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Entry tags:
Fic: Deepening
Series: The Tale of Jonathan and Kitten (pt. 4)
Fandom: Batman Begins/Breakfast on Pluto
Summary: Kitten has a surprise for Jonathan.
Rating: NC-17
ANN: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melty_girl for the beta.
Kitten has a scheme planned for tonight, I know it. Everything is just a tad too obviously set up, though I‘m not against it in the least. She summoned me here tonight especially, promising a dinner made by her own hands -- “Though nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.” So, as usual, when Kitten uses her darling charm on me, I said yes. Dinner was perfectly set up on her new table, complete with a frilly white tablecloth and fine plates sitting squarely on cloth placemats. But it was not the setting of the table that commanded my attention; it was that tight, red dress, perfectly adjusted in all the right places, displaying just the right amount of skin and curve to turn any man’s head. While there’s nothing I haven’t seen of her delightful body by now, that certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t yearn to touch and taste what I have come to know so well, and with just as much enthusiasm as before. I hardly taste the chicken she made -- I’m too enthralled watching as she brings the food up to her mouth, dipping the fork past her lips and gripping it for the few moments required, her bottom lip drawing forward the tiniest bit. But that’s only a prelude, a tease to entice me into fulfilling her far more pleasurable wishes. Her subtle game is twinkling in her eyes, as she takes me by the hand and pulls me out of my chair. I don’t resist. I don’t want to resist, not when the distance between me and her is an unwelcome hindrance that must be eliminated as soon as possible. Still holding onto my right hand, Kitten trails her fingers up my left arm and rests her hand lightly on my shoulder.
“Jonathan,” she says in a lightly suggestive tone, tilting her head adorably to the side. “Why don’t you take me dancing?”
“I’ve told you why.” The topic came up two nights ago as we returned to the apartment. I made it very clear that I don’t particularly care to go into a badly lit, sonorous chaos where I can’t form a coherent thought.
“I know. But,” she continues in the same seductive voice, sidling up a little closer to me with every word, “I want you to dance with me.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder and places my hand on her hip, right where the bone juts out slightly. I caress the thin gossamer cloth of her dress. It’s expensive material, no doubt bought with the money I have helpfully supplied -- like every other new thing here -- but the body underneath it is far more precious. I raise my other hand to her back, gently drawing her in, and soon the warm line of her body is pressed fully against me. She sways slightly to the side, making it fairly obvious what her intention is. Let no one say that Kitten doesn’t know how to get what she wants.
“What do you propose, Kitten?” I dip my face near her own, in the classic posture of the forthcoming kiss, but I don’t kiss her yet.
She grips my shoulders and moves into me with a subtle undulating of her hips. Her leg brushes mine, coaxing me to shift to the side with her. I oblige her unspoken request, taking the first step of what soon evolves into a dance, which is precisely what she intended all along. Her eyes flicker heatedly into mine.
“Perhaps,” she says with a breathy whisper on my lips, “you’d rather dance right here.”
By now we are gently gliding together to some silent melody that need not have a precise form. Our faces touch; her cheek feels so exquisitely hot against mine. I lay a kiss on the corner of her eye.
“I have no objection to that.”
My fingers become entangled in the folds of her dress as we sink into a deep kiss that neither of us is in any hurry to finish.
Her skin slides beneath my hands as she rides me, slim thighs tight on my torso. I grip her waist to help her along, needing to feel the heady heat straining to burst from within her, so hot and beautiful and exquisitely her. She feels like heaven. Every one of my senses is perfectly attuned to her quick, shivering breath, the sweet tremble of her muscles beneath my hands, the moist sweat glowing on her pale skin. I raise my hand and lick my finger, tasting it on my tongue. She follows my movement with her gaze, eyes burning with the same ecstasy I feel coursing through me. Her hands wander over my chest, nails lightly scraping, scratching when I angle a thrust just so, a startled gasp bursting from her pretty pink lips. Her lipstick is nearly gone from all of our kissing earlier. I want to kiss her again, taste her as I make her mine. I take her in my hand, and stroke her unhurriedly, in no rush for this to end. She quickens her motions, moving more desperately. Her hand tightens suddenly on my shoulder as she comes all over my chest and stills above me, her eyes closing. I gently lay her down on her side and brush her hair out of her eyes, kissing her forehead. She smiles faintly, a happy glow on her face. I wait for her breath to calm somewhat, then I climb over her. She scoots forward on the small mattress to give me room, and I position myself behind her. “All right,” I murmur, lifting her leg over mine, my chest pressed to her back, feeling every breath as it fills her body. She nods. “Go on,” she says, throwing an arm blindly behind her to urge me forward. Kissing her shoulder, I enter her again in a quick thrust. She gasps, arching her head back on my shoulder. Her fingers curl up on my back, nails digging into my flesh. I seek her right hand with mine, entangling them in the sheets.
