#343 - [FIC] A Natural Woman (Eames/Ariadne)
Title: A Natural Woman
Word Count: 3136
Pairing: Eames/Ariadne, mentions of Eames/Yusuf
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ariadne is meant to be teaching him the third-level layout, but Eames has other plans. (Seriously, though, it’s a total PWP)
Warnings: run-on sentences, gratuitous abuse of a certain c-word, Eames with an oddly fixated conscience, attempts at realistic sex
Disclaimer: Christopher Nolan owns them. I just corrupt them. Also, quotable quote belongs to Tom Hardy. I couldn't help myself.
Author's Note: This is my first time writing het ever and like pretty much everything I write it’s shamelessly self-indulgent and Eames has way too much of my personality, including my taste in women. There, now you know the truth, dear readers. On a side note, this was not meant to be a prequel to Everything About You in any serious sense, but the last line can be read that way.
The question hits him out of nowhere, its source-improbably-Ariadne.
“Have you ever slept with a mark?”
They’re working late, the two of them, under the pretense of going over the third level layout-not that he needs more than a glance, really, to know he’ll need to add an air-duct when he goes under; insurance in the event that the job turns into a giant clusterfuck. Ariadne’s perched on top of the desk, swinging her feet and peering down at him where he’s lounging in his own chair.
“Have you?” she presses.
“What makes you think I’d tell you if I had?”
“Fess up, Eames. You have no shame.”
“Not much use to me, is it?”
He fishes the poker chip out of his pocket and lets it roll over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, watching her watch him out of the corner of his eye.
“A few times,” he says at last, palming the chip.
Her smile is triumphant. “Ever done it as a woman?”
Eames throws his head back and laughs, because out of all the people he’s met over the years through dream sharing, it has to be Ariadne, with that spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks that make her look like a kid if he looks too long-and compared to him, she is a kid, really-who finally asks.
“I’m a forger for fuck’s sake,” he says. “I’ve played with everything and everyone.”
“Kinky bastard,” she says, but it’s playful.
“Darling, you have no idea.” And fuck if he doesn’t love the red that bleeds from Ariadne’s cheeks past the column of her throat all the way down the collar of her white blouse. “Actually,” he says with a grin, “I’m quite fond of cunnilingus.”
“Giving or receiving?”
She licks her lips, probably unconsciously, and he grins. “Either. Both. Why-you offering?”
She laughs and that flush deepens and all he can think about is the way it must have seeped all the way down her breasts. It’s not embarrassment that makes her blush. Eames has been watching people for far too long not to know better, and even if he didn’t, he’s still a betting man, and he’s willing to wager rather generously that it’s arousal.
An interesting development, that.
Not that the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. Perhaps more than once. A lot more than once, maybe, but he’s only flesh and blood, not some great stone thing, and a girl like Ariadne commands studying in detail. She isn’t the sort to dress for men-no pumps, no skirts, no makeup-but that’s what he likes about her. He loves her clean skin and her soft eyelashes. He loves the way he can stare at her and know her mouth is only as red as nature intended. He’s standing in front of her now, and everything comes sharply into focus.
Nature has been very generous with Ariadne, he thinks.
“It’s taught me a lot,” Eames tells her. He rests a hand on her thigh. The muscles jump under his fingers and he isn’t surprised when she lets him brush his dry lips over her cheek, millimeters shy of her mouth. “Really come to appreciate what it takes. You know,” he murmurs and if the slide of his hand up her thigh isn’t far enough to make good on his tease, it’s enough to make her listen, “to make a woman come.”
Her answer’s short and sweet, simple. “Show me.”
She smiles so prettily and Eames has to kiss that mouth, her bare, sweet lips under his and no taste of waxy lipstick or gloss. Just Ariadne, fresh and sweet and eager with her tongue flicking at the seam of his lips and the gentle thrumming of her pulse under his fingertips as he caresses the underside of her jaw.
Her hands go to the top button on her blouse and he brushes them away.
“Allow me,” he murmurs, and he wonders why he insists when instead of deft his fingers are thick and clumsy and Eames wants to laugh, because he can lift wallets and palm cards but the buttons on a girl’s blouse confound him. He makes it to the final button, eventually, and Ariadne shrugs out of it.
