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As a young girl, Marinette had always dreamed of becoming a mother. Even as an only child, she had framed her dolls as children rather than siblings or the friends she wished she had, miming changing them or feeding them from a bottle that she warmed on the coils of an imaginary stove. The temptation of approaching the real oven in their apartment kitchen was intense, but she'd been raised by bakers who instilled a healthy respect for the myriad dangers of a stove.
The nature of childbearing was never in question, though the logistics were beyond her. Her mother had simply explained, when Marinette had gestured frantically at the first heavily pregnant woman whom she could remember seeing as she waddled down the street, that a papa and a momma did something special so that a baby would grow up inside of her.
Sabine and Tom Dupain-Cheng were forthright as one would be with a child. No conversations regarding storks had been involved.
What Marinette had not expected was the actual process of being pregnant. Nothing had really prepared her for it.
It wasn't until around week 8 that she really grocked what “morning sickness” meant.
The greasy odour of the bacon and eggs that Adrien and Luka were frying up in the kitchen had wafted into the bedroom, along with slightly burnt toast that was probably her model-husband's doing. She awoke in a flurry as opposed to a languid snuggle with Kagami, and bolted for the bathroom to puke incessantly.
While her wife raced in after her to kneel on the floor and stroke her along her spine, easing her through the dry heaves with soft whispers of love and encouragement, Marinette actually understood the condition experientially.
Then there was the acid reflux. Supposedly, Anarka had experienced it only during her fifth month, or so she recalled, but for Marinette, it started in the second.
Wasn't she just the luckiest?
As she was waited on hand and foot by two husbands and a wife, all of whom were rich, gorgeous, attentive, and super-powered, she kind of felt like it despite the alien with acid blood that was trying to claw its way out of her chest and throat.
Now, as she stares at Adrien who has his hands firmly at ten and two, always the most conscientious of drivers because your life is in my hands, my lady even on the back road they're travelling to visit Anarka's “off the grid” cottage, it's the bladder issue.
Thickly forested woods blur in the peripheries of her vision while her eyes trace those nimble fingers and protruding knuckles, highlighted by splotches of red and green radiance emanating from the dashboard's various signals and the backlight that would let him fiddle with the radio if he wasn't so clearly focused on the darkening stretch of road ahead of them.
In an attempt to ease the pressure, she shifts her butt.
A press, bladder squishing. Fiery tension coils up, and she bites her lip to keep from whining at the worsening fullness.
Babies are amazing (other than the puking, crying, utter helplessness, colicky cr... she had better stop now.)
Pregnancy kind of sucks.
“How far are we from the next rest stop?”
A flash of Adrien's eyes up to the GPS affixed to the windshield.
“Uh. I think that I saw a sign about a minute back that said around thirty kilometers.” His eyes are back to the road.
Great.
“Can you pull over?”
“You alright?” he strains, always so concerned, especially now that she's showing.
“Uh. I just don't think that I'm going to make it.”
“Oh. Sure.” Signaling and checking his blind-spot with textbook precision, he eases the car onto the gravel alongside the road and pulls to a stop before turning to look at her with those syrupy worried Chat Noir kitten eyes that kind of cause her hormones to spike.
For a minute, she's Ladybug, calculating the angles and considering the logistics of a back-seat quickie, a different kind of pressure building up. No time for fun, though. Kagami and Luka are probably waiting for them already, and she has to pee.
“You going to be okay on your own?”
“I stopped needing help to pee when I was about two years old, Adrien.”
Adrien throws up his hands in surrender as she slips out of the car, gravel crunching under her feet as she stretches her spine, massaging her lower back. Her burgeoning baby bump is a delight under her hands as pats her belly. Adrien's son and her son. Their son, and Kagami and Luka's too. Flashlight in hand to supplement the dusky twilight, if necessary, she's ready.
Once she stumbles her way into the treeline to conceal herself from ... no one, but it makes her feel better, the actual process of peeing in the forest is cold and awkward, a little gust of wind, heavy with crisp pine and musk, catching her there and sending shivers up her spine at the chill as she wiggles out of her pants, squats, and works herself up to release.
