Fashion is All About Eventually Becoming Naked [Arthur/Ariadne]
Are we getting tired of this yet? this prompt over on inception_kink
Five times she wore a skirt to good effect and one time it was a pair of pants.
[leather pants]
Arthur has been teaching her. How to pick locks, drive stick, shoot a gun, shoot several other kinds of firearm, shoot them while driving, how to load the PASIV and how to dress in such a way that he notices. That last isn’t actually part of Arthur’s mind crime curriculum, but Ariadne has picked up the cues anyway (his eyes go darker and his Adam’s apple jumps, just a little bit). This is mostly because she spends entirely too much time gazing at him dreamily.
She settles into the lawn chair with a cheeky so, what’re we doing tonight, Brain?
Arthur adjusts the lead in his wrist and answers succinctly. Motorcycles.
The dream is flat and empty, with a remarkably well-kept road and just a touch of storm rising. She is immediately reminded of a BMW commercial, but she doesn’t say anything.
Arthur doesn’t start right away, which is unusual, so she turns and finds him jerking his line of vision up so it intersects her face and not something less chivalrous. She glances down at the leather pants, aviator Snoopy visible on her t-shirt and gives him her best sexy smile. She strides past him, zipping up her jacket, and straddles the lipstick red motorcycle, the same color as his totem.
My boyfriend in high school had this awesome Bandit, it was blue like his eyes. He did something stupid, I forget what, and broke his arm. Free lessons for me.
When she wakes, Arthur is holding his die and looking at her fixedly. She doesn’t think it has anything to do with how badly she handles recoil at ninety miles an hour. She undoes the little plastic strap and starts to coil the tubing back up. Arthur takes it; his hand brushes against hers, a frisson like lightning and ice cream that has her pulling her hand away and stammering something silly about whiplash and helmets.
Suddenly she’s not sure, for all that she knows she wants him, if she can handle it. She never knew Mal, but considering what being half of a whole did to Cobb, it’s suddenly very important she get away from here, from all this, from him and really think about what it means for her to be a lover.
She leaves and doesn’t come back for hours. Arthur’s car is still parked in its discreet hiding spot, which makes her sigh and hope he’s too busy to notice her coming in. The rain traveled up her jeans, soaking them to the knee, and her scarf looks more like a dishrag at this point. She shivers as she closes the door, praying she’s mastered this whole ‘sneaky’ thing. She releases the knob slowly, so the latch slides quietly back into place.
She turns and Arthur shoves her bag at her, drapes his suit jacket over her shoulders and forcefully steers her back out and into his car. They don’t talk at all, but Ariadne doesn’t believe she will ever be afraid of Arthur, so she sits in silence and tries not to think about how her hair is ruining a Gieves and Hawkes jacket.
He takes her to her apartment, runs the shower while she struggles out of her shoes, and clinically helps her out of the rest of her clothes before pushing her into her bathroom. She stands under the hot water completely at loss, wondering how he could be stripping her and she could be naked and there was none of the magic from earlier in his touch and maybe she had just been dreaming and if so, well there’s nothing like a cold wet dose of reality to make her look like a bigger idiot than a sitcom teenager.
She fully expects Arthur to be gone by the time she emerges, but he’s sitting on her bed without even a book as his excuse. He tucks his die away when he sees her. She sits down next to him, freeing her Catbus from under the blankets, wishing, as she sometimes did during first year, that it could take her away.
Thanks for the ride, she tries gamely. She puts a hand on top of his, and it’s as electrifying and intoxicating as she could ever want and maybe she doesn’t need to be half to be whole, so she digs her chin into his shoulder and whispers quick, give me a kiss. He doesn’t react and for a second she wonders if she’s made a horrible mistake. And then he kisses her and it’s like falling and floating and drowning all at once and she doesn’t even care about her totem.
[flower ruffle paisley]
There is no mind crime today, so Arthur goes to visit Professor Miles to ask after Cobb, who is apparently doing very well. He is genuinely happy for his friend, and unbidden, lines of Hamlet’s soliloquy come to mind, like locks tumbling into place. Miles tells him not to apologize for getting Ariadne mixed up in this business, it was Dom’s fault and her choice and he’s just glad the most responsible man in the world is looking after her.
Arthur changes the subject. He learns Philippa has started ballet classes, and James is getting into trucks. They both vaguely remember Uncle Arthur, mostly because he gave Philippa the best bear in the world and James his first dinosaur and he is in three of the picture frames on the downstairs cabinet. Miles reminds him that just because Cobb never invites him to the house, it doesn’t mean he is unwelcome. And he should bring Ariadne.
As he leaves the building Arthur hears his name, and twenty steps behind him is his architect, walking with a small knot of people. He is rather pleasantly surprised to see her in a skirt, a knee-length bohemian affair that looks like several of her scarves decided to have an orgy and never got around to leaving. She tries to introduce him to her friends without actually telling the truth about how they met or what he does and who he works with and ends up trailing off with a frantic gesture for him to do something. He barely notices because the soft silhouettes of her legs, from knee to ankle, are quite preoccupying.
He invites them all to dinner, because graduate students are, as a species, always hungry and perpetually broke, and maybe it will make Ariadne happy.
