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annundrielTo Dream, Perchance to See
Arthur/Eames
NC-17
5944
Genderbending, mild bondage.
Eames doesn't know Arthur as well as he thinks he does.
I've had some version of this in mind since the film opened. Massive thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfumaniac for everything and to mclachlan for the awesome beta.
It isn’t so much that Arthur’s subconscious is boring or pedestrian, it’s that it’s predictable.
Maybe Eames just knows him too well.
He ends up on a busy street corner that isn’t London or Paris but instead looks a little like both, outside of a bar that reminds him vaguely of one Arthur and he frequented fairly often the last time they worked together. If he remembers correctly—and Eames always remembers correctly—it wasn’t far from the hotel they were staying at during that particular job.
He also remembers the type of women that went there, had ample opportunity to observe the ones that tended to make eyes at Arthur. By the time they were finished, everyone paid and sorted, he knew which women would approach Arthur and which would hang back. The ones to which Arthur would respond.
It’s knowledge he plans to use to his advantage tonight.
Eames knows Arthur, so he knows Arthur must be inside. The bar is full of dark wood and polished metal, light that coats everything the same way scotch coats ice cubes—warm and golden.
Arthur’s easy to spot, the figure he cuts distinctive even across the room, even sitting in a crowded bar. He’s drinking, flirting with a brunette at the end of the bar. She could be any number of women Eames has seen Arthur seduce back to his hotel room, which is promising, but there’s also a slight resemblance to Ariadne—the way she holds herself, the shape of her mouth when she smiles at something Arthur leans in to say—which is less so.
It doesn’t matter. Eames has a plan.
He sashays across the bar, likes the feel of this particular projection. It’s a good design, not one of his more popular plastic blondes. Arthur’s contempt for them can be seen from orbit with the naked eye; Eames will never get what he’s aiming for tonight with that kind of bait.
No, tonight calls for something more subtle, something tailored just to catch Arthur’s attention and lure him in. The projection is an amalgamation of the women he’s seen turn Arthur’s head; gorgeous, but not glamorous, polished and intelligent, dark hair and eyes, legs no one would refuse and perfect pouting lips.
Not precisely Eames’ usual type, but he’d give her a tumble.
She is, he thinks, more than a little Arthur-like after all; there’s something delightfully narcissistic about that.
He turns a few heads as he cross the room, not enough to draw too much attention to himself, but enough to make the act believable. He can’t see Arthur’s face from this angle, Arthur turned in the opposite direction, so he takes in the line of his neck, the way his dark jacket fits neatly across his shoulders, and appreciates the view as he gets closer.
Eames slips past Arthur, close enough their shoulders brush, gives an extra swing to his hips before he slides onto the unoccupied stool on the woman’s other side. He knows he’s got Arthur’s attention already when he looks up to find Arthur’s eyes on him over the woman’s shoulder, dark and calm and focused.
The bartender approaches and Eames sets his clutch on the bar, crosses his legs and orders a glass of Laphroaig, neat. The bartender brings it, and Eames takes a sip, feels it burn against his tongue, slip down his throat. When he looks up, the woman sitting between them is gone, slipped away to whatever part of Arthur’s psyche she originated from.
“The day couldn’t have been that bad,” Eames hears Arthur say, leaning his elbows against the edge of the bar, body turning toward him.
Eames mirrors him, turning and lifting an eyebrow.
“Straight to whiskey without stopping for beer?” Arthur says, gesturing at the Laphroaig. “You’re either contemplating homicide or it’s been a long day at work. I really hope it’s the latter.”
Eames half-smiles, corner of his mouth curling up, and takes another sip. Apparently he’s found a way to appeal to Arthur’s sense of chivalry. “Well.” He slides his tongue along his bottom lip, setting his glass down on the bar. Arthur’s eyes focus on his mouth and Eames marks that down as a win. “It certainly just got better.”
The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks upward into a smirk and he takes a sip from his own drink—scotch on the rocks, Dewars Eames reckons—before moving smoothly across the space between them to the now empty stool. “I’m glad things are looking up.”