Her bra is plain; no lace, no decoration, only white and there’s something fantastic about how absolutely everyday it is without any need to embellish. It’s not what she’s wearing that he’s interested in, after all. His prick jumps in his trousers just the same as his hand slides over the soft swell of her left breast and he kisses her neck.
They’ve been cooped up in the warehouse all day, fans just pushing muggy air around, and he can smell the perspiration on her skin over whatever soap she used in the shower this morning, with no cloying perfume to confuse his senses and cover her up. He licks her throat and he can taste the salt of her sweat on his tongue like it’s the most natural thing in the world and he can’t stop covering her with open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, licking and sucking and tasting.
His hands creep up her back to undo the clasp of her bra, which he flicks open easily, and it gets tossed aside with her rumpled blouse, one hand returning to cup her breast, the pad of his thumb brushing over her soft, unmarked skin. Her breasts are small and high, only a handful but what a bloody fantastic handful Ariadne makes and Eames might be moaning softly as he rolls her nipple between his fingers and kisses her freckled shoulders.
He was right, he realizes, as he reluctantly tears his hand away from Ariadne’s lovely, lovely breast and starts to kiss a path down her sternum, about her flushing. She’s rosy all over where he’s touched her and where he hasn’t. He nuzzles her breast, turning his nose and mouth into it, and there’s this maddening desire in the back of his head to sink his teeth into that soft, yielding flesh, but he doesn’t because he’s not a bloody fucking animal and he’s promised himself he won’t bite without express permission.
Eames kisses Ariadne’s belly, loving the gentle massage of her fingers against his scalp and the way she’s a bit soft here, a little round, though her waist is so slender he can almost span it with his big hands. She helps him help her wiggle out of her faded jeans, lifting her hips off the desk, and then she’s wearing nothing but a pair of panties that are white and plain like her bra.
As much as he delights in the anticipation of it all, there’s something very rewarding about the moan Ariadne gives when his hand finally makes its way between her thighs. He strokes over her soft, cotton panties with his thumb and she’s wet for him already, hips pressing forward for more. He lets her feel his whole hand cupping her vulva, the slickness rubbing off on his palm as he holds it against her, letting her rock against it with soft little moans and fondling her breast with his free hand while his tongue slips between her parted lips.
He strokes her tongue in time to the fingers he rubs over her cunt, thumbing her clit through her panties and, Christ, she’s fucking soaking now, so wet Eames-and maybe it’s only his imagination run wild or maybe his prick’s cutting off the blood flow to his bleeding brain-catches the scent of her and then he’s rutting against her leg like a bitch in heat trying to relieve what feels like several atmospheres of pressure bearing down on his cock.
Ariadne notices-because, fuck, who wouldn’t fucking notice?-where his frustrations have gotten him and she brings her knee up more deliberately between his legs, massaging his cock through his trousers and fuck he wants to come so badly and it’s like he’s sixteen again, getting fucked into the mattress so hard he thinks he’ll break with no way to get his hands on his aching prick and not enough space to rut against the mattress, ready to pass out because he’s forgotten how to inhale and his lungs are burning with the need to breathe and it still isn’t as painful as how much he needs to come.
“Stop, fuck… stop,” he pants, because he’s not sixteen anymore, he’s thirty-three and if he comes like this, that’s it, with no chance of a repeat performance. He’s so hard it hurts, but what he really wants is to sink into Ariadne’s slick, tight cunt and stay there, licking into her mouth and rocking into her until she shudders around his prick and comes. Eames knows better than to think it’s that easy, but when he’s jerking frantically at his cock in the shower, that’s how he imagines it. Ariadne’s thighs are all but clamped around his wrist now, trembling with the effort of it, breathing harder than he is.
“Relax, love,” he says, and he brushes her hair back, threading his fingers through it and feeling her let go, her knee falling back so he can breathe again. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s my girl. Let’s get these off of you,” he murmurs, hooking his thumbs beneath the elastic of her panties-there’s a damp stain there, almost enough to leave them transparent where she’s rubbed off on them and he might tear her panties a little in his eagerness to get them off of her before he sinks to his knees, thanking whatever anonymous power is favoring him today that the desk is the perfect height for this.
He presses his nose into the curling tangle of hair on her mons, wanting to fill his nostrils with the musky scent of her before he tastes, and it’s sexier than it should be that she’s not trimmed neat or altogether bare-he doesn’t think he could take that, when Ariadne is already much too young for him and he can imagine Cobb putting a gun to his head for even thinking about this, but it’s not innocence that’s got Ariadne shoving her hips toward his mouth.