They all decline, with a few not-so-subtle smirks and three different people elbowing her in the ribs. She doesn’t seem to mind, forgetting about them completely as they exit the college. She shyly suggests getting take-out and watching a movie on the most comfortable futon known to man. She tugs on one of her loose curls, looking so hopeful he doesn’t hesitate to agree, even though being alone in her apartment is skipping parts 3 through 8 of his dating protocol.
She asks what kind of movies he likes, waiting for him to say ones without technicolor. He asks if she’s seen The Philadelphia Story and laughs at her blank look.
Since it was your idea, you can pick the movie.
She doesn’t look any happier with this proposal, but when they get to her apartment, she manages to put Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in without changing her mind a million times over. Arthur takes in her home; the stacks of books, loose sheaves of paper tucked anywhere that can hold them, the motley assortment of lamps and pencils on every flat surface available. The first time he was here, he was angry and disoriented and of course it was Ariadne who unflinchingly cut through it all. He remembers leaving her on her bed in a bathrobe after two kisses as the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
She sits next to him, the picture of propriety, like they haven’t opened their minds to each other a dozen times in the last week alone. So he asks her pointblank if she would like a foot rub, because she looks tense. He doesn’t wait for a refusal and soon she is fighting not to moan like a porn star under his attentions.
At some point his hands travel higher than her ankles, and then her skirt is bunched around her waist, panties hanging off her left foot and Arthur is breathing hot lust over the velvet petals of her sex. Ariadne arches like an ancient aqueduct and pushes him away with her heel. He stammers an apology while she stands, kicking off her underwear, and walks around the futon. With a practiced lift and shove, the back unfolds and she quietly suggests they might be more comfortable this way.
She crawls onto the futon again, timidly presses his shoulder into the mattress, arranging her knees on either side of his head, and gingerly works his belt loose. He smiles against her leg and carefully runs his teeth over her skin.
She shudders, fumbling with the button of his jeans. He has to pull her hips lower so he can work his tongue into the folds of flesh, coaxing out little broken mewls. He somehow completely forgets about her clever hands and luscious mouth until they engulf his cock. He groans carnal want into her wetness, and she drops a kiss on the tip of his member. The kiss turns into a taste and then her tongue is delving into the slit of his head while her hands eagerly slide up and down his shaft.
He presses kisses to her clit, teasing her with stiff strokes and lingering licks. In return she takes as much of him as she can into her, choking slightly, and sucks. Her hips rock against his mouth; Arthur settles his hands and sweeps his tongue over the rosebud of nerves, over and over and over, a delicious wet friction that makes her moan and keen, too distracted now to pleasure him. She throws her head back and her hair dances over his sensitized skin as she orgasms with a breathless scream.
By the time Ariadne reassembles her wits, Arthur has already fixed his clothes. She pulls herself up so she is sitting with her cheek on his shoulder and they watch Sean Connery and Harrison Ford argue.
You’re one of those people that doesn’t believe in sex on the first date, aren’t you? she concludes with disappointment. She perks up. Can I invite you for coffee some time?
Sure, he agrees, fighting a laugh.
How does right now sound? she asks seriously, toying with his shirt.
[acid wash denim]
Arthur almost doesn’t recognize the girl shoving her bag into the overhead compartment. They parted ways seven hours ago, because the Italians definitely set watchers on the airport and she seemed to like the idea of meeting as strangers on a plane. There’s a streak of blue in her hair, and she’s paired hot pink stockings with a jean miniskirt and clunky black boots. She looks seventeen, and nothing like the polished little professional Giovanni met last month. The Cheshire Cat shirt doesn’t help.
She looks down as she closes the compartment and points to the window seat with a small smile. He kicks his laptop case under 32F, and she slides past without waiting for him to move out of the way, giving him a tantalizing view of frayed denim and neon pink, and plops into her seat.
Her hand goes to touch his hair, free of styling product, but she changes it into a reach for the air vent. Really, you like The Smiths? she starts, gesturing at his t-shirt. I can’t stand Morrissey.
By hour five they are sharing a blanket, their tray tables down and his laptop balanced between them, watching The Maltese Falcon. Ariadne tenses noticeably when she notices him tracing the seam of her stockings.
His fingers are cold and they press into her as she shifts. Her wiggling stops abruptly when he manages to rip the nylon. She sees him smile wickedly out of the corner of her eye, so she pinches his leg. Thwarted by his jeans, she snakes a hand into his pocket and gives him another sharp tweak. She feels him widening the tear in her stockings and simultaneously, a brush of heat near her palm. She strokes her fingers helplessly against his stiffening cock while he shoves her underwear aside and rubs her clit without mercy.
Her breathy little gasps are lost in the hum of the airplane, but she has to bite down furiously when he slowly pushes two long fingers into her. She silently endures every little flex and flick, the hard node of each joint as it enters, all the tortuous circling of his thumb. She doesn’t have the freedom to do more than squeeze the hard length of his member, which she does with wild abandon as he smoothly slides out, gently tickling her sensitive skin with slick silver. Arthur whispers encouragement into her hair, and drives in her again. Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth, turning what would have been a keening moan into a quiet hiccough.
It’s an even greater relief than usual when she feels herself come undone and her every muscle relaxes all at once. His fingers jerk a few more times before they leave her, feeling empty and highly embarrassed. She catches his hand and drags it along his jeans, hopefully leaving two very wet streaks that will drive him crazy before they land Los Angeles.
