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Le mot impossible

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Ariadne’s not really particularly looking to get laid, so it’s not as disappointing as it might be when she looks over her shoulder and sees the person who’s been grinding closer to her on the dance floor. “Oh my god,” she shouts, straining to be heard over the thump-thump-thump of the bass, “you’re barking up the wrong tree in so many ways right now.”

Eames just grins and waggles his eyebrows. He pulls his hands off Ariadne’s waist in a ‘stick-em-up’ sort of gesture, but keeps on moving his hips up against her ass. He looks good in the way people look good in club lighting: dark dramatic eyes and flickering features and limbs moving fluid and swift. He also looks ten years too old for this scene, and definitely possessed of at least one unpopular appendage.

Ariadne turns around and leans in to shout directly into his ear. No risk of being overheard — there’s that, anyway. “Are you in on this thing with Erickson? He didn’t say he had you on the team.”

Eames shakes his head and mimes his confusion. Pure coincidence, or so he’d like Ariadne to believe — though how the fuck he would have guessed to look for Ariadne in a lesbian club in Sao Paulo tonight, she can’t begin to imagine.

“You’re buying me a drink,” she shouts, and gets him by the fingertips, tows him towards the bar. She’s got enough Portuguese to order another beer but she suspects Eames can do better.

He cants his hip against the bar, smiling apologetically to the girls on either side of him, and somehow catches the eye of the beleaguered dyke behind the counter. The girl is scarcely bigger than Ariadne, short cropped hair and a septum piercing and a huge cobwebby neck piece that makes Eames’ ink look modest by comparison. Eames rattles off a quick order with words too blurry for Ariadne’s caveman-level Portuguese. The bartender grins almost flirtatiously and fires back a question, tilting her head at Ariadne.

“Hey now,” Ariadne says, not needing to shout so much now they’re out of the blast radius of the sound system, “don’t go peddling my ass for liquor.”

“I told her you’re straight,” Eames says, handing Ariadne one of the cocktails the bartender passes to him.

“I’m not straight,” Ariadne says, offended. She leans back to shout at the girl, who’s moved on to the next patron. “Hey! Yo no soy straight! Come back, you’re hot!”

“Desperation,” says Eames, “a bold move.”

“Ugh, fuck her,” Ariadne says, dispirited. She takes a slug of the cocktail, which is rummy and sweet and filled with melting ice shards. “I’m not looking to get laid tonight anyway.” She twirls the bamboo spear around the glass, put out. “Obviously neither are you.”

“What do you mean, obviously?” asks Eames, sipping at his own drink with more grace and restraint.

“Uh,” says Ariadne, “how do I say this — you’re at a clam dig, and you packed for a weenie roast.”

“Come now,” says Eames, “some of these girls are probably packing hot dogs. Isn’t that a thing you lot do?”

“I left mine in my hotel room,” says Ariadne, who is maybe a bit drunker than she thought.

“Drink up,” says Eames, “and do tell me more.”

Ariadne drinks up, swishes the remaining ice in her cup, and looks at Eames again. “Un otro,” she says, passing the empty glass back to him. “Rapido. Ándale, ándale.”

“Your Portuguese sounds suspiciously like sophomore Spanish,” Eames tells her, but he shoulders back into the throng around the bar and returns a minute later with two full glasses. “Now, tell me all about the cock you left back in your hotel room. How big is it? No, wait, don’t tell me: I’m a keen student of human nature and I feel instinctively that you’ve got an enormous cock. Enormous, and red like a candy apple.”

“It’s not enormous,” says Ariadne, taking her time with this second drink, “but I’d say it’s a respectable size.”

“Everyone thinks their cock is a respectable size,” says Eames, “and so few really are.”

“Size queen?” Ariadne asks, a little surprised in spite of herself. She’s no forger but she likes to think she gets people, too, and she didn’t really believe Eames would be tied up in that sort of detail. Arthur: yes. Eames: not so much.

Sure enough: “No, no,” declaims Eames, shaking his head, draining his glass. “Far from it, love. I just tire of empty promises.”

“Poor Eames,” says Ariadne, “well, mine’s about seven inches and slender. It’s kind of my everyday go-to cock, but I’ve got one back at home that would make you cry, if that’s your deal.”

Eames pokes at the lime in the bottom of his glass using the short narrow cocktail straw. He seems lost in thought for a moment, but when he looks up again his gaze is all keen focus, nearly overwhelming. “And what if it was,” he says. “My deal.”

Ariadne blinks and smiles, taken aback. “I’d say,” she says, “bet I can make you swear it’s not the size that counts.”

Eames gets the mildly surprised but pleased look of a compulsive gambler who really didn’t expect this last play to work out in his favor. “Right, then,” he says, “I bought the drinks so the cab’s on you.”

