desired | chat noir au

chapter 1: wanted.

The thing about Chat Noir is that he only ever says what he wants to, or what he feels like he has to.

He never lies, so it's always easy to know what's on his mind. He's simple, but more importantly, uncomplicated. But that hardly makes him a fool.

The boy knows how to command language with the precision of a staff, and this, coupled with his taciturnity and mischief, makes it next to impossible to discern what goes on in his head.

It's his actions that paint a clearer picture of his inner workings.

Because Chat Noir never does anything that he categorically doesn't want to do. However, he is often driven by his unrequited love for his superhero partner, Ladybug.

Ah yes, the polka-dotted masked bluenette that Chat Noir will never be able to fully get over, but will seemingly never love him back. Now was your chance to have Chat Noir all to yourself. Even if it wasn't for long, time wasn't nearly of the essence when it came to Chat Noir's sufficiency in the bedroom.

You didn't have a single question about whether or not he wanted you. You knew he did. But only in one way: his way.

He's shoved you up against a wall more times than you can count, pressing into you so you can feel his want on every inch of him. It's exhilarating, and for months it's been enough. But recently you've felt a small pinprick of hope in the back of your mind—just enough to be sharp and annoying—that he could possibly want to be with you.

This idea is ridiculous of course.

If he wanted you, he wouldn't be checking for text messages from Ladybug right after you both finished up. Or closing his eyes extra hard, imagining it was his crime-fighting partner underneath him, rather than you.

You would be giving secret smiles instead of bedroom eyes.  Whispering about your dreams, aspirations, and future plans, rather than instructions to fuck me harder or touch yourself .
But he doesn't want you like that. He wants you desperately trying to keep quiet underneath him, sweat beading off his forehead as he chases reality of being unloved and unwanted.

You let out a needy gasp as he lifts your leg and puts it over his shoulder. "Fuck," he whispers, an ungloved hand coming up to brace himself against the headboard.

A small spark of excitement bursts like a firework inside of your chest. Sounds hardly come out of Chat when you are tangled in the sheets. Any words spoken are questions or commands. There's no praise. There's definitely no sweet nothings. There's hardly even any dirty talk. That comes before, and it's only a means to an end. Kind of like his kisses.

When you first realized his laconic nature extended to the bedroom, it became your mission to make him moan. To make him struggle to keep quiet for the sake of your roommate or, on the rare occasions you're at his place- blindfolded of course- you couldn't know his true identity. But other than when your lips are wrapped around him, tongue caressing its way up his shaft, it seems like a near impossible task.

He, on the other hand, plays you like a fiddle. He knows exactly how to compose a symphony of your sighs, whines, gasp, mewls, and any other sound he wants to hear. This new angle has earned him more than one moan, muffled only by you biting your knuckle.

"You close?" he grunts, eyes fixated on the finger in your mouth. More so to keep an eye on his miraculous than to silence you.

You nod, and he increases his pace slightly. You're constantly overwhelmed at how he seems to be able to push himself to go just a bit faster, just a bit harder, just a bit deeper. You still haven't found this man's limits. He's damn near perfect in every way.