She has to squirm in her seat for a minute because her panties are damp, her skirt is riding up, there’s a giant hole in her stockings and it’s cold now that she’s not having sex.
I am never wearing this skirt again, she hisses, trying to cover herself satisfactorily. And I hate you. Your stupid British rock band too.
He laughs softly, rotating his arm until she hears a muffled crack. So I should leave you alone for the rest of the flight?
She pouts, ever so slightly, and steals his side of the blanket.
[pink quilted cotton]
Ariadne is mildly put out that Cobb’s children don’t do naps. She is more than ready for one. She barely had time to eat her bagel this morning before playtime claimed her. James is counting to twenty, so she races to the kitchen, notes a pot on the stove, ingredients laid out on the counter and Arthur doing a crossword. She snatches the sandwich out of his hand and shuts herself in the pantry.
The door opens and Arthur looks down at her with amusement. There’s a feathered tiara on her head and a pink blanket around her waist, like wrapping paper. Two scarves are tied to her arms in a close approximation of trailing sleeves and there is a rainbow of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. He decides she needs to play princess more often.
She yanks him inside and closes the door as quietly as she can, not a second too soon. James’ feet pound past as he runs to check all the usual hiding spots. She swallows the last bite and apologizes unrepentantly.
Even in the dark, Arthur unerringly removes the plastic fortune in jewelry so he can kiss her without any telltale clicking. She tastes like white bread and imaginary tea and his hands instinctively slide down to her waist to lift her up. The blanket-skirt makes it difficult to grab; he traces the edge, fingers tickling her through her shirt, ignoring her fitful little gasps, until he finds the corner and pulls it out. It falls away easily and he wastes no time pressing her close, fitting his hands to her ass and raising her so their lips are level and her hips tilt recklessly against his with need. One hand snakes up to engulf her breast, catching her nipple between his fingers, and she grinds her clit urgently against his erection.
How he hears anything but the wild thundering of her heart is beyond her, but he puts her down abruptly and turns just as the door opens again, revealing Philippa and James’ triumphant faces.
The pot on the stove is boiling over. Arthur exits the pantry to check on it with a sorry, princess, leaving Ariadne to the tender mercies of Things 1 and 2.
She swears revenge, shaking a fist after him. James bounces with excitement and Philippa asks if she’s going to poison the bananas. She puts the tiara back on and reties the blanket over her plaid pajama bottoms. She grandly informs the chef that she is not a princess but an evil queen, and she is going to have his head for this insult before flouncing away.
Sometime after midnight that night, when every one else has been turned into a pumpkin, she makes good her threat and Arthur is in no position to complain.
[satin half slip]
Eames isn’t sold on his tuxedo. He called and left ten messages to that effect. Ariadne was locked in the bathroom with a curling iron, otherwise she’d have answered the phone and told him to shut the fuck up because he only needed to shave and make sure his bowtie was symmetric. The point man is too absorbed in going over his notes to care about a ringtone, however incessant.
At this point, his is the harder job; he says trying to market Eames as a valuable business associate requires a better liar than him. But Eames needs to get close to the mark’s brother, and so Arthur needs to be the kind of person to get him there.
Ariadne suspects she is only Arthur’s armcandy to keep the vultures away. She’s not a great actress, and Arthur has made it no secret he’d rather she were waiting in the hotel room naked than pretending to be one of those vacuous socialites.
It takes her an hour to get her hair to look like the Cosmo page, and another two to do her makeup and eyeshadow without looking like a panda that lost a barfight. It’s cold in just a bra and underskirt, but she wasn’t going to let anything happen to the Dior gown so she suffered through and now she can go and at least take it out of the dress bag.
Arthur looks up when the bathroom door opens and lets his eyes rest appreciatively on the latest Victoria’s Secret purchase. He isn’t dressed yet and his stuff spread all over the coffee table; there’s another hour before they need to go. He’s long since perfected perfection, while Ariadne is still afraid of stabbing herself with a mascara brush, so he allowed her to commandeer the brightly lit mirror for as long as she thought she would need it.
He hasn’t gone back to his papers. She meets his gaze, and it is predatory.
If you ruin three hours of getting ready, she warns him huskily you are spending tonight and the rest of the week alone and I’m going to New York with Eames.
Eames will be working Davids.
I have a credit card with no limit. I don’t need Eames to entertain me. You could save us both the trouble, and keep it in your pants.
He smiles at her and she regrets phrasing it as a challenge. But not a whole lot. He takes her hand and sits her in his lap. I’m sure I can manage without disturbing a hair on your pretty pretty head, he murmurs into her shoulder.
And Eames says you have no imagination. She gasps a little as he slips her bra down and fingers the puckered nipples.
I am, may I remind you, extremely resourceful. He drags the lace edge of her slip up her leg. Did I ever tell you about the time I created a drop for five people in zero-gravity?
Anything she might have said escapes her completely when he traces feather light circles over the front of her thong. One level up, a guy drove us off a bridge. He emphasizes with a flex of his fingers. And-
She writhes like a ribbon in the wind and one of the stiff curls comes perilously close to his eye. Now, Ariadne. It’s not fair if you-
Shutupshutup, she hisses, jerking her hips into his caress, knowing his erection is right under her ass.
He takes his hands away and rests them on her waist to hold her steady. ...if you ruin your hair before the party, he finishes.