He kisses her thigh, stroking her with one hand. “Tell me want you want, sweetheart.”
Not that it isn’t obvious, but he wants to hear her say it. An upward glance shows her to be flushed, her eyes closed on her pink cheeks. Her mouth opens and no sound comes out at first, but finally, finally he hears it.
“I want you to lick my cunt,” she says, more or less a whisper, and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips like the words embarrass her. But then her hand is on the back of his neck, applying more than gentle pressure, and her voice is stronger. “Stop being a tease and lick my cunt, Eames.”
And honestly, what kind of a gentleman would he be if he didn’t?
When Eames finally tastes her, his mouth watering from the smell of her arousal alone, he shudders and groans. He laps up the slick fluid she’s dripping with, equal parts aroused and pleased that he’s responsible for how wet Ariadne is. It’s a shame they haven’t got a bed he can spread her out on, but then he always did enjoy the chance to improvise. Eames settles her legs over his shoulders and grasps her hips to tug her forward. Then he begins in earnest.
Ariadne moans deliciously as Eames buries his face in her cunt, rubbing his lips and his tongue over the delicate folds of flesh, his nose bumping up against her swollen clit. She arches her back, hips stuttering under his ministrations.
“Oh, god,” she groans, and her thighs are trembling under his hands, “oh god, oh god, oh god, Eames.”
He would respond, but he’s a bit busy sucking her cunt, his mouth full of the taste of her-a little sweet, a little salty, and he can taste the perspiration here like on her throat and there’s such a wild, animalistic appeal to it. It’s perfect, because it’s her he’s tasting and not soap and perfumes, because she’s not had time to clean up and cover up and Eames thinks he could stay down here for hours, licking her clit and getting sloppy with her arousal. It’s on his nose and smeared all around his mouth and dripping all down his chin in a delightful mess.
He sucks gently on her clit and her thighs snap shut so quickly, boxing his ears, it’s as if he’s sprung a catch somehow. He’d be pissed off it if it weren’t terribly, horribly sexy that he’s got her thighs, of all things, holding him in place like one of Arthur’s sleeper holds; though this is arguably more pleasant.
She relaxes her thighs a bit. “That… was amazing. Do it again.”
He does. In fact, he does it again and again and again while Ariadne rubs her cunt against his face and moans, one long, continuous sound, and if he dies like this, from suffocation or from sheer pleasure with the taste of her in his mouth and his cock throbbing in his trousers, he’ll be a happy man indeed.
Ariadne comes and it’s one of the few times Eames has been able to tell without a verbal confirmation or a sneaking suspicion that his beloved is a big, bloody faker, because he’s started to see black spots and when she flexes her thighs all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears like the fucking sound of triumph, because he’s brought her off with only his mouth and finally, god, finally his aching prick will get the attention it deserves.
At last, her thighs release him and he falls back, catching himself on his hands, panting and taking great, gulping breaths of oxygen to fill his lungs, his head spinning as blood flows back into it.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he pants and he scrubs his face with his sleeve and who even gives a shit that the shirt cost him nearly a hundred quid because Ariadne, Ariadne…
Ariadne is leaning back on her hands and he can see how red and wet and open she looks, her thighs glistening and her breasts heaving as she breathes. Part of him wants nothing more than to crawl over to her on his hands and knees and lap at her cunt like a good boy until his jaw aches and he thinks the taste of her will never come out and she tells him he can stop.
Eames’ legs shake as he stands, going to wrap his arms around Ariadne and leaning down to kiss her, wanting her to know how she tastes and needing it to stifle the rubbish that will no doubt pour from his mouth if he doesn’t, like if she’s a virgin and wouldn’t that be a silly question because he wouldn’t care either way and it might make him feel like more of a dirty, old bastard for asking.
As they kiss, sensual and slow because it’s all they can manage, he fishes a condom out of his wallet, keeping it tucked between his fingers as he fumbles with his belt and his fly. He nearly groans with relief when his fingers finally wrap around his prick and he gives himself a stroke or two, maybe several, in a purely self-indulgent fashion before managing to roll the condom onto his erection.