They stay that way until long after I’ve come.
`````````````````````````
“Kitten?”
She’s lying in front of me, her back spooned against my chest, her eyes just opening from what surely was a good night‘s sleep. It certainly was for me, something that was rather unusual before I met her. Sleeping with her is so soothing. It’s a calming influence I’ve never known before. I nuzzle her hair, breathing in the cozy scent of the shampoo she uses.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, a gentle smile on her face. It’s a pity to have to disturb such endearing contentment.
“I can’t make it tonight.”
She slowly opens her eyes, a slight frown forming on her brow, and turns around. “Why not?” There’s surprise in her still sleepy sounding voice.
“There are some things that I have to take care of.”
“What kind of things?”
“Research mostly.” But don’t ask me about what, because I can’t tell you.
Her mouth opens to say something, but thankfully, she stays silent. I’ve already told her that I’m not comfortable discussing my work and she doesn’t press. With a disappointed sigh, she says, “Okay.”
I kiss her, tasting the sweet strawberries I fed her last night. This will be the first night I haven’t seen her in over two weeks. It’s quite surprising, really, that I haven’t needed an entire night to myself before now. Or rather, I wasn’t willing to take one. Quitting Kitten’s company is not a particularly pleasing thing to do. But by now I am in dire need of getting some things organized and perfected. I’m not about to choose between them and her. An entire life’s pursuit isn’t just abandoned from one day to the next. I shall just have to find some balance between the two.
`````````````````````````
On the tenth night, I brought her a white rose. It’s about one of the biggest clichés for a present (except for the small detail that they are usually red, not white), but I knew she’d appreciate it. I’m not a romantic person, nor even a relationship person. This thing with Kitten has struck me when I least expected it to. Not that I was expecting anything at all. My career and my dream to reach the very heart of fear and to explore its essence is all I’ve ever wanted, or so I thought. But when I saw the rose standing in its cheap plastic container in a store, one of the few good memories I conserve of my childhood came back to me. It’s only a fragment, faded with the long passage of years: a bouquet of white roses in the white vase on the living room table, given to my mother by my father before she had her second breakdown and our home turned into an ever-increasing hell.
The rose I bought now sits in a new vase on Kitten’s also new table. I remember the smile on her face when I gave it to her, the joy she showed at such a small object that, in the end, is just going to wilt away and die. She’s pleased by such simple things. But in the larger scheme of things, she doesn’t want a simple thing. What she wants is one of the most complicated, messiest things I can think of. And she wants it with me. Just like with the singer she ran away with in Ireland and the magician in London. Oh, yes, she told me about them, though fortunately not in too much detail. Just enough to know what they meant to her. Is she in love with me? Maybe she just thinks she loves me, and she's molding me into her ideal man in her shiny self-constructed world. But I’m not giving her enough credit. Her denial is only skin-deep. She knows perfectly well what is happening around her. She knows that I’m not the brave, white knight come to save her from the monsters, even if she doesn’t know everything I’m capable of. I haven’t told her about my past, any of it. It’s not a subject I’m willing to discuss. She, however, has told me plenty of hers. Did she tell the other two this much about her? Did she act with the same openness, the same buoyant desperation? She asked me to come up to her apartment after having just met me. All I’d done was make a kind (though not disinterested, I‘ll admit) gesture. She wants someone to take care of her and pay the bills. Maybe anyone will do. But I cannot think that her attraction to me is that simple. There’s something that makes me think differently, a genuine emotion in her eyes when she gazes at me. It always makes me stop whatever I’m doing to try to decipher what it is that she’s thinking when she stares at me like that. The only thing I know for certain is that, whatever it is, it’s not false and it’s not an act. It’s real. And it’s frightening.
