It happens in another warehouse, a few jobs later. And instead of plastic lawn chairs, there are ratty sofas that once used to be glamorous.

She's taken to wearing skirts nowadays and she wonders at herself until she finds out why her subconscious has driven her to ditch jeans or any sort of pants.

The sofas are ignored but the skirt is very much appreciated when they reach their boiling point.

She's up against a wall, rough cement digging into her shoulder blades. Her arms and one leg are desperately wrapped around him.

His hands clutch a rail above them because he is afraid of the damage he might do to her if he allows himself to keep his hands on her skin during this act. It's not that she's terribly fragile because she isn't. She may appear so, but he's discovered, mission after mission, that Ariadne is infinitely more resilient than she appears.

No. The reason he doesn't touch her is because he's afraid. Afraid of himself, of this new Arthur inside of him that he's recently discovered. This Arthur that forgets his manners; forgets all about evolution and emancipation. Forgets all about independence and craves.

Craves her.

Her underwear doesn't even make it to floor because he pulls her leg around his waist and the scrap of purple material is caught around her knee. She's wearing a long-sleeved shirt and he wishes he could bother with undressing her some more because he wants, needs to touch more of her, kiss more of her.

But she's already pulled him out of his pants, she's wet and ready for him so he positions himself, clutches the railing as hard as he'd like to clutch her and thrusts in.


Her whispered scream fans the flames. She wraps around him like poison ivy and they're touching from head to toe, cheeks rubbing against each other as he thrust into her.

Their tempo builds up and he's pounding into her soon. Each new moan is cut off by another sharp thrust that smacks her against the cement wall. Each thrust has her fingers convulse and pull at his clothes, at his skin.

Dimly, he realizes he sounds like a feral animal, grunts and growls that are inhuman, possessed.

Ariadne is taking possession of him. He can feel her, incredibly lubricated, small twitches of her muscles, her body welcoming his and it soothes him and urges him on at the same time.

Arthur pushes his face into the place where her neck connects to her body and digs his teeth in. Gently enough but sufficiently rough as well and she whimpers, offers more of her neck to him in submission.

He wants her. Even as he is having her right now, so physically, so deliciously, he wants her. He wants to extract promises from her, wants to own her every thought, wants a ring around her finger, wants her chained to his bed, wants her hidden away from the world, accessible only to him.

He fights this new Arthur on a daily basis but right now, as all the social mores are scrapped off the surface, the primitive Arthur emerges and takes control.

"Arthur… ah! So close…" she gasps and throws her head back. Without even thinking about it, one of his hands peels off the railing and cups the back of her head, his skin scraping against the roughness instead of her scalp.

He accompanies this with deeper thrusts and her low moan, surprise and pleasure all rolled into one, fills him with satisfaction. It takes another minute and he's starting to feel the burn in all of his muscles but suddenly Ariadne hugs him to her desperately, fingers clawing at him and she's crying out into his ear, body spasming around his wonderfully.

As soon as he knows that she's reached that final pleasure, his thrusts become erratic, rough, rushing across that final stretch to release. She doesn't go lax around him; instead, she tightens her hold on him, pushes back with vigor and Arthur is thrilled, out of his mind with the sensations until everything comes crashing around him and he's catapulted into the universe, Ariadne's fingers stroking his nape as he comes down from his high and regains conscious thought.

Small kisses land on the rim of his ear. She is still out breath. He pulls back just a fraction, enough to look at her. He thinks they might both be blushing now if their faces weren't already red with the exertion.

But she's looking at him with something akin to awe in her eyes. Awe, satiation, curiosity – and more desire. He doesn't know if it's carnal or a new type of desire but she still wants something from him. And this pleases him like nothing else because he's not ready to let go of her. Not now and possibly not ever.

A/N: This little smutlet was inspired by this awesome drawing .com/gallery/#/d2xgrm0 and compliments to nami86 for being the wonderful artist that she is. And no, Inception is not mine.