From the Inception kink meme:
Prompt: He laces her into a corset, then after a whole day wearing it, cuts her free, lace by lace.
A/N: I wrote het? What? Arthur/Ariadne, 1329 words, rated R for Rallentando. Inception's not mine, don't sue.
The strokes of Arthur's hand across the huge sheet of newsprint reflect everything he does. They are calculated, meticulous, precise. If Ariadne had never seen one of his drawings, she'd have guessed he was more suited to architecture, something all straight lines and angles. But whatever he lacks in emotional expression during the work day, he more than makes up in his free time and when he sketches. He pours his every little hidden thing within him into his work. The final product is like an extension of himself, the essence of what he usually intimates only through the tiny smiles he offers her when others are around. The first time she'd seen one of his drawings, it had been like seeing his soul laid bare. She'd felt privileged. Honored. It was nothing like this, though.
"Tilt your chin just a bit higher." Arthur's voice is rough and scratchy; they're the first words he's spoken in at least two hours. Ariadne complies, and he smiles at her before returning to work. All she hears is the soft skritch-skritch of his Conté crayon over the paper and the tortillion he uses occasionally to smooth the planes. He doesn't tell her he's nearly finished, but she knows by the way his strokes begin to diminish in frequency that he's simply filling in the details now. Finally he takes a step back, his dark eyes flicking between Ariadne, seated at the center of the room, and his drawing. "It's done."
Ariadne lets herself melt out of the pose she's been holding for hours-as much she can, anyway. She's draped over in a long satin skirt and matching sash, and her chest is bound in the tightly-laced corset Arthur had surprised her with when he'd told her he wanted to draw her. Her whole body aches as she pushes herself off the floor and stretches out. It feels good to move, but Ariadne is almost afraid.
Arthur watches her stretch but remain where she's standing, and he seems unsure. "You don't want to see it?"
"Oh no," Ariadne blinks, "of course I want to see it. It's just a little... nerve-wracking, I guess."
The barest of smiles flitters across Arthur's lips. "I understand. It's got the potential to be a bit overwhelming." And it doesn't come out as egotistical, because they both know he's being serious. Whatever's on that paper represents Arthur's true impression of her. He's taking as much of a risk showing her the drawing as she is looking. He holds out his hand to her, steady, and all Ariadne can do is drop her sash and tiptoe over to him on bare feet. She's not sure she's prepared for what she'll see, but she'll take that leap of faith regardless.
"Arthur," she breathes.
She's never seen anything quite like it. It looks like an underpainting by an old master the way he's rendered her figure in tones of black, sanguine and white. The lines are graceful, sweeping, from the swan curve of her neck and shoulder to the drape of the fabric fanned around her. The light and shadow create such volume that it seems the image could walk right off the page. And the details! oh, the details. The shadow and sparkle in her eyes, her fingers laced over one knee, the texture of the corset, the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Ariadne's heart stops. He's put such care into it, such love. She'd had no idea. "Oh..."
Arthur rests his hands on her shoulders after a moment of silence. They're warm and dry, and Ariadne leans into the touch. He presses the pad of one thumb to the exposed skin and traces the gentle slope, leaving a trail of sanguine. The lines of their bodies meld together, and Ariadne shudders. She can feel his breath feathering across the nape of her neck as he buries his nose into her and just inhales, like he can breathe her in. He pauses, in askance, Ariadne realizes.
"Yes," she whispers.
It doesn't take him long to strip out of the sweatpants he'd been wearing, but he turns her back around with a smirk when she tries to look at him. Her legs threaten to give out as he begins exploring her with his hands, and so she grabs hold of the wooden chair he'd been sitting in. The satin skirt is attached by a few buttons, but Arthur of course is an expert at undoing them. The satin slides off her hips and trails down her legs like running water until it pools on the ground around her. Arthur hums appreciatively in the back of his throat. She isn't wearing any panties, but it doesn't seem dirty somehow. He's studying her not as an object, but as a work of art. She spreads her thighs for him and one of his hands travels down to stroke the smooth, creamy skin. She's quivering under his touch like a plucked string, and she can feel him smiling into her. She's already wet when his fingers begin to slide along her, has been for a while, really. One of them finds her clit, and before she can bite it back she's moaning and leaning heavily against the chair for support. Arthur wraps the arm that isn't touching her around her middle, holding her in place, and then he's pushing inside her.
Arthur lets out a deep sigh of pleasure and they still for a moment, savoring the feeling. "This is going to be a bit cold, sorry."
"What?" Ariadne asks, momentarily confused by the apparent non-sequitur. She hears the scrape of something picked up off the table, and abruptly cold metal is pressed to her back. She lets out a little squeak. "What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer in words, but the snip of a scissors is enough explanation. He cuts the bottom lace of her corset, and all of a sudden she can breathe infinitesimally easier. Another. She can tell he's relishing it, the way he goes about it slowly, exposing more and more skin each time. The last snatch of ribbon gives way and the corset falls to the ground at their feet in the pile of satin. She's fully naked now. The hand holding her up moves to cup one of her breasts as he finally begins to move inside her.
Arthur makes love the same way he sketches-meticulously, but with every ounce of his love poured into it. Ariadne can feel it in the way he whispers her name and strokes her in time to his slow, languid thrusts. Her breath catches every time, and every time a bit of her melts. She opens her eyes (when had they closed?) and gazes at the drawing before her. Arthur inhabits every line as much as she does. He fills her, surrounds her, completes her this way. And she, Ariadne begins to suspect, does the same for him.
"Ariadne," he groans, voice broken to pieces. If he has more to say, it's lost in the incoherent syllables that tumble from his mouth as she trembles around him and he follows. He lets out a shuddering breath, leaning into her. They stay that way for a moment, struggling to remain standing, until Ariadne gives up on the notion as ridiculous.
"Lie down?" she smiles. Arthur nods wordlessly, eyes at half mast. He's got a king sized mattress tucked into one of the corners of the studio apartment, and they manage the few steps over to it before flopping down gracelessly. His hands stroke idly at her skin, feeling the slickness he's left between her legs and down her thighs.
"You know, I really can't seem to be bothered." His voice is slow, sleepy.
"We'll shower in the morning," she promises, and he chuckles, a rumble against her back. Pause. "Arthur?"
"Mm?"
"You're an incredible artist."
Arthur stills against her, then lets out a long, relieved breath. "You're just incredible."