lovely_ambition: (hawk: by lime_green_luv)
Eames is a bastard, Ariel decides exactly three seconds into seeing her again. Not only is she a bastard, but every other name in the book .The last time they worked together…well, Ariel doesn’t want to talk about it. Eames is delighting in perusing long fingers over the cut of Ariel’s waistcoat, sliding them up and down the fabric until slipping under to explore without permission. “Front clasp bra, darling?” Eames murmurs against her ear.

Dom is trying to explain the mission to the new boy – who really is a boy, and Aeson can’t stop staring at Dom like their fearless leader is hiding a secret. Ariel has to wonder whether Mal has started to come back to her dreams, haunting her in the same black suit he’s always in.

“We’re working,” Ariel says stubbornly, crossing her arms to dislodge Eames’ fingers. She gets a warm honey-coated laugh in return and if anything is unfair, it’s the fact that Eames has got that liquid voice that coats Ariel from head to toe and reminds her of sex and warm tongues between thighs and curious fingers in hot hotel rooms in Kenya with nothing on. She adjusts her three piece suit mildly and when Dom glances over, Ariel cants her head to indicate they should continue.

When the meeting is dismissed, Ariel takes up the plans and turns to begin adding in layers, just in case, and finds Eames half-sprawled over the rendering table that she’d been planning to use.

Eames, on the last mission, had taken on a man’s form. Bulky, strong, and had pinned Ariel down against a wall and fingered her until she came, kissing her all the while, insisting that it’s in the name of ‘relaxation’.

Ariel maintains the bastard part.

Right now, Ariel hates that one look at Eames is threatening to undo her. Eames’ pocket-watch is dangling from her pinstriped pants and the suspenders she’s wearing are pushed to the side by her chest, white tank-top becoming too threadbare to be worn in decent company and shades of a orange bra peeking out from beneath. If Ariel’s not mistaken, that used to be her tank top, which explains why it’s just ever so slightly too small.

“Do you mind?” Ariel gets out tersely, her jaw set tightly.

“Everyone’s gone, darling,” Eames purrs, sliding her manicured hand over the table and catching up the drawings. “And I was hoping to persuade you to a very fine hotel room. I haven’t eaten yet, today,” she says, her gaze never leaving Ariel’s. “Does that interest you? Or would you prefer some more specificity to our plans?”

“Fuck you,” Ariel breathes out, her cheeks a slight pink as Eames begins to run a loafer-clad shoe up the inseam of her thigh.

“That,” Eames says, all glorious lush lips, piercing blue eyes, and endless waves of perfect hair, “was the plan.”

No matter how much Ariel may scream later, no matter how much she begs, and even if she babbles out a muted phrase of affection, Eames is still a bastard through and through. But she’s Ariel’s bastard.

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