Ugh.
The swelling fullness is bruising tight, but it's battling irrational embarrassment. She has to go so badly, but can't!
Urinating in the middle of the woods just feels so damn weird. Gooseflesh breaks out. A rustle of leaves from just over the hill has her reaching down to pull up her pants in an embarrassed rush, swaying and nearly falling on her butt, but she suppresses the instinct. It's just the wind, after all.
Eventually, the pressure simply becomes too agonizing and she looses a stream, listening, with her eyes shut in mortification at being so exposed, as her ... pee sloshes against the ground. Against her best efforts and wishes, she can almost imagine the liquid cutting tiny brooklets in the forest floor, soaking in and thankfully disappearing.
When the flow finally trickles to a stop, she uses a facial tissue to clean up, trying not to look down, before hiking up her pants and nearly bolting towards the car.
Adrien is white-knuckling the steering wheel when she returns, his eyes shut and breathing kept slow and even while he works through the exercises he'd learnt while trying to help her with her anxiety.
"Are you okay?" she asks as she settles in and shuts the door behind her, restraining the impulse to place her hand to his forehead to test his temperature – there's a heat and certain sweatiness to his cheeks and forehead.
"Fine. Just – just a little bit hot in here, right?" he strains.
It's not.
She doesn't ask as he cracks his neck alongside a feline arching of his spine, like a cat raising his hackles.
“Alright then, mister Agreste-Dupain," Marinette snorts. "Keep your secrets.”
“Lord of the Rings memes make me love you, but will not help your case.”
“Dork.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah.” At her sly grin, he struggles, truly struggles. She's being bad, but how is she supposed to help it when he's already looking like she has just stepped on him already? “I do.”
As it turns out, they do have time for a quickie in the back seat.
Calling for his transformation phrase for reasons that Marinette is not going to question because priorities, Chat Noir clambers between the partition between his chair and hers so that he's waiting for her, struggling to unzip his costume with frantic, clumsy hands when she opens the back door after taking the long way around. The glossy black magical spandex-leather veritably peels off his shoulders and arms, folding up at his waist, once he's finished with the bell, exposing the wide expanse of sculped perfection that is Adrien Agreste's abdominals, which their company has probably trademarked and insured.
With good reason.
She licks her lips.
Car sex is rough, awkward, cramping, and beautiful in its own way, calling to mind memories of fiercely fumbled teenage makeout sessions, the nearly-forgotten thrill of being caught bursting in her brain and setting her heart hammering even though they're alone on an empty back road.
Adrien levers the two front seats forward so that they have more room and though she tries to spread herself out in the back seat, he has other ideas, hooking his hands under her thighs and settling her on his lap, arms around her sternum.
Held flush against him, she's reminded of a thousand hugs, ten thousand cuddles.
The only difference now is that he's already fully hard under her rear as she pretends to settle herself, looking back at his furrowed brow and tightly clenching teeth, molten green eyes glowing in the dark, predatory, as she wiggles her butt against him.
“Ooh,” she coos as he twitches, hot under her, tempting and obvious even through the fabric of her jeans and his mystical leather suit. “Someone's eager.”
A fanged grin against her neck. “For you, Milady, always.” The smooth assurance is cut with just the edge of a whimper as she grinds into his crotch with just a little more enthusiasm to squeeze out some of that kitty-cat-cockiness.
With a surge of motion, arms shivering, he's kissing her over her shoulder, mouth tasting of coffee that'd he'd picked up at their last pit stop.
Too bad they don't have time for more; she'd have him making a mess of his pants in less than ten minutes.
Finally settled into place, she gives him a reprieve and lets Chat have his way.
Shivers bloom down her spine as his lips trail her exposed throat and the back of her neck, wetness starting to pool.
