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“Kitty, I told you to drop it.”
Mister Bug’s voice is so deliriously hot. It’s funny, this is probably the last thought she’ll have for a while if the Akumatization goes through, but she can’t help it. He’s so attractive. It’s totally worth losing consciousness with that thought as her last one.
If he had fangs, they’d be glinting; unfortunately for her, there’s only that straight, human edge to his snarl when his lips peel back— it’s cute and attractive, just as all things about him are, but it’s not feral. He’d look so good with long teeth, oh yes, she should let them switch Miraculouses one day just to see it. She’s not scared of his flat teeth in the way she should be. Even as he steps closer, boots close enough to crush her toes as she stares up and upper to look him fully in the eye, all she gives him is a silly little smile but not enough to show her own teeth.
When she doesn’t answer, he pushes her. Back, backer, all the way up against the brick wall where her feet hit a shingle debris that her staff had caught on before tumbling down into the alleyway. She’s roughed up from the fall, heaving for breath from the fight and the impact of landing wrong and from the emotional toll it takes to keep the Akuma butterfly in her mouth and not consume it, toying with it, playing with it like prey— but he never lets her do anything she wants, just as always, always forcing her to do the right thing.
What a bore.
No matter how she wishes to keep the little Akuma until she’s eaten it through, she finds herself struggling all the more when a gloved hand finds her jaw and starts to squeeze, attempting to coerce her to part her lips for him like he’s forcing a pet to open their mouth. His grip is just strong enough to make her sound off something short to indicate pain, not quite an oh, not quite an ah, either, but something in between.
Just enough for his eyes to narrow.
Just enough for her to growl back.
Just enough for him to slot a thigh between her legs, chiding her on being such a misbehaved girl. His voice is like syrup against her ears. “Sweetheart, I think you should drop it,” he murmurs. “Drop it and I’ll give you something else to put in your mouth.”
Make me, she wants to bark out. Show me why.
Show me why I should be opening up my mouth when you look at me that way.
Show me why I feel adrenaline when you treat me like a joke everytime you laugh.
Show me why I want to keep trying to get you angry with me until you punish me.
Instead, the pressure at her jaw is too great for her to even try speaking. Even while suited up, protected against even the heaviest of pressure, her jaw aches from bare skin touching hexleather. His fingertips are at the sides of her neck, digging into her pulse— he can feel it, no doubt, because he has his tactile senses when in the suit unlike her— and it roars in her ears as she starts to acquiesce. Her blood is pounding. Her breath is shortening. She has two different heartbeats, and the one between her legs continues to get louder and louder as he rubs his thigh against her suit, daring her to try getting away. Each drag against her clit makes her thighs flex and toes curl, something dark starting to form between her legs that makes her want to moan. Ripping herself away from his grip, fingers barely touching when wrapping around his wrist, she looks to his unoccupied hand. The one squeaking against the brick as he presses his palm further in, trying to block her from taking off in the direction of the road.
The world is quiet.
In fact, the world is dull, damp, and quiet in the alleyway as she continues to snarl at him, choking on her own breath as the Akuma flutters harder. She hasn’t killed it. She’s barely damaged it. No doubt the butterfly is confused out of its mind, not being able to Akumatize her and not knowing what to do next.
“Drop it,” he says again. Commanding. Ordering. There’s no chance to disobey it, and even as she stands there, refusing to submit, her jaw unclenches on instinct. Her eyelashes flutter, not wanting to look into that molten gaze of his and lose— everyone in Paris knows that her only weakness is the man standing in front of her, including Hawkmoth, the very person here to try to infect her Miraculous after a few angry shouts between them both an hour before. And Mister Bug is seething. Blind rage, close to something that Lady Noire is familiar with and internalizes and loves, and sees herself at home with it.
That anger will do him so good.
He’s brilliant when he’s angry. God, he’s so angry.
He crackles with energy, something dark and heavy, at odds with her own when she’s feeling the same emotion. A Lady Noire seething with rage is bright. White light ricochets off of every surface when she’s on the brink of maiming, on the brink of turning herself into a monster. It’s not this. It’s not this. It’s not a heavy-coated black film, smothering everything around him. How bizarre. Even if he’s wielding the Ladybug miraculous, his anger coats everything like poisoned sludge. He must be livid. He must be gone.