Ariadne shoots him a poisonous look over her shoulder and skates a hand between her legs. The pads of her fingers find her swollen clitoris and try very hard to make it better than his teasing little touches. The flimsy material of her underwear clings to her; she is so wet, and he hasn’t done more than bait her.
She feels his hand moving behind her, hopefully getting rid of his pants. She peels her panties off and drops them on his folders just because she can. After a little more shifting, he lifts her hips and slides into her. She makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a croon with a gratifying gasp thrown in. Arthur thrusts up, feels her toes curling against his leg, her back arching into his chest and her breath catching in her throat. Her hands clutch at his, and he is furiously pounding into her, pressing sweet kisses and harsh groans and obscene French into the wings of her back, and together they are one tumultuous throbbing thought and then nothing but sensation and anticipation and exhilarating reverence.
Ariadne isn’t sure she can walk, much less in heels, right now, but they have a party to go to. She turns and kisses him, hoping slightly that her lipstick was lying. The glossy rose pink stays on her lips despite her best effort, so she clambers off her point man and checks the mirror. Her hair doesn’t look any worse than it did before, and if she’s very flushed right now, it will go away soon. It’s just as well, she supposes. New York is awful in the winter.
[matte black pencil]
Well, that went well, don’t you think? Ariadne chirps, brushing at her cuffs. And you got to play fairy godmother. I knew you hate the way I dress.
There are quite a few establishments Burnett stopped patronizing because the staff weren’t up to his standards. I simply outfitted you to reflect your position as my partner. Getting pulled from a job before doing anything at all is bad for our reputation.
Yeah, yeah, and reputation is everything in this business. She lengthens her stride to her usual gait so she can reach the elevator first.
The pleat in her pencil skirt gapes with each step, flashing glimpses of her stockings and narrow triangles of skin. There’s no visible hint she’s wearing a garter belt to hold them up, but Arthur knows she is because he paid for it. It’s the knowing that starts the wanting and by the time they get to the room and he shoves the keycard into the door like a visual euphemism, she’s eagerly pulling at his belt and slinking her legs against his in an utterly distracting maneuver that is supposed to make him hurry up.
Her shirt hangs open by the time he tucks his wallet away, effectively engaging the whole of his attention. His desire is not diminished in the slightest by her fighting with the zipper on her skirt like a puppy with its tail. It finally drops stiffly around her feet. The sight of her with one knee in the air trying to step out of it with her delightful black stilettos still on sends all his blood straight to his groin. He gently lifts her out, shoes, smile and all, and perches her on the bed. She in turn takes inventory of his dishabille. Shirt, barely untucked and fully buttoned; tie, still knotted; pants, nice lines despite raging hard-on; shoes and socks, by the door.
She peers up at him, an indescribably incredible mix of amused and aroused. Did you need some help getting out of that? she asks, trailing a finger along the front seam of his trousers. She doesn’t wait for an answer but pulls the belt tongue free, nails catching urgently at the leather. She leaves it abruptly to yank on his tie, dragging him down for a slow, gasping kiss. Arthur manages to get rid of his slacks, which is a more than worthy accomplishment considering he can’t concentrate on anything but fucking her senseless.
She put her panties on over the garter belt, clever girl, so he can’t help but suspect, as she slithers out of them now, that this was premeditated. Especially since she’s still wearing her shoes. He kneels and picks up her left foot, lifting it to his lips, sliding his fingers along the dainty arch, over her ankle and up the taut muscle of her calf, dropping hot kisses in their wake. He stops when he reaches the plain band of her stocking and moves for her other foot.
Ariadne is having none of it. Fuck you. It comes out more whimper than anything else.
That was the plan.
She tangles one fist in his tie and he has to move with it or risk being choked. The other finds his dick and slides it one glorious inch into her. Fuck me, she demands before laying herself on the bed. He methodically loosens his tie and undoes the buttons at his cuffs and neck while she wriggles impatiently.
Finally he settles his hands on her hips and obeys. The tip of his tie sketches silky spirals over her breasts, a cool counterpoint to the hot hard pounding that tears moan after primal moan from her throat. She lifts her legs and locks them loosely about him so she can match his every thrust, hands twisting in the sheets above her head mirroring the insensible tangle of desire she is.
The soft scratch of her stockings and the sharp little digs of her heels are both incredibly distracting and supremely arousing. Arthur is hard-pressed to control himself long enough for Ariadne to start losing rhythm and begin her uncoordinated urging. Her hips beat against his in a short needy staccato before she goes completely boneless. His last strokes slam into her with enough force to make her cry out.
When they recover enough to undress for a shower, she notices her new stockings are ruined.
You’re replacing these, she informs him.
Absolutely.
There are a bunch of films mentioned that I had no influence over. Inception for one. The Maltese Falcon and The Philadelphia Story are others. Oh, and the awesome that is Indiana Jones.
There's a shout out to Animaniacs' Pinky. Also, the Suzuki Bandit is, I think, the sexiest motorcycle next to the Shiva summon in FFXIII and I'm not even all that interested in a lesbian threeway.
The reference to the Smiths was for (500) Days of Summer; Ariadne's blue hair and boots for Whip It; Things 1 and 2 for Dr. Seuss; the Catbus for Hayao Miyazaki; and ancient aqueducts was just because I am a huge Greek freak, as if metamorpheus didn't tell you that.
You probably don't want to know how much of this is personal experience and how much is conjecture. I'll be in my bunk.
