Make No Conditions |
radishface Inception → Arthur/Eames
How to Forge a Lady 101. Things get a little out of hand during a tutorial session. 1376 words. Explicit for some girl-on-girl-on-boy-on-boy-on-girl-on-girl action.
A/N, written for
inception_kink for the prompt: Eames teaches Arthur how to be a woman.
The scene: a hotel room that is exactly like all the others Arthur dreams of: tasteful, spotless, clinical. It's no surprise, given what Arthur is about to do.
Eames lounges on the duvet while Arthur paces. "When was the last time you were with a woman?"
Arthur bristles. "That's none of your concern."
"Think about everything you know about a woman. Everything. Yes, darling," Eames smirks, "that includes the cunt."
"Your specialty, I'm sure," Arthur huffs under his breath.
"There's no call for you to be a prude--now, try it. Think about a woman's cunt, the shape of it, the feel of it. Smells, flavors. What's it like to be in it. What it's like to have it."
Gritting his teeth, Arthur does. His face flushes, grows hot, then hotter. Then he clears his throat and crosses his legs. "I think we're done for today."
"Unfortunately not, pet." Eames smirks, eyes focused south of Arthur's belt. "One step at a time. There's still the whole rest of you to go."
"I would find this easier," Arthur clips, legs still tightly crossed, "if you weren't so intent on scrutinizing me."
A sigh. "Is this better, then?"
And Eames is gone. In his place is the forgery he calls Doletskaya: tall, blonde, silky-voiced. She leans in, long fingers skirting the crease of Arthur's pants, nails skimming his belt buckle. Arthur, in his haste to back away, nearly tips over in his chair.
"Hands. off." Arthur huffs. "Please."
"Relax, darling. We're both girls, aren't we?" Doletskaya's smile is feral, and not at all different from Eames'. "Now, why don't you let me see your progress?"
"Then I need to see something of yours," Arthur blurts out.
Doletskaya's eyes narrow. "Upping the stakes, are we," "she" murmurs.
"Just do it."
"You do it," is the sharp retort, and Doletskaya turns around. "Go ahead, zipper's right there."
So Arthur skims his hand up Doletskaya's back and draws the zipper down, excruciatingly slow, going south as much as his blood is. Parts the folds of black taffeta silk and Doletskaya's hands reach around to scoop the straps off her shoulders, material falling with a rustle. Arthur leans in before he can't, mouth hovering over the base of her spine.
"Bad boy." She turns around and stands back, just out of Arthur's reach. "Now, when in Rome--" Doletskaya's voice trails to a halt as her gaze simmers down. "You're a wet little girl, aren't you, pet."
"Just let me--" Arthur grunts, hands scrambling for Doletskaya's hips, but Eames hops out of the way with a laugh.
"Focus, my dear." Doletskaya's voice sounds cool, but now Arthur can pick up the faint breathiness in it, the click of a swallow in Doletskaya's throat. "Don't want something to... go awry."
Arthur closes his eyes and focuses. His pants and shirt shorten, shear off, shred into something skin-tight, fitted, the cloth rustling and warping and fissuring. When he inhales again, the breath fills his lungs, expanding his chest, tightening his waist, filling up the spaces in his head with something weighty and tangible. When he exhales, hair streams out of his head in thick, brown waves, spilling over his shoulders, down his back. He opens his eyes again and directs a level gaze at Eames, who is narrowing Doletskaya's eyes into steel-blue slits, mouth curving upwards.
"Stand up," Eames says. "Check your handiwork."
Arthur does. He stands up and runs his hands down his shirt, untucking, unbuttoning from the bottom up. Reaches back to unzip the skirt and slides it off, heels scratching along the hem as he steps out.
"Such propriety, darling, leaving your underthings on."
Eames is up now, running a finger along Arthur's shoulder. "Lovely job on the collarbones. But perhaps these are a bit--" , Eames drops his gaze to the mould of Arthur's chest, "on the economical side, darling?"
