I Was a Lover
Title : I Was a Lover
Summary : “Open up,” he whispers. He slips a cracker, covered with the fish eggs, between her lips - his thumb brushes a full lip- and she swallows heavily.
Rating : R
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt. Sometimes it's fine wine and caviar, sometimes it's pizza and beer.
i
His apartment in New York is the only place he really calls home, though one could hardly call it that. He returns to it only twice a year. There are no cheesy souvenirs, no pictures on the walls- Arthur is always cautious lest someone who wants his head on a silver platter finds him home- and the furniture is minimalist. Sleek leather chairs occupy the living room and there’s a throwaway shag rug that doesn’t look like it belongs. If Ariadne were more poetic, she would muse that the rug is an excellent representation of her in Arthur’s life.
He’s behind her, helping her out of her coat and he drops rogue kisses onto her shoulders and her neck. Her head lolls to the side and she can feel his smile against her skin. She doesn’t ask how long he’s wanted to do that. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. Arthur renders her speechless most of the time and when he slips a hand under the thin straps of her cocktail dress and traces her clavicles with feather light touches, all memories of how to string together a sentence escapes her grasp.
Arthur takes her hand in his and leads her to the bedroom. Deft hands unzip her dress and it pools at her feet. He trails a lone finger up her spine and she shivers. Ariadne will never tire of his attention to details. Especially not in the bedroom. His warm hands settle on her hips and turn her to him.
“Sorry you got dragged along on the job tonight.” His breath, that smells distinctly of the Bordeaux he sipped on for the entirety of their dinner, tickles her nose.
“It’s fine, really.” She lets out a contented sigh when his hand cups a breast, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers expertly.
“Didn’t want the mark to see you.” His voice drops and he runs his tongue against her pulse point. Her hands make themselves useful. She shucks his tuxedo jacket off his broad shoulders.
“He didn’t see me.” Her leg is hitched around his waist and she can feel his arousal pressing against her center.
“He could have.” His hips roll against hers and she keens. Ariadne grabs him by the neck and kisses him without pretense. A year and a half into their relationship grants her such luxuries as not having to play coy with him. He knows what she wants and he gives it to her, with every fiber of his being.
Her orgasm is teased from her body. His slow, deliberate strokes send her over the edge. His fingers tease her sides, thumbs brushing against her sensitive skin, as he pulls her hips up to meet his. When she comes, it isn’t with a scream or even a soft contented sigh. A low rumble in the pit of her stomach interrupts Arthur’s groans. Her legs are splayed and Arthur lies between them, buried to the hilt, and all Ariadne can do is smile sheepishly up at him.
The moment is effectively ruined. She nips his sweat slicked skin, urging him to continue, but he doesn’t.
“The bread basket wasn’t filling, was it?” Arthur braces himself on his elbows above her and pulls out slowly.
“Not in the slightest,” Ariadne admits, pushing wisps of his hair out of his face.
He’s off her in one swift movement. He pulls his boxer-briefs over his full cheeks and Ariadne bites her lip in an effort to keep herself from smiling too widely at the sight. Arthur is out the door and she hears rustling in the general direction of his kitchen. Snatching his discarded shirt off the floor, Ariadne pulls it on and not surprisingly it dwarfs her.
Arthur reenters minutes later, performing an incredible balancing act. There’s a box of crackers, a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, a loaf of bread and a little silver tin all sitting in his arms. She scoots away, making place for him on the bed. Ariadne fingers the silver tin and arches an eyebrow.
“You just happened to have caviar sitting in your refrigerator?” He just smiles in response.
Ariadne knows she shouldn’t be surprised. His fridge, in the apartment he rarely visits, is stocked with caviar and Sauvignon Blanc. She expects no differently from Arthur. He pops the bottle, arm muscles tightening in a way that causes her to pause and stare for just a moment. She’ll never get used to seeing him like this, no matter how many times she has already. It’s a prize for only her eyes.
“Open up,” he whispers. He slips a cracker, covered with the fish eggs, between her lips - his thumb brushes a full lip- and she swallows heavily.
Araidne hates the taste, she washes it down immediately with the white wine, but she leans forward for another, if just to feel the sensation of the pad of his thumb against her lips again.
ii
His bones ache. Walking up eight flights of stairs doesn’t help much either. The old elevator is broken, Arthur remembers it being the broken the last time he visited this building, and it takes all his strength not to sit on the cold staircase and take a break before continuing. The job in Brussels doesn’t go as planned and the extractor is a complete buffoon. If the unexpected security hadn’t already shot him, Arthur is positive he would have put a couple bullets in the man himself.
All of that is inconsequential to him at the moment. Ariadne is just one storey away.
He wants to laugh. He drives three hours, bleeding all the while, and he can’t make it one more flight of stairs.
There’s a thrumming pain in his chest, his lip is split and he’s sure the black eye has come into its own by now. When he parted ways with her a month ago, this isn’t how he’s expecting to see her again.