Re-crossing his legs toward Arthur, Eames turns even more into his space, foot brushing against Arthur’s calf. He lets his eyes drift down Arthur’s front, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his neck. He follows the line of his tie—silk, burgundy, dark against the pale pink of his shirt—down Arthur’s chest to where it disappears beneath his charcoal waistcoat, follows the waistcoat as it hugs his chest, his waist, past the neat row of buttons to Arthur’s crotch, his thighs.
If Eames isn’t mistaken, he’d say they’re parted invitingly.
He is rarely mistaken.
Arthur is checking him out, too, much more subtly. Arthur is very good at what he does—the best—and part of what he does is know things. Eames knows Arthur is looking, though; he can tell Arthur likes what he sees by the way he shifts ever so slightly forward, the way his fingers twitch against his glass, the weave of his trousers stretched over his thigh.
Eames slowly drags his eyes back to Arthur’s face, wants Arthur to feel every inch of his gaze. “Not yet, but we can work on that.”
Arthur looks down at the drink in his hand, swirls it around the glass, making the ice clink. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheeks, his lips wet and slightly parted. He looks up at Eames through those lashes, coy and charming and certain, and Eames’ heart knocks against his ribs.
“You sure about that?”
Eames blood races. The game’s afoot.
“That’s for you to find out now, isn’t it?”
*
They stumble through the door of a hotel room—Arthur’s hotel room from their last job—and Eames feels drunk even though he hasn’t really been drinking, knows that it’s just his subconscious keeping up with Arthur’s dream. He feels hot and heavy and knows he can blame Arthur for that because each feeling can be traced back to Arthur’s hands and the places where they’re touching him: his wrist, his hip, Arthur’s nose against his cheek, Arthur’s lips against his jaw.
Eames shudders and shifts his weight, leans into Arthur until Arthur’s off-balance, taking one step, two steps back until he’s against a wall. Arthur blinks at him, eyes bright, and Eames grins, wrist slipping from Arthur’s grasp so he can slide his hands up Arthur’s chest, feel him firm beneath his palms through all of the careful layers Arthur wraps himself in.
Everything’s contained and in its place with Arthur, and Eames just wants…God, he wants to unsettle it, pull it all out. Leave it a mess. He wants to get Arthur under him, work him until he’s a sweaty and rumpled and panting, until they both are. That’s where the fun’s at.
They’ll get there soon enough. They have time.
The tip of Arthur’s tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, leaves it shining pink and wet, and Eames can’t deny he wants a taste of that. Here in this room, in the stretch of Arthur’s dream, he doesn’t have to. Leaning in, he feels Arthur’s breath against his cheek before Arthur inhales sharply, the movement rocking them both, and tilts his head. They’re a moment away, half a second, when Eames turns, brushes his lips against Arthur’s cheek, down toward the line of his jaw.
Arthur makes a sound like frustration, his hands firm on Eames’ hips, and Eames pulls back, notices the blush of lipstick he’s left on Arthur’s skin. “Problem?”
“Tease.”
Eames presses forward, rubs against Arthur, feels Arthur hardening against his hip. Beneath the projection, Eames’ own body responds. “Oh, you don’t know me at all, darling.”
The word slips out before he can stop it, fits so easily, so comfortably between his lips when he looks at Arthur, that Eames doesn’t even think about it until it’s there, hovering between them. His breath stutters and his heart pounds and for a second it has nothing to do with the way Arthur is pressed against him and everything to do with his body—this dream manifestation of his body—preparing for fight or flight.
Arthur, though…Arthur doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t push Eames away, doesn’t react at all, and Eames thinks, good, the game isn’t lost yet.
“If you say so,” Arthur says, the flex of his fingers on Eames’ hips the only warning he gets before Arthur’s mouth is on his, hot and demanding, and he’s dragging Eames forward, no space between them at all.
A sound of surprise escapes Eames, and he feels more than hears Arthur chuckle. He nips at Arthurs bottom lip in response, and Arthur groans, hands clutching at his hips, and fuck Eames wishes they were his hips, his and his alone. He’ll take what he can get, though; he always does.
Arthur pushes forward, hands sliding to the small of Eames’ back, maneuvering them away from the wall, farther into the room. Eames stumbles once in his heels and pauses to kick them off, his hands slipping beneath Arthur’s jacket to push it off his shoulders.
