wall as she did just fall into Marinette and the wall happened to be there. Her large breasts, bursting from a black leather bustiere, smothered Marinette. Desperate to escape, Marinette heaved at the woman, but she couldn’t escape.

“You’re so pretty,” the woman slurred. “I love your dress.” Her nails were lacquered blood-red and she pawed Marinette’s face, snagging on curls and pulling painfully.

Marinette heard a door open, but she couldn’t see anything beyond the woman’s choking cleavage. She couldn’t find a steady position on her towering heels and the alcohol in her system made everything spin. Dizzily, urgently, she stretched out her hand.

A gloved hand closed over her fingers and tugged.

The woman stumbled, just as off balance as Marinette.

Marinette tripped forward. It was only the firm grip on her hand that kept her from tumbling to her knees.

“Hey,” Chat Noir said sternly. “What do you think you’re doing in my club?”

The woman purred terribly. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just… I want someone to take home. How about you, kitty?”

“Not tonight,” Chat Noir said. Putting a hand to the bell at his throat, he spoke into it, “Hey, Kim. I’m by the women’s bathroom—no, I wasn’t—I need you to come over here and escort someone out. She’s been over-served by about a keg. Call her a cab or find out if she came with someone. Thanks.”

What felt like seconds later, a bouncer materialized from seemingly nowhere. He was tall and strong with the front of his dark hair spiked and bleached. He grasped the woman by her upper arm, held her expertly away from him when she turned her fluttering eyes on him, and led her away. He spoke into an earpiece, gathering information.

“Are you alright?” Chat Noir asked Marinette. He looked her over and recognition lit in his green eyes. “Ah, Birthday Girl, that’s a hell of a way to celebrate.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Marinette protested. She jerked her hand out of his grip, stepped steadily on her heels, and straightened her dress. “She just grabbed me as soon as I came out of the bathroom.”

“My apologies,” Chat Noir said. “Let me at least walk you back to your friend.”

“I’m fine,” Marinette said. Now that she had been accosted, she felt significantly less drunk. Unfortunately, how she felt and how drunk she really was were apparently measured on vastly different scales. She turned sharply away from Chat Noir, stumbled, and nearly fell.

Chat Noir chuckled, hooked his arm through hers like a gentleman, and led her through the crowd. Despite the way women had grabbed at and tipped him earlier, they parted like the Red Sea around him now and it was an easy matter to deposit her at Alya’s side again.

“I’m fine,” Marinette protested again as he sat her down in her seat.

“I’m sure you are,” he said smoothly and turned to Alya. Though his expression was hidden by his dark mask, his green eyes were piercing and astute. “How drunk are you?”

“I had one,” Alya said, “hours ago when we got here.”

Chat Noir nodded approvingly. “Enjoy the show,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Alya nodded.

Chat Noir straightened up and evaporated into the crowd, his tail swishing behind him.

“What happened?” Alya asked Marinette urgently.

“I got molested,” Marinette mumbled.

Alya’s eyes widened. “By who? By Chat Noir?”

Marinette flailed her hand. “No, no, by some lady with enormous—” she gestured helplessly.

Alya restrained a snort. “Maybe it’s time to get you home, Marinette,” she said. “I think you’ve partied enough.”

“I used up all my dollars anyway,” Marinette said petulantly.

Alya took Marinette’s hands, pulled her to her feet, and linked arms with her. They eased through the crowd and out into the cool Paris night. Alya kicked open the passenger door of her broken car, poured Marinette inside, and drove her home. All in all, it was certainly a birthday to remember.

Oddly enough, none of my friends will go to a strip club with me so I watched some videos instead, like [redacted] and this one [redacted], if anyone else has lame friends. [redacted, links]

Questions, comments, concerns?