[fic: inception]
forgive us our trespasses
inception. arthur/ariadne. arthur tends to get frisky in the most inappropriate of places; example: a church ~1700 | nc17 for gaspily at inception_kink
Halfway between her fingers scrapping against his belt buckle and his fingers sliding through the lace of her underwear, Ariadne wondered how she got into this mess.
Then she remembered. It was all Eames’s fault. As usual.
Eames looked between the two of them, and then said with a careless shrug, “I haven’t been in one since I was fifteen. No desire to go back. You’re on your own.”
Arthur, frowning with aggravation, obviously not pleased that Eames didn’t immediately jump on his ingenious plan like he always expected them all to, said, “I don’t think I should go in alone. I’m Jewish.”
They both looked to the third member of their little team. Ariadne had never been a very good Catholic girl, but she’d been one at least and that was apparently something when held up against Arthur and Eames.
“Imagine her in those skirts and knee-highs,” Eames said suddenly.
Arthur, without taking his eyes off Ariadne, reached over and pushed him out of his chair. “Ariadne?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, glowered. “We’re trying to kidnap a priest,” she muttered. “We are going to hell.”
Arthur’s very logical argument that beforehand said priest had been a terrorist arms dealer and they had the government backing them for once and could they all please not ruin this fell short of Eames loud claim that, “yeah, but it’ll be a party!”
“Be quiet,” Arthur hissed somewhere near her ear.
Ariadne squirmed in his arms, gripping his shoulders, leveling herself against him. “You be quiet. This is absolutely the worst place to hide! It’s a confession booth!”
“I know what it is.” Arthur didn’t snap the words out or say them in a voice that was anything but even and controlled, but Ariadne could tell he was annoyed. Angry that the world did not fall in line with his perfectly ordered plan-how dare it! She could sense it in the hard, tense line of his body.
When Ariadne was nervous she talked. A lot. “Always hated these things,” she murmured. “Made me feel like I was in one of those prison movies and was being sent to solitary confinement. Never got the confession part right, either. Couldn’t get pass the ‘I cursed a lot yesterday’ admittance.”
Arthur made a noncommittal noise. He looked at her strangely. The hands on her hips flexed. Ariadne, after three years, knew that look. Knew a bit too well.
“Oh, no!” she snapped softly, giving him a solid shove against his shoulders. Of course, being over half a foot taller than her, Arthur barely budged. “Don’t you dare, Arthur! I mean it-”
He pressed his mouth down on hers, pushing her against the wall so her back jammed up against the screen that separated the two small cramped, dark rooms. He nudged her legs apart, sliding his knee against the juncture of her thighs. She’d decided on one of those flowy, flower-print skirts. It took no effort at all for Arthur to bunch it around her hips.
Why was it Arthur always got frisky in the most inappropriate places? You wouldn’t figure it, considering how by the books and straight-laced Arthur was. It wasn’t that they didn’t do it in conventional places-like her apartment, for example, on the bed-but when Arthur got turned on, like really turned on, it was usually in some place like in an airplane or at the grocery store or in a library or-
In a freaking church.
And worse of it all, those were her hands, fisting in his hair, pushing him more firmly against her, sliding down his chest to work furiously on the buckle of his trousers. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and full, and she rubbed herself against it, making kittenish mewling noises in the back of her throat.
Arthur broke away from her mouth, cursed furiously under his breath, and pushed up her shirt, suckling her breasts through the lace of her bra. Ariadne moaned low, head falling back and rapping against the mesh screen.
“Fuck,” she panted, parting her legs as Arthur slid a hand passed the elastic of her underwear and slid a digit inside the hot, clinging warmth of her center. “Athur.”
“Quiet,” Arthur teased. “Or the priests’ll hear us and we’ll go directly to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collection two hundred dollars.”
“We’re going to hell anyway,” Ariadne said. “We’re about to do this in a confession booth… in a church.”
“I am not aware of the cardinal rules of Catholicism,” Arthur said, shooting a smirk up at Ariadne. She moaned helplessly as he slid another finger inside her, gently stroking her from the inside out. “Jewish.”
