Disclaimer: I own nothing.


deuxième.

The second time she drops by in her new motorcycle, Adrien is unable to wipe the smile from his face.

As humble as he tends to behave in his civilian form, he's already bragged in front of all of his friends. Nino had very sternly told him to relax when enough was enough, to take deep breaths and to stop being such an annoying shit, but Adrien knows this and it's just another reason to drown the others in endless ramblings about his cool girlfriend.

The Gorilla had been assigned to drive him to his photoshoot, which is in less than ten minutes. To his great pleasure, she had arrived just in time to rescue him and there had been no regrets when he'd waved at his bodyguard from the outside of the tinted glass—snorting as the fairly taciturn man rolled his window down to gape at him.

In short, he'd liked it when Marinette had picked him up and taken him on a ride. Plus, he can return the favor later.

[And chuckle when she blushes and tells him to get his mind out of the gutter.]

His hands are locked at her stomach, eyes tracing the narrow slope of her shoulders as she focuses on the road ahead. There's something intimate about being so close to her. Not sexually-charged, per se, but he can't get over how her pigtails bounce in the wind or the honeyed laughter that bubbles out of her as he clicks his tongue and says to watch the speed limit. For a super-héros du malheur, he feels like the luckiest guy in Paris.

"Let's get lunch later." She has to raise her voice to be heard. He hums in approval, "Sounds good. I'll text you when I'm off."

There's no way to peck her cheek without awkwardly bumping their helmets together. He also refuses to do anything that might jeopardize their safety, so he waits until they have come to a full stop before lifting himself off of the motorcycle and removing his headgear. Her eyes are so bright. "Thank you," Adrien mutters, leaning down to steal a few kisses from those inviting lips. Tempted to slip his hand between her thighs and mention tonight—

Of course, they are interrupted.

"Adrien! Your hair is a mess!" Nathalie isn't wrong. The summer breeze receives no blame; it's the dastardly helmet that has turned his carefully styled, blonde locks into a skirmish of strands, sticking out in wild directions. Oops.

Marinette quickly cranks the throttle and drives away before anything more can be said, leaving the model to fend for himself. He's still beaming.