I think I'm done disclaiming.
Five times she wore a skirt to good effect and one time it was a pair of pants.
[leather pants]
Arthur has been teaching her. How to pick locks, drive stick, shoot a gun, shoot several other kinds of firearm, shoot them while driving, how to load the PASIV and how to dress in such a way that he notices. That last isn’t actually part of Arthur’s mind crime curriculum, but Ariadne has picked up the cues anyway (his eyes go darker and his Adam’s apple jumps, just a little bit). This is mostly because she spends entirely too much time gazing at him dreamily.
She settles into the lawn chair with a cheeky so, what’re we doing tonight, Brain?
Arthur adjusts the lead in his wrist and answers succinctly. Motorcycles.
The dream is flat and empty, with a remarkably well-kept road and just a touch of storm rising. She is immediately reminded of a BMW commercial, but she doesn’t say anything.
Arthur doesn’t start right away, which is unusual, so she turns and finds him jerking his line of vision up so it intersects her face and not something less chivalrous. She glances down at the leather pants, aviator Snoopy visible on her t-shirt and gives him her best sexy smile. She strides past him, zipping up her jacket, and straddles the lipstick red motorcycle, the same color as his totem.
My boyfriend in high school had this awesome Bandit, it was blue like his eyes. He did something stupid, I forget what, and broke his arm. Free lessons for me.
When she wakes, Arthur is holding his die and looking at her fixedly. She doesn’t think it has anything to do with how badly she handles recoil at ninety miles an hour. She undoes the little plastic strap and starts to coil the tubing back up. Arthur takes it; his hand brushes against hers, a frisson like lightning and ice cream that has her pulling her hand away and stammering something silly about whiplash and helmets.
Suddenly she’s not sure, for all that she knows she wants him, if she can handle it. She never knew Mal, but considering what being half of a whole did to Cobb, it’s suddenly very important she get away from here, from all this, from him and really think about what it means for her to be a lover.
She leaves and doesn’t come back for hours. Arthur’s car is still parked in its discreet hiding spot, which makes her sigh and hope he’s too busy to notice her coming in. The rain traveled up her jeans, soaking them to the knee, and her scarf looks more like a dishrag at this point. She shivers as she closes the door, praying she’s mastered this whole ‘sneaky’ thing. She releases the knob slowly, so the latch slides quietly back into place.
She turns and Arthur shoves her bag at her, drapes his suit jacket over her shoulders and forcefully steers her back out and into his car. They don’t talk at all, but Ariadne doesn’t believe she will ever be afraid of Arthur, so she sits in silence and tries not to think about how her hair is ruining a Gieves and Hawkes jacket.
He takes her to her apartment, runs the shower while she struggles out of her shoes, and clinically helps her out of the rest of her clothes before pushing her into her bathroom. She stands under the hot water completely at loss, wondering how he could be stripping her and she could be naked and there was none of the magic from earlier in his touch and maybe she had just been dreaming and if so, well there’s nothing like a cold wet dose of reality to make her look like a bigger idiot than a sitcom teenager.
She fully expects Arthur to be gone by the time she emerges, but he’s sitting on her bed without even a book as his excuse. He tucks his die away when he sees her. She sits down next to him, freeing her Catbus from under the blankets, wishing, as she sometimes did during first year, that it could take her away.
Thanks for the ride, she tries gamely. She puts a hand on top of his, and it’s as electrifying and intoxicating as she could ever want and maybe she doesn’t need to be half to be whole, so she digs her chin into his shoulder and whispers quick, give me a kiss. He doesn’t react and for a second she wonders if she’s made a horrible mistake. And then he kisses her and it’s like falling and floating and drowning all at once and she doesn’t even care about her totem.
[flower ruffle paisley]
There is no mind crime today, so Arthur goes to visit Professor Miles to ask after Cobb, who is apparently doing very well. He is genuinely happy for his friend, and unbidden, lines of Hamlet’s soliloquy come to mind, like locks tumbling into place. Miles tells him not to apologize for getting Ariadne mixed up in this business, it was Dom’s fault and her choice and he’s just glad the most responsible man in the world is looking after her.
Arthur changes the subject. He learns Philippa has started ballet classes, and James is getting into trucks. They both vaguely remember Uncle Arthur, mostly because he gave Philippa the best bear in the world and James his first dinosaur and he is in three of the picture frames on the downstairs cabinet. Miles reminds him that just because Cobb never invites him to the house, it doesn’t mean he is unwelcome. And he should bring Ariadne.
As he leaves the building Arthur hears his name, and twenty steps behind him is his architect, walking with a small knot of people. He is rather pleasantly surprised to see her in a skirt, a knee-length bohemian affair that looks like several of her scarves decided to have an orgy and never got around to leaving. She tries to introduce him to her friends without actually telling the truth about how they met or what he does and who he works with and ends up trailing off with a frantic gesture for him to do something. He barely notices because the soft silhouettes of her legs, from knee to ankle, are quite preoccupying.
He invites them all to dinner, because graduate students are, as a species, always hungry and perpetually broke, and maybe it will make Ariadne happy.
They all decline, with a few not-so-subtle smirks and three different people elbowing her in the ribs. She doesn’t seem to mind, forgetting about them completely as they exit the college. She shyly suggests getting take-out and watching a movie on the most comfortable futon known to man. She tugs on one of her loose curls, looking so hopeful he doesn’t hesitate to agree, even though being alone in her apartment is skipping parts 3 through 8 of his dating protocol.