Her mouth trails over his cheek and down his neck, and the words come out on their own, a murmur of “God, you’re lovely,” and then he’s sinking into her, not even trying to be quiet in his wordless, guttural appreciation. She’s tight but comfortable and every time his hips roll forward he hears these slick, positively obscene little sounds and it’s maddening how feverishly hot she feels, squeezing his cock with her liquid-velvet grip and making him groan against her open mouth as she rolls up her hips to meet him.
He holds her to him-cradles her, really, with his arms curled around her back and her breasts flush against his chest, and fuck, it’s good, so good, and he’s so ready to come because it’s the only contact he’s had all this time and he just deserves it, doesn’t he? And the only thing he can think of that could be better is if he were caught there between her and… he doesn’t know, Yusuf, maybe, who he’s been on and off with since they were fifteen at school together.
Eames kisses Ariadne’s throat. “Gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”
“Mmm,” she hums and her hand slips between them to rub at her clit. He loves that she isn’t shy about her body or the fact that she’s enjoying him. He’s been with women his own age and older that weren’t this at ease when he slid inside them, no matter how his fingers coaxed or his mouth worked to soothe them.
He loves her a little, then. A little more when she groans and stills and he can feel her clench around him rhythmically as her second climax hits and she collapses against his chest, panting and shivering, her head on his shoulder like she’ll go to sleep there in his arms, with him still hard inside her and just the thought is enough to set him off. Her name, lovely as it is, is too difficult to say at the height of climax, though he tries, so he settles for moaning against her shoulder as he finishes and stays and finally slips out. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the rubbish bin, not caring-maybe even looking forward to it a little-who finds it in the morning.
Ariadne dresses, sans panties, and Eames watches her as he tucks himself back in and does up his belt buckle. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and he tries, god he tries, not to think how it makes her look about twelve years old in combination with the spray of freckles across her nose.
He about drops them when she tosses her panties at him, walking past him toward the door.
He calls after her. “And what am I supposed to do with these?”
“Keep ‘em,” she says over her shoulder. “Think of it as a souvenir. And Eames?”
“Yeah, love?”
“Try to keep your hands off of Fischer.”
She leaves him too stunned to formulate a response-not because he has been thinking about it, but because the idea honestly hasn’t occurred to him. But now that Ariadne mentions it…
They’re funny things, ideas. Sometimes they just don’t let go.
Word Count: 3136
Pairing: Eames/Ariadne, mentions of Eames/Yusuf
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ariadne is meant to be teaching him the third-level layout, but Eames has other plans. (Seriously, though, it’s a total PWP)
Warnings: run-on sentences, gratuitous abuse of a certain c-word, Eames with an oddly fixated conscience, attempts at realistic sex
Disclaimer: Christopher Nolan owns them. I just corrupt them. Also, quotable quote belongs to Tom Hardy. I couldn't help myself.
Author's Note: This is my first time writing het ever and like pretty much everything I write it’s shamelessly self-indulgent and Eames has way too much of my personality, including my taste in women. There, now you know the truth, dear readers. On a side note, this was not meant to be a prequel to Everything About You in any serious sense, but the last line can be read that way.
The question hits him out of nowhere, its source-improbably-Ariadne.
“Have you ever slept with a mark?”
They’re working late, the two of them, under the pretense of going over the third level layout-not that he needs more than a glance, really, to know he’ll need to add an air-duct when he goes under; insurance in the event that the job turns into a giant clusterfuck. Ariadne’s perched on top of the desk, swinging her feet and peering down at him where he’s lounging in his own chair.
“Have you?” she presses.
“What makes you think I’d tell you if I had?”
“Fess up, Eames. You have no shame.”
“Not much use to me, is it?”
He fishes the poker chip out of his pocket and lets it roll over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, watching her watch him out of the corner of his eye.
“A few times,” he says at last, palming the chip.
Her smile is triumphant. “Ever done it as a woman?”
Eames throws his head back and laughs, because out of all the people he’s met over the years through dream sharing, it has to be Ariadne, with that spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks that make her look like a kid if he looks too long-and compared to him, she is a kid, really-who finally asks.
“I’m a forger for fuck’s sake,” he says. “I’ve played with everything and everyone.”
“Kinky bastard,” she says, but it’s playful.
“Darling, you have no idea.” And fuck if he doesn’t love the red that bleeds from Ariadne’s cheeks past the column of her throat all the way down the collar of her white blouse. “Actually,” he says with a grin, “I’m quite fond of cunnilingus.”
