She doesn't like what she's made him.
But he hates himself more for what he's allowed himself to become.
Only late in the night is when it happens. She'll get a call while she's dressing down for bed and she's expecting it, delicate fingers curling around the sleek black cover of her cellphone. It would buzz quietly in response. He calls her and tells her he wants to see her. He just wants to talk, that's all. It's always "just to talk".
Her stomach twists into knots and she's filled with guilt and self-hatred. She replies, "We both know if you come here, we won't end up talking."
That never stops him anyway.
A long pause looms its way into the conversation before he says, "I'll see you soon, Princess."
And then the dial clicks. Sometimes she thinks that maybe he isn't serious, that maybe he means tomorrow or 'we'll meet another time'. But that's never the case. The time would pass faster than she thinks when she hears familiar footsteps land on her balcony. Marinette doesn't get up when she sees him come in through the trap door. She never does. All she would see is bright green eyes faintly light up in her room before she gave a slight nod of her head. Then his hands are on her hips and she's dragging him down underneath her before she can tell her heart to stop.
His mouth crushes against hers, kisses hot and angry. His hands are skimming over the silk of her nightgown, all pink and pretty with milky white laces, digging the fabric in bunches between his fingers which claw into the seams. She can't tell whether he's angry at her or at himself, but she can't blame him. She probably even feels the same, but that doesn't matter to her. What does matter is that he's here now and that she's been on edge for a few weeks, wanting to marvel at him again, to smell his skin and to leave him breathless.
Her body presses into him with a tiny moan that passes up her throat when she feels her bare skin warm against the black of his suit disguising his form, her dress now gathered above her breasts. Her hands run through his hair, dirty gold and wild, pulling strands between her fingers. He sighs into her mouth and Marinette feels the echoes of desire pool within her belly. He shifts to lie squarely between her legs and pulls away just slightly from the kiss that left them both panting and heavy-eyed with lust to dip his mouth beneath her jawline, drinking in the scent of her hair—blossoming sweetness flooding him with an all too familiar warmth between his legs.
Her hips roll into his and he responds, thrusting instinctively into her touch. She could feel his cock, hard and pressing up against the white cotton of her underwear. Every movement he makes is electric and she only acts in accordance to the overwhelming heat that grows between them.
"I can't want you like this," Chat murmurs into the crook of her neck, "But I want you so badly it hurts."
She flushed as their eyes met. "Well you have your hands all over me, what more do you want, kitten?"
"All of you."
At his words, they were drawn together like magnets and her lips find his again, sweet and eager to tempt. He devours her hungrily and she doesn't protest when she acknowledges that her undergarment is being strung along below her hips, pooling at her feet. It's at this phase of their tryst that she realizes how intoxicating Chat is. Marinette thinks she would be used to it by now but she never seems to reach such a conclusion with her conflicting heart.
At any given moment, if she wanted him to leave, he would go without another word. She could forget the most heart-pounding and guilt-inducing hour of her life if she only asks, but she never once does, preferring instead to have his face buried between her legs when he asks to taste her. He's too willing, too inviting, too attractive—he's just too much. And when she's melting into her sheets and burning into him, morals are damned and there are no thoughts, only pretty noises that sing from her lips with every slide of his tongue relishing in her aching heat. Just the way her body slides and jerks under him causes him to moan, sending shocks of pleasure which overwhelm her body entirely. She's exquisite lying there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed beneath him, blue tresses loose and billowing in soft waves that frame her flushed face.
His name is a plea now, sensual and wanton between breaths. "Chat, Chat please…"
Her body is insisting for more in the way her hips cant up to him and he is further inclined to drive her to the edge. Each peak of delight is invigorating with the play of his tongue, and she's putty in his hands. It's harder, rougher, and faster now and he doesn't stop to tease. The sounds she makes become more incoherent and her face scrunches up with acute pleasure as her nails dig into the sheets. Her entire being shudders hard when she comes, swelling and convulsing around him. When he lets up for air, Marinette can hear just the barest hint of a growl reverberate in his throat. The look in his eyes are ones of sheer hunger, raw and storming with unbridled lust. She's pure sex lying on her back, pink all over from passion, absolutely and entirely of his doing.
If he wasn't so blinded by longing, she's certain he would have been smug about it. Instead he's hovering over her, the palm of his hand now cupping her chin, with his thumb brushing against her bottom lip. They don't speak but the look they exchange conveys volumes of things they know are better left unsaid. They know to keep it that way. But she knows in her heart, she knows—
"Kiss me," Comes the whisper from her lips, cutting all continuation of the thought dangerously close to a reminder of what she knows cannot be, and he descends upon her again, falling into the delicious hold of desire to forget the troubles which stir not only in her heart but in his too.
In the darkness it is a marriage of wrinkled sheets, frantic hands, and sweat-slicked skin. He's forbidden her to know his identity and so Marinette closes her eyes when Chat's exposed and bare to her. She sinks into him, losing herself to pleasure with every thrust and jerk of his hips, easing him into her willing body. He drives into her once, twice, and again in smooth, measured strokes, soothing the tight knot of need curled inside her. Each time she comes down on him, she rides him harder, desperate for more. The pressure builds gradually, and when they reach a climax, her name is on his lips. He spills into her and she comes once more with a cry of his own name, if it was truly his name at all. They collapse into each other, heaving and panting from their feverish lovemaking.
Time seems to slow after a while. He turns back to how she knows him and that's when she knows it's over again. It's how she knows that he'll never let her see who is truly behind that damned mask. But that's okay. This is what they have and though she may not like it, she reasons that it's far better than being alone. Marinette pulls her dress down to hide her still slick thighs when he removes himself from her bed. He says he'll see her again, but she's wordless when he presses a final kiss to her hand, simply watching him leave through the trap door.
Even though he's gone, he lingers everywhere. His scent, his touch, the scathing marks he left on her body, on her sheets—he'll always be that reminder of guilt and want. And she thinks for a moment that she might like it more than she wants to admit. This game they play is torture and yet she can't seem to say no when he calls. She hides her face into her pillow, escaping into her thoughts. It's a constant war with her heart and her mind. But there's one thought she's fighting to deny, and it's a possibility she can't accept. It's haunting her, pulling her down, and it speaks the words, the dangerous words she will never admit.
'Chat Noir,' she ponders. 'I think I might love you.'