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These few, fleeting moments, are all she wants and all she needs when it comes to him, because they’re just enough time and just frequent enough that she knows what he’ll sound like when she licks a hot stripe against the column of his throat. Adrien unravels underneath her, hands fisted at her hips, desperate to keep still, a pitched whine at the back of his throat makes him all the more delectable. He’s so bitable, and delicious, too, because the taste of his sweat against her tastebuds cause her ears to twitch at the top of her head— mmf, who can stop her from licking him again until he captures her mouth in a kiss? She can taste a bitter thrill, chased by an edge of infatuation that doesn’t seem to end… oh, oh, how she wants to lick him all over.
But there’s no time.
There’s no time, there’s no time, oh god how she wishes there was time…
This dressing room is smack in the middle of a moving and bustling backstage— the door is locked, thankfully, so no one comes in to witness Adrien getting ravaged and pulled apart by a hero of Paris that enjoys using him like a cat toy— but even then they can’t be so carefree. There’s too much movement in this main hallway, and noise never lets her relax. Alas, he’s busy, though this is technically his break before having to go back to the modeling shoot; if Lady Noire’s luck will have it, his assistant won’t be back anytime soon with that breakfast order Adrien had asked from her.
Lady Noire is not usually known for her luck, though.
“Kitty,” he mumbles out.
“Not yet, Sunshine,” she teases, pulling away from yet another heated kiss that leaves them both breathless. She’s never considered herself an artist, not in any traditional sense, but whenever Adrien flushes red she feels like a skilled painter. “I’m not leaving until I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”
His smile is so toothy. “You’re paying me?”
“I couldn’t afford you. It’s a good thing I get to kiss you for free.”
“I want you to stay longer.”
“I can’t,” she tells him, with a whine and with a move of her hips that has him gasping something out that’s so textured and so messy that she’s not sure it was actually supposed to be a word. It’s been ripped out of him the same way a noise of a velcro would make unsticking from itself, and while it’s proverbial word soup, she knows it’s good proverbial word soup. “Your assistant is going to be here, soon.”
Right.
So.
About that.
Adrien had sent out his assistant out a while ago on a mission to get him some breakfast, because it’s early in the morning, because Adrien likes egg benedicts now that he’s come back from a long staycation in New York and has realized that the American staple in coffee houses in the city are served with a nice, warm, egg inside of a biscuit. They only sell those in specific stores here in France, topped with muffin bread and chives, and had left his cute assistant scrambling for it on her equally adorable kitten heels to go get for him. Perfect for Lady Noire to sneak through the narrow alleyways and catch Adrien in his dressing room, currently attempting to read for one of his finals at university. It’s fine. His textbook can handle the wilting defeat of him being more interested in thinking with his cock than his head, at the moment, and she really needs to hurry up so his assistant doesn’t open the door on them both.
Although…
He’s nothing but liquid in her hands when she slips her tongue back into his mouth, slants her head against his, and licks and licks and licks. It’s almost disgusting the amount of spit she uses, but he loves it, and loves her, so Lady Noire doesn’t feel all that grossed out when she presses her chest into his, lets out a little gasp into his mouth, and lets saliva bridge when she pulls away to let him breathe.
Oh, he looks so fucked.
“Kitty—”
“You’re such a favorite of mine, you know that?” she purrs, eyes lidded and biting her own lip. That hand of his, huge and lethal, traces her spine that’s curved into an attractive shape; a brief look to the mirror on their left, shows how she’s practically mounted on him, squishing him into his dressing chair like he’s trying to shy away.
“Oh, yeah?” he croaks.
“Oh, yeah,” she repeats with a giggle, licking a fang. He tracks it with his eyes, wide green and unsettled lips, puffing out steam from a heated breath as he chokes back a moan. Relentless in the way she grinds herself in his lap, all she does is laugh when he hisses. “God, I love you.”
The admission somehow manages to make him even harder under her hexleather. Kevlar is nothing compared to the hexagonal textile that makes up her supersuit, and yet that dick of his feels hard enough to break through it.
