Rating: hard T
10: Neck Kiss
The thought that maybe he shouldn't be doing this is a very distant one, one he can barely hear over the rush of blood in his ears and the slick noises of their mouths meeting and parting in heated rhythm.
He hadn't intended to come back.
Last time had been an accident. A little harmless flirting turned not so harmless after all, smoldering looks and smothered frustration catching light like a brushfire with a single comment. Still in costume, he'd cornered her behind her home and waited for her to tell him to stop.
She hadn't.
This time it was seeing Marinette in class the day after their rendezvous, witnessing her touching the mark, his mark, over her clothing where he knew it still lingered, the cant of her lips secret and sly and pleased.
He hadn't intended to come back.
He hadn't intended to let that voyeuristic little moment burrow its way into his brain all day, eating up every other thought until he couldn't function for thinking about her, her touch, her kiss, the ravished look that had been in her eyes when he'd finally stopped.
He hadn't intended to come back, but here he was in costume yet again, trapping her in an alley behind their school, letting her mottle his skin with her wonderful, wonderful mouth.
Photoshoot.
She was pressing her lips to his neck, right below the corner of his jaw, and his skin raised in gooseflesh from head to toe. He groaned low in his throat and tipped his head back, arching, involuntarily begging more more more more oh god please.
He had a photoshoot.
He had a photoshoot in two hours, and he needed to get her away from his neck before she did something that would get him cross-examined by every authority figure in his life.
In his momentary distraction, she moved away from nibbling at his adam's apple to sink her teeth into the firmer flesh below his ear. It wasn't soft or gentle or sweet, just pure, raw heat backed by a spark of pain.
That spark was what he needed to finally push her back against the wall, even as it lit up his every nerve ending like a runway in response.
She fought him for a moment, protesting the interruption, but eventually got the message and leaned back.
He let go of her as soon as he was sure she wasn't going to slip under his guard again, and set his hands on either side of her head against the wall, propping himself up and sucking air back into his straining lungs.
Denied the pleasure of making him lose his mind with her touch, Marinette turned to words instead.
"So you can dish it out but you can't take it, hero?" she taunted, sparkling cerulean eyes darkened into sapphire. She sounded downright debauched.
He was distantly aware that his claws had punched straight through the cement behind her head at the title.
Civilian, he reminded himself. Delicate civilian. He couldn't do what he desperately wanted to do in that moment because she was a civilian, and she'd break if he touched her too roughly.
"Ma-ma-mar-ahhhh-marks," he wheezed, fumbling the words and trembling head to toe from the effort of holding back. He swallowed heavily, lungs on fire. "Se-cret… secret iden—"
She dragged her nails over his back, just hard enough that he could just feel them through the leather, and he gasped, tingling shock seizing his muscles up tight.
Never in his life had he hated an inanimate object quite as much as he hated his suit in that moment.
"—iden-tity, princess. I have one, you doh-h—... you don't."
"Hmm," was all she said, lips curving into something dark, something predatory, something he never once dreamed he'd see on sweet, innocent Marinette's face.
She tucked those those lips into the 'v' of his collar, touching him with a hint of teeth, a hint of threat, against his pulse, and hooked two fingers around his bell to get at more of his neck.
The faint, slow clicking of his zipper (how could she even do that? It was supposed to be fused to his skin) could be exactly timed to the rate of deterioration of Chat's sanity.
"Guess I just can't leave a mark, then."