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Adrien is extremely ticklish.
The thing is, though, he thinks he might like it.
He’d never gotten far enough along in any of his past sexual relationships to discuss much kink—sure, he’s worn lace for a few people, even a maid costume once, but they were always something the other person brought up.
Even if he had gotten comfortable enough with any of them to discuss his kinks, he wouldn’t have brought up tickling.
He had no clue what his reflexes would do and he was certain he couldn’t let any of them tie him up, but there was no way he was going to risk bucking a civilian off himself hard enough to hurt them.
Ironically, he’s pretty sure he could let his partners tie him up, but he’s completely sure that they can just hold him down with ease if they transform.
And, okay, yeah, he really likes the idea of that.
Which is quite possibly the weirdest thing in the world to him.
Considering the creatures he’s faught just this week, he thinks that’s saying something.
He never imagined he’d be okay with being restrained even to please someone he loved, let alone that some day he’d want to be restrained.
But he does.
He wants to feel safe and secure and taken care of and he’s never felt those things more than when he’s under Nino with all of Nino’s attention on him.
It’s not quite the same with Alya, yet, and it’s no where near the same with Marinette, of course.
But it could be it’s own kind of special, it’s own kind of security with them—if Marinette wants that, too.
He knows that Alya does, at least. He’s not sure if she’ll get bored once she’s figured him out completely, but people and their tastes change, so he’s hoping he’ll be able to keep her interest for the next couple centuries. And anyway, until that potential day, she’s clearly thrilled with the idea of domming him.
And evidence seems to indicate that she might enjoy him taking a more dominant role, sometimes, too.
But he’s not sure how they’ll feel about the tickling.
It’s weird.
He’s weird.
It’s not like they don’t know he’s weird, he reminds himself.
And kinks are always a little weird, or they wouldn’t be kinks.
And he has weirder kinks, frankly. Will probably discover weirder ones yet.
This is just the one that he can’t get off his mind right now.
Alya is in his arms and her hair is tickling his neck.
Normally, before they’d started dating, he would just move her hair.
He should just move her hair now.
But he can’t bring himself to.
He could, theoretically, tilt her head up with a hand under her chin, silently ask for permission to kiss her, and hope things went a certain way.
But, as much as he always wants to kiss her, he wants to savor the little tingles shooting down his spine more right now.
She shifts, just adjusting to be more comfortable, and he can’t help but shiver.
She hums, looking up at him, considering. “Oh, sorry,” and she reaches up to move her hair to the side, but he’s grabbing her hand before he can think to stop himself.
She blinks at him.
He could put it off, let himself stay anxious about it until the next opportunity, but he decides to take the risk, to trust her. “…I liked it.”
She tilts her head. “It didn’t tickle?”
He looks over her shoulder. “It did.”
She bites her lip, but he can tell she’s smiling. “You like being tickled, Agreste?”
Yes. He shrugs. “Sometimes, I guess.”
“Like now?” She slips her hand from his, spreads her fingers against his ribs—her other arm is basically trapped between their bodies.
His heart rate accelerates. “I don’t know. No one’s ever done it on purpose.”
“…Do you want me to, kitten?”
He swallows. “Okay.”
She raises an eyebrow at him, frowning.
He frowns back. What did he do wr—oh, maybe it’s—“Yes,” he tries, “I want—“
It starts light, barely there scratching over the fabric of his shirt, but it’s enough to make his whole body twitch and for his breath to catch.
When his breathing restarts, he’s already panting.
She does it again and he reflexively reaches for her hand.
“Sorry,” he says, letting go and reaching for a throw pillow to dig his nails into.
She hums, speaks softly, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, baby. I only want to do this as long as it feels nice.” She leans forward and he leans down to meet her, but then she’s grabbing his jaw and tilting his head up so she can kiss his neck instead.
His eyes flutter shut.
“Still want me to tickle you?” she asks against his skin.
“Yes, please,” he sighs.
She trails her hand back down and then lower, bellow his ribs, to a softer, more vulnerable spot.
He’s trembling and she’s not even tickling him yet.