She asks what kind of movies he likes, waiting for him to say ones without technicolor. He asks if she’s seen The Philadelphia Story and laughs at her blank look.
Since it was your idea, you can pick the movie.
She doesn’t look any happier with this proposal, but when they get to her apartment, she manages to put Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in without changing her mind a million times over. Arthur takes in her home; the stacks of books, loose sheaves of paper tucked anywhere that can hold them, the motley assortment of lamps and pencils on every flat surface available. The first time he was here, he was angry and disoriented and of course it was Ariadne who unflinchingly cut through it all. He remembers leaving her on her bed in a bathrobe after two kisses as the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
She sits next to him, the picture of propriety, like they haven’t opened their minds to each other a dozen times in the last week alone. So he asks her pointblank if she would like a foot rub, because she looks tense. He doesn’t wait for a refusal and soon she is fighting not to moan like a porn star under his attentions.
At some point his hands travel higher than her ankles, and then her skirt is bunched around her waist, panties hanging off her left foot and Arthur is breathing hot lust over the velvet petals of her sex. Ariadne arches like an ancient aqueduct and pushes him away with her heel. He stammers an apology while she stands, kicking off her underwear, and walks around the futon. With a practiced lift and shove, the back unfolds and she quietly suggests they might be more comfortable this way.
She crawls onto the futon again, timidly presses his shoulder into the mattress, arranging her knees on either side of his head, and gingerly works his belt loose. He smiles against her leg and carefully runs his teeth over her skin.
She shudders, fumbling with the button of his jeans. He has to pull her hips lower so he can work his tongue into the folds of flesh, coaxing out little broken mewls. He somehow completely forgets about her clever hands and luscious mouth until they engulf his cock. He groans carnal want into her wetness, and she drops a kiss on the tip of his member. The kiss turns into a taste and then her tongue is delving into the slit of his head while her hands eagerly slide up and down his shaft.
He presses kisses to her clit, teasing her with stiff strokes and lingering licks. In return she takes as much of him as she can into her, choking slightly, and sucks. Her hips rock against his mouth; Arthur settles his hands and sweeps his tongue over the rosebud of nerves, over and over and over, a delicious wet friction that makes her moan and keen, too distracted now to pleasure him. She throws her head back and her hair dances over his sensitized skin as she orgasms with a breathless scream.
By the time Ariadne reassembles her wits, Arthur has already fixed his clothes. She pulls herself up so she is sitting with her cheek on his shoulder and they watch Sean Connery and Harrison Ford argue.
You’re one of those people that doesn’t believe in sex on the first date, aren’t you? she concludes with disappointment. She perks up. Can I invite you for coffee some time?
Sure, he agrees, fighting a laugh.
How does right now sound? she asks seriously, toying with his shirt.
[acid wash denim]
Arthur almost doesn’t recognize the girl shoving her bag into the overhead compartment. They parted ways seven hours ago, because the Italians definitely set watchers on the airport and she seemed to like the idea of meeting as strangers on a plane. There’s a streak of blue in her hair, and she’s paired hot pink stockings with a jean miniskirt and clunky black boots. She looks seventeen, and nothing like the polished little professional Giovanni met last month. The Cheshire Cat shirt doesn’t help.
She looks down as she closes the compartment and points to the window seat with a small smile. He kicks his laptop case under 32F, and she slides past without waiting for him to move out of the way, giving him a tantalizing view of frayed denim and neon pink, and plops into her seat.
Her hand goes to touch his hair, free of styling product, but she changes it into a reach for the air vent. Really, you like The Smiths? she starts, gesturing at his t-shirt. I can’t stand Morrissey.
By hour five they are sharing a blanket, their tray tables down and his laptop balanced between them, watching The Maltese Falcon. Ariadne tenses noticeably when she notices him tracing the seam of her stockings.
His fingers are cold and they press into her as she shifts. Her wiggling stops abruptly when he manages to rip the nylon. She sees him smile wickedly out of the corner of her eye, so she pinches his leg. Thwarted by his jeans, she snakes a hand into his pocket and gives him another sharp tweak. She feels him widening the tear in her stockings and simultaneously, a brush of heat near her palm. She strokes her fingers helplessly against his stiffening cock while he shoves her underwear aside and rubs her clit without mercy.
Her breathy little gasps are lost in the hum of the airplane, but she has to bite down furiously when he slowly pushes two long fingers into her. She silently endures every little flex and flick, the hard node of each joint as it enters, all the tortuous circling of his thumb. She doesn’t have the freedom to do more than squeeze the hard length of his member, which she does with wild abandon as he smoothly slides out, gently tickling her sensitive skin with slick silver. Arthur whispers encouragement into her hair, and drives in her again. Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth, turning what would have been a keening moan into a quiet hiccough.
It’s an even greater relief than usual when she feels herself come undone and her every muscle relaxes all at once. His fingers jerk a few more times before they leave her, feeling empty and highly embarrassed. She catches his hand and drags it along his jeans, hopefully leaving two very wet streaks that will drive him crazy before they land Los Angeles.
She has to squirm in her seat for a minute because her panties are damp, her skirt is riding up, there’s a giant hole in her stockings and it’s cold now that she’s not having sex.