The jacket falls to the ground in a heap, and Eames half expects Arthur to stop what they’re doing to bend down and pick it up, hang it over the back of a chair at least.
But Arthur doesn’t; he’s focused instead on Eames, body against his in the best ways possible, ways that could only be made better by the removal of more clothing.
Arthur’s hands slide up Eames’ back, his fingers tugging at the fabric of Eames’ dress. They’re persistent, Arthur’s mouth on his distracting, and Eames doesn’t know if he wants to push forward or back, doesn’t quite like this feeling of being caught, not when he’s the one who was doing the catching tonight.
Eames knows the bed is behind him, so he takes a step back, another, pulls Arthur along with him until they’re both beside the bed, until he can turn and push Arthur down until he’s sitting on the edge of it.
Dropping to his knees between Arthur’s, Eames smiles up at him, hands traveling up Arthur’s thighs, soaking in their heat. He runs them up, never quite reaching Arthur’s cock where he can see it hard beneath Arthur’s trousers.
Arthur’s not wrong; he is a tease.
For now, anyway.
Eames sits back on his heels, hands smoothing down toward Arthur’s knees, down past one calf to untie one shoe, to pull it off and set it aside, move to the other.
Arthur’s socks follow, and Eames tugs one off, balling it up and tossing it over his shoulder with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Arthur watches him, eyes unreadable, and doesn’t say a word.
Licking his lips, Eames looks away, pulls the other one off, his fingers lingering on the arch of Arthur’s foot. Arthur’s toes twitch, and Eames grins.
“Don’t even think about it,” Arthur says, the gruff tone of his voice sending shivers down Eames’ spine.
He doesn’t move his foot from Eames’ hands, though, and that’s…hmm. Interesting.
Eames schools his face and looks up, complete innocence. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Something flutters around Arthur’s mouth, amusement or disbelief, something that never lands long enough for Eames to pinpoint. “Yeah,” he says, “I bet you don’t.”
And then Arthur’s hands are on either side of his face, fingers sinking into his hair as he leans down, captures Eames’ mouth with his own.
Arthur’s tongue runs across Eames’ bottom lip, presses forward, and Eames groans, opens up to Arthur, lets him take.
And take Arthur does, his lips finding the best way to fit against Eames, his teeth and tongue finding the best ways to take him apart. All Eames can do his hang on, hands wrapped around Arthur’s forearms, wrinkling his sleeves.
If Eames had known Arthur could kiss like this, he’d have done this sooner.
No, that’s not true. If he had known Arthur could kiss like this, he’d have cornered him as soon as he met him. Cornered him and pinned him and snogged him breathless. He probably would’ve gotten clocked for it, but, fuck, it would have been worth it.
He pulls back, breathless, and laughs. “A little eager, are we?”
Arthur’s lips brush his again, quick against the corner of Eames’ mouth. “Just thought I’d help move things along.”
“Hmm, a gentleman I see.” Eames leans up, sinks into Arthur’s mouth, kisses him wet and hot and dirty, and Arthur groans, his fingers hard against Eames’ hair.
When Eames pulls away, they’re both panting. Arthur’s lips are full and pink, the skin around them smudged with lipstick. Eames can’t help but think that if he were himself right now, Arthur’s skin would be rubbed pink from something else, Eames’ lips hard against his.
Hands on Arthur’s thighs, Eames stands, Arthur’s fingers trailing away across his cheeks, down to catch on the straps of his dress, down to land back on his hips. Eames steps forward, hands in Arthur’s hair, mussing it up like he’s wanted to do for ages, like he thinks about doing every time Arthur is in the room. He can’t help it; he wants to see Arthur less smooth, less slick, wants that sharp look he knows it would get him.
He doesn’t get that sharp look now. Or if he does, it’s obscured by his dress, Arthur’s face pressed against the low plane of his belly, breath hot even through the layers of the projection and Eames’ clothes, mouth so close to where Eames wants it. He could just push Arthur a little, press his hands against his hair and guide him where he wants him.