“Giving or receiving?”
She licks her lips, probably unconsciously, and he grins. “Either. Both. Why-you offering?”
She laughs and that flush deepens and all he can think about is the way it must have seeped all the way down her breasts. It’s not embarrassment that makes her blush. Eames has been watching people for far too long not to know better, and even if he didn’t, he’s still a betting man, and he’s willing to wager rather generously that it’s arousal.
An interesting development, that.
Not that the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. Perhaps more than once. A lot more than once, maybe, but he’s only flesh and blood, not some great stone thing, and a girl like Ariadne commands studying in detail. She isn’t the sort to dress for men-no pumps, no skirts, no makeup-but that’s what he likes about her. He loves her clean skin and her soft eyelashes. He loves the way he can stare at her and know her mouth is only as red as nature intended. He’s standing in front of her now, and everything comes sharply into focus.
Nature has been very generous with Ariadne, he thinks.
“It’s taught me a lot,” Eames tells her. He rests a hand on her thigh. The muscles jump under his fingers and he isn’t surprised when she lets him brush his dry lips over her cheek, millimeters shy of her mouth. “Really come to appreciate what it takes. You know,” he murmurs and if the slide of his hand up her thigh isn’t far enough to make good on his tease, it’s enough to make her listen, “to make a woman come.”
Her answer’s short and sweet, simple. “Show me.”
She smiles so prettily and Eames has to kiss that mouth, her bare, sweet lips under his and no taste of waxy lipstick or gloss. Just Ariadne, fresh and sweet and eager with her tongue flicking at the seam of his lips and the gentle thrumming of her pulse under his fingertips as he caresses the underside of her jaw.
Her hands go to the top button on her blouse and he brushes them away.
“Allow me,” he murmurs, and he wonders why he insists when instead of deft his fingers are thick and clumsy and Eames wants to laugh, because he can lift wallets and palm cards but the buttons on a girl’s blouse confound him. He makes it to the final button, eventually, and Ariadne shrugs out of it.
Her bra is plain; no lace, no decoration, only white and there’s something fantastic about how absolutely everyday it is without any need to embellish. It’s not what she’s wearing that he’s interested in, after all. His prick jumps in his trousers just the same as his hand slides over the soft swell of her left breast and he kisses her neck.
They’ve been cooped up in the warehouse all day, fans just pushing muggy air around, and he can smell the perspiration on her skin over whatever soap she used in the shower this morning, with no cloying perfume to confuse his senses and cover her up. He licks her throat and he can taste the salt of her sweat on his tongue like it’s the most natural thing in the world and he can’t stop covering her with open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, licking and sucking and tasting.
His hands creep up her back to undo the clasp of her bra, which he flicks open easily, and it gets tossed aside with her rumpled blouse, one hand returning to cup her breast, the pad of his thumb brushing over her soft, unmarked skin. Her breasts are small and high, only a handful but what a bloody fantastic handful Ariadne makes and Eames might be moaning softly as he rolls her nipple between his fingers and kisses her freckled shoulders.
He was right, he realizes, as he reluctantly tears his hand away from Ariadne’s lovely, lovely breast and starts to kiss a path down her sternum, about her flushing. She’s rosy all over where he’s touched her and where he hasn’t. He nuzzles her breast, turning his nose and mouth into it, and there’s this maddening desire in the back of his head to sink his teeth into that soft, yielding flesh, but he doesn’t because he’s not a bloody fucking animal and he’s promised himself he won’t bite without express permission.
Eames kisses Ariadne’s belly, loving the gentle massage of her fingers against his scalp and the way she’s a bit soft here, a little round, though her waist is so slender he can almost span it with his big hands. She helps him help her wiggle out of her faded jeans, lifting her hips off the desk, and then she’s wearing nothing but a pair of panties that are white and plain like her bra.
As much as he delights in the anticipation of it all, there’s something very rewarding about the moan Ariadne gives when his hand finally makes its way between her thighs. He strokes over her soft, cotton panties with his thumb and she’s wet for him already, hips pressing forward for more. He lets her feel his whole hand cupping her vulva, the slickness rubbing off on his palm as he holds it against her, letting her rock against it with soft little moans and fondling her breast with his free hand while his tongue slips between her parted lips.
