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Luka loved Marinette. He loved her so much and still felt like he hadn't fully expressed it no matter how many years passed. It wasn't for lack of trying - words, songs, gestures, he'd done it all - but simply that there may've been no way to convey it under human limitations.
Thus, he accepted that he could only love her as much as he could. He courted her, dated her, and married her, all in the hopes that she might understand one day.
He even loved her in his dreams.
It wasn't as good as having the real deal, but he knew her body well enough that it almost felt real. When she'd push him down on the bed, he could imagine the plush surface and scent of the freshly washed sheets.
She'd lean down for a kiss, her flavored lip balm rubbing off on him. He'd long since foregone wearing it himself since they got together, knowing that it would always end up on his lips anyway.
Dream Marinette had the exact accurate amount of freckles going across her nose. He knew because he'd counted them before on days where they had nothing to do and he'd taken to watching her sleep the morning away. Stroking her face, her skin wasn't perfectly smooth either, having been neglected skincare on days where she was too busy to think about it.
He'd pull the dream Marinette down to kiss her nose, her forehead, her cheek, and anywhere else he could. Mutual kissing was his personal favorite, but it was just as important to him that every precious centimeter of her body receive attention from him.
She loved to be praised, to be told that she mattered and that she was doing great where she was. He'd say as much in-between the soft gasps in reaction to her breath against his skin or her fingers playing with his hair. During warmer nights where she'd wear shorts instead of pants, her leg had a chance of nudging his shirt up just enough during their movements that he could feel her skin against his side.
She was the one who made his pajama tops for him in the first place, actually. He found that it all depended on her mood, as sometimes she would gift him shirts with pointless buttons, shirts with strings, or shirts with cuts low enough that she could kiss his chest.
Always with purpose, of course, whether that be to play idly with the little additions or tease him. He'd watch, mesmerized by the movements even if they didn't appear like anything special; she was special to him.
She designed her own pajamas as well and liked the buttons the most. It let him technically remove it even if she was laying on the bed, but was a task that took time. She loved the attention and he loved giving her that attention, so he would hold off for the perfect moment.
When it came time to play his own part in their duet, they would switch spots, Marinette letting out an excited squeal as he flipped them over. Her hair was just long enough that it could get trapped underneath her back, creating potential problems if she turned or tilted her head. Just in case, he took the extra time to check, gently tugging the hair out and letting it spread out gorgeously over the bed.
She'd exhale against his hair when he kissed her collarbone, nails grazing his back as she grasped his shirt in her hands. When her pulse quickened, he'd nestle his face against her neck, feeling and estimating the BPM of her pulse so long as he could distinguish it from his own.
He was a simple man. He too loved to be praised and told that he mattered, but his favorite sound was her name rolling off his tongue. She knew it too, her blue eyes in that blissful contradiction of innocence and mischievousness as she called his name, over and over.
It was as if she was beckoning him closer, reminding him with her tone that he was hers, or merely liking how it sounded out of her mouth. He loved it all the same.
Depending on how much skin she was showing that night, he could see the little marks she'd accumulated over the course of her life: a scar on her shoulder from when she was a child, another near her ribcage, and multiple similar-looking ones at her hip that she promised to tell him about one day when she stopped being embarrassed by the memory.
He was fine with that. In his mind, it was just another thing to look forward to learning about his wife.
Sometimes, the marks would be something more temporary, like a slight redness to her leg when she bumped it against the table that morning, which he would be careful not to accidentally irritate. It gave him the perfect excuse to treat her just a little differently than usual, keeping her guessing as to what he might do next.
She had a particular noise she made whenever he slipped his hand under her shirt. If his hand was colder that night, it'd be a shuddery whine, but if it was warmer, then she'd let out a pleased hum. He always made sure to touch the scar at her ribcage, cherishing it even if he couldn't see it at the time.
When her grip on his shirt tightened, he knew what to prepare for and moved back appropriately as she pulled it off of him. It was a bittersweet feeling, seeing her so carelessly toss her work that he loved so much to the side, yet knowing that it meant she could freely touch more of his skin. Whether he had a "conventionally perfect male body" or not, her fingertips traced over the lines of it in such a way that he felt like, in her eyes, he did.
They caressed the other's body, they kissed, they hugged and cuddled each other. Before long, neither were below or atop the other anymore, or at the very least it was hard to keep track.
And then, not long after that, he'd wake up, the sun from the window shining against his back. Marinette would consistently be in his arms, face buried in his chest whether he had a shirt on or not, using him as her shield against the unfairly early morning.
"I had a dream about us," he'd say if she was awake, eager to spill the details.
Every time, she'd playfully admonish him, giggling and hitting his chest. "We're married! You see me every day!"
He'd chuckle, squeezing her tighter and telling her, almost like a promise, "Not enough."
Thus, the cycle would continue. Perhaps it did seem silly to others that he would seek to please her in the realm of his own dreams, but it was all he had left that he felt he could do.
He was thankful that her time as Ladybug had long since passed, and long enough to where she didn't tense up when she got an alert on her phone. The normal girl with the normal life who actually was anything but that, was now an extraordinary woman with a (relatively) normal life.
However, that didn't give her back the time she'd lost saving Paris, nor time she felt had been wasted that they could've spent together. He'd told her repeatedly that he didn't blame her and that all that mattered to him was the time she chose to spend with him now, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish that he could allow her that time back.
Despite that, he could still dream and tell her about it. He could practice pampering her in his mind to then follow up on in reality, trying to make up for the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years that they could've had. He just needed her to know that, whether awake or asleep, he thought of her, and not even the time they "lost" would give him enough to express that.
But he could try.