Author: kissoffools / wakeyourheart
Pairing: Ariadne/Eames, with a side helping of Arthur.
Summary: Ariadne dressed for the dinner in an innocent blouse and pencil skirt, but little did she know...
Disclaimer: The characters are all Christopher Nolan's. All I'm doing is providing the smut.
Notes: For inception_kink - the prompt was "The Team goes out to dinner at some classy restaurant to celebrate. Ariadne decides to tease Eames (footsie, light touches, eating her food seductively etc. etc.) and he ends up getting frustrated and fingering her at the table." Word Count: 2,887. This sticks to the prompt pretty closely. Also, I greatly considered posting this anon for awhile, but I figured - eh, why not own up, right? Anyway. Enjoy!
The evening doesn’t go at all the way she’d expected.
Ariadne isn’t sure what’s supposed to happen when the plane lands in Los Angeles. She watches Fischer at baggage claim, fiddling with his Blackberry, and Cobb has already taken off with Professor Miles. She can’t help but grin a little to herself when she thinks of his kids – that he’ll get to read them a bedtime story, that he’ll get to make them pancakes in the morning time. She’d bet that he looks great in an apron.
They always knew the endgame for Cobb; there was never any discussion of what would happen to the rest of them.
Thankfully, Arthur sidles up next to her as she prepares to wait for a taxi. In one hand he clasps the handle of a sleek black rolling suitcase, and she wonders what he’s brought with him to the States.
“Stay in the city for a little while,” he urges her, trying not to look directly at her and blow their cover. “We’ll rendez-vous before deciding our next move. It’s okay to take a little break now.”
He disappears into the crowd, and she wonders idly how often he uses words like rendez-vous. Probably a lot.
Ariadne spends almost two weeks in L.A. before Cobb can bear to separate himself from Philippa and James. When he does, he takes the entire team out to dinner.
Well, to be more correct, Saito takes the entire team out to dinner. He has money in a restaurant in West Hollywood - “An investment,” he tells them casually with a wave of his hand. “It’s quite dull, this city, when you aren’t interested in prostitutes and heroin.” - and all the meals for the team are on the house. Cobb insists on buying the wine; Saito laughs.
“You have taken care of a very important part of my business,” Saito says. “For you, mister Cobb, everything will always be on the house.”
So Cobb stops arguing, calls up the team, and tells them to wear their very best.
Ariadne arrives by taxi; she’s sure that someone like Arthur would have planned ahead and brought a town car, but by the time she can locate both heels and wriggle into her pencil skirt, there’s barely enough time to hail a cab. She’s actually excited on the ride over – it feels like ages since she’s seen the team. After spending hours every day together, exploring each other’s subconsciouses together, being apart is kind of difficult.
She’s crossing the sidewalk and is about to start up the path to the restaurant, a path resplendent in white twinkle-lights, when Eames materializes beside her. She doesn’t know where he came from – there’s no car pulling away from the curb. He’s dressed in a deep navy suit with a crisp white shirt, a bowtie hanging loose and untied around his neck, and Ariadne finds herself staring a little too long.
“Looking’s no fun if you can’t touch, love,” Eames remarks, and she flushes a deep scarlet. Had she been that obvious?
But then he takes a step towards her, crowding into her space just a little. He runs a finger gently down her arm and she realizes, Oh. She wasn’t the looker in this scenario, after all.
“That’s a lovely outfit,” he says softly, lips curled up in just a hint of a smile. “Skirt’s awfully short, though. Don’t be a tease, you know that isn’t fair.”
And he disappears inside without waiting for her.
Tease? she thinks dumbly, her mind spinning. Eames has never come onto her before, not as blatantly as this, and she’s startled. One skirt, one chance to reveal her legs a bit, and she’s called a tease.
Well then, she thinks, mind turning. I’ll show him a tease.
It begins not ten minutes into the meal.
The waiter passes by their table, a large, conspicuous party of six, and Saito orders several bottles of wine. The waiter barely disappears into the kitchen when Ariadne, who’d been certain to seat herself to Eames’s left, gently bumps her elbow against his. When he turns to look at her, she ducks her head shyly.
“Oops,” she says, and leaves it at that. Eames turns back to the conversation.
As the waiter takes their orders, Ariadne is careful of her timing. She waits until Eames has raised his menu, is about to speak – and she rubs her foot against his.
His voice falters just a touch.
It shakes a little when she runs her foot up his calf.
She can see his eyes darting to look at her the second he finishes placing his order, confusion apparent in them. But by now it’s her turn, and she drops her foot, flashes the waiter a dazzling smile, and orders the chicken cordon bleu.
When the soup course arrives, Ariadne throws manners to the wind and dips her pinky tentatively into the edge of her soup. She raises her finger to her mouth under the pretense of checking the soup’s temperature, and sucks on the end of it for just a moment too long. Her eyes make contact with Eames’, and he gapes at her.
She’s rendered him speechless. Excellent.