Arthur would feel something like indignation if he weren't so wired to the sensation of Doletskaya's fingers trailing along the underwire of his brassiere. "So," Eames continues, "I am to assume from this," and Eames presses a kiss onto Arthur's shoulder, "that your last intimate female acquaintance was similarly endowed? Or unendowed?"
"Never know when you'll need to run," Arthur clips, heart beating fast in his shrunken ribcage. "It's called preparation, Eames."
"The whole point of this sort of situation isn't to run from anything, dearest," and Eames reaches around to undo the clasp of the brassiere, the same time Arthur grabs Doletskaya's waist and spins them around, pinning her down, wrangling her wrists above her head.
Doletskaya's laugh is but a shade of the original, and she whispers in Arthur's ear, "I can't tell if you're trying to restrain me for restraint's sake, or if you're trying to tell me something else."
"Eames." Arthur's voice is a mess, punched out from somewhere deep in his lungs.
And Eames sighs, breath shuddering in his chest just like Arthur's now, "Yes, darling?"
"Eames," Arthur releases his grip on Doletskaya's wrists and pulls back, looks Eames in the eye. "I'm going to eat you out."
Doletskaya flickers into Eames, flickers back, mouth agape and then those lips pull back into a dirty smile and her eyes are dark, as dark as Eames', and then that mouth is open and vulnerable under Arthur's.
He kisses Eames until Eames starts clutching at his shoulders and straining upwards. Arthur's new hands are small, nails immaculately trimmed and polished, sliding over the crotch of Eames' little black panties. Eames is hot underneath the fabric, and Arthur can smell it over the smell of Doletskaya's perfume and shampoo and everything else. Arthur rubs his knuckles in tight little circles in the dip, that bit of flesh that he's going to open up and eat into. "I'm going to put my tongue here," he promises.
Eames moans brokenly, his legs trembling in Doletskaya's skin. One hand rucks up the bedsheets, the other is clenched on the headboard.
So Arthur moves his mouth down and presses Eames' legs apart and kisses the inside of them, those girl-smooth thighs, feathering a teasing sigh over the sandy, sparse curls. He ducks under one leg until it's arched over his shoulder. Arthur pushes gently but firmly on his thighs until they're up against Doletskaya's chest. "Hold them," he says, and Eames lets out a soft, shocked little sound even as his hands come around, holding himself open for Arthur.
Arthur pushes the damp cloth of her panties aside and looks, for a moment, at the glistening folds that flush from a rosy pink to a blood red when she separates them with his fingers.
"So pretty," and Arthur snakes his tongue in to lick along the folds. His chin is wet in an instant and the taste is tart and bittersweet and he digs in more, nose sliding along in the damp, listening to Eames gasp. He pushes his tongue in an eager roll over the little hidden knot of Eames' girl-clit, furious and hot all over.
"Not fair," Eames strains, hands snapping at the elastic straps on Arthur's shoulders. "You're still-- you're still--"
"Shut up, Eames," Arthur murmurs, but it's doubtful that Eames can even hear him now. He can tell Eames is getting close, Arthur's chin getting wetter and wetter and he can feel a gooey trickle between his legs as he ruts against the heel of his foot--
Arthur wakes with Eames hovering an inch away from his face.
"What on earth were you still doing?" Eames' voice comes through muddled, swimming, and Arthur blinks the sleep from his eyes and wills his brain into action. "All that extra time in there, and you still haven't gotten acquainted with your new features?"
"I still had some time on the clock," Arthur pushes him out of the way and sits up straight. And crosses his legs, trying to ignore the obvious. "You're a mess, by the way."
"If you're referring to my trousers, then yes. How you make me feel young again, darling. Like an Eaton boy after school."
"It was your decision to come back ahead of schedule."
"I was in such a state," Eames says, syrupy. "I simply couldn't help myself."
"Well, if you couldn't even help yourself," Arthur stands up, adjusting himself, one hand low on his belt buckle, "then it seems that I'm on my own."
Eames' smile is anything but clinical. "Oh no, darling. We'll see to you now."
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