She clamped her mouth down over his, grinding against his hand. She managed to finally get the last of his buttons undone, and closed a hand over the throbbing length of his cock. The space was too cramped to do what she really wanted, go down on him and get Arthur to fall apart, so she settled for stroking him with even, heavy movements, the top of the mushroom head to the thick base.
Arthur slid one arm under her leg, lifting Ariadne up. He pressed her knee against the side of the wall, leaving her completely open to him. His fingers slid out of her, coated with her arousal, and drew the moisture across his erection. It was always a tight fit between them, and always hurt just a little bit to get him inside. But then it was always worth it.
“Please,” she panted, trying to move against him. Arthur, always in control, held her still. “C’mon, Arthur.”
“In a minute,” he said tightly, whole body tensed. Arthur was always afraid to lose even a little of his control, especially with her. She wished he wasn’t so aware of the differences in their size.
“No. Now.” She stroked the lines of his jaw, leaned forward and kissed the path she made, and settled on his mouth. She pressed her tongue past the seem of his lips, stroking his teeth, before touching his tongue.
Arthur was always in control, always. Come hell or high water, Arthur would always know the hands everyone was playing, and know how to play them to his advantage. But Ariadne? Ariadne knew how snap his control. Not break. But like a rubber band, she knew just how to pluck it so it moved.
His body pressed against hers as he parted her hot, aching flesh. The head of his cock pressed into her entrance, and Arthur held himself stone still, absorbing the feel of it. Ariadne moved helplessly against him, raining kissing on his face, trying to entice him to move farther in. When he just wouldn’t, she settled her hands on his shoulders, pulled herself up over him, and let herself drop.
Arthur muffled his groan in the valley of her small breasts, managing to work her bra up just enough to free them and lavish them with fierce, sharp kisses. Ariadne had to bite down on her fisted hand to keep from screaming. Arthur started moving immediately, hips jack hammering. Ariadne arched against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Hold still,” he ordered her.
Ariadne grinded her hips against his, hard. “Not a chance… in hell.”
He fastened his mouth over a breast, sucking on a nipple hard. His fingers dug hard into her flesh, one hand at her knee, the other at her hip. Ariadne strained wildly against him, trying to get him to go faster, deeper, harder. Anything to help her get there. But really, with Arthur, it never took her very long to come.
Arthur curled a hand around her mouth as he felt her climax, her inner muscles clamping tightly around him. Her scream could have been earth shattering if not for that hand. Her head crashed against his shoulder as she went limp.
He held her prone body tightly against him as he pumped a few more times. She felt the warmth of his release inside her and she pressed an appreciative kiss to one sweaty, strong shoulder and managed enough strength to wrap her arms around his neck.
Strength deserting him, Arthur slid them down to the floor. It was an uncomfortable fit. Ariadne was propped up on his lap and Arthur’s knees were bent so his body could fit. He stroked a hand down her spine, settled against the curve of her butt.
“Hey,” he warned softly, “don’t fall asleep.”
It was then Ariadne remembered they were in a church “Oh God, I’m going to hell.” She buried her head against Arthur’s shoulder, trying not to giggle. “I’m going to the special hell.”
“I’ll be right there beside you,” Arthur said lightly, kissing her sweaty hair. “Any bright ideas how to get out of here without being noticed?”
“No. We’re going to get caught. Priests have radar for moral depravity.”
“Even priests who were former arms dealers?”
“Probably.”
Whatever Arthur would have said never came to fruition. The door on the other side of the screen slid opened and suddenly, Ariadne knew they were not alone. The priest had finally entered the confessional. Their priest.
Arthur very slowly, very quietly fixed the mess of Ariadne’s clothes, straightened his newly wrinkled shirt and pulled his pants back over his hips, all with quick, precise movements. Arthur was all work again, his eyes trained on the screen, his body relaxed but ready.
In a low, weak voice Ariadne managed, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Arthur’s hand slid to the back of his pants. He withdrew a full size, semi-automatic Beretta and screwed on its silencer, all in one practiced, clean motion. Ariadne shivered against him before moving out of his line of fire.