It would be so easy…
That isn’t the plan, though, and Eames already feels what plan there was slipping through his fingers with every flex of Arthur’s hands, every look Arthur shoots him.
Swallowing hard, Eames pushes Arthur away, pushes him back until he’s flat against the bed.
“Hey,” Arthur protests, hands still reaching.
Eames grins down at him. “Get comfortable,” he says, hiking up his skirt, flashing some thigh. “We’re only getting started.” Kneeling against the mattress, he crawls up until he’s straddling Arthur’s thighs, settling just south of where he knows Arthur wants him.
“Night is young and all that, right?” Arthur asks, mouth quirking to the side, bordering on amused as his hands find the bare skin of Eames’ thighs, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of his dress.
“Mmm, yes,” Eames hums, shifting forward until his hands are on either side of Arthur’s shoulders, until his hair—long and dark—is brushing against the comforter. “The night is young”—his lips brush Arthur’s; Arthur’s hands slide up his thighs, up over his ass—“and spirits are high.”
Arthur’s hands are on his ass, on his back, everywhere; his mouth soft and wet below his, and good, so good.
Eames world tilts, turns 180 degrees, and suddenly he’s stretched out on the bed, one of Arthur’s currently larger hands circling his wrists, pinning them to the comforter about his head. Straddling Eames’ thighs, Arthur grins down at him, something bright and wicked in his eyes that ignites things beneath Eames’ skin, that makes him want to move, makes him want to stay.
He squirms, tests Arthur’s hold on his wrists, feels Arthur’s thumb hard against the bones there. Arthur’s hold is strong, his grip firm.
Eames blinks up at him, flutters his eyelashes a little, and makes sure Arthur feels the rolling movement of his hips. “Have you got me where you want me now?”
Arthur’s grin widens and he dips down for a kiss, tongue quick and teasing. “Almost,” he says, lips brushing Eames’. “Don’t move.”
“Who, me?”
The look Arthur gives him is pointed, but he releases Eames’ wrists, sitting back on his heels. Arthur reaches for his tie, pulls it free from his waistcoat, works the knot open, fingers pale against the dark sheen.
Eames watches him and waits, doesn’t move. Not so much because Arthur told him not to; no, he’s curious about what Arthur will do next.
He isn’t disappointed.
Arthur pulls the tie free in one long movement, slides it from around his neck. Reaching for Eames’ wrists, he loops it around them, first one and then the other. Arching his neck, Eames watches him tie his wrists together and has to admit it’s a good aesthetic, the burgundy of the fabric against the tender white of his skin.
“Mmm,” Eames says. “Kinky.”
Arthur’s eyes drop from the tie to Eames’ face, something in his look that Eames can’t place, and then Arthur pulls his arms straight, stretches them until he can tie Eames’ wrists to the headboard.
This is not exactly what Eames was expecting when he found Arthur asleep at the warehouse, hooked up and dreaming. It isn’t really what he expected when he thought about sex with Arthur at all.
And he has thought about sex with Arthur, frequently.
Bondage never really came up. At least, bondage that didn’t involve putting Arthur’s braces to creative good use. On Arthur.
“You know,” Arthur says, sitting back to survey his work; he seems pleased with the result. “This look suits you much better, darling.”
There’s something in Arthur’s eyes, something beyond the pleased tilt of his mouth that Eames isn’t sure of, something not warranted by this minor sort of mischief.
Swallowing, Eames ignores it, wiggling his hips against the bed, arching up against Arthur. It gets him a groan, a flutter of eyelashes, and Eames smirks. Ah, little victories.. “I’m glad you approve,” he says, testing the tie around his wrists, against the headboard. He’s not budging until Arthur decides to let him. Or until they wake up. “But perhaps we could move forward with playtime now? A girl could get bored down here.”
Arthur blinks, a slow slide of eyelids down and then up, and smiles, leaning forward until his lips brush Eames’, slip past his cheek, breath tickling his ear in a way that makes Eames want to press against him. “Good thing you’re not a girl then, isn’t it, Mr. Eames?”
Eames freezes, heartbeat stuttering in his chest. Thinking back, he tries to remember anything he might have said or done to give himself away. There’s nothing, though, nothing at all—
Darling.