I am never wearing this skirt again, she hisses, trying to cover herself satisfactorily. And I hate you. Your stupid British rock band too.
He laughs softly, rotating his arm until she hears a muffled crack. So I should leave you alone for the rest of the flight?
She pouts, ever so slightly, and steals his side of the blanket.
[pink quilted cotton]
Ariadne is mildly put out that Cobb’s children don’t do naps. She is more than ready for one. She barely had time to eat her bagel this morning before playtime claimed her. James is counting to twenty, so she races to the kitchen, notes a pot on the stove, ingredients laid out on the counter and Arthur doing a crossword. She snatches the sandwich out of his hand and shuts herself in the pantry.
The door opens and Arthur looks down at her with amusement. There’s a feathered tiara on her head and a pink blanket around her waist, like wrapping paper. Two scarves are tied to her arms in a close approximation of trailing sleeves and there is a rainbow of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. He decides she needs to play princess more often.
She yanks him inside and closes the door as quietly as she can, not a second too soon. James’ feet pound past as he runs to check all the usual hiding spots. She swallows the last bite and apologizes unrepentantly.
Even in the dark, Arthur unerringly removes the plastic fortune in jewelry so he can kiss her without any telltale clicking. She tastes like white bread and imaginary tea and his hands instinctively slide down to her waist to lift her up. The blanket-skirt makes it difficult to grab; he traces the edge, fingers tickling her through her shirt, ignoring her fitful little gasps, until he finds the corner and pulls it out. It falls away easily and he wastes no time pressing her close, fitting his hands to her ass and raising her so their lips are level and her hips tilt recklessly against his with need. One hand snakes up to engulf her breast, catching her nipple between his fingers, and she grinds her clit urgently against his erection.
How he hears anything but the wild thundering of her heart is beyond her, but he puts her down abruptly and turns just as the door opens again, revealing Philippa and James’ triumphant faces.
The pot on the stove is boiling over. Arthur exits the pantry to check on it with a sorry, princess, leaving Ariadne to the tender mercies of Things 1 and 2.
She swears revenge, shaking a fist after him. James bounces with excitement and Philippa asks if she’s going to poison the bananas. She puts the tiara back on and reties the blanket over her plaid pajama bottoms. She grandly informs the chef that she is not a princess but an evil queen, and she is going to have his head for this insult before flouncing away.
Sometime after midnight that night, when every one else has been turned into a pumpkin, she makes good her threat and Arthur is in no position to complain.
[satin half slip]
Eames isn’t sold on his tuxedo. He called and left ten messages to that effect. Ariadne was locked in the bathroom with a curling iron, otherwise she’d have answered the phone and told him to shut the fuck up because he only needed to shave and make sure his bowtie was symmetric. The point man is too absorbed in going over his notes to care about a ringtone, however incessant.
At this point, his is the harder job; he says trying to market Eames as a valuable business associate requires a better liar than him. But Eames needs to get close to the mark’s brother, and so Arthur needs to be the kind of person to get him there.
Ariadne suspects she is only Arthur’s armcandy to keep the vultures away. She’s not a great actress, and Arthur has made it no secret he’d rather she were waiting in the hotel room naked than pretending to be one of those vacuous socialites.
It takes her an hour to get her hair to look like the Cosmo page, and another two to do her makeup and eyeshadow without looking like a panda that lost a barfight. It’s cold in just a bra and underskirt, but she wasn’t going to let anything happen to the Dior gown so she suffered through and now she can go and at least take it out of the dress bag.
Arthur looks up when the bathroom door opens and lets his eyes rest appreciatively on the latest Victoria’s Secret purchase. He isn’t dressed yet and his stuff spread all over the coffee table; there’s another hour before they need to go. He’s long since perfected perfection, while Ariadne is still afraid of stabbing herself with a mascara brush, so he allowed her to commandeer the brightly lit mirror for as long as she thought she would need it.
He hasn’t gone back to his papers. She meets his gaze, and it is predatory.
If you ruin three hours of getting ready, she warns him huskily you are spending tonight and the rest of the week alone and I’m going to New York with Eames.
Eames will be working Davids.
I have a credit card with no limit. I don’t need Eames to entertain me. You could save us both the trouble, and keep it in your pants.
He smiles at her and she regrets phrasing it as a challenge. But not a whole lot. He takes her hand and sits her in his lap. I’m sure I can manage without disturbing a hair on your pretty pretty head, he murmurs into her shoulder.
And Eames says you have no imagination. She gasps a little as he slips her bra down and fingers the puckered nipples.
I am, may I remind you, extremely resourceful. He drags the lace edge of her slip up her leg. Did I ever tell you about the time I created a drop for five people in zero-gravity?
Anything she might have said escapes her completely when he traces feather light circles over the front of her thong. One level up, a guy drove us off a bridge. He emphasizes with a flex of his fingers. And-
She writhes like a ribbon in the wind and one of the stiff curls comes perilously close to his eye. Now, Ariadne. It’s not fair if you-
Shutupshutup, she hisses, jerking her hips into his caress, knowing his erection is right under her ass.
He takes his hands away and rests them on her waist to hold her steady. ...if you ruin your hair before the party, he finishes.
Ariadne shoots him a poisonous look over her shoulder and skates a hand between her legs. The pads of her fingers find her swollen clitoris and try very hard to make it better than his teasing little touches. The flimsy material of her underwear clings to her; she is so wet, and he hasn’t done more than bait her.