The priest made a comforting sound. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
Arthur stood, clicked off the safety, and said, “Forever. I’m Jewish.”
inception. arthur/ariadne. arthur tends to get frisky in the most inappropriate of places; example: a church ~1700 | nc17 for gaspily at inception_kink
Halfway between her fingers scrapping against his belt buckle and his fingers sliding through the lace of her underwear, Ariadne wondered how she got into this mess.
Then she remembered. It was all Eames’s fault. As usual.
Eames looked between the two of them, and then said with a careless shrug, “I haven’t been in one since I was fifteen. No desire to go back. You’re on your own.”
Arthur, frowning with aggravation, obviously not pleased that Eames didn’t immediately jump on his ingenious plan like he always expected them all to, said, “I don’t think I should go in alone. I’m Jewish.”
They both looked to the third member of their little team. Ariadne had never been a very good Catholic girl, but she’d been one at least and that was apparently something when held up against Arthur and Eames.
“Imagine her in those skirts and knee-highs,” Eames said suddenly.
Arthur, without taking his eyes off Ariadne, reached over and pushed him out of his chair. “Ariadne?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, glowered. “We’re trying to kidnap a priest,” she muttered. “We are going to hell.”
Arthur’s very logical argument that beforehand said priest had been a terrorist arms dealer and they had the government backing them for once and could they all please not ruin this fell short of Eames loud claim that, “yeah, but it’ll be a party!”
“Be quiet,” Arthur hissed somewhere near her ear.
Ariadne squirmed in his arms, gripping his shoulders, leveling herself against him. “You be quiet. This is absolutely the worst place to hide! It’s a confession booth!”
“I know what it is.” Arthur didn’t snap the words out or say them in a voice that was anything but even and controlled, but Ariadne could tell he was annoyed. Angry that the world did not fall in line with his perfectly ordered plan-how dare it! She could sense it in the hard, tense line of his body.
When Ariadne was nervous she talked. A lot. “Always hated these things,” she murmured. “Made me feel like I was in one of those prison movies and was being sent to solitary confinement. Never got the confession part right, either. Couldn’t get pass the ‘I cursed a lot yesterday’ admittance.”
Arthur made a noncommittal noise. He looked at her strangely. The hands on her hips flexed. Ariadne, after three years, knew that look. Knew a bit too well.
“Oh, no!” she snapped softly, giving him a solid shove against his shoulders. Of course, being over half a foot taller than her, Arthur barely budged. “Don’t you dare, Arthur! I mean it-”
He pressed his mouth down on hers, pushing her against the wall so her back jammed up against the screen that separated the two small cramped, dark rooms. He nudged her legs apart, sliding his knee against the juncture of her thighs. She’d decided on one of those flowy, flower-print skirts. It took no effort at all for Arthur to bunch it around her hips.
Why was it Arthur always got frisky in the most inappropriate places? You wouldn’t figure it, considering how by the books and straight-laced Arthur was. It wasn’t that they didn’t do it in conventional places-like her apartment, for example, on the bed-but when Arthur got turned on, like really turned on, it was usually in some place like in an airplane or at the grocery store or in a library or-
In a freaking church.
And worse of it all, those were her hands, fisting in his hair, pushing him more firmly against her, sliding down his chest to work furiously on the buckle of his trousers. His cock strained against the soft fabric, thick and full, and she rubbed herself against it, making kittenish mewling noises in the back of her throat.
Arthur broke away from her mouth, cursed furiously under his breath, and pushed up her shirt, suckling her breasts through the lace of her bra. Ariadne moaned low, head falling back and rapping against the mesh screen.
“Fuck,” she panted, parting her legs as Arthur slid a hand passed the elastic of her underwear and slid a digit inside the hot, clinging warmth of her center. “Athur.”
“Quiet,” Arthur teased. “Or the priests’ll hear us and we’ll go directly to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collection two hundred dollars.”
“We’re going to hell anyway,” Ariadne said. “We’re about to do this in a confession booth… in a church.”
“I am not aware of the cardinal rules of Catholicism,” Arthur said, shooting a smirk up at Ariadne. She moaned helplessly as he slid another finger inside her, gently stroking her from the inside out. “Jewish.”