A purr deep in his chest rocking through her body, she has to clamp her teeth down onto her lip to keep from whining when those smooth and talented hands unfasten her belt and pull down her zipper and he kisses that spot on the base of her neck that melts her.
Hearty planes of muscle are hot against her back, even through the folds and edges of magic spandex-leather feel more like skin than anything else as she grabs at his thighs. Massive, her gym-cat swallows her up with her size, pausing only a moment to slip off the gloves of his redesigned costume. It wasn't the total body makeover her's had received, but the gloves - she shivers - the gloves are a nice and necessary touch because kitty-claws shouldn't touch ... pussy.
His hand, usually so soft and melting-gentle, is almost bruising in its force as he slips under the edge of her shirt to palm her breast, less than a handful, the quick pinching rolls muted by the fabric of her bra. Her Kitty is never rough, and this is just about as close as he comes, though his touch is all worship as he cradles her small baby bump as if the mere sensation could wipe away a lifetime's worth of pain.
How many times has he told her that? Too many to count.
Fortunately, the bittersweet thought is wiped from her mind as he dips into her panties and her stomach flinches. He's teasing, slicking his fingertips as he traces the edge of her pussy, and it's not enough. Her Kitty should give her what she needs!
When she angles back to tell him that, he grabs her jaw, forces their mouths together, has her freezing, leaves her whimpering until she's completely breathless and swimming and her lips stinging and bruised when he pulls away.
“Be a good girl, My Lady.” The low growl is almost feral, and it has her slamming shut her eyes to protect her against the electric heat. “I need you to be nice and dripping before I fuck you.”
The only thing more shocking than the dirty talk is just how much she wants to be a good girl.
It's a tight fit while she's in his lap and still wearing her jeans, but he slides across her slit, finger pressing in between her lips, spreading her until she's properly wet. The movements are a slow tease, working her up and reminding her of how empty she is while feathering the pad of his forefinger along her lips. Aching need sets her body twitching while she stares down at her husband's broad and rough hand, half-buried inside her underwear, and humps mindlessly against him, trying to fuck herself properly on those thick fingers.
He's got her begging in minutes, dripping and soiling her panties like a dirty girl. She's going to have to wear them – or wear nothing under her jeans – all night when they reach Anarka's cottage, looking all proper and prim while strutting around stained.
“So wet,” he slurs, voice thick with need and – and mockery, and she could nearly cum just from that, tearing into her lip so hard that she nearly tastes blood to keep from crying. A rolling flick brushes her clit. Pleasure sharp enough to be pain, and great watery heaving bliss that stabs and blooms in her gut, work higher and higher as he swirls, mingle. There's no stopping the tears of frustration now.
She breaks.
He breaks her.
“A-Adrien, please!”
He doesn't.
He laughs, chuckle hiccupping but ... dark against her ear. God, what is this?
“Wet like a whore,” he huffs as she freezes up entirely before loosing the most languorous and – and slutty moan she's ever heard, enough to leave her cinnamon-hot-candy-red with embarrassment, but not enough to stop her from continuing to hump his fingers. "Is that what you are? A whore?"
She needs him – needs him to fuck her properly.
Fuck! He never gets like this. Stone-top degradation kink is Kagami's territory; it's so alien from her sunshiny good kitty that she's clenching her thighs together and gyrating her hips, futilely trying to swallow up his fingers as she teeters nearly on the verge of cumming from that alone, spurred on by his breath hot and moist against her ear and cheek and the filth that he's whispering without a hint of shame or reserve.
“Uh,” he puffs, “if I'd only known you were such a slut, I could have been fucking you when we were sixteen.”
She could Kagami-safe-word.
She doesn't.
“N-not a slut,” she whines, even though – even though she likes it.
That same dark chuckle, his pace picking up. “Sure you are. I bet you'd have loved it if I had just put you on your knees and made you suck me off.”
Chat. A rooftop. The crotch of her costume torn as he fucks her into a wall.
Owns her.
Breeds her.
