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“Look, can you do it or not?” he asks, nearly fed up.
“I’m not sure,” she snaps back with a grin, long tail punctuating her words with smooth, lashing strokes. “But you would’ve known that, had you listened to me the first time.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Here’s her chance to go coy, batting her lashes. “Doing what, Master?”
To be fair, she’s rather… doing this on purpose. He knows her when she’s bored; when those pearly, gorgeous blue eyes of hers are flat and vacant, a pink pout stamped on her mouth. She’s polite about it. Never voices her opinions on the matter unless asked because she’s a gentlewoman, but Adrien always makes the mistake of asking. How can he not? Her legs are crossed, one over the other. Black claws graze along the countertops in an incoherent pattern, trying to keep herself entertained— she’s found solace in annoying him, which is horrible news, because she does it often just to stoke a reaction out of him. He feeds her saidism like a novice, because though he knows what happens when he gives in, he likes that annoyed smile on her face more than that bored and tepid silent blink that is otherwise left behind.
“I just need a cat whisker,” he begs.
Oh, the exasperation is too much for him. Here he’s been, proliferating the pantry, all in an attempt to find the ingredients for his next spell. He’s found most. Not all. Lady Noire, the worst familiar in existence, does nothing but stare at him from her spot on the counter, though she could easily amuse herself in finding an actual chair to sit. A variety of hobbies follow whenever she’s sitting on the counter for hours at a time: she floats items with wordless spells, lifting them high above her head in a mobilic pattern as if she’s attempting to juggle; perhaps she entertains herself with gnawing on bones that he needs, whittling the things down into perfect picks to poke between her fangs; sometimes he catches her filing her claws, though still perfect, though still pristine, though the deadliest claws in all of Hell they are polished and lacquered and pointy enough to hurt.
At the moment, she’s doing nothing but staring.
Staring at him, quiet, and it’s truly asinine that even when she’s quiet, he hears her laughter ring in his ears.
In their first meeting, nothing had been amiss: he’d been a fresh witch, eager for a familiar. She’d been a demon, a good one, excited to come explore the world above her realm, all for the sake of breathing in some fresh air. Their contract had been mundane. Eager. Mutually helpful for both parties. With her on his side, Adrien’s spells are more powerful. With him on her side, she had a legitimate excuse to prolong her visa stay.
Here’s where the issues come to play.
Lady Noire is mischief personified.
Oh, literally, there is no wiggle room for any other interpretation. Lady Noire is— presumably— the Princess from Hell. She’s Plagg’s prodigy, a demon of high breed… she’s Plagg’s champion. Rumor has it, if she is to be believed, she is Plagg’s daughter.
As in Plagg, the god of Death.
Well.
That being known, he hadn’t expected a familiar to be so unhelpful in all sense of the words. It is true that when she’s bored— truly bored— where magic builds along her skin like a live wire, a copper line touching a battery, she goes outside and terrorizes the wildlife outside by chasing them out of the farm where they don’t belong. He catches a small little black cat wandering back inside, head high and tall with pride, knowing that she’s protected their cottage from weasels. But daily tasks, such as helping him create more items for their shop; using that beautiful, glossy magic of hers with his spells causes a daily argument between them both. She hates having to move for him, always so lazy. Always more interested in brushing out her long, black hair, than letting a single drop of her sizzling entropy enter any of his cauldrons. She’d much rather help him by teasing, playing, distracting him from his work because she’s purring and wants his attention— transformed into a cat, she’ll chase the paper butterflies he magics to life, eager to hunt something that won’t actually die if caught between her teeth.
It also doesn’t help that Lady Noire is… adorable.
A demon shouldn’t be this attractive, and yet Lady Noire does the impossible. Tall, impressive black ears adorn her head like a crown— white skin dotted with a smattering of freckles like she has poppy seeds all over, makes her look approachable. Something that her fanged teeth sorely do not. She’s a fantastical mesh of just-barely passing as a human with her blue eyes, only to be completely interrupted with how cat like her slitted pupils are. Jokingly, he’s entertained the idea of putting a witch’s hat on her head to hide the ears, and she’d spent hours staring at herself in the looking glass. It’s… certainly a sight. Her feet are dainty and small, and he knows this because she refuses to wear boots to cover the delicate skin.
She is Hell’s daughter, and the mere idea of Adrien giving into such affection would surely cost him. Oh, Fates. Don’t kill him for just being a man. A man who finds his familiar very, very cute.
The people of Paris certainly pay attention to such a chattery cat with such a strange dress code, only to pay even more attention when they realize that she’s a demon. Humans don’t wear such fantastical dresses! Such gorgeous blues! It rivals a naga’s colored tail. Demon clothes must be different… ah, but who could blame him for liking how she dresses? Light, flowy dresses, with accented gold and baby blues; she’s… perfect. She’s petite with deadly claws to match; a pretension to bite before asking questions, too, perfect and perfect and perfect.
He can’t deny that she’s too cute for words.
It’s a shame she loves annoying him, though. What a horrible hobby.
“Do you even know what a cat whisker is?” she asks, raising a pretty brow.
“No. I would like to be taught, if applicable.”
“‘If applicable’,” she muses, teasing him by crossing her legs the other way. A sweep of her little feet nearly hits him as he grumbles near his part of the counter. “Oh, don’t worry, Master, it’s really applicable, given that I’m here.”
“Are you teasing me? You’re talking in code.”
“Nonsense! I’m simply repeating what you are saying because I fail to understand where this is coming from. A cat whisker?”
“Let’s go over this again,” he tries. “I’m making a potion that simulates the heart rate of an aphrodisiac.”
“A very good use of the Fortune powers given to you since you are Ladybug,” she concedes, rolling her eyes sarcastically.