Ariadne’s in a nice hotel. This still sort of surprises her; she travelled a lot in her pre-dreamshare days, and always stayed in student hostels along the way. She got used to bunking with loud snoring drunks, to taking revolting flip-flopped showers and thinking as resolutely as possible of the priceless experience she was getting. But now, here she is in the downtown Accor chain hotel: four stars and a doorman and her own clean shower, a whole room all her own.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m less than gobsmacked,” says Eames — Eames in Ariadne’s hotel room, fuck. When did that happen? Ariadne doesn’t do this, she doesn’t — but Eames is unbuttoning his shirt, and Ariadne’s feeble logic is entirely derailed by the peep of skin, broad tattooed everything. Eames is objectively a small man but he fills this space with ease, and Ariadne — wants. “I mean, it’s a nice room in that there are no visible vermin and, god, wait, how long have you had your tits out? Those are very nice tits, sweetheart.”

“I was going to say that exact thing,” says Ariadne, coming up to Eames and taking the time to feel him up properly. “Seriously, for a guy you have some A-1 titties going on here.” She squeezes and strokes and flicks her thumbnails over Eames’ nipples (hard) and curves her fingers over his pecs (solid, inky) and presses her lips to flesh (hairy, soft, nice.) Eames’ hands land on her shoulders and his fingers dig in a little, his breath comes short.

“I think I like lesbian sex,” says Eames. “You lot should hire better PR, I was given to understand it was all talking and fingerbanging.”

“And that sounds bad to you?” Ariadne asks, straightening up, coming in close enough to press her chest to Eames’. “That sounds problematic? I know you’re a fan of talking. What, you don’t like fingerbanging?”

They kiss, and it’s not as weird as it should be. Eames has got a plush mouth and he knows what to do with it. Ariadne holds him by the nape of his neck and kisses him, fuck. She’s never thought much about fucking Eames — she doesn’t generally think much about fucking men at all, let alone older criminal coworkers — but she’s unexpectedly turned on by him, by his obscene mouth and his hard nipples and even his hard cock up against her belly. Ariadne holds Eames steady and presses herself up against him, shamelessly hungry, and kisses him until they’re both breathless and laughing. She shifts her hands down then, gets him by the hips and presses her tits up against his.

“Let’s see this candy-apple cock, then,” says Eames, curling his hands around her waist, sliding them down and back, and squeezing her ass.

“It’s actually blue,” says Ariadne, “is that a dealbreaker?”

It’s not a dealbreaker, as it happens. Eames tries to help Ariadne get the harness sorted out but he’s no architect — he slows things down more than anything.

“Stop touching,” says Ariadne, “I know how to put my own dick on.” She bats his hands out of the way and he keeps trying to wriggle the straps up past her knees and they’re both laughing a bit too much at the way Ariadne’s blue silicone dick keeps slapping Eames in the calves, the way Eames’ actual dick is poking Ariadne in the belly a bit more with every silicone slap.

“Is it too much like showy porno if I suck on it,” asks Eames once he’s finally backed off enough to let Ariadne get the harness up her thighs.

She pushes Eames to his knees without hesitation. “I mean, if you insist.”

Eames opens right up for her, Ariadne feeding the blue silicone cock into his plush pretty mouth. His hair is short, shorter than when she last saw him, but there’s enough of it to get a grip around the crown of his head, his cowlick. She remembers his words at the club — what if it was my deal — and gives a sharp tug to pull his face closer, fuck back into him.

Eames goes abruptly from his customary calm amusement to a shaky hectic flush, making a series of inelegant noises that are too rough to be entirely voluntary. He blinks his eyes rapidly and stifles a cough; Ariadne decides this counts as mission accomplished. She likes her victories easy.

After a minute, Eames pulls away and shakes Ariadne’s hand free, flicks the pointed tip of his tongue over the head of Ariadne’s cock. The cock shivers and wriggles; it feels nice, seated against her groin. Ariadne grips her cock and holds it steady for Eames, who sucks the head in and casts a dark-pupilled look up at her. It’s the club all over again, the way he suddenly looks unexpectedly pretty with his big eyes and pouting mouth. Ariadne’s confused for an instant, like she’s lost track of the person she thought she was with. This man on his knees in front of her doesn’t match up with the Eames of her memory, the older man with the slightly-too-big nose and the bandy legs and general air of smarminess.

He must catch her shift in mood, because he pulls off and settles back onto his heels, gives her a quizzical look. “Do you need your totem?” he asks.

“No,” says Ariadne, because the shift in position’s reassured her that it’s really Eames in front of her; there’s his familiar face again, his stubble and his eyebrow with the slice missing, the bowed splay of his muscled thighs. “I wouldn’t say no to some fingerbanging,” she adds, reaching out to recapture Eames’ cowlick, towing him back in.

