Author's Note: I'll go back and edit this later, I promise! I just wanted to post it before I lost the courage to do so. I'm not sure if I like it, but it was just a writing exercise to get me in the mood to plot out Labyrinth. Well, it worked...I'm in the writing mood now, but I'm still not certain. Anyway, I've got a basic idea for my other Arthur/Ariadne story now and I'll start plotting it out before I lose it. Thanks for reading! Don't be too harsh now. ;)

Disclaimer - Arthur and Ariadne belong to Christopher Nolan, not me.


She likes to trace him. Her fingertips like a ball point pen against his skin, drawing lines only she can see and he can feel and he's like a map exposed before her eyes. The rough patches of his scars, telling stories of balancing on the verge of death and the ghosts of bullet holes near his heart makes her own pound a little harder. She wouldn't tell him, but she doesn't like those scars…they could have taken him, and then he never would have been hers.

Frankly, he doesn't mind. He'd never tell her, because words don't mean much to him and they never did, but he likes it. Likes the way her warmth belongs to him and they're merged together, a web of skin and breath and the quiet spreads over them like hungry spiders, devouring every intention they have to speak. Breaking the frail silence that separates them from the rush of humanity.

Her eyes connect with his and he is blinded by a glimpse of light, colors he's never seen before burned into his memory like a brand. Still, she breathes. And still, her warmth radiates like she is a sun all her own, and his existence revolves around her.

Perhaps she's an angel. He shifts his head, the better to see her, and his lashes fall like shadows of gashes over his cheek in the wake of a devastating smile. Yes, she is. There's no mistaking it once he looks at her.

He likes it this way, when its so quiet that the sunlight can even reach them through the veil of stillness he's thrown over them. The windows of the world are veiled by sleeping curtains and when she sleeps, his fingers trip and stumble in the paths of her dark hair.

But right now, she's awake. And she's looking at him in that way that tells him everything she's thinking, every little tendril of thought that unravels behind the gentle brown pools of her gaze, like deep brown earth that he could sink into and grow like a flower in her fertile soul.

There's modesty there, the kind that young girls wear as a white veil in the back seat of their boyfriend's car, but the flash of curiosity taints her innocence, if only just a little. And there's affection, how could he miss that little vine that takes him and wraps him around her finger, making him completely his in always every way possible?

She reaches her destination, her fingertips rest at the hem of his slacks. And x marks the spot.

He turns his head. An inquisition.

She looks up at him, biting her lip. An answer.

His hands reach for her, but they are gentle as they gather her into his arms. She is small, he knows. She might break beneath the slightest pressure. Her satin lips brush his cotton collar and he feels underdressed, but she couldn't disagree anymore. Her nimble fingers work against him, removing the layers and layers of fabric that divide them until he's bare and she's undone and her sighs are like butterfly wings against his.

She opens up, and he flows into her, and he feels like if he could, he'd never resurface, he'd never go back. If he could, he'd live in her forever, as if she were his fortress, and she'd keep him safe. And she would. He knew she would.

Arthur. She mouths his name against his neck and they are undone. The last of their rise into euphoria settles like dust and he collects the pieces of her that are scattered in his grasp. One by one, she's whole again, her breath a cadenced song and his heart beating like a drum, and he presses his lips to her hair, closes his eyes, and pretends there is nothing in the world at all. Nothing but her fragile body and the smell of her skin and the dance of her fingertips tracing his arm as she drifts into a temperate haze.

He whispers in her ear, his mouth brushing against its soft shell, and she shivers beneath his grasp. Ariadne.

And she sleeps and she dreams.

And she will always belong to him.