arthur hates meetings with his publicist. his life is too much of whirlwind and she’s never happy. not that he can blame her. her job is to make him look good and keep things smooth ; being in the tabloids every week or tweeting to fuck with people isn’t really helping to reach that goal. she would have his head if she knew he came straight to nimue’s after she spent an hour talking his ear off about putting distance between them to preserve his image. ( “ no more public spats , no more kisses , no more flip - flopping , arthur , i beg you ” sorry , elena. )
his shirt is shrugged onto broad shoulders , a dark mark starting to pulsate with pain in the crook of his neck. he should be pissed about her leaving such a blatant signature on his body , pissed at the pain too — but things have never be as they should be with nimue. instead , the dull beat of his heart he feels where her teeth sank makes him grin.
for all that she drives him mad , nimue is intoxicating and their time together makes him feel — he’s not sure what he feels ; but it’s 𝒇𝒖𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎. it makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. he tells himself it’s the thrill of doing this while everyone thinks they hate each other.
‟ plans for later ? ” the voice is nonchalant but he’s still on closing the first button. he’s pretending he’s getting dressed more than actually doing it. 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚.
● ● ● She stretches, lazy and feline, against the lush comfort of her own bed, content to watch Arthur sitting on the corner’s edge. Her blonde head rests in her hand, fingers threaded through thick curls as her bicep and elbow disappear into the pillow. Nimue hums absently as her other hand smooths over the silk sheet on her thigh, allowing herself a moment to drink in the handiwork she has left on his chiseled back before it is covered up by an offending white shirt. ( Perhaps she should have been more forceful when taking it off of him? Popped a few buttons? ) She likes him better when his clothes are off; he’s more palatable to her that way.
And she already misses the weight of him --- not that she would ever say as much.
❝ Plans? ❞ His question drags her from her quiet reverie, brow arching as she tries to decipher just why it is that he’s asking. She holds the sheet to her chest as she raises off the mattress, at least partially. It’s not that Nimue is ashamed of her nakedness or the lingering remnants of the depraved things they have done to one another, but rather the inequality of him putting on that dreadful shirt and her still bare and exposed. She slides over the silk to the edge of the bed where he sits, chin resting delicately upon his broad shoulder.
❝ I’m meant to do a chemistry reading, ❞ she answers vaguely, her arms deftly wrapping around his waist so that she can dip her hands beneath his still-unbuttoned shirt. Palms smooth over the warm skin that they find there, fingers splayed between the ridges of his ribs. The crescents of her dark blue nails dig into the flesh, neither too hard nor too gentle either. ❝ They want to give my character another long-lost love interest. ❞
Probably because it was one of her and Arthur’s ‘off’ periods. The press would have a field day with talks of a new combatant in the arena. Some other man for Arthur to scare away if she didn’t eat him first.
❝ They can reschedule, ❞ she mumbles absently, her mouth dragging over the starched fabric of his shirt until her lips have found the bruising mark she left before. Her kiss is soft upon it, her whisper warm. ❝ After all, if you leave now someone is likely to see and we can’t have that. Of course, you could still get dressed if you truly want to - sans that shirt - and we could order in? It should come as no surprise that I am practically starving. ❞
She nips delicately at the lobe of his ear to emphasize her own words, shifting to her knees so that she can once again remove his shirt from his shoulders.
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