“I— I love you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he punches out. “God, yeah, I really do.”
“You’re making me blush,” she muses. A flick of her tail grabs his attention back to the mirror, and wow, don’t the two of them look like a pair? Though she’s half his height and half his weight, and her hands are tiny and small on those shoulders of his, the man is folded into himself, letting her take up so much space. It’s so addicting to have someone as strong and as cute as him under her claws. “Paris’s little sweetheart sunshine loves me?”
“Don’t tease.”
“Awh, but where’s the fun in that? I like making you into an absolute mess.”
“Why do you always pick between shoots to do this?” he whines.
“Because it keeps you on your toes,” she giggles. He mourns her loss when she pulls away, though quickly quiets when he finds her sliding down onto the floor and nuzzling into his jeans. Ah. Burberry. These pants alone cost more than her monthly rent on her apartment. She’s already fucked his makeup with the way she’s licked the highlighter off of his cheeks and smeared her lipstick on his jaw, why not make it even worse?
These jeans would look better with a few seams missing, anyway.
“Is that the only reason?”
“Maybe I like annoying Gabriel, too, by ravaging you before your shoots,” she mumbles. “I always like my designs on you more than his, anyway.”
“Insatiable Kitty,” he laughs.
“Multitasking is my specialty.”
Enough talking.
With his fly open, it’s little to no effort to pull down his underwear to get what she wants. Though he’s breathing hard enough to hurt and she’s anxious to get him into her mouth, she needs to be careful with her claws; hexsteel is dangerous and deadly, especially on her fingers. He mumbles something incoherent about how her fingers are cool to the touch as she gently wraps the tips of her fingers around his cock, avoiding using her claws, looking up at him between her lashes.
She loves this angle, where Adrien is biting at a cuticle and looking at her with tears pricking the corner of his eyes while she hasn’t even done anything. Yet. A quick look down shows her that there’s a fat bead of precome, salty like she loves it, leaking like she needs it.
She could keep him here for hours. Pump him smooth like she does now, cup her other hand at his balls and put enough pressure on them that he’s starting to make noises that will keep her company later; he moans, and his hips twitch up to meet her hands on him, and wow. Wow. Wow, doesn’t she feel good, watching him fold like a deck of cards, just because she’s got her hands on him?
“You’re teasing again,” he chokes out.
Yeah, a little bit. Just a little bit, but isn’t she allowed to? After all, she’d worked hard to get him into this position, hadn’t she? Doesn’t good girls deserve good rewards?
She touches that bead of precome with the pad of her finger, squishing it shiny on her suit. Lifting up her finger to her mouth and pillowing her lips, she makes a noise of approval when she sucks on her claw.
“You taste so good.”
“Don’t lie.”
Oh? Oh? “You’ve tried it before?”
“I wanted to know if it really was all that good,” he mumbles, blush burning darker on his already brown and amber skin when she smirks. “It’s salty.”
She accompanies her laugh with a wide lick of her upper lip. “But I love the taste of you.”
All he does is curse out loud when she wraps her lips around him, swirls her tongue, and with one giant breath sinks him all the way down to the back of her throat.
“Kitty—”
Kitty, indeed! She’s purring, and there’s no doubt in her mind that there are hearts in her eyes when she looks back up to make eye-contact— he’s ruined, a mess, throwing out obscenities that ring in her hexleather ears when she’ll repeat them to herself later at night dreaming about having him inside of her. By now, doing this so often, she knows the veins on his cock and traces them without any worry; she’s memorized this, mapped it out, kept it in her brain for safe keeping. Her soft palette surely has warped to accommodate his cock in a better way, resting his length on her tongue in a way that make both of them excited and happy.
“Good girl,” he mumbles out, and praise leaks down her spine.
Couldn’t wait to get to a point where she can have this inside of her instead. She’s slippery and wet under her hexleather, and will be when she detransforms and has to go on her way with stockings higher than god and some beat-up panties she managed to put on before rushing out the door to go to work. When her coworkers ask her what that blush on her face is about, she always just talks about how she’s thinking about food— she’s insatiable for a reason, always needing something in her mouth like food to stop the irresistible craving to have Adrien in her mouth instead— but she’ll be squirming in her own slick until she’s able to go home and finger herself to completion over the thought of him, him, him.