Eames grins crookedly and slides his fingertips up the inside of Ariadne’s thigh. He parts her lips with his index and middle fingers just as he leans close and takes her cock in again. She’s wet — his thumb slips around her clit before settling to one side of it and stroking in time with each bob of Eames’ mouth. He is, she admits, probably much better at sucking cock than she is; certainly he’s no slouch in the fingering department. By the time he pushes his longest fingers back to tease at the opening of her cunt, Ariadne’s straining to keep from fucking his mouth. He keeps his thumb on her clit and deep-throats her cock, pushes his fingers into her in the same motion. Ariadne closes her eyes and tries not to be too noisy when she comes, because god knows Eames doesn’t need any reinforcement when it comes to his massive fucking ego.

When she opens her eyes again, it’s pretty obvious that she wasn’t as quiet as she intended, because Eames has got a huge shit-eating grin on his smug face. He pulls his fingers out, moving back to sit cross-legged on the hotel carpet. His face is smeary with his own saliva, mouth blurred, pinker than usual.

“Get on the bed,” Ariadne says. Eames’ cock looks like it’s giving him its own standing ovation, jutting up from his lap like that. “Get!” she repeats, widening her eyes with mock impatience. Her Portuguese might be pathetically rudimentary but she lived in Paris for a long time: “Allez hop, à quatre pattes!

À vos ordres, capitaine,” says Eames, clambering to his feet. “God, you’re fun like this,” he adds over his shoulder as he lands on the mattress with a bounce, crawling up towards the headboard. “Like going to bed with Napoleon.”

Ariadne pushes down on the nape of Eames’ neck, drapes herself over his back, makes sure he can feel the spit-sticky length of her cock against the back of his thigh. “It is more glorious to merit a sceptre than to possess one,” she quotes. “Do you think you’re worthy of it, yet?”

Eames laughs, a little breathlessly, and humps his ass up into Ariadne’s hips. “Morality has nothing to do with such a man as I am,” he answers easily. “Now stop showing off and put that thing in my arse.”

Ariadne reaches around and gives Eames’ belly a hard pinch as punishment. She leaves him curled up and whinging comically while she hunts around for her lube and condoms.

When she comes back with the bottle, he tugs her down on top of him, belly to belly this time, and they kiss for a minute or two while Eames feels her up. He starts with her tits and works his way down until he’s tugging on her cock, making hungry impatient noises against her lips. She laughs as she pulls away from his kisses. “Okay, jesus, message received.” She sits up and uncaps the lube, gets her fingers wet while Eames, on his side, lifts his top thigh and holds ready. “You really like cocks, huh?” she asks, reaching down and gliding her index finger behind his balls, circling his asshole.

“I like yours,” says Eames, deploying his most devastating crooked-toothed smile.

“Well, I can tell you where I bought it if you wanted to look into getting one to keep,” Ariadne says. She pushes and Eames opens right up, deliberate and easy and smooth around her finger.

Eames’ grin, though, has started to falter. His cheeks have started to flush anew, and his breath catches when Ariadne pulls out and goes back in with two fingers. “That’d be good,” he says, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s saying. “That’s — good.”

Ariadne feels an unexpected surge of tenderness for Eames, for his hairy inky sprawl in her hotel bed, his funny hard-muscled body and pretty tits and the soft way he exhales and shifts into her hand. “That’s it,” she says, kissing his eyelid, “open up for me, baby.”

Eames frowns minutely, tilts his mouth back towards hers for kissing. “Sorry,” he says, quiet against her lips, “sorry, it’s been a while.”

“Don’t worry,” says Ariadne, “I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll be wide open for weeks.”

He laughs again, which was her intention. It goes a little easier after that. Ariadne gets Eames back on his knees, and then she’s rolling on a condom and pressing in, and Eames is gripping the sheets and taking short desperate sips of air as he mashes his face against the pillow.

“You okay?” she checks, pretty sure Eames is okay.

Eames lifts one hand and gives a thumbs up, even as he burrows deeper into the pillow. He lifts his ass up to meet Ariadne, and suddenly she’s inside him. Ariadne looks down between them, liking this view of Eames: his round pert cheeks on either side of Ariadne’s cock, her own hips slotted against his, Eames looking sort of soft and pink and sweet contrasted with the black nylon and blue silicone.

Eames lifts his head and looks back over his shoulder. “Not that this isn’t lovely,” he begins.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Ariadne, holding him steady and pulling out a little, “here we go.”