She feels his hand moving behind her, hopefully getting rid of his pants. She peels her panties off and drops them on his folders just because she can. After a little more shifting, he lifts her hips and slides into her. She makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a croon with a gratifying gasp thrown in. Arthur thrusts up, feels her toes curling against his leg, her back arching into his chest and her breath catching in her throat. Her hands clutch at his, and he is furiously pounding into her, pressing sweet kisses and harsh groans and obscene French into the wings of her back, and together they are one tumultuous throbbing thought and then nothing but sensation and anticipation and exhilarating reverence.
Ariadne isn’t sure she can walk, much less in heels, right now, but they have a party to go to. She turns and kisses him, hoping slightly that her lipstick was lying. The glossy rose pink stays on her lips despite her best effort, so she clambers off her point man and checks the mirror. Her hair doesn’t look any worse than it did before, and if she’s very flushed right now, it will go away soon. It’s just as well, she supposes. New York is awful in the winter.
[matte black pencil]
Well, that went well, don’t you think? Ariadne chirps, brushing at her cuffs. And you got to play fairy godmother. I knew you hate the way I dress.
There are quite a few establishments Burnett stopped patronizing because the staff weren’t up to his standards. I simply outfitted you to reflect your position as my partner. Getting pulled from a job before doing anything at all is bad for our reputation.
Yeah, yeah, and reputation is everything in this business. She lengthens her stride to her usual gait so she can reach the elevator first.
The pleat in her pencil skirt gapes with each step, flashing glimpses of her stockings and narrow triangles of skin. There’s no visible hint she’s wearing a garter belt to hold them up, but Arthur knows she is because he paid for it. It’s the knowing that starts the wanting and by the time they get to the room and he shoves the keycard into the door like a visual euphemism, she’s eagerly pulling at his belt and slinking her legs against his in an utterly distracting maneuver that is supposed to make him hurry up.
Her shirt hangs open by the time he tucks his wallet away, effectively engaging the whole of his attention. His desire is not diminished in the slightest by her fighting with the zipper on her skirt like a puppy with its tail. It finally drops stiffly around her feet. The sight of her with one knee in the air trying to step out of it with her delightful black stilettos still on sends all his blood straight to his groin. He gently lifts her out, shoes, smile and all, and perches her on the bed. She in turn takes inventory of his dishabille. Shirt, barely untucked and fully buttoned; tie, still knotted; pants, nice lines despite raging hard-on; shoes and socks, by the door.
She peers up at him, an indescribably incredible mix of amused and aroused. Did you need some help getting out of that? she asks, trailing a finger along the front seam of his trousers. She doesn’t wait for an answer but pulls the belt tongue free, nails catching urgently at the leather. She leaves it abruptly to yank on his tie, dragging him down for a slow, gasping kiss. Arthur manages to get rid of his slacks, which is a more than worthy accomplishment considering he can’t concentrate on anything but fucking her senseless.
She put her panties on over the garter belt, clever girl, so he can’t help but suspect, as she slithers out of them now, that this was premeditated. Especially since she’s still wearing her shoes. He kneels and picks up her left foot, lifting it to his lips, sliding his fingers along the dainty arch, over her ankle and up the taut muscle of her calf, dropping hot kisses in their wake. He stops when he reaches the plain band of her stocking and moves for her other foot.
Ariadne is having none of it. Fuck you. It comes out more whimper than anything else.
That was the plan.
She tangles one fist in his tie and he has to move with it or risk being choked. The other finds his dick and slides it one glorious inch into her. Fuck me, she demands before laying herself on the bed. He methodically loosens his tie and undoes the buttons at his cuffs and neck while she wriggles impatiently.
Finally he settles his hands on her hips and obeys. The tip of his tie sketches silky spirals over her breasts, a cool counterpoint to the hot hard pounding that tears moan after primal moan from her throat. She lifts her legs and locks them loosely about him so she can match his every thrust, hands twisting in the sheets above her head mirroring the insensible tangle of desire she is.
The soft scratch of her stockings and the sharp little digs of her heels are both incredibly distracting and supremely arousing. Arthur is hard-pressed to control himself long enough for Ariadne to start losing rhythm and begin her uncoordinated urging. Her hips beat against his in a short needy staccato before she goes completely boneless. His last strokes slam into her with enough force to make her cry out.
When they recover enough to undress for a shower, she notices her new stockings are ruined.
You’re replacing these, she informs him.
Absolutely.
There are a bunch of films mentioned that I had no influence over. Inception for one. The Maltese Falcon and The Philadelphia Story are others. Oh, and the awesome that is Indiana Jones.
There's a shout out to Animaniacs' Pinky. Also, the Suzuki Bandit is, I think, the sexiest motorcycle next to the Shiva summon in FFXIII and I'm not even all that interested in a lesbian threeway.
The reference to the Smiths was for (500) Days of Summer; Ariadne's blue hair and boots for Whip It; Things 1 and 2 for Dr. Seuss; the Catbus for Hayao Miyazaki; and ancient aqueducts was just because I am a huge Greek freak, as if metamorpheus didn't tell you that.
You probably don't want to know how much of this is personal experience and how much is conjecture. I'll be in my bunk.
I think I'm done disclaiming.