Whining, eyes nearly fused shut, she's suspended on the edge by those slow strokes as he starts to nibble her ear. Years of familiarity with her body lets him hold her back for what seems like hours, but there's no thought of being late. Everything burns away except for hot need, her mind so much dripping, melted candle wax, as he curls two fingers inside of her.
“Kitty, please!”
It's too slow – too shallow – and he only accidentally-on-purpose catches her clit, but he has no mercy on her as he swirls over her wetness.
“Please what, Milady? I can't help you if you don't use your words.”
She can't. Can't speak – can't even mouth the words, teeth grinding.
She needs him to move, tries to hump his slow-thrusting fingers, grab his hand to force him to move faster, but she freezes and whimpers, falling limp, when his teeth find her neck. Love-bites and hickies bloom along sensitive skin in reprimand, but he gives her everything that he can, burying those two teasing fingers deep in one smooth, strong thrust.
He forces her to scream for him.
First, it's in need as she bears down on those massive fingers, pussy spasming to try to draw him in further, then in outraged frustration when he withdraws, tugging his hand free.
“That wasn't so hard, was it, my Lady?” he taunts, voice like gravel getting caught up in her most sensitive spots. She should be able to tease him back, and wants to, but nothing comes – nothing.
In the low light of the car, she can still see her juices glisten on his fingers as he makes her look. There's a fine sheen to them that reminds her of her wife's pussy when she goes down on her. Musk is thick in her nose, the scent of her own need. Then the taste consumes her as he brings his slick fingers to her mouth and nudges them against her lips, coaxing her to lick him clean.
“Good girl,” he praises as she laves her tongue between his fingers, trying not to miss a single sticky drop. “You like that? Like the taste of your slutty pussy?”
Slightly acidic, Kagami tastes good.
There's no holding back the lustrous moan.
She tastes better.
“Yesss,” she hisses when he plucks his fingers from her mouth.
Fuck, she wants to eat out her wife right now, slide her tongue between those slick folds and feast. Was this what they meant about pregnancy cravings?
First thing on reaching Anarka's cottage, she's dragging her wife into the bathroom to “freshen up.”
There's something brutal and desperate about the way they clash together in that tightly enclosed space of the back seat as he whips her around, slips her jeans half-way down her thighs, peels back her soaking panties, and ... fucks her while they're still almost fully clothed.
She's mewling into his mouth, and his body weight would half crush her if he wasn't holding her so tenderly; his wide hands nearly swallow her waist and belly, trailing over her tiny baby bump and leaving her a warm, wet mess
It's a sharp counterpoint to the way he forces himself inside of her, her jeans around her thighs and panties shoved to the side. Everything is so alien, considering Adrien's usual gentle reverence, that it has her wailing and keening as all he can manage are shallow, humping thrusts.
What he lacks in angle and technique in their awkward, contorted position, he makes up for in enthusiasm. The grunts and smacks of flesh nearly echo in the confined space as he just fucks her and she claws at his upper back, nails digging into taut, shifting muscle.
Rough car-seat burns and scrapes as he pistons his hips, opening her up over and over with sloppy ill-timed thrusts.
She comes unglued at the heat and weight of him inside of her, spreading her when he reaches down to torture her clit with his skilled fingers, supporting himself effortlessly with one hand. His pace slips into an irregular rhythm and it's not enough. She looks up at his face, teeth gritted with strain and a hunger that makes her want to be consumed. The worn material car ceiling creates a dark halo around his lustrous golden hair as she looks up at him and he – he fucks her and makes love to her at the same time.
“I- I bet you wish someone would come by,” he huffs, grunting and guttural, looking at her like she's dirty and beautiful and all he wants is to get just as filthy as her. The thick lines of his mask are folded up around his eyes. “Watch you getting – getting fucked in the backseat like – like a whore.”
Perspiration leaves his pinched cheeks clammy against her palms as she humps against his hips and grabs his face, smashing them together into a sloppy kiss, teeth clacking and lips smearing, because she needs to shut him up or she'll cum just from the teasing.