His cologne has made a home in her nose by now. God.
Sometimes they have sex, but it’s not often. With her suit, she can’t actually take it off and give him access, and while she theoretically can rip open her own suit at the crotch area to do any frisky business, it’s always awkward trying to leave the area with that part exposed. It’s easier if she takes him in her mouth when they’re in public, drains his balls until he’s stupid and syrup between her fingers, and then has her way with him when they’re at his apartment where she can put something over his eyes. Very rarely do they have the opportunity to make his tie into a makeshift sleep mask or a face cover so she can do it with him outside of his bedroom, but that’s alright. She doesn’t mind.
It’s a small price to pay to keep her identity a secret yet still date him. Besides, those mornings where she wakes up and he’s tracing her spine bones and murmuring into her hair about how much he loves her, completely blind in the dark obscurity that they make his room into, is one of world’s only earthly delights.
So she can wait.
She can dawdle.
She can count the hours and seconds by until she has him where she needs him.
He says nothing when she uses her vacant hand to lightly rest against his kneecap. He says nothing when she opens her fist and presses her claws into his denim. He says nothing when she slices his jeans open clean like ribbons, showing toned thighs and frayed fabric.
That’s better. A-la-Lady-Noire style is so much better than what he had before.
“I’m close,” he pants, when her bobbing head stops just so she can trace the scar line that she adores. She makes sure not to touch him with her fangs other than the odd little tiny scrape here and there; just to get his thigh to twitch and him to breathe wrong and his blood to spike, before softening up her mouth again and letting him bruise her throat. When she licks his slit again, his eyes roll, and wow, isn’t he just so gorgeous?
She helps him through his orgasm, gasping out a soft little whine herself and a “Please come?” that absolutely has Adrien’s head caught in a blender.
With her tongue out and letting him strip his own cock, he uses her open mouth like a deposit, ropes of come bridging between his dick and her lips. He’s sweating, overheated, completely unaware that she makes another correction to his jeans on his other pant leg, ripping it open at the very bottom cuff when she fists it.
“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous when you— hnnm— coming in your mouth,” he slurs out.
When he slumps, she swallows; when he breathes, she moans and licks her lips, hungry for more. He’s breathless, fingers at his own collar, trying to air himself out, those two signature broaches on his polo shining and glittering black.
She kisses his head one last time, tucking him back into his jeans when he shivers. “What did you ask for, anyway?”
“Huh?”
“From the coffee shop?”
“Wh… what?”
“Your assistant,” she asks, blinking impassively. “Hello?”
“Just came in your mouth,” he wheezes. “Give me a second.”
“Yeah, but I’m curious— your assistant— she’s taking a long time. What did you ask for? The whole store?”
“Oh. Oh, uh… uhm…”
She giggles. “Sunshine, hurry up!”
“Caramel Americana, I think?” he gasps out.
Huh. At least she asked, she had completely forgot that he wasn’t getting his usual. “Oh, no way?”
“Trying… trying something new.”
“Well, I hope she gets it for you and it tastes nice.” With an elegant raise to her feet, she gives him a kiss. Slow, languid, completely different than how she’d had him in her mouth mere seconds ago. “Hope you don’t mind that I’ve got to dip, handsome, someone’s bound to walk in on us soon if I don’t leave. I’ll see you soon? Hopefully in your bedroom so I can actually get you to put your pretty adonis hips into use?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Enjoy the rest of your morning, pretty boy,” she murmurs. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She leaves him disintegrating into his seat.
Marinette makes it back to the dressing room with all the food he’s asked of her with a staggering breath and almost-ruined heels.