There’s that. There’s that one tiny word, dropped and ticking like a time bomb between them, finally going off.
It’s just a word, though. Not proof.
There’s still a chance here.
Eames rolls his hips against Arthur, hears Arthur’s breath catch. “I’m all woman, I assure you,” he says. “Check for yourself.”
A brief huff of laughter and Arthur is pulling away, sitting back on his heels looking settled and triumphant. His fingers move over the buttons on his waistcoat, slipping them through their holes one after another. Arthur shakes his head. “No, that’s not how this is going to work.”
“How is it going to work then?” Eames asks, throat suddenly dry. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“The drink, the terms of endearment, your shoes—”
“My shoes?” Craning his neck, Eames tries to see his shoes where he kicked them off earlier.
“You always wear the same type of shoes, Eames. Always.” Arthur shrugs out of the waistcoat and tosses it over the edge of the bed. “You’re so predictable.”
“I’m predictable? Me? You’re the one who—”
The grin Arthur lays on him is wide and toothy, predatory, and Eames’ words die in his throat as his heart jumps in his chest, cock twitching beneath the projection.
Shit.
Arthur’s fingers work open his cufflinks, undo his watch, and he leans over, heavy against Eames’ thighs, to deposit them on the nightstand. He runs a hand over Eames’ bare arm when he sits back, and Eames shivers, wants so much more than that touch.
“What do you feel when I do that?” Arthur asks. “My fingers on your bare arm? Or through a jacket, your shirt? Or.” He pauses, runs the tip of a finger down the curve of his triceps. “You were wearing short sleeves today. Does that mean skin on skin?”
There are two ways he can run with this: lie, or truth. He’s so good at lying.
“I must admit this is kinkier than I expected, but I really have no idea—”
“Please, Mr. Eames.” Arthur’s tone is sharp, his look stern. “Don’t insult my intelligence and I won’t insult yours. I don’t know why you thought you had to do”—he waves a hand at Eames—“this, but own it when you’re caught.”
He could keep up the charade, of course he could, but that would only serve to make Arthur increasingly annoyed. Not in the amusing way that means Arthur will make faces at him and frown in that delightfully pouty way he does, but in the way that means Arthur is actually angry to the point of full-out ignoring him in the real world.
Eames hates it when Arthur ignores him.
He sighs, knows ultimately that Arthur is right.
“You must admit, Arthur,” he says, projection suddenly gone, “it was delightfully fun while it lasted.”
“While it lasted?” There’s a crease between Arthur’s brows, but a glint in Arthur’s eyes. “You misunderstand, Mr. Eames. We’re not done here.”
Eames’ chest feels tight. He swallows.
“You’re going to play nice and let me go, aren’t you, Arthur? A nice boy like you always does.”
Arthur slides his braces over his shoulders—oh, if Eames had only gotten to those braces first, he wouldn’t be the one restrained—before his fingers move to the collar his shirt, working it open from the top, revealing a pale strip of skin down his chest. “You mean like you were going to play nice?”
“I always play nice,” Eames scoffs, tugging at the tie. It doesn’t budge. “Nice and fun.”
Arthur chuckles, shakes his head, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his trousers. “The lies you tell yourself, Eames.”
He clucks his tongue, and Eames hates that it makes him aware of the way that very tongue was in his mouth, driving him crazy not so long ago.
“So deluded.”
Arthur’s shirt disappears over the edge of the bed in a flutter of soft pink and Eames is left with a view of a decidedly more natural shade, Arthur’s skin flushed and tempting.
“Arthur,” Eames says, giving his name as much weight as possible, “untie me.”
Whether it’s to take, to touch that expanse of skin, or to get away, Eames isn’t even sure anymore.
It doesn’t matter, though, because Arthur ignores him, smirking down at him like he knows best. Like he’s the one who has Eames pegged.
“No,” Arthur says, fingering the silk of his tie, tickling Eames’ wrist. “I think not. Like I said, this look suits you. Although…”
He runs a hand down Eames’ arm, over his shoulder, across his chest, detours to thumb a nipple through the fabric of Eames’ shirt before continuing downward to the bulge at the front of Eames’ trousers. Arthur squeezes his through the layers, and Eames groans, hips shifting toward him.