The next fifteen minutes are full of long, meaningful glances accompanied by Ariadne’s foot softly sliding over his leg. She dares to slide it right up against his thigh at one point, and he falls silent in the middle of a conversation.
“Plum forgot what I was about to say,” he stammers to Arthur. Arthur quirks an eyebrow but stays silent. She can feel Eames’ gaze burning a hole into her side, but she firmly ignores him.
“Yusuf,” she asks, tilting away from Eames a little, “have you heard how your cat is doing back in Mombasa? I bet he misses you.” Oh, how she’s enjoying this control.
Unfortunately, though, there’s one little thing she isn’t counting on – Eames hates to be out of control.
The food arrives not long after, and she thanks the waiter politely when he places her plate down in front of her. She smiles and says, “Oh, this looks excellent,” to the others, and then she slides a hand onto Eames’ knee.
One of his own firmly clasps around her wrist. She freezes, uncertain.
Eames takes his time, his left hand still holding tight onto her arm, and he leans forward and takes a small bite of mashed potato. “Delicious,” he tells the entire table with a smile. When they turn to their own plates, Eames slyly tugs Ariadne a little closer to him.
“Oh, darling,” he whispers, lips hot and grazing her ear, “just look what you’ve started.”
That’s when she feels a hand on her thigh.
She jumps, knocking her knee into the underside of the table. Cobb breaks off from his conversation with Saito – something about investments and dividends, she isn’t sure on the specifics – and glances at her, startled.
“You okay?” he asks.
She can’t help it – she’s blushing. Eames’ hand is still on her leg, one finger tracing tiny, tempting circles against her skin.
“Yes, Ariadne, what was that?” Eames asks, turning his head towards her. She can see the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.
“Sorry,” she apologizes to the table as a whole, “leg cramp.” Cobb nods and turns back towards Saito.
And Eames’ whole hand slides up her inner thigh.
God, she could kick his ass. Right here and now, she should flip over the table and knock him to the ground. She should demand to know who he thinks he is, manhandling her like this in a public place. She should tell Cobb, expose Eames and his naughty mind, and file a sexual harassment suit against him. She should do any one of these things, because in doing so, it will make the whole thing stop.
Except that Eames’ fingers are wandering now, hiking her skirt up just a little higher and tracing along the seams of her underwear. And his hand is large, and warm, and really, she’s lost even before she’s started to put up a fight.
Breathing, Ariadne thinks, is very important at the moment. Because they’re in a roomful of people, for Christ’s sake, and there are others at the table. She has no idea what kind of trouble she’ll be in if they’re caught, and the last thing she wants is to have to live down that type of embarrassment. So she’ll focus on breathing, she decides. Normal, regular, average breaths. Anything to stay calm and keep herself from giving them away.
It isn’t long before Ariadne realizes that staying calm really is easier said than done.
Eames brushes the pad of his thumb along her, rubbing her through her underwear. She doesn’t know when she gave him permission to do this, when she signaled that it was okay to move from teasing little gropes to the real thing, but it’s awfully hard to care. His touch is rough, firm, and Ariadne can tell that she’s already wet. She sinks just a little lower in her seat, pressing herself more solidly against his thumb. She can see him smile into his steak, and a large part of her feels absolutely mortified.
The other part of her thinks she might die if she doesn’t get more.
She lets Eames do the work, because it’s easier to hide a moving arm than it is to hide an entire body. He’s leaning forward, one elbow resting on the table, his broad shoulders hunched to mask the motions of his hand. They’ve both abandoned their meals and Ariadne silently prays that no one will notice.
When he unceremoniously pushes aside the fabric of her underwear and runs a long finger over her, she stops worrying.
Eames takes his time at first, sliding his fingers over her gently, just feeling and getting to know her curves. It’s pleasant, really, and Ariadne is surprised – she wouldn’t have taken him for someone this gentle. But then his fingers slide lower and press firmly against her clit, and she realizes her first impressions were right on the money.
His fingers press again, and her breath catches audibly.
Yusuf glances at her, worry creasing his brow. “Choked on a bit of wine,” Ariadne says quickly, patting her chest to reassure him. Yusuf nods and turns away.
Eames slides a long finger into her, and she feels a little dizzy.
If they were in another place, if they were alone, Ariadne would gasp, maybe even swear. She’d pull him close and demand more friction. She’d kiss him and trail her mouth along his jaw, and she might even get up the nerve to whisper filthy things in his ear until he was pumping her steadily, until he couldn’t handle it anymore and had to be inside her. But they aren’t alone – they are here, at the table in Saito’s restaurant, and she isn’t allowed to do any of these things. No, all Ariadne can do is stay in her chair, stay quiet, and take it.
Two fingers. Ariadne bites her lip.
Eames’ movements are steady, firm, and purposeful – he knows what he’s doing, clearly, and every crook of his fingers is intentional. She never would have guessed that he’d want her like this – has this occurred to him before? – but then again, she never would have guessed that she’d want him like this either. And yet here they are, his hand pressed right up against her and her hips fighting to stay still.