He strokes her tongue in time to the fingers he rubs over her cunt, thumbing her clit through her panties and, Christ, she’s fucking soaking now, so wet Eames-and maybe it’s only his imagination run wild or maybe his prick’s cutting off the blood flow to his bleeding brain-catches the scent of her and then he’s rutting against her leg like a bitch in heat trying to relieve what feels like several atmospheres of pressure bearing down on his cock.
Ariadne notices-because, fuck, who wouldn’t fucking notice?-where his frustrations have gotten him and she brings her knee up more deliberately between his legs, massaging his cock through his trousers and fuck he wants to come so badly and it’s like he’s sixteen again, getting fucked into the mattress so hard he thinks he’ll break with no way to get his hands on his aching prick and not enough space to rut against the mattress, ready to pass out because he’s forgotten how to inhale and his lungs are burning with the need to breathe and it still isn’t as painful as how much he needs to come.
“Stop, fuck… stop,” he pants, because he’s not sixteen anymore, he’s thirty-three and if he comes like this, that’s it, with no chance of a repeat performance. He’s so hard it hurts, but what he really wants is to sink into Ariadne’s slick, tight cunt and stay there, licking into her mouth and rocking into her until she shudders around his prick and comes. Eames knows better than to think it’s that easy, but when he’s jerking frantically at his cock in the shower, that’s how he imagines it. Ariadne’s thighs are all but clamped around his wrist now, trembling with the effort of it, breathing harder than he is.
“Relax, love,” he says, and he brushes her hair back, threading his fingers through it and feeling her let go, her knee falling back so he can breathe again. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s my girl. Let’s get these off of you,” he murmurs, hooking his thumbs beneath the elastic of her panties-there’s a damp stain there, almost enough to leave them transparent where she’s rubbed off on them and he might tear her panties a little in his eagerness to get them off of her before he sinks to his knees, thanking whatever anonymous power is favoring him today that the desk is the perfect height for this.
He presses his nose into the curling tangle of hair on her mons, wanting to fill his nostrils with the musky scent of her before he tastes, and it’s sexier than it should be that she’s not trimmed neat or altogether bare-he doesn’t think he could take that, when Ariadne is already much too young for him and he can imagine Cobb putting a gun to his head for even thinking about this, but it’s not innocence that’s got Ariadne shoving her hips toward his mouth.
He kisses her thigh, stroking her with one hand. “Tell me want you want, sweetheart.”
Not that it isn’t obvious, but he wants to hear her say it. An upward glance shows her to be flushed, her eyes closed on her pink cheeks. Her mouth opens and no sound comes out at first, but finally, finally he hears it.
“I want you to lick my cunt,” she says, more or less a whisper, and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips like the words embarrass her. But then her hand is on the back of his neck, applying more than gentle pressure, and her voice is stronger. “Stop being a tease and lick my cunt, Eames.”
And honestly, what kind of a gentleman would he be if he didn’t?
When Eames finally tastes her, his mouth watering from the smell of her arousal alone, he shudders and groans. He laps up the slick fluid she’s dripping with, equal parts aroused and pleased that he’s responsible for how wet Ariadne is. It’s a shame they haven’t got a bed he can spread her out on, but then he always did enjoy the chance to improvise. Eames settles her legs over his shoulders and grasps her hips to tug her forward. Then he begins in earnest.
Ariadne moans deliciously as Eames buries his face in her cunt, rubbing his lips and his tongue over the delicate folds of flesh, his nose bumping up against her swollen clit. She arches her back, hips stuttering under his ministrations.
“Oh, god,” she groans, and her thighs are trembling under his hands, “oh god, oh god, oh god, Eames.”
He would respond, but he’s a bit busy sucking her cunt, his mouth full of the taste of her-a little sweet, a little salty, and he can taste the perspiration here like on her throat and there’s such a wild, animalistic appeal to it. It’s perfect, because it’s her he’s tasting and not soap and perfumes, because she’s not had time to clean up and cover up and Eames thinks he could stay down here for hours, licking her clit and getting sloppy with her arousal. It’s on his nose and smeared all around his mouth and dripping all down his chin in a delightful mess.
He sucks gently on her clit and her thighs snap shut so quickly, boxing his ears, it’s as if he’s sprung a catch somehow. He’d be pissed off it if it weren’t terribly, horribly sexy that he’s got her thighs, of all things, holding him in place like one of Arthur’s sleeper holds; though this is arguably more pleasant.