She pegged a guy once before, back in college, in a threesome with her girlfriend at the time. He was curious, adventurous, but a first-timer; it’s much nicer, Ariadne finds, fucking a guy who knows what’s up. Eames is obviously a long-time fan of being penetrated, and once he gets past the initial discomfort he’s liquid and noisy and live under Ariadne. He spreads his knees wider and gasps harder and dissolves into happy acquiescence whenever she finds a perfect rhythm or angle. He’s a bit too muscular to be very flexible but he more makes up for it with his strength — Ariadne’s not used to fucking someone who’s so steady under her. She puts her whole body into it, into pounding him, but she can’t help feeling a bit small, ineffective — or she would, maybe, if he weren’t so lewdly encouraging.

Eames is into it. He’s really, really into it.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, when she really needs to take a break, when she pulls out holding onto the condom and Eames gives her a startled look over his shoulder. He looks wrecked, and extremely beautiful: red-lipped and sweaty and dazed. “Do you want to try a different way?” she asks, apologetic.

He tumbles onto his back and pants shallowly, looking up at her like she’s his own personal patron saint of ass-fucking. “I’m absolutely lovely,” he purrs, and reaches down to work his cock. “How about you, sweetheart?”

“Feeling pretty kicky,” Ariadne says, “you know, nothing like doing a guy hard from behind to make you feel like a good feminist.”

Eames grins sloppily and uses his free hand to beckon her closer to him. “I’m really close,” he says, kissing her when she lands beside him, “I’m really, ah, jesus, you’re so small, how did you do that to me?”

“Lesbian trade secret,” says Ariadne, curling her hand around Eames’ working fist and throwing her thigh over his. She was working too intently to think much about her own arousal but now she’s got Eames’ leg between hers she finds that she’s close, too. “Do you think you can,” but before she can finish her question Eames’ mouth falls open and he comes.

“Do I think I can what,” Eames prompts a moment or two later, like he’s not still shivering, like he doesn’t have come pooled on his belly and spattered over his chest. “I do hope you weren’t going to ask me to fuck you, how embarrassing for me,” he says, with painfully fake earnestness. “I would need to borrow your cock if that’s what you’re after.”

“I was just going to ask you to hold still,” Ariadne says, and ruts against his thigh a handful of times. Coming this time is a slow deep throb of pleasure, not as ecstatic as the orgasm she had earlier around Eames’ fingers, but good nonetheless.

“I will hold still for you anytime you want to come on my leg,” Eames says, very seriously, and kisses the tip of her nose. “Except maybe in the middle of the job.”

Ariadne’s a little sex-dazed; it takes her a second to catch up with that last statement. “What job,” she says. She glances down. Her heart is still pounding hard enough that her breast is trembling faintly with each beat. “Eames. What job. You said you weren’t on Erickson’s team.”

“No,” says Eames, “Erickson’s a cretin. I was rather hoping to convince you to flip sides and join my team.” He lifts his head and reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand, starts cleaning himself up. “Sorry, this is terrible pillow-talk.”

“You’re working for the competition?” Ariadne asks, pulling her skin away from Eames’. It’s already a little painful, sticky sweat clinging between them. “Wait, was this a job interview?”

“Not in the least!” he exclaims, balling up the tissue and throwing it off the bed. He sits up and grins. “That was just a fantastic shag. But now, right now — this is a job offer. We’ll pay you twice as much.”

Ariadne struggles onto her elbows and gives Eames a disbelieving look.

“Two and a half times,” he revises. “Go on, then, say yes.”

“Who’s extracting?” she asks.

“Me,” he says, “I’m extracting.”

Ariadne collapses onto her back and looks down her body again. This time her gaze lands on her blue cock. She strips the condom off it and flings it half-heartedly in Eames’ direction. “You’re such an asshole,” she says. “Three times what Erickson’s paying me. And I want a nicer hotel room. I want a suite. I want one of those little fridges.”

“Done,” says Eames. He sticks out a hand. “Shake on it?”

“Shake this,” says Ariadne, thrusting her hips up.

Eames very solemnly takes her by the dick and gives it a firm shake. “I do like a good late-night business deal,” he says. “How do you get this thing off of you, anyway?” He starts fiddling with the straps of the harness.

“Hey,” says Ariadne, “the cock stays, it’s not part of the deal.”

“I just thought it’d be easier to,” and Eames does something really obscene with his tongue, in mime, “with this out of the way.”

“Oh,” says Ariadne, “yeah, probably,” and starts taking it off. Eames gets between her thighs and grins up at her as he works the harness off her legs, pitches it and the dildo off the side of the bed. Ariadne hooks her knee over Eames’ shoulder and urges him closer.

She wasn’t looking for a new job, tonight — wasn’t looking to get laid, either.

She’s never been afraid to cross the floor, thank god.