9Good glory, I haven't written sensual(?) angst in ages.
Nepenthe
x
(noun) a means of forgetting grief or suffering;
in Homer's Odyssey, it was a drug used for that same purpose.
X
Hesitation grips him tight, but that feeling in the pit of his stomach is the worst kind of persuasive and her eyes… Eyes weren't supposed to suck the air from his lungs like this, or pull and pull until he is a breath away from drowning in bluebell depths.
"I don't love you," she whispers. There's someone else, goes unsaid.
"I don't love you either." There's someone else.
They hear what the other hasn't said and he can see the guilt swimming beside him in the limitless blue of her eyes, but it's existence doesn't make sense. Then again, nothing is making sense to him at that moment. Not when she stands as if pressed against an invisible wall and he's leaning in as if pushed.
Chat Noir loves Ladybug with all his heart, but the magnet drawing him to that snarky baker's daughter is merciless. He can't stop. Can't possibly comprehend why he should.
"I want to kiss you," she breathes suddenly - then her eyes dart away from his lips, wide and disbelieving because that confession was an accident and the truth of it shakes her.
It shakes him too, but mostly because he can't shake the impression that she is reading his thoughts word for word.
She is beautiful and he can't believe he hasn't noticed before now. Her lips are parted and her cheeks are rosy. The heat of her flushed skin draws him in and her eyes are turning the dark of late evening. She's so damn beautiful and he never wants to move or look away.
The kiss is tentative, and painstakingly tender because of it. Chat gets the strangest urge to cry when Marinette's oddly calloused fingertips slide over his jaw and up to his temples, her oddly soft palms cupping his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispers, pulling back. He's not talking about the kiss. He's doesn't know who the apology is for.
"I'm sorry too." And she doesn't know either.
Tears are spilling over her cheeks like an upturned glass and red splotches are rising up to stain her skin. She tries not to sniffle. It's the most heartbreaking thing he's ever seen.
Chat Noir kisses her again, hands finally reaching out, claw-tipped fingers spreading over her back and pulling her against him with all the gentleness he can muster in his addled mind. Her lips are butter-soft. The gloss she wears tastes like strawberries. He can't breathe, hasn't closed his eyes because she hasn't either and he wants to see his actions chase the guilt and the sadness from her beautiful eyes.
He drags his claws lightly along her sides, nipping her lip when she shivers, ignoring the blush on both their faces. "Give me a chance," he says. Her hands slide into his hair, brushing his cat ears. Another close-lipped kiss. "I just need someone to give me a chance."
Somehow, the guilt she wears worsens.
"Okay."
She kisses him. (And somehow that statement feels vital.)
"I need it too," she adds, a breath later. A smirk curls Chat's lips and she squeaks. "A chance! I meant a chance! I- I need someone to give m-me a chance too!"
His laugh is low and genuine, rumbling from his chest to hers and making Marinette flush all the more. (Silly boys in catsuits weren't supposed to be attractive, she thinks.)
"Stupid cat," she huffs, giving his ear an irritated tug.
There's a glow in his eyes and a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth that brushes aside her exasperation. Her chest feels warm, her face hot, and she can't help herself. Another kiss and the hesitation from before is forgotten.
Marinette tugs his hair, his lips part, and the kiss is deeper, their grips tighter, bodies pressed together. They can't get enough. Can't think. She's ambrosia and he's on fire and they're clicking into place in a way that says: this is right.
And it is. Of course it is.