Work Text:
God, it's so hot. Alya slung off her thin cover-up long ago, and Marinette tied her shirt in a knot under her boobs, but that didn't really help. There's a harpy dancing with his boyfriend next to them. His wings are pretty, but Marinette would swear that they're radiating heat like a miniature sun. There's too many people crammed into this apartment and not enough air, not enough room to breathe, and definitely not enough alcohol to make it all better. Marinette and Alya have a brief but intense fight for their shared wine bottle before Alya surrenders it with reluctance that's visible even in this dimly lit room. Marinette could be kind and share, but it's too hot, and there's a smirk on Alya's face as she swings her hips that makes Marinette tip the wine down her throat anyway.
There's not much more than a swallow left. That must have been why Alya was so determined not to part with the bottle in the first place. Greedy bitch, Marinette mouths at Alya with loving attention to every syllable. Alya knocks their hips together roughly in response; it's cruel, because Alya knows that Marinette isn't exactly coordinated on a good day, and after having slightly more than her fair share of a bottle of wine, Marinette thinks that her feet might have disappeared. She stumbles sideways, her whole body loose and liquid, slow to respond to the drips and dribbles of panic creeping along the back of her skull; somehow that's funny, too, so she's laughing when she lands on the guys next to them. They take her whole weight for just a second, one that feels like she's floating, as Marinette is nearly sideways, as her feet nearly slip off into another dimension.
"Sorry, sorry," she gasps, but it's hard to tell if they heard her. It doesn't really matter if they did or not, but Marinette likes to be sure about things, so she says it again as she works out which pair of feet are hers and hauls herself upright again. "Sorry – "
The harpy rolls his eyes and flicks a wing out and between his boyfriend and Marinette. She makes a face. It's not like she can blame him for that, really – she did just crash into them, after all – but at the same time, she was trying to apologize.
Harpies are short-tempered at the best of times. Marinette knows that. She's lucky he didn't swear at her or something.
She sighs and turns back to Alya, leaning into her body with the ease of familiarity that comes of eight years of friendship. "I'm going to go find us some more," she shouts, trying to be heard over the music. "Come with?"
But Alya shakes her head and points in the other direction. Marinette squints along the line of her finger and realizes that a couple of Alya's friends from her journalism course are dancing a few meters away. She'll be all right.
Marinette waves and turns to press herself though the crowded bodies, getting caught up in the music once or twice as the energy surrounds her, envelopes her, everything falling away except the people around her, who are nothing more than bodies to dance with, whether they be harpy or succubus or faun.
It's impossible to tell how long it takes her to cross the room. She can squirm through gaps most people wouldn't see as possibilities, but she's stumbling along the line between not quite tipsy and admitting she's tipsy, and when she's dancing, Marinette knows that she loses track of time.
It's not her fault. Marinette loves using her body like this. She loves feeling all of her parts moving, working, even the muscles she doesn't normally have call to use when she's sitting at a sewing machine – and the music, the music, a driving, seductive beat, seeping inside of her and burning like a blazing wildfire through her blood.
Dancing alone isn't smart. Marinette knows that she's small and thin and she looks like a target. That's why she only goes with Alya or Alix or a group of her friends. Safety in numbers.
But now Marinette's alone.
She forces herself to open her eyes and squeeze through the last barrier of people between her and the end of the room – but to her dismay, Marinette finds herself not in the kitchen, where the alcohol is living. Instead, she's looking at the open door to the balcony.
She should turn around and go the other way –
But then a stray breeze whispers along her cheek, promising cool air, and Marinette is lost.
It's nearly midnight, and there aren't as many people on the balcony as she would have expected, and there's room for the breeze to find her. The air feels glorious on her exposed, sweaty skin. Marinette brushes back her fringe and lifts the fine wisps at the base of her neck, but that's not enough, so she takes her bun down entirely and runs her fingers through her hair until her scalp feels less like a hot and sweaty oven. It's good enough that she doesn't even mind when the breeze dies.
That's when she smells it. A little bit like sage, a little bit like dirty socks – the smell of weed is unmistakable. Marinette glances over her shoulder to find two guys occupying the corner of the balcony, leaning against the railing and talking. One's wearing a cap and glasses – he's the one with the joint – and the other one is blond, with eyes that are a deep and mysterious green in this light and a smile that won't quit.
He's really pretty, actually.
Marinette continues to fan herself slowly as she watches them out of the corner of her eye. The joint never makes its way to the blond guy; he's got a beer, instead, which he nurses like it's the only one he's ever going to have. No chugging, not for him. Instead, he sips. It's very proper and kind of adorable. It's too bad. He's got a nice neck; Marinette would very much like to see what it looks like all long and stretched out, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
Hmm. She can almost see it in her head.
Marinette bites her lip, her eyes skimming down his body, the long, lean, nearly rangy length of him casually propped up against the railing. The loose jeans are doing him no favors, but that tight t-shirt is a gift from the gods of poor vaguely tipsy French girls. His hand wrapped around the beer bottle looks nice, too; proportional and everything, with long and lean fingers with visible knuckles, just the way Marinette likes them.