He’s not wrinkling his nose in the direction, though he wants to, because the giggle that will come out of her will render him useless for the entire rest of the night. “You’re one to speak, Kitty. What is a girl with entropy given to her by Plagg doing on my countertop?”
“Last time I checked, I’m here because you commanded me to.” A fake sniffle, though one nonetheless, comes out of her. “You told me that I’m not allowed to go out and hunt and provide for you anymore. You’re wasting a valuable resource, you know; I am the best hunter in my realm. Besides, I thought you needed an eye of a newt, did you not?”
Oh, that poor lizard she’d caught… or what was left of it, rather.
“You’re not allowed outside until I’m done with this spell.” The two of them say nothing when he presses his fingertip to her nose, giving a squish. “I can’t have you terrorizing wildlife. That’s not a good idea.”
“You’re aware of how I feel, knowing that my Master refuses to let me out without a good reason,” she sniffles.
What an effort it takes to not roll the eyes. “Regardless. In my spell book, it claims that I need a cat whisker, which gives me the suspicion that I’ll need you here for it. So, please, stay.”
“And you do not know what that is.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Given your pretensions of reading at all hours of the day, I say yes.” What an unladylike way to roll her eyes! “Master, you’re the biggest bibliophile I’ve ever met. How do you not know what a cat whisker is?”
“Is a kitten whisker not just a real cat whisker?”
Suddenly, she jolts in her spot. “Hold on, is the ingredient a cat whisker or a kitten whisker?”
“There’s a difference?”
“Oh,” she says, quite plainly, but the blush on her face deceives her. “Oh, I see. Very well, this sounds simple enough.”
It would be helpful if she wouldn’t try to bat off jars near her vicinity! Oh, how she loves to watch jars and beakers splat onto the tile floor, just like a real cat! Sometimes he prefers when she’s in her actual cat form, dozing in front of the fire place that he lights on purpose to get her attention elsewhere; unbeknownst to her, her antics remind him of a toddler!
“Kitty? Would you like to share with me?” he asks, snatching an oil bottle before it slicks up the floor.
“You certainly are bold,” she admonishes, eyes wide. A brief touch to her showing collarbones as she talks has him squirming in his boots. What a dazzling smile… “It’s not a physical substance. I can provide, yes, given that I am your familiar— a good one at that, might I add; the most powerful demon in the world as the warden of this little cottage in the woods— but I must say, your boldness, even as a Ladybug, is stunning.”
“What are you—”
“It is not every day that I am asked to partake in something so scandalous!”
Oh, what a flirtatious Kitty! Yet another thing that he can’t deal with often when it comes to her— does she know of his affections? Is that why she plays with him and teases him whenever she can? Her eyes narrow into points, similar to her pupils, something nefarious in the way she smiles. She toys with him often. Flirtatious until it hurts! How many times does he find her little cat paws under the door frame when he bathes, her meowing for his attention? Or when she is in her demon form, how often does he hear her sing-song voice asking if he needs someone to wash his back for him? Oh, not to mention the many times he’s woken up in the morning with a woman pressed up against his back, murmuring quite happily about how warm he is; long, powerful claws making a home around his torso as she dreams and dreams and dreams… what is he to do with her?
She does all of this because she knows that he is in love with her, isn’t it?
He frowns. “What are you possibly talking about?”
“Are you sure you’re not making an ambrosial spell, with that type of ingredient?”
“Make me linger on this topic much longer and I’ll ask Luka for help instead.”
There she is. Her eyes are wide, ears perked and ramrod straight, ready for what he can only assume is a fight. Where there is a naga, there is his familiar’s pretension for a fight; Luka in particular, she’s never liked, always finding a way to flirt and claw with the poor man. Adrien watches, amused, as the Princess of Hell entertains herself in ruining her fantastical dresses, all to show the naga that she can fish more than the one who swims as his primary way of getting around.
The fact that she actually puts up a good competition is irrelevant.
But here she is now, eyes blown out wide in horror, tail swinging like a sharp breeze and a storm, biting her own pretty lip because she actually believes him.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Would I?” he asks, raising a brow.
“You would rather ask that noodle than me?”
“That noodle is my friend,” he argues. “One that does not keep me waiting for a simple request.”
“What does he have that I don’t?”
“A kitten whisker, apparently.”
“You think I’m stalling?”
“I think you might be.”
“If he has one, I’ll knock a fang out of him.”
”When you decide that you’re willing to give it to me, I’ll gladly accept. However, we’ve taken far too long on this topic; I’ll get back to my brewing while you sit here and do nothing, and everything will be back to normal.”
“For Fate’s sake!” she whines. “At least tell me that you don’t mean what you’ve said about Luka!”
“I don’t know what a kitten whisker is,” he replies, collecting books near her so he can take to the other counter with him. Encyclopedias are useful in this moment, perhaps he’ll be able to find a definition. “It sounds either dangerous, perverted, or inconsequential; none of those things I’m inclined to give you the opportunity of going through with, of course, because I know you—”
“But Luka is given the luxury?”
“Show me what it is and I’ll tell you if he does or not.” He licks his lips. “Kitty, I want you to give me a whisker like I’ve asked.”
The magic words from their contract. How he hates using it… but sometimes it is necessary.
“Fine! Very well! One kitten whisker, coming right up!” she giggles. Black claws touch his shirt, interested in the tassels of his bolo tie— she pulls, and he goes, and there is another hand on his neck, pressing his head down until they meet halfway. He is given just a brief moment to inhale sharply before there is a kiss, a firm and soft one, washing every and any thought out of his mind for the next three days.
Oh.
Oh.
“It’s a...”
“It’s a kiss!” she tells him, giggles being cut off when he kisses her right back.