She chuckles against his neck and that tickles, makes his shoulder jerk up and hit her in the cheek.
He grimaces, gabbing her arms so he can gently push her back. “I am so sorry!”
She laughs. “That didn’t hurt, Adrien! I’m fine.”
He frowns. He knows what he wants to ask for next, knows that he should explain that he’s not going to be able to relax because he doesn’t trust himself to be still. But he’s not sure how best to ask her to transform and hold him down.
She climbs onto his lap and he is thoroughly distracted from trying to formulate a whole sentence.
She plays with the collar of his shirt while she speaks, and someday he’ll have to explain how difficult that makes it to follow what she says. Thankfully, this time it’s just, “Okay?”
He settles his hands on her hips, promising himself that he’ll focus on not squeezing too tight but hoping it keeps him from bucking her off. He makes eye contact and nods.
She trails her hands—both hands—down to his ribs.
He fights to keep his breathing steady.
Her fingers flex once.
His abs tense.
She wiggles her fingers for just a second.
He lets out a very high pitched sound, eyes going wide.
It’s… overwhelming.
It’s everywhere all at once.
She does it again, longer.
He has to tense every muscle in his body to keep from flailing.
He’s… he’s pretty sure there aren’t words in French—or any of the other languages he knows—to describe this feeling.
When she stops, he gasps, realizes he’s been holding his breath.
She moves her hands lower, to his waist, and wiggles.
His back curls and arches and twists as he tries to get away, but he doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t squeeze too hard. He closes his eyes and finally laughs, but it’s just so intense, his entire body lighting up, that he can only stand it for a few moments before he starts begging, “Ah-Al, noOo, wa-ait.”
She stops immediately, of course, even though he really wishes he hadn’t said that.
He drops his head to her shoulder, and she places her hands on his biceps.
He’s panting.
“Are you okay?”
A breath, “I’m,” another, “grreat.”
She snorts, trails a hand up into his hair.
He shivers.
“Still like being tickled?”
He nods. “Mhmm.”
“Is it making you feel floaty?”
Maybe. “It could, I think.”
“Are you familiar with the stoplight system?”
He hadn’t been. Before his talks with them about dominance and submission and learning how gentle it could be, he hadn’t been interested in learning about that sort of power play, assuming it was all as rough as the front page on porn sites. But he’s done lots of research since then, gotten lots of ideas he’ll bring up later if none of his partners bring them up first.
He nods. “Green for go, etcetera.”
“Give me a color?”
“Green.”
She trails her hands down to his waist, on his back this time because he’s still leaning forward. “Color?”
He loops his arms around her waist, grips his own elbows. He has to lick his lips before he can speak, “Green.”
It’s even more intense this time, somehow.
Maybe because his eyes are closed, or because of how clearly he can smell her, or because he knows saying wait won’t save him.
Maybe she’s just moving faster.
He crushes her to his chest, stifling a scream against her neck.
She slows down, but doesn’t quite stop. She grinds down with her hips and, oh, he groans.
He hadn’t even noticed he was getting hard, but he’s half way there and she can definitely feel it.
“Color?”
“Gre—ee—een!”
She picks her speed back up.
The next time his back arches the only thing he can think about is how he’s getting hard, how she’s pressing down against him, how her chest feels, how such little fabric is separating their most sensitive parts.
“Ah—Aly—aaa—“ This time, he leans back, tapping her arms between him and the couch, but her fingers keep wiggling. “Yell—Ye—ellow!”
She stops before he manages to get the color out entirely.
🦊
She doesn’t tickle him again that evening but, after they have sex, they talk about it.
“We probably should have talked about that more, first,” she says, after they’ve cleaned up, procured snacks, and actually made it to his bedroom—they hadn’t left the couch, earlier. “We’ve got to get in the habit of discussing kinks outside of sexual situations.”
He hides his face against her chest, where she’s stolen his black undershirt. “Sorry.”
She scratches at his scalp. “You weren’t the only one there, kitty. I could have slowed us down once I figured out just how much you were liking it. Should have.”
He hums. “I’m just impawssible to resist.”
She snorts.