With weary legs, he presses forward.
Light peeks out from under the door and Arthur presses an aching finger to the doorbell. There’s shuffling just beyond the door before it’s pulled open carefully.
“You should ask who’s there before you open your door to strangers in the middle of the night,” he admonishes, leaning against the door frame weakly.
“Jesus, Arthur,” Ariadne gasps.
Without hesitation, she loops his arm over her shoulder and pulls him away from the doorway, kicking the big oak door shut behind her. Ariadne is tiny, but undoubtedly strong. It came with the territory of having two older brothers, she told him once. She’s seen her fair share of battered men as well. More than Arthur thinks she should have. She leads him to the kitchen and sets him down on one of the six mismatched chairs that sit at the wooden table.
“Roommates?” He asks, wincing as Ariadne removes his arm from around her shoulder.
“They’re all out celebrating the end of finals. What happened?”
“The job wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.” She’s before him, ice pack in hand. She presses it to his eye and his fingers close around hers.
“You said you would be careful, Arthur.” Her voice holds an edge to it and he tightens his fingers around hers in response.
“This was out of my control.”
“Most things aren’t.”
“Ariadne…”
“Have you eaten?” She cuts him off abruptly.
He’s not the only one who avoids talking about things. Ariadne’s tendency to do so only comes in random spurts however. This is one of those times. He shakes his head no and lets her relieve her ice pack holding duties.
She’s rummaging through the fridge and he watches her with the eye that isn’t swollen. She uncaps a beer bottle on the side of the wooden table, like a person who’s done the act several times before he notes, and slides it to him. He’s battered, not incapacitated. His reflexes are still quick and he captures the beer bottle easily. He raises it to his mouth and lets the alcoholic beverage slide through his lips easily. It’s the cheap, terrible beer she loves so much. It soothes him.
Ariadne sets the slice of pizza down in front of him, but he doesn’t pay attention. He takes her hand in his and intertwines their fingers. Six months. It’s the amount of time he’s had the luxury of returning to Paris, of returning to her. His hand wraps around her waist and pulls her closer. The icepack drops, forgotten, and he presses his face to her stomach as he holds her close. He can feel her fingers running through his hair and her warm lips drop kisses on his forehead.
“Be careful next time. Please.”
She coaxes his head away from her stomach and presses her mouth to his, finally. She tastes like cheap beer and terrible pizza and in his state, it’s the best kiss he can remember sharing with her.
Summary : “Open up,” he whispers. He slips a cracker, covered with the fish eggs, between her lips - his thumb brushes a full lip- and she swallows heavily.
Rating : R
Notes : Written for this inception_kink prompt. Sometimes it's fine wine and caviar, sometimes it's pizza and beer.
i
His apartment in New York is the only place he really calls home, though one could hardly call it that. He returns to it only twice a year. There are no cheesy souvenirs, no pictures on the walls- Arthur is always cautious lest someone who wants his head on a silver platter finds him home- and the furniture is minimalist. Sleek leather chairs occupy the living room and there’s a throwaway shag rug that doesn’t look like it belongs. If Ariadne were more poetic, she would muse that the rug is an excellent representation of her in Arthur’s life.
He’s behind her, helping her out of her coat and he drops rogue kisses onto her shoulders and her neck. Her head lolls to the side and she can feel his smile against her skin. She doesn’t ask how long he’s wanted to do that. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. Arthur renders her speechless most of the time and when he slips a hand under the thin straps of her cocktail dress and traces her clavicles with feather light touches, all memories of how to string together a sentence escapes her grasp.
Arthur takes her hand in his and leads her to the bedroom. Deft hands unzip her dress and it pools at her feet. He trails a lone finger up her spine and she shivers. Ariadne will never tire of his attention to details. Especially not in the bedroom. His warm hands settle on her hips and turn her to him.
“Sorry you got dragged along on the job tonight.” His breath, that smells distinctly of the Bordeaux he sipped on for the entirety of their dinner, tickles her nose.
“It’s fine, really.” She lets out a contented sigh when his hand cups a breast, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers expertly.
“Didn’t want the mark to see you.” His voice drops and he runs his tongue against her pulse point. Her hands make themselves useful. She shucks his tuxedo jacket off his broad shoulders.
“He didn’t see me.” Her leg is hitched around his waist and she can feel his arousal pressing against her center.
“He could have.” His hips roll against hers and she keens. Ariadne grabs him by the neck and kisses him without pretense. A year and a half into their relationship grants her such luxuries as not having to play coy with him. He knows what she wants and he gives it to her, with every fiber of his being.
Her orgasm is teased from her body. His slow, deliberate strokes send her over the edge. His fingers tease her sides, thumbs brushing against her sensitive skin, as he pulls her hips up to meet his. When she comes, it isn’t with a scream or even a soft contented sigh. A low rumble in the pit of her stomach interrupts Arthur’s groans. Her legs are splayed and Arthur lies between them, buried to the hilt, and all Ariadne can do is smile sheepishly up at him.
