Professor Eames 7/?

Fathers with bad timing and men who kiss in dreams


"Ian, you said we'd talk." Ariadne was surprised at herself, nearly twenty hours of sleep and the first thing she does is badger Eames awake to see what the hell is going on.

'Smart – wake up your host with a demand of information Ari…Good going'

"Mph- Darling? Wha' time is?" The half asleep man flails on the couch, looking for an alarm clock that isn't near.

"It's 5:30."

"Bloody 'ell"

"Eames."

"Go back ta sleep, wom'n!"

"Fine I'm calling Arthur."

"Y' do that, love. Jus be quiet 'bout it."

Shaking her head at the slurred speech and sleepy flailing of her colleague, the brunette traipses back into the bedroom and fishes her cell phone out of her purse, deftly dialing a certain point man's number. One ring, two, three, four … By seven Ari has flat out decided Arthur needs a ring back tone, and to not sleep so damn heavily when he does get sleep.

"Ariadne, its nearly 6…Why aren't you asleep?"

"Hello to you, too, Arthur."

"Did you get in all right?"

"Yes. What upset Ian yesterday?"

"Who?"

"Eames, Arthur, what upset Eames" The young woman sighed, exasperated with men and their inability to wake up with brain function.

"Cobb and I are…Less than pleased with the turn your friendship has apparently taken. We made our concerns known." Arthur is quiet, his voice is too cool, and he prays Ariadne doesn't notice. They've all seen the spitfire when upset and no one was ever keen to see it again.

"What?" For the moment Ariadne is still processing – did Ian tell them about the lessons, their arrangement, the fears she had about her own sexual prowess or lack thereof?

"You shouldn't date a man like Eames."

'Apparently he hasn't…'

"Arthur, I'm a grown woman, Eames and I have worked together, he's perfectly trust worthy and honest in his intentions. " This was bizarre to the young Parisian, a calm fight over the merits of a man she considered a friend, with another man that was her friend.

"I thought you had better taste than a scruffy, hardly put together thief."

"My tastes have noth-"The realization of what bugged Arthur about she and Eames came hurling to the front of her mind. Inception – a kiss in a made up lobby, in the mind of a man too consumed with work to truly act on it.

"Arthur, one kiss doesn't stake a claim, it doesn't build a relationship, it doesn't even mean anything unless something happens in the real world."

She hung up after that, knowing the road would be bumpier if they talked more about it. In the recesses of her mind, the architect knew work would be fine, professional, wrapped in a box that would easily be put away after it was done. Arthur on the other hand, outside of the job could not, and there for – was now to be avoided until the lessons ended.

Walking back out of the bedroom, Ariadne pauses by the lumpy looking green couch upon which Eames sleeps, blankets tangled around him, pulled up to his chin, hair askew. Checking her watch she contemplated giving him twenty more minutes – then threw all her weight behind the couch to tip him off it. The thud and string of interesting curse words that followed, sent her squealing and laughing from the room, into the bathroom, door slamming and promptly getting locked.

The forger was groggy, awake at an insane hour by his lover, and now felt the need for payback of any form. The click of the lock on the bathroom door made it a challenge, the metallic screech of the bath taps perked his interest, and the sound of the shower coming on just gave the man incentive. It took five minutes for a plan of action to formulate, two to get up, untangle the sheets from his legs and get over to the door. In another eight the lock was picked, the door was open and Eames had shed his boxers.

The marvel of this however, was that the architect was unaware, washing her hair, oblivious to the shadow outside the shower curtain. It made his plan all the more gratifying however when he slipped past the curtain into the warmth of his shower, a drenched, rosy colored Ariadne fully displayed before him. The serene quiet broke however, when Ariadne opened her eyes and let out a yelp of shock.

"Eames!"

Chuckling, the broad, well built man stepped forward, leaning to kiss Ari chastely.

"Good morning."

"I locked the door."

"And I'm a thief darling… Now there is something you could do for me, since you toppled me out of bed so bleedin' early."

"Oh?"

"Mm hmm, kneel down"

Ariadne laughed, doing as he asked, quieting when she came face to face with his length. Nerves settled in a jittery buzz in her stomach, and she lifted her eyes to Ian's.

"I don't know how…"

"I remember, for now love, take it in your hand, get a feel for just moving it up and down"

Gulping, Ariadne brought her hand up to Eames' length. She had no idea why she was so nervous about doing this – it wasn't her first time seeing a penis, it certainly wasn't the first time she'd handled one.

'It's because this is Eames, we're in his shower, and I'm about to learn how to suck him off. Oh god'

Curling her hand around his girth with a quick squeeze, the drenched brunette brought her hand up the length of him. The softness of his skin and steely nature of his erection were dichotomies, something that had always fascinated Ariadne since the first time she'd touched one. Curiously she moved her hand, varying the tightness of her grip, the quickness of movement until Eames gave a noise of approval.

Those noises, soft grunts, a groan here or there, directed her, made this learning experience slightly easier. Focused now, the young woman scooted forward, her free hand moving to rest on the conman's thigh, her eyes and attention riveted on each of Ian's reactions. The now settled rhythm continued, faltering only for a moment when he thrust his hips at her – nearly poking her in the cheek.

"Give it a kiss.." The words are heavy on Eames' tongue, voice gruff – it sends a shock of pleasure through the woman on her knees.

When her lips connect, it breaks a damn somewhere within Ariadne, and she does it again, and again. Up and down Eames' cock she gives little kisses, leaving no space untouched, returning to the head and giving it an experimental lick. Eames swears and puts a hand against the wall.

"Again."