She clamped her mouth down over his, grinding against his hand. She managed to finally get the last of his buttons undone, and closed a hand over the throbbing length of his cock. The space was too cramped to do what she really wanted, go down on him and get Arthur to fall apart, so she settled for stroking him with even, heavy movements, the top of the mushroom head to the thick base.
Arthur slid one arm under her leg, lifting Ariadne up. He pressed her knee against the side of the wall, leaving her completely open to him. His fingers slid out of her, coated with her arousal, and drew the moisture across his erection. It was always a tight fit between them, and always hurt just a little bit to get him inside. But then it was always worth it.
“Please,” she panted, trying to move against him. Arthur, always in control, held her still. “C’mon, Arthur.”
“In a minute,” he said tightly, whole body tensed. Arthur was always afraid to lose even a little of his control, especially with her. She wished he wasn’t so aware of the differences in their size.
“No. Now.” She stroked the lines of his jaw, leaned forward and kissed the path she made, and settled on his mouth. She pressed her tongue past the seem of his lips, stroking his teeth, before touching his tongue.
Arthur was always in control, always. Come hell or high water, Arthur would always know the hands everyone was playing, and know how to play them to his advantage. But Ariadne? Ariadne knew how snap his control. Not break. But like a rubber band, she knew just how to pluck it so it moved.
His body pressed against hers as he parted her hot, aching flesh. The head of his cock pressed into her entrance, and Arthur held himself stone still, absorbing the feel of it. Ariadne moved helplessly against him, raining kissing on his face, trying to entice him to move farther in. When he just wouldn’t, she settled her hands on his shoulders, pulled herself up over him, and let herself drop.
Arthur muffled his groan in the valley of her small breasts, managing to work her bra up just enough to free them and lavish them with fierce, sharp kisses. Ariadne had to bite down on her fisted hand to keep from screaming. Arthur started moving immediately, hips jack hammering. Ariadne arched against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Hold still,” he ordered her.
Ariadne grinded her hips against his, hard. “Not a chance… in hell.”
He fastened his mouth over a breast, sucking on a nipple hard. His fingers dug hard into her flesh, one hand at her knee, the other at her hip. Ariadne strained wildly against him, trying to get him to go faster, deeper, harder. Anything to help her get there. But really, with Arthur, it never took her very long to come.
Arthur curled a hand around her mouth as he felt her climax, her inner muscles clamping tightly around him. Her scream could have been earth shattering if not for that hand. Her head crashed against his shoulder as she went limp.
He held her prone body tightly against him as he pumped a few more times. She felt the warmth of his release inside her and she pressed an appreciative kiss to one sweaty, strong shoulder and managed enough strength to wrap her arms around his neck.
Strength deserting him, Arthur slid them down to the floor. It was an uncomfortable fit. Ariadne was propped up on his lap and Arthur’s knees were bent so his body could fit. He stroked a hand down her spine, settled against the curve of her butt.
“Hey,” he warned softly, “don’t fall asleep.”
It was then Ariadne remembered they were in a church “Oh God, I’m going to hell.” She buried her head against Arthur’s shoulder, trying not to giggle. “I’m going to the special hell.”
“I’ll be right there beside you,” Arthur said lightly, kissing her sweaty hair. “Any bright ideas how to get out of here without being noticed?”
“No. We’re going to get caught. Priests have radar for moral depravity.”
“Even priests who were former arms dealers?”
“Probably.”
Whatever Arthur would have said never came to fruition. The door on the other side of the screen slid opened and suddenly, Ariadne knew they were not alone. The priest had finally entered the confessional. Their priest.
Arthur very slowly, very quietly fixed the mess of Ariadne’s clothes, straightened his newly wrinkled shirt and pulled his pants back over his hips, all with quick, precise movements. Arthur was all work again, his eyes trained on the screen, his body relaxed but ready.
In a low, weak voice Ariadne managed, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Arthur’s hand slid to the back of his pants. He withdrew a full size, semi-automatic Beretta and screwed on its silencer, all in one practiced, clean motion. Ariadne shivered against him before moving out of his line of fire.
The priest made a comforting sound. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
Arthur stood, clicked off the safety, and said, “Forever. I’m Jewish.”