The moment is effectively ruined. She nips his sweat slicked skin, urging him to continue, but he doesn’t.
“The bread basket wasn’t filling, was it?” Arthur braces himself on his elbows above her and pulls out slowly.
“Not in the slightest,” Ariadne admits, pushing wisps of his hair out of his face.
He’s off her in one swift movement. He pulls his boxer-briefs over his full cheeks and Ariadne bites her lip in an effort to keep herself from smiling too widely at the sight. Arthur is out the door and she hears rustling in the general direction of his kitchen. Snatching his discarded shirt off the floor, Ariadne pulls it on and not surprisingly it dwarfs her.
Arthur reenters minutes later, performing an incredible balancing act. There’s a box of crackers, a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, a loaf of bread and a little silver tin all sitting in his arms. She scoots away, making place for him on the bed. Ariadne fingers the silver tin and arches an eyebrow.
“You just happened to have caviar sitting in your refrigerator?” He just smiles in response.
Ariadne knows she shouldn’t be surprised. His fridge, in the apartment he rarely visits, is stocked with caviar and Sauvignon Blanc. She expects no differently from Arthur. He pops the bottle, arm muscles tightening in a way that causes her to pause and stare for just a moment. She’ll never get used to seeing him like this, no matter how many times she has already. It’s a prize for only her eyes.
“Open up,” he whispers. He slips a cracker, covered with the fish eggs, between her lips - his thumb brushes a full lip- and she swallows heavily.
Araidne hates the taste, she washes it down immediately with the white wine, but she leans forward for another, if just to feel the sensation of the pad of his thumb against her lips again.
ii
His bones ache. Walking up eight flights of stairs doesn’t help much either. The old elevator is broken, Arthur remembers it being the broken the last time he visited this building, and it takes all his strength not to sit on the cold staircase and take a break before continuing. The job in Brussels doesn’t go as planned and the extractor is a complete buffoon. If the unexpected security hadn’t already shot him, Arthur is positive he would have put a couple bullets in the man himself.
All of that is inconsequential to him at the moment. Ariadne is just one storey away.
He wants to laugh. He drives three hours, bleeding all the while, and he can’t make it one more flight of stairs.
There’s a thrumming pain in his chest, his lip is split and he’s sure the black eye has come into its own by now. When he parted ways with her a month ago, this isn’t how he’s expecting to see her again.
With weary legs, he presses forward.
Light peeks out from under the door and Arthur presses an aching finger to the doorbell. There’s shuffling just beyond the door before it’s pulled open carefully.
“You should ask who’s there before you open your door to strangers in the middle of the night,” he admonishes, leaning against the door frame weakly.
“Jesus, Arthur,” Ariadne gasps.
Without hesitation, she loops his arm over her shoulder and pulls him away from the doorway, kicking the big oak door shut behind her. Ariadne is tiny, but undoubtedly strong. It came with the territory of having two older brothers, she told him once. She’s seen her fair share of battered men as well. More than Arthur thinks she should have. She leads him to the kitchen and sets him down on one of the six mismatched chairs that sit at the wooden table.
“Roommates?” He asks, wincing as Ariadne removes his arm from around her shoulder.
“They’re all out celebrating the end of finals. What happened?”
“The job wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.” She’s before him, ice pack in hand. She presses it to his eye and his fingers close around hers.
“You said you would be careful, Arthur.” Her voice holds an edge to it and he tightens his fingers around hers in response.
“This was out of my control.”
“Most things aren’t.”
“Ariadne…”
“Have you eaten?” She cuts him off abruptly.
He’s not the only one who avoids talking about things. Ariadne’s tendency to do so only comes in random spurts however. This is one of those times. He shakes his head no and lets her relieve her ice pack holding duties.
She’s rummaging through the fridge and he watches her with the eye that isn’t swollen. She uncaps a beer bottle on the side of the wooden table, like a person who’s done the act several times before he notes, and slides it to him. He’s battered, not incapacitated. His reflexes are still quick and he captures the beer bottle easily. He raises it to his mouth and lets the alcoholic beverage slide through his lips easily. It’s the cheap, terrible beer she loves so much. It soothes him.
Ariadne sets the slice of pizza down in front of him, but he doesn’t pay attention. He takes her hand in his and intertwines their fingers. Six months. It’s the amount of time he’s had the luxury of returning to Paris, of returning to her. His hand wraps around her waist and pulls her closer. The icepack drops, forgotten, and he presses his face to her stomach as he holds her close. He can feel her fingers running through his hair and her warm lips drop kisses on his forehead.
“Be careful next time. Please.”
She coaxes his head away from her stomach and presses her mouth to his, finally. She tastes like cheap beer and terrible pizza and in his state, it’s the best kiss he can remember sharing with her.