Fandom: Batman Begins/Breakfast on Pluto
Summary: Kitten has a surprise for Jonathan.
Rating: NC-17
ANN: Thanks to
melty_girl for the beta.Kitten has a scheme planned for tonight, I know it. Everything is just a tad too obviously set up, though I‘m not against it in the least. She summoned me here tonight especially, promising a dinner made by her own hands -- “Though nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.” So, as usual, when Kitten uses her darling charm on me, I said yes. Dinner was perfectly set up on her new table, complete with a frilly white tablecloth and fine plates sitting squarely on cloth placemats. But it was not the setting of the table that commanded my attention; it was that tight, red dress, perfectly adjusted in all the right places, displaying just the right amount of skin and curve to turn any man’s head. While there’s nothing I haven’t seen of her delightful body by now, that certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t yearn to touch and taste what I have come to know so well, and with just as much enthusiasm as before. I hardly taste the chicken she made -- I’m too enthralled watching as she brings the food up to her mouth, dipping the fork past her lips and gripping it for the few moments required, her bottom lip drawing forward the tiniest bit. But that’s only a prelude, a tease to entice me into fulfilling her far more pleasurable wishes. Her subtle game is twinkling in her eyes, as she takes me by the hand and pulls me out of my chair. I don’t resist. I don’t want to resist, not when the distance between me and her is an unwelcome hindrance that must be eliminated as soon as possible. Still holding onto my right hand, Kitten trails her fingers up my left arm and rests her hand lightly on my shoulder.
“Jonathan,” she says in a lightly suggestive tone, tilting her head adorably to the side. “Why don’t you take me dancing?”
“I’ve told you why.” The topic came up two nights ago as we returned to the apartment. I made it very clear that I don’t particularly care to go into a badly lit, sonorous chaos where I can’t form a coherent thought.
“I know. But,” she continues in the same seductive voice, sidling up a little closer to me with every word, “I want you to dance with me.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder and places my hand on her hip, right where the bone juts out slightly. I caress the thin gossamer cloth of her dress. It’s expensive material, no doubt bought with the money I have helpfully supplied -- like every other new thing here -- but the body underneath it is far more precious. I raise my other hand to her back, gently drawing her in, and soon the warm line of her body is pressed fully against me. She sways slightly to the side, making it fairly obvious what her intention is. Let no one say that Kitten doesn’t know how to get what she wants.
“What do you propose, Kitten?” I dip my face near her own, in the classic posture of the forthcoming kiss, but I don’t kiss her yet.
She grips my shoulders and moves into me with a subtle undulating of her hips. Her leg brushes mine, coaxing me to shift to the side with her. I oblige her unspoken request, taking the first step of what soon evolves into a dance, which is precisely what she intended all along. Her eyes flicker heatedly into mine.
“Perhaps,” she says with a breathy whisper on my lips, “you’d rather dance right here.”
By now we are gently gliding together to some silent melody that need not have a precise form. Our faces touch; her cheek feels so exquisitely hot against mine. I lay a kiss on the corner of her eye.
“I have no objection to that.”
My fingers become entangled in the folds of her dress as we sink into a deep kiss that neither of us is in any hurry to finish.
Her skin slides beneath my hands as she rides me, slim thighs tight on my torso. I grip her waist to help her along, needing to feel the heady heat straining to burst from within her, so hot and beautiful and exquisitely her. She feels like heaven. Every one of my senses is perfectly attuned to her quick, shivering breath, the sweet tremble of her muscles beneath my hands, the moist sweat glowing on her pale skin. I raise my hand and lick my finger, tasting it on my tongue. She follows my movement with her gaze, eyes burning with the same ecstasy I feel coursing through me. Her hands wander over my chest, nails lightly scraping, scratching when I angle a thrust just so, a startled gasp bursting from her pretty pink lips. Her lipstick is nearly gone from all of our kissing earlier. I want to kiss her again, taste her as I make her mine. I take her in my hand, and stroke her unhurriedly, in no rush for this to end. She quickens her motions, moving more desperately. Her hand tightens suddenly on my shoulder as she comes all over my chest and stills above me, her eyes closing. I gently lay her down on her side and brush her hair out of her eyes, kissing her forehead. She smiles faintly, a happy glow on her face. I wait for her breath to calm somewhat, then I climb over her. She scoots forward on the small mattress to give me room, and I position myself behind her. “All right,” I murmur, lifting her leg over mine, my chest pressed to her back, feeling every breath as it fills her body. She nods. “Go on,” she says, throwing an arm blindly behind her to urge me forward. Kissing her shoulder, I enter her again in a quick thrust. She gasps, arching her head back on my shoulder. Her fingers curl up on my back, nails digging into my flesh. I seek her right hand with mine, entangling them in the sheets.