She doesn’t blame him.
The chances of her being Akumatized are slim, and certainly Hawkmoth had no idea she was going to catch him off guard by trying to consume the Akuma before it consumed her, but Mister Bug doesn’t seem to like this challenge. He doesn’t like that she saved him, or took the shot for him instead of letting him get swallowed alive by whatever magical ridiculousness Hawkmoth was attempting to create.
This could’ve akumatized you, she wants to mumble out. This could’ve killed you. Killed Paris. Even though I’m angry at you, I still love you.
She doesn’t have the heart to say anything, though, much too distracted with that attractive line on Mister Bug’s neck that dips underneath the collar of his suit. He’s so pretty. He’s so pretty. Those curls of gold against his brown skin are absolutely dazzling, infectiously handsome that she can’t stop looking at him. Every pore, every eyelash, every single freckle and dot on his near-perfect skin.
“How come you’re misbehaving?” he asks. “Why aren’t you doing what I ask you to?”
Could it be that maybe it was the fight that they’d had minutes ago? Where she’d cried, opened up about her frustrations with him and how he doesn’t see her as an equal? She deserves to do things her way. Could it also be that she’s always hated the way he’s treated her like a child— the equivalent of a best friend’s little sister— something to protect and keep safe, ever since they’d met? Could it be that it’s because no one in Paris takes her seriously unless she’s got a bo staff in her hand and starts snarling?
Could it be that no one— no one— takes her seriously unless she’s… unless…
Unless she’s almost Akumatized?
Including him? God, including him. Especially him. Ever since he came back from that trip with Bunnyx, his eyes glaze over whenever he sees her. She scents fear coming off of him in waves whenever she sets her jaw and snaps at him; whatever it was that he saw in that other universe, the universe that Bunnyx had begged for him to solve, it always resorts in him looking at her with a flushed, reddened face and a shortness of breath when she growls at him. Whatever it was that scared him must’ve had something to do with her.
After all, Bunnyx had told her extremely seriously to not follow them, or it could mean an end of a timeline.
And she’s seen it. She’s seen the way he tenses up, goes quiet and breathes heavy whenever her hexsteel claws dance across his skin and she attempts to coerce him to do what she wants when she’s angry. Instead of snapping at him, she’s found herself more often simply just purring. Lowering her tone of voice.
Having him wrapped around her fingers.
Until he blinks and he realizes what she’s doing, pushing he away and barking at her to leave him alone. That he doesn’t like her, not like that, and she needs to respect that.
Sure.
But she can’t say any of this to him. There’s no chance. Any attempt to open her mouth will have the Akuma fluttering away— there’s no choice but to either attempt to swallow it whole and consume it first, or let him purify it, but he’s not in a good mental space for it.
Shortness of breath.
Heavy swallowing.
Looking at her like she’s about to transform into something more?
She gasps out for breath when he clamps a hand on her hip and drags her against his thigh to sit straighter. Her lips part, a shout of his name on the tip edge of her tongue but not quite, but that’s enough. That’s enough. That’s where he looks back at her, idea glinting in his molten eyes, signaling that he’s about to push her to the limit. A hard chest presses up against hers, knocking her back into the brick wall, and he’s moving— grinding her harder and harder against the absolute cement block that is the muscle on his leg, tucking his nose into her neck. There’s a nip right where skin becomes suit— fuck— and with another whine, her hands make a home on his long shoulders, and her vision is starting to slant.
Oh, fuck.
She’s going to end up orgasming on his leg.
She will.
She has to.
How can she not?
This is the only opportunity she’ll probably ever have, and while it’s not the most conventional way to get his hands all over her, she’ll take what she can get.
He hisses when she moves with him, hands on his shoulders tightening for a better grip, and with a smile against her skin, he drawls out: “That’s it. Good girl.”
All she can do is whine.
Fuck you, she wants to say. You’re using my attraction to you against me.
And he knows.
A pathetic mewl comes out of her closed lips, followed by another nip of her skin. Light spins in her eyes, even as her lashes flutter closed, wondering when the next time she’ll ever have to experience this case of deliriousness. He works her like he knows how to, even though they’ve never even done this before— a kiss to the corner of her mouth has her full on whining, opening her mouth to complain about how much she needs and wants him. The butterfly manages to move; to flutter and to tickle her tongue, attempting its best to leave.