“Sorry I’m late!” she calls out, plopping the coffee on the table in front of him and shucking off her jacket with a vengeance. Oh, cardigans. The worst things in the world. She can hardly breathe in these things, yuck! Even though they make her look professional— pencil skirt, cardigan, sophisticated shoes that she paid half of her monthly check on— they’re absolutely horrible to go do all of her assistant work. There’s no shoulder movement. It’s confining.
“Hey, is everything okay?” Adrien asks, looking up from his textbook. He says nothing when she allbut tosses the offending jacket onto her own chair, choosing instead to look into the paper bag she’s brought. Hopefully the yolk from the sandwich hasn’t burst open and made a mess. “You look… haggard. Did you run here?”
Rude.
“No, no. Well, yes. Actually. The line was ginormous and I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” she lobbies, flattening her bangs and grimacing when they stick up again from all the sweat accumulating from her sprint. At least the mirror is kind to her, never unflattering, just showing her rings twinkling in her reflection as she messes with her hair. “Maybe I’ll try ordering online before actually going to pick it up, or something? That wasn’t efficient at all.”
“I’m sorry, if I had known—”
“No, it’s alright,” she tries, “don’t worry. That was entirely my fault.”
His lips curl into a beautiful smile when she looks back at him. “Stop taking the blame for everything, Marinette.”
Oh, the way he says her name… lord. Lord. She has to stop herself from blinking at him and going quiet, keeping that noise in her head for years and years to come. Marinette. Marinette. Marinette. Her name is so lovely, coming out of his mouth.
“Monsieur, you weren’t the one who had the mission to get you your coffee,” she says with a giggle, sitting back down. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I learned my lesson for next time. Oh, speaking of, I got you the drink you wanted— uhm, I got foam on the top, because I know you like whip cream, and stuff— I also got extra caramel drizzle. Is that okay? Tell me if it’s good. If we like the combo, I can write it down in the planner and get it for you all the time.”
He looks surprised. “You got me caramel?”
“Yeah, extra, too. Is that okay?”
“Caramel?” he repeats.
“Caramel americana,” she tells him, opening up her planner to write down the drink in the section she’s tabbed with a sticky note to keep track of his preferences. “That’s what you asked for, wasn’t it?”
That smile of his is a little… too much. “Not from you.”
She barely hears him over her scribbling with her pink pen. “Pardon?”
“I didn’t ask for this drink from you,” he says, simply, quietly, succinctly. His eyes glitter when he looks back at her, smile wide and breathless. “I asked for my mocha americana from you.”
What?
Wait.
What?
She crinkles her brows, only to widen her eyes when he steps closer, far too close into her personal space. “I— oh. Did— did I— oh, I must’ve misheard you—”
“Kitty heard caramel.”
Well.
Shit.
She winces. “Ah.”
With a soft and warm laugh, the cup is put back down onto the table. Kneeling down in front of her so that they’re eye level, she pouts when he pulls the agenda out of her hands. “Sorry. Please don’t freak out.”
He doesn’t look upset at any of this, which is a great sign. At least her heart-rate doesn’t have to spike up to infinity at the thought of him being disgusted at his assistant being the one who sobs into his chest whenever he comes inside of her— instead, all she’s allowed to do, is squirm when he rests his cheek on her knee, looking at her with stars in his eyes.
She blurts out: “Are you mad?”
He’s quick to reply: “Are you self conscious?”
“No.”
“But you’re asking.”
“I feel like it’s fair.”
“A little bit.”
“You don’t look upset.”
“Why would I be? Your leg is shaking. Why?”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?”
“Come on. Pick anything about this scenario and just think about it.”
“I am thinking about it. But all I can think about is how much I love you,” he replies, swift and dead.
She blinks slowly. “Oh. Oh. Well, that makes it a little easier, doesn’t it?”
“Just a little bit,” he says, smile blossoming on his face. “You actually do blush when I say that, don’t you? That’s adorable, I can’t believe that. I love this.”
Well. Well. Since they’re here… will he blame her if she widens her legs just a smidge and puts her hands on the hem of her skirt? After all, he’s gotten his relief…
He looks down and makes the connection.
His fingers find the waistband of her stockings and the strings of her panties immediately after.