Somehow this is much easier, much more pleasurable than the architect thought it would be. Licks and kisses are simple, putting it in her mouth is heavenly – swirling her tongue around the head makes Eames bellow. The lesson is out of his hands now however, and Ariadne has the reigns. She's careful about her teeth, having heard that comment from girlfriends in the past, bobs at him, not going past where she is comfortable. Her hands take care of the rest.

Internally, Ariadne is cataloging his scent – musky, dark, sandalwood and something woodsy. It is addicting and she is sure in the coming days they will be doing this again – he tastes good, like salt and skin, there is a bit of a bitter bite, but that must be from precum, she remembers the term from sex ed. Looking up at him as she moves, his features scrunched in concentration, leaning heavily against the wall to his right, the girl is struck by how well this man is built.

His abs are well defined, his arms aren't over done like some men tended toward, broad shoulders, a dusting of hair on his chest – god he was hot. Why did he hide it under messily thrown together slacks, button downs and sport coats?

"Ari –"

"Mph?"

"Gotta stop love, or –"

Ariadne squeezed him in response, her rhythm not slowing, tongue dancing along his shaft, tracing this veins or the contour of his head. At the end, his hand buried in her hair, pulling a bit and she found it was more than pleasant, though she wasn't sure about swallowing.

"Spit if you need to love, it's not everyone's cup of tea."

A grateful smile and Ariadne is turning, spitting at the drain before being swept up into the British man's arms. Ian presses her back against the shower tiles, smirking when she wiggles, and gasps "it's cold" before shifting her weight to be cradled in one hand, his other free to roam.

Tongues and teeth clash, any semblance of patient washed away with the water, her hands skitter across his shoulders, looking for purchase, seizing when he tweaks a nipple none too gently; a moment later a calloused thumb smoothes over it soothingly. The gun calloused hands that have barely touched her before are suddenly everywhere, one cradles her bottom, brushes teasingly at her lips making her buck and squeeze her legs around his middle. The other busies itself with her breasts, the plain of her stomach and tangling in her hair.

The reality is better than her wild, fevered imaginings, too much and not nearly enough. It can't have been more than a few minutes and she is bucking almost savagely, keening, begging wordlessly for something she knows that he can give to her. Her lips are bruising from the force of their kisses, her back has warmed the tiles under it and his teeth are biting in that spot – right there- on Ariadne's neck. The architect feels as if she's a wild thing, here in his arms, It's never been like this. The heat is scorching a path from nipples to clit and she needs aches.

"Ian!" The one word, his name, pitched like a desperate plea, but it could be a command a prayer – one look at the small woman in his arms tells the forger that she's got no idea. He lets his fingers dip against her skin, watches the pale skin yield, the small frame is shivering, heaving with breath, want, need – lust so palpable that he is hard again.

Shifting the trembling woman from one arm to the other, he moves his fingers to touch her lips, soft feather touches, barely there. If the way she grabs at his hair and pulls him close to kiss him breathless is any indication – she likes it. Encouraged, Eames presses in slightly, teasing at her opening, making her buck and writhe, drinking in the picture she makes, answering her growls and moans with some of his own. Left to his own devices, the con man will tease her mercilessly until she screams and threatens him, but Ariadne has no intention of being toyed with. She arches and moves until her lips connect with his neck and bites, soothing it afterward with kisses and licks that drive him to press her to the wall again with his chest crushed against hers – it is wonderful.

"Don't play with a fire you can't put out darling…" It's drawled in her ear, so sinfully rugged and filled with promise that she whimpers, hands moving of their own accord to find his and make him touch her where she needs it.

"If you'd just touch me" She moans grinding her hips onto the invading digits, smirk playing on her lips when Eames looks at her shocked and pleased; "I wouldn't be so bad."

"Naughty girl are we?"

"Ohh yes..very"

Eames laughs deep in his throat, face pressing against her shoulder and drenched hair.

"And what does this naughty girl want?"

"Damn it Ian. " Ariadne growls, her hand wrapped around his wrist, trying in vain to get him to do something, hips frantic in their search for friction – yet helplessly pinned by the finger's owner.

"Say it for me darling." The conman coaxes, curling his fingers inside her, making stars shoot behind her lids.

"Touch me."

From there, she doesn't know whose moving more – her or him. Ian is everywhere, inside her around her, over and under her – she can't think anymore. Being fingered shouldn't feel this could – shouldn't have her crying out, begging, acting as if she is burning to death and Eames – master liar, conman, forger of the human form – is the only water to put out the fire. It no longer matters if she looks like a fool or sounds like a slut, and to be honest it hasn't for a while – because there is something curling tight in the pit of her stomach.

It's dark and dangerous, seductive and frightening. Ariadne can't catch her breath, isn't sure what noises are being emitted from her throat, and damn this man if he isn't whispering in her ear, evidence of his want bumping against her. In the distance there is a bang – but it doesn't matter – there are lights dancing across her vision, lightening electrifying her skin and the entire architect can see or hear is Eames' voice, encouraging, goading her to feel more, to let him see everything she has to give.

The screech and the vice like grip on his fingers is indescribable. Ariadne is well named; there is nothing now that could convince him otherwise. Like her Greek namesake, the little brunette, panting and bucking in his arms is amazing, her blush, dark lidded eyes and reddened lips all things - were he the god Dionysus – would want in a bride.

The lovers however, aren't given any time to collect themselves before a thunderous bang sounds on the bathroom door, and a rather distinctive voice is heard.

"Get your asses out here- now"

It's Cobb, in full father mode it would seem – and all Ariadne can do is cling to Ian and laugh hysterically.

"We're in trooouble!"