She’s lost in a case of pleasure.
He makes her grind. Slow, pleasurable, deliciousness that makes her head spin.
“You’re going to listen to me, like you always do,” he snarls.
Fat chance of that happening, though if he’s willing to convince her like this… well. Maybe she’ll give in, after all. Nothing else matters to her except the roll of her hips against his thigh, catching her clit in a grind that is mind numbing and makes her forget why she’s so upset at him in the first place.
“That’s it. That’s my girl. Get yourself off on my thigh.”
This is where she’d bite him, she’s sure of it, angrily snap that she’s not his— she’s never been his, that’s the whole problem, that’s why they got themselves into this heated argument to begin with where he treats her like she’s untouchable and unloveable and un lookable that there’s no way that she could ever be his.
Except that’s not how he looks at her now. That’s not how he keeps looking at her, his lips raw and red and kissable and smeared with stains of her own lipstick right at the jaw and chin. Green blazing as he stares and stares and stares, burning her with molten emeralds and diamonds that make up his eyes.
A gasp at the sight is enough to let the butterfly escape— with a whine, trying to reach up and grab it to put it back and keep it safe, Mister Bug manages to snatch her wrists in a single fist and pin them against the brick.
The Akuma flies away, startled and disoriented, trying to get away from her. All she can do is watch is drift up and out of the alley while she’s brought to the brink of orgasm, all because she dared to raise her voice at him.
“Good job listening. Good girl,” he murmurs, and she’s free to make a noise of delirium and arousal as heat sinks into her gut like a stone and praise leaks down her spine and curls her tail in pleasure.
Their lips are almost touching. So close. So close. Even when her lashes flutter and his breath feathers her bangs, she doesn’t reach over to kiss him. She doesn’t make the move. Her luxury— her treat— is this, being forced to grind on his leg like a dog, forced to the edge like a whore.
“Please,” she whispers.
“I was so stupid to keep away from you,” he mumbles, licking her jaw. Her hexleather feels like it’s on fire, claustrophobic and completely unnecessary. Even though he isn’t touching her, he is, even if it’s phantom touches over her hexagonal grooves. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I could pretend that I didn’t want this.”
“What?” she punches out. “What are you talking about?”
He kisses her before even answering. The kiss is wet, sloppy, and of all things should be disgusting but she can’t focus on it. It’s a melt. His size is overpowering her, cornering her into the brick wall like he’s hiding her away from the rest of the world, even if she’s the very reason why she keeps the world safe. Here, enclaved into his kiss, there’s so much strength and passion in the way he threads his tongue against hers, she doesn’t understand at all what thought she’d been making.
Nothing else exists except this kiss that makes her feel alive.
Dizzy, but alive.
“I was so scared,” he hisses out, grip on her hip tight enough to break bone when she desperately tries to climb him and suck a bruise onto his jaw, “that you’d turn into… into her—”
“Who?” she punches out.
“Her,” he whispers. She doesn’t understand. She can’t. “An Akuma that cries and breaks buildings when she cries and floods the world because she loves too much and can’t contain it and I didn’t realize that me… ignoring you was causing the problem to begin with. I— fuck.”
A tilt of the head so the two of them can kiss again, her teeth nip his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, but not quite. He’s moaning into the kiss, all heat and anger evaporating off his skin the more she wiggles against his thighs and refuses— absolutely refuses— to break free from that ridiculously tight hold he has on her wrists and arms. Mister Bug is cold and calculative on a good day just like her, but this is nothing coordinated. They rut like teenagers. It’s a wet dream, even in her early twenties, to be pressed into the wall and fucked through the suit.
It means everything to her to be forced to come on his thigh, and he’s on the way to convince her.
“You’re mine,” he mumbles, deranged like a mantra when she gasps out a whine so loud it scares birds up above that have perched on the roof of the brick building they’re using as their personal space. “Nothing’s gonna rip that away from me, no Akuma, no Hawkmoth—”
“Buggaboy,” she chokes out, “I’m— I’m gonna—”
“—Nothing’s going to stop me from loving you,” he emphasizes with a growl. “I loved you for years and so did you and I’m sorry for taking so long.”
She comes with a shocking whine, melting into him with a gasp.