Arthur’s voice breaks through the haze, and she snaps her focus towards him. Shit. She has no idea how long she’s been out of it. “Yes?” she asks, trying desperately to keep the shake out of her voice.
“Are you all right?” he asks, peering curiously at her from across the table. “I could swear you haven’t taken in a word I’ve said.”
Eames pushes a third finger into her on the words taken in, and it’s all Ariadne can do to keep her eyelids from fluttering shut.
“No, I’m listening,” she assures him quickly. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure? You’re flushed. I hope you aren’t getting sick.”
Eames’ hand is moving now, stroking inside of her, the rhythm beginning to increase in speed, and she can’t help it – her hips rotate against them just the tiniest bit. Her gaze stays focused on Arthur, terrified that he’ll figure everything out at any second.
“I’m fine,” she insists, and has to choke back a gasp when Eames’ thumb flicks at her clit.
“Okay,” Arthur agrees, his tone skeptical. The conversation around them resumes, Yusuf asking Saito for advice on free trade, but Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave her face. He knows something’s off.
Between Arthur’s stare and Eames’ fingers, she burns.
The others at the table seem to be having a great time; everyone is laughing and eating, and she thinks maybe Yusuf is regaling them with a tale of a bar fight, but she honestly isn’t sure – all that matters to her right now is the steady in and out of Eames’ fingers, the way the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile every so often when he knows he’s done something to get to her. And Arthur – Arthur’s eyes are on her still; his brow is creased just a little bit, his gaze searching. He knows she isn’t all right, and like the detail-oriented man he is, he’s trying to figure out what’s going on.
Ariadne can see the muscle in Arthur’s cheek twitch as he studies her.
Eames’ fingers are working her more insistently now, his thumb darting to stroke over her clit every few seconds. Her left hand clenches the edge of her seat; her right, still atop the dinner table, grips around her fork for all she’s worth. She’s certain she must be a sight, all rosy cheeks and glossy eyes.
She’s decided that Eames is in major trouble once she can get him away from the others. Right now, though, all she wants to do is press herself down against his fingers, harder, further, more.
A soft breath comes from her right and she turns, craning her neck a bit to try and see how Eames is reacting. To her surprise, she finds him staring straight at Arthur.
“Pasta all right, Arthur?” Eames asks conversationally, but Ariadne catches the faint growl in his voice. Arthur’s eyes snap from Ariadne’s face to Eames’, startled. “Cooked properly, and all? The sauce is thick enough? Warm? Not too… wet?”
Arthur flushes and looks away from Eames. “It’s… excellent,” he mutters. His jawline is firm, almost clenched, and that’s when she realizes that he knows.
“Of course the sauce is all right!” Saito interrupts cheerfully from across the table. Ariadne uses the momentary distraction to swivel her hips a little against Eames’ hand. Faster. “I ensured that we hired only the best for this kitchen.”
Eames’ lips quirk up in a smirk, his eyes flicking to Saito only for a moment. His fingers don’t break stride, not once. “Oh, I have no doubt, Mr. Saito. I just know how picky our Arthur is, and I wanted to make sure he was… enjoying himself.”
Saito nods. Arthur’s fingers tighten around his fork, his knuckles draining of colour. Eames twists his fingers inside her, and her thighs clench. She’s close and he knows it.
Arthur’s eyes meet hers again, and his gaze rests steady. But there’s a darkness to them, a new intensity, and that, Ariadne thinks, is one of the hottest things she’s ever seen. She swivels her hips again carefully, eyes on Arthur. Eames’ thumb rubs more insistently against her, and it takes every once of her willpower to swallow her moan.
“Yes, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, eyes burning into her, “I’m enjoying myself very much.”
One pump, two, and Ariadne’s coming over his fingers. She bites her lip and fights to keep her eyes open.
She relaxes almost at once, her brain a little foggy, and she leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Arthur’s face is red and she’s sure he hasn’t blinked in ages. There’s a bit of a smile on Eames’ face as he pulls his fingers from within her and wipes them on the napkin in his lap. She wriggles, tugging her skirt back down to an acceptable length. The upholstered chair beneath her legs is damp.
The waiter passes by again and presents a fresh bottle of wine to the table. Saito accepts with a grin and reaches for peoples’ glasses to refill them. He fills Cobb’s, then Yusuf’s, then Arthur’s, then Eames’, and then he looks across the table at her.
“Ariadne?” Saito asks. “Would you care for another glass of wine?”
“Yes, Ariadne,” Eames says, and suddenly he’s turning to face her, an impish gleam in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow. “Care for round two?”
Ariadne passes her glass across the table to Saito, but when she speaks, her gaze is steady on Eames.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Arthur take a long swig from his wine glass.
No, the evening isn’t at all like she’d expected.