She does, of course, but not before him. His lips break away from hers as a massive shudder causes him to contort, spine arching, and he bottoms out inside of her one last time, the motion of his hand against her clit ceasing while she begs and babbles.
“Fuck, Adrien! Fuck me – cum for me, Chaton.” The raw heat; the thick vein that runs his length as she bears down on him, squeezing, the simple, incomparable feeling of hard and velvety-soft flesh inside of her-
God she wants to be bred. Feel him cum and ooze and impregnate her as she thrashes underneath him.
Impossible of course, but that doesn't make the convulsive shudders that race through his body any less sweet when he looses himself inside of her, flooding her with spurt after spurt of liquid-white heat that leaks out when he pulls himself free, still twitching.
The best part of pregnant sex as she splays herself out, sweaty and cooling, and basks, is the completely worry-free sensation of having him cum raw inside of her – it's decadent and such a sticky-wet filthy mess.
Even though she hasn't finished, it's enough that she tries to reposition herself so that she can avoid staining the back seat any worse, but Adrien, ever the dutiful and attentive kitten, has other ideas.
Somehow, he's contorting, boneless, fits between her legs. Frantic sweeps of his tongue swipe up the mess that he licks, suckles, and drinks like he's... privileged to eat his own cum out of her pussy.
“G-good kitty. Get me nice and clean.” She whimpers and nearly chokes when his pace picks up, hands tightening around her thighs and making her feel owned even as she's smearing their combined juices across his face, marking up her innocent kitty and making him nice and filthy.
“Does that make you hard, Ch-chaton? The taste of us?” she grits out the question, clawing at the back of his head. The rough swipes heat and spiral, his purr slamming into her, the vibrations setting her trembling
He nods as best he can, caught in her thighs and squeezed by her rough hands, staring up the length of her body.
“Take care of your f-filthy mess.” Lights and bombs burst behind her eyelids so that she loses all sense of space even before he starts licking and suckling on her clit and fingering her once he's lapped up his cum.
Her hands tangle in the soft mess of his blond hair, forcing him as deep as he can go, but not nearly as deep as they both want. An increase to his pace only makes her think that he likes the feeling when she melts and oozes under his tongue and tries to crush his head with her thighs, gazing down the length of her own heaving body to stare at those molten-Chat-Noir-green eyes as he breaks her again without preamble or play – all rough and insistent need to make her finish on his face.
Which she does, crying out while clutching him in place so tightly that it nearly hurts, stalling out all his movements save the swirl of the tip of his tongue against her clit that drives her over the edge.
The slow downward spiral that ends with her a heaving, sweaty lump in the back seat is dragged out by yet more kisses, sloppy, but slow. Reverent.
Worshipful.
He's still between her legs, pressing kisses to her lips, spiraling outwards, and stroking her shins. Everything uncoils in sumptuous weightlessness as he reaches up to her belly to play with the soft, bulging flesh. They link hands, and just lay there together, his head now resting on her thigh.
God, she loves him.
Infinitely more than she loves whatever that was, tremendous though it may have been.
When they clean up shakily with a few wet wipes and try to fix her clothing so that she looks at least somewhat presentable, they already know that it's futile, of course, but they have to try. Adrien's de-transformation leaves him pristine.
Stupid clever cat.
Luka, Kagami, and Anarka are, fortunately, use to their antics. They won't mind too much, especially after Marinette finishes with Kagami in the bathroom.
Although as Adrien starts up the car, not even having to talk about their debauched semi-public back-seat sex because a car-seat quickie on a dark, abandoned stretch of country road is nothing compared to regular sex atop Parisian landmarks spurred on by the heat of an adrenaline rush – that's nothing new for Ladybug and Chat Noir - Marinette has to wonder at what got her husband so worked up.
Just one of those things, she supposes as she leans her seat back for a quick nap.
They'd figure it out.
And they did...
But for now, Marinette is content to drift off for a nap until they arrive at Anarka's cottage, secure in the knowledge that her Kitty is keeping her safe on the road.