And he's pretty. Of course he's pretty. Her eyes trail helplessly over that beautiful jawline, a prominent, clean nose, and a mouth that seems like it was made to smile. Marinette sighs in perfect contentment. What a night. What a night. She tilts her head back to let her hair cascade down her back, to let the faint breeze weave its fingers through it and steal the heat trapped in its strands.
In Marinette's head, he's watching her.
She knows it's not real. She knows it's just a fantasy. But who wouldn't fantasize about a guy like that? Marinette wants him to look at her the way she just looked at him: greedy and wild, daring to dream about what could be if, if, if. If Marinette were brave. If she'd ever been able to shake the last vestiges of what Chloé did to her confidence in middle school. If she were pretty and interesting and exciting, like Alya.
Marinette snorts at herself. Now she's getting maudlin.
She shakes her head again to make her hair ripple down her back and then she opens her eyes, glancing to her left, where the guys were standing. They're still there, but –
He's looking at her.
His friend is leaning in to talk to him, his hands moving fast and enthusiastic, but the blond guy is looking at her.
His eyes are amused, and thoughtful and maybe, if Marinette is reading him right, they might even be called appreciative. Suddenly Marinette is very aware that all she's wearing is tight shorts and a shirt tied up under her boobs, and she's covered in cooling sweat and probably looking very unattractive right now.
But he's still looking at her.
He brings his beer bottle to his mouth, a faint little smile playing at the corners, and he tilts it up to take a drink. At the same time, he winks at her, a gleam shining in the depths of his eyes, one meant just for her. Marinette feels that through her entire body, echoing, like a detonation without an explosion, just the shock wave singing scorching searing out to her extremities and back in –
Why is she reacting like this? She's never felt like this. With anyone.
Wait a minute.
Marinette's eyes narrow grimly.
She has a sneaking suspicion of what the problem is, and if she's right, someone is going to die.
[Marinette]
aslya
Alya
Where are you
[Alya]
Kitchen u dumb
Where r u
[Marinette]
Balcony
I think there's a si ren out here?????
Like
Using his peers??
Powder
Powers
????!!!
[Alya]
Ur so drunk
omw
Get out if ur scared
[Marinette]
Pissed not scared
It's ducked up
They not supposed to do that in public
And it's non consensual
All sirens can make people want them with a sweet, seductive passion that feels good, like a drug, but some sirens are stronger than others. This guy must be really, really strong. And good, too, because Marinette didn't even suspect that he could be a siren until he played his hand too soon with that wink.
But there's safety in numbers, because the siren has to divide his focus between people. She just needs to hold out until Alya gets here. Then they can go complain to whoever's throwing the party and get the siren and his friend kicked out.
Marinette doesn't feel ready to look at the jerk again, no matter how much she wants to glare at him and make it absolutely clear what she thinks of what he's doing, so she scowls down at her phone and leans on the railing until Alya's familiar, sweaty body appears at Marinette's left elbow and leans heavily against her side.
"You okay?" Alya says in her ear. She probably means it to be a whisper, but Alya on her wine has no volume control.
Still. Marinette appreciates it.
Marinette jerks her chin toward the siren. "That way. Blond, t-shirt, jeans, beer bottle, douchey attitude."
With a total and complete lack of subtlety, Alya turns with her entire torso to stare at the guys Marinette pointed out.
There's a silence, a breath, a beat that leaves Marinette confused – she thought Alya would already be yelling, to be perfectly honest – and then Alya says, very carefully, "The blond guy?"
"Yeah," Marinette says, frowning. She leans forward to peer around Alya's body. Maybe he left while she was ignoring him and messing with her phone? But no, he's still there, only now he and his friend are both watching her and Alya.
"Babe," Alya says, laughing. She twists back around to face Marinette, her eyes bright and excited, and full of the kind of teasing that Marinette has learned to be very, very cautious of.
"What?" Marinette asks warily. She can't help the way that her eyes flick toward the siren. He must still be trying it. Gross.
Alya leans in and whispers again, in her own inimitable way. "Marinette, he's not a siren. You have the hots for him."
Marinette jerks back, glaring at Alya, betrayal filling her heart. "What?! No, you're wrong – you have to be wrong. That's completely ridiculous. Don't you feel it?"
"No," Alya says, grinning. "For that guy? No, I don't feel anything. I'm way more interested in his friend. In fact, I'm about three seconds from going over there to give him my number, so you should decide now if you're going to come with me." She digs her elbow into Marinette's side, heedless of her strength and pointy edges, making Marinette fold over at the ribs. "Blondie's cute. You should tap that. I think he's into you, too, by the way. He keeps trying to look past me."
Marinette groans and lets herself fold forward over the railing. "This is so embarrassing," she groans, closing her eyes.
"Come on," Alya says ruthlessly, hooking her elbow into Marinette's and dragging her into motion. "I'm getting you a boyfriend, and that's going to be Christmas and birthday presents for the next five years. Actually," she corrects herself. "I'm getting us both boyfriends."
Marinette whimpers as they draw closer and closer to the guys; the one with the weed puts out the joint and resettles his cap on his head, but the blond just watches Marinette the whole time, his smile growing so slowly that it's only between blinks that Marinette can tell it's happening at all.
Maybe Alya's right, and all she has to do is ask, but Marinette knows something else:
Alya is never, ever, ever going to let her live this down.