Fic: Confection

[interpretthis]

Title: Confection

Author: interpretthis

Fandom: Lost

Pairing: Ben/Juliet

Rating: PG-13 for nudity and porny muffin-eating(!)

Genre: Het

Challenge: 7_deadly_sins_
Sin: Sloth
Warnings: Erm…muffin kink?

Summary:  “They’re fine!  It worked!  I didn’t burn them!” The smile in her voice is evident, even from rooms away.  There isn’t a corner the warm, buttery scent of golden muffins doesn’t reach. 

Notes: For augrah, with hugs. 

               

              
                “They’re fine!  It worked!  I didn’t burn them!” The smile in her voice is evident, even from rooms away.  There isn’t a corner the warm, buttery scent of golden muffins doesn’t reach.  The aroma brings with it ease, and with ease comes the floaty, heady calm of pure and steady comfort, the blithe sense of security one gets from curling before the fire with time, a good book, and the constant ringing patter of rain slowly inundating the world outside their bubble.  Safety.

 

                Ben enters the kitchen silently, curling his arms about her be-robed waist from behind.  She flinches softly – it’s a loving gesture, but she knows Ben cannot play at pure and simple compassion, so there’s no warning.  She relaxes into his arms, setting the muffin tray atop the stove, leaning her head against his own with a small grin that presses the high apple of her cheek against his as he speaks. Contentment.

 

                “We should wait for them to cool.”

 

                “Mmm.  Muffins are best eaten hot.”

 

                She tugs lightly against his arms with her weight and he lets her go, slipping the silk robe from her shoulders as he does.  Juliet tilts her head back to offer a smile, long blond hair careening over sharp shoulders, leaving the soft sweep of her back exposed, tiny dimple-dents resting just above the curve of her backside.  Ben lets his eyes trail further, skimming down slim, milky thighs, calves.  She works at the pan and he watches.  Fixation.

 

                When she turns, each hand holds a perfectly round muffin, her fingers cupping the bases of their bronzed domes.  She eats hers slowly, a quiet smirk playing about her rosy lips as morsel after morsel disappears.  She doesn’t offer and he doesn’t ask. Understanding.

 

                When she’s done, the pink tip of her tongue darts out to lick at her fingers, and though it’s no blatant show of temptation it’s not not either.  She finishes and stares and lowers herself to the linoleum floor, stretching out to her fullest, pointing toes and letting lanky legs fall into place.  Her head clunks down softly and she grins up at him with a coy twist, placing the muffin over the dip of her bellybutton where it sits, fluffy golden against smooth alabaster.  Invitation.

 

                Ben watches, unblinking, eyes characteristically wide, breathing even, eyebrow raised.  He sinks slowly to one knee, then the other.  Settles a palm to the floor and leans down carefully, eyes never leaving Juliet’s.  She follows him with her eyes as he works his way down, watching as he eases himself onto his left side, close but not touching.  Intimacy.

 

                He uses his crooked arm as a pillow and stares, stares as she stares back as he stares as she stares.  Her eyes wink with promise and his hidehidehide until there is nothing left to hide any longer, she thinks.  He takes his time with the muffin, inching his fingers across bare skin to pull off a bite, bring it to his lips, chew, swallow.  She smiles and he watches.  Individuality.

 

                It goes on like this, and though she’s naked, there’s warmth – heat everywhere.  It wafts off of the oven, filling her lungs – prickles across her skin where his fingers brush, sits in her core around the light press of the muffin, swirling in her center all honey and sun.  The muffin disappears and the heat stays, pooling beneath stroking, darting fingertips.  Consistency.

 

                He changes course gradually, rising, his palm resting at the base of her right breast as the index finger smoothes up its curve to stroke across the nipple.  There’s a low catch in the back of her throat.  Her flesh ripples.  He watches her face, as her eyes close, lips drifting apart just ever so slightly. Sensuality.

 

                He leans forward and she waits.  His lips brush against hers, light and gentle, and her long, thin fingers curl into the spikes of his hair, bending him closer.  His lips slant across her cheek to rest against her ear, moving as if to speak.  He pulls back slowly, his rough, heated palms still cupping her cheeks.  His eyes sweep down to her bellybutton, up to her breasts, her collarbone, her neck, her lips.  Eyes.

 

                “They’re getting cold.  The muffins.”

 

                Reality.

 

 -------fin-------