They stay that way until long after I’ve come.
`````````````````````````
“Kitten?”
She’s lying in front of me, her back spooned against my chest, her eyes just opening from what surely was a good night‘s sleep. It certainly was for me, something that was rather unusual before I met her. Sleeping with her is so soothing. It’s a calming influence I’ve never known before. I nuzzle her hair, breathing in the cozy scent of the shampoo she uses.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, a gentle smile on her face. It’s a pity to have to disturb such endearing contentment.
“I can’t make it tonight.”
She slowly opens her eyes, a slight frown forming on her brow, and turns around. “Why not?” There’s surprise in her still sleepy sounding voice.
“There are some things that I have to take care of.”
“What kind of things?”
“Research mostly.” But don’t ask me about what, because I can’t tell you.
Her mouth opens to say something, but thankfully, she stays silent. I’ve already told her that I’m not comfortable discussing my work and she doesn’t press. With a disappointed sigh, she says, “Okay.”
I kiss her, tasting the sweet strawberries I fed her last night. This will be the first night I haven’t seen her in over two weeks. It’s quite surprising, really, that I haven’t needed an entire night to myself before now. Or rather, I wasn’t willing to take one. Quitting Kitten’s company is not a particularly pleasing thing to do. But by now I am in dire need of getting some things organized and perfected. I’m not about to choose between them and her. An entire life’s pursuit isn’t just abandoned from one day to the next. I shall just have to find some balance between the two.
`````````````````````````
On the tenth night, I brought her a white rose. It’s about one of the biggest clichés for a present (except for the small detail that they are usually red, not white), but I knew she’d appreciate it. I’m not a romantic person, nor even a relationship person. This thing with Kitten has struck me when I least expected it to. Not that I was expecting anything at all. My career and my dream to reach the very heart of fear and to explore its essence is all I’ve ever wanted, or so I thought. But when I saw the rose standing in its cheap plastic container in a store, one of the few good memories I conserve of my childhood came back to me. It’s only a fragment, faded with the long passage of years: a bouquet of white roses in the white vase on the living room table, given to my mother by my father before she had her second breakdown and our home turned into an ever-increasing hell.
The rose I bought now sits in a new vase on Kitten’s also new table. I remember the smile on her face when I gave it to her, the joy she showed at such a small object that, in the end, is just going to wilt away and die. She’s pleased by such simple things. But in the larger scheme of things, she doesn’t want a simple thing. What she wants is one of the most complicated, messiest things I can think of. And she wants it with me. Just like with the singer she ran away with in Ireland and the magician in London. Oh, yes, she told me about them, though fortunately not in too much detail. Just enough to know what they meant to her. Is she in love with me? Maybe she just thinks she loves me, and she's molding me into her ideal man in her shiny self-constructed world. But I’m not giving her enough credit. Her denial is only skin-deep. She knows perfectly well what is happening around her. She knows that I’m not the brave, white knight come to save her from the monsters, even if she doesn’t know everything I’m capable of. I haven’t told her about my past, any of it. It’s not a subject I’m willing to discuss. She, however, has told me plenty of hers. Did she tell the other two this much about her? Did she act with the same openness, the same buoyant desperation? She asked me to come up to her apartment after having just met me. All I’d done was make a kind (though not disinterested, I‘ll admit) gesture. She wants someone to take care of her and pay the bills. Maybe anyone will do. But I cannot think that her attraction to me is that simple. There’s something that makes me think differently, a genuine emotion in her eyes when she gazes at me. It always makes me stop whatever I’m doing to try to decipher what it is that she’s thinking when she stares at me like that. The only thing I know for certain is that, whatever it is, it’s not false and it’s not an act. It’s real. And it’s frightening.