She relaxes her thighs a bit. “That… was amazing. Do it again.”
He does. In fact, he does it again and again and again while Ariadne rubs her cunt against his face and moans, one long, continuous sound, and if he dies like this, from suffocation or from sheer pleasure with the taste of her in his mouth and his cock throbbing in his trousers, he’ll be a happy man indeed.
Ariadne comes and it’s one of the few times Eames has been able to tell without a verbal confirmation or a sneaking suspicion that his beloved is a big, bloody faker, because he’s started to see black spots and when she flexes her thighs all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears like the fucking sound of triumph, because he’s brought her off with only his mouth and finally, god, finally his aching prick will get the attention it deserves.
At last, her thighs release him and he falls back, catching himself on his hands, panting and taking great, gulping breaths of oxygen to fill his lungs, his head spinning as blood flows back into it.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he pants and he scrubs his face with his sleeve and who even gives a shit that the shirt cost him nearly a hundred quid because Ariadne, Ariadne…
Ariadne is leaning back on her hands and he can see how red and wet and open she looks, her thighs glistening and her breasts heaving as she breathes. Part of him wants nothing more than to crawl over to her on his hands and knees and lap at her cunt like a good boy until his jaw aches and he thinks the taste of her will never come out and she tells him he can stop.
Eames’ legs shake as he stands, going to wrap his arms around Ariadne and leaning down to kiss her, wanting her to know how she tastes and needing it to stifle the rubbish that will no doubt pour from his mouth if he doesn’t, like if she’s a virgin and wouldn’t that be a silly question because he wouldn’t care either way and it might make him feel like more of a dirty, old bastard for asking.
As they kiss, sensual and slow because it’s all they can manage, he fishes a condom out of his wallet, keeping it tucked between his fingers as he fumbles with his belt and his fly. He nearly groans with relief when his fingers finally wrap around his prick and he gives himself a stroke or two, maybe several, in a purely self-indulgent fashion before managing to roll the condom onto his erection.
Her mouth trails over his cheek and down his neck, and the words come out on their own, a murmur of “God, you’re lovely,” and then he’s sinking into her, not even trying to be quiet in his wordless, guttural appreciation. She’s tight but comfortable and every time his hips roll forward he hears these slick, positively obscene little sounds and it’s maddening how feverishly hot she feels, squeezing his cock with her liquid-velvet grip and making him groan against her open mouth as she rolls up her hips to meet him.
He holds her to him-cradles her, really, with his arms curled around her back and her breasts flush against his chest, and fuck, it’s good, so good, and he’s so ready to come because it’s the only contact he’s had all this time and he just deserves it, doesn’t he? And the only thing he can think of that could be better is if he were caught there between her and… he doesn’t know, Yusuf, maybe, who he’s been on and off with since they were fifteen at school together.
Eames kisses Ariadne’s throat. “Gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”
“Mmm,” she hums and her hand slips between them to rub at her clit. He loves that she isn’t shy about her body or the fact that she’s enjoying him. He’s been with women his own age and older that weren’t this at ease when he slid inside them, no matter how his fingers coaxed or his mouth worked to soothe them.
He loves her a little, then. A little more when she groans and stills and he can feel her clench around him rhythmically as her second climax hits and she collapses against his chest, panting and shivering, her head on his shoulder like she’ll go to sleep there in his arms, with him still hard inside her and just the thought is enough to set him off. Her name, lovely as it is, is too difficult to say at the height of climax, though he tries, so he settles for moaning against her shoulder as he finishes and stays and finally slips out. He ties off the condom and tosses it in the rubbish bin, not caring-maybe even looking forward to it a little-who finds it in the morning.
Ariadne dresses, sans panties, and Eames watches her as he tucks himself back in and does up his belt buckle. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and he tries, god he tries, not to think how it makes her look about twelve years old in combination with the spray of freckles across her nose.
He about drops them when she tosses her panties at him, walking past him toward the door.
He calls after her. “And what am I supposed to do with these?”
“Keep ‘em,” she says over her shoulder. “Think of it as a souvenir. And Eames?”
“Yeah, love?”
“Try to keep your hands off of Fischer.”
She leaves him too stunned to formulate a response-not because he has been thinking about it, but because the idea honestly hasn’t occurred to him. But now that Ariadne mentions it…
They’re funny things, ideas. Sometimes they just don’t let go.