“I will admit some very pleasing improvements have been made recently.”
“You’re a cheeky bastard, you know that?”
The look Arthur shoots him doesn’t even try for who, me? innocence; it bypasses it and heads straight for please, keep up with the program wickedness just as Arthur’s fingers make quick work of Eames’ belt, the fastening on his trousers, to slip inside and press hot fingertips against Eames’ cock.
Arthur leans over him. “Given the evidence at hand,” he says, “I don’t think you can deny you like it.”
Before Eames can say anything, can even formulate a response at all, Arthur’s mouth is back on his, on his own lips for the first time, undeniable.
Arthur takes Eames’ mouth like he owns it, like it’s his to do with as he pleases and it pleases him to nip at Eames’ bottom lip, tongue the same spot a moment later, kiss and lick and suck and turn Eames’ brain to mush until Eames is vibrating with want and need and for god’s sake, Arthur, quit teasing.
Only Arthur pulls back, his face that strange mix of serious and gleeful he sometimes gets, and says, “Hardly teasing, Mr. Eames. I definitely plan on following through.”
And then their clothes are gone and Eames is so fucking grateful for dreamspace, for the way their minds work, for finding Arthur alone and plugged in. For Cobb hiring him that first time, introducing Arthur with a nod and a smile and a simple If you need anything, Arthur’s your man.
Cobb hadn’t been exaggerating.
Eames is grateful for the way their bodies slot together, cocks pressed in the cradles of their hips, the way Arthur’s mouth fits against his.
The way Arthur apparently—apparently—wants this, too.
Oh, the things they’re going to do to one another.
“God, Eames,” Arthur pants against his mouth, hips grinding against his. “You can never do anything the easy way, can you? Everything has to be hard with you.”
Pressing his heels against the bed, Eames shifts beneath Arthur, leers up at him. If his hands were free, he would roll them, pin Arthur to the bed and make his point. “I’d say things are pretty hard with you as well.”
“I’d say,” Arthur begins, hips moving in a slow circle that makes it very hard for Eames to pay attention. Even Arthur’s own breath catches; Eames can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, wants to bite it, mark it his.
Arthur tries again, licking his lips. “I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched.”
Eames opens his legs farther, enjoys the way Arthur settles more fully against him. “Would you really, Arthur? I think that’s going a bit—”
Arthur ducks his head, teeth grazing the stubble on the underside of Eames’ jaw, lips finding his pulse, sucking a kiss against it as his hand slips between them, wrapping around Eames’ cock.
Eames’ fingers flex against the headboard, wrists pulling at the tie, and he loses his train of thought, just like that.
“You were saying?” Arthur pulls away to ask.
“Nothing,” Eames says. “I was, uh.” He swallows. “Nothing. Please, by all means, don’t let me stop you.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything; he just grins, dimples there and gone in a flash before his mouth is back on Eames’ skin, slipping over neck and collarbone, pressing against his chest, stopping at a nipple to lick and suck before skimming over to the other, fingers against Eames’ ribs.
Eames breathes deep and shudders and watches Arthur get closer and closer to where he wants him to be, tongue dipping into his navel briefly until finally, finally Arthur’s breath is against his cock.
Arthur licks his lips, and Eames does not—he does not—whimper. The sound he makes is completely masculine, completely in control, and the look he gets from Arthur because of it—eyes dark through his lashes, mouth a wicked curve—does not make him want to make that sound again.
Not even a little.
When Arthur lowers his head, fits his mouth around the head of his cock, and sucks, the sound Eames makes definitely isn’t a whimper. It’s a moan; it’s Arthur’s name; it’s yes and please and finally and the only way this could be better is if Eames’ hands were free to touch and stroke and hold. To guide Arthur where and how he wants him.
There’s always next time.
Eames grins at the top of Arthur’s head. God, yes, there will be a next time.
Arthur sucks him down, lips and tongue working, a hint of teeth, his fingers playing against Eames’ skin, holding his hips still before sliding lower, sliding past Arthur’s mouth on his cock, past his balls, dipping between his legs to press against his opening.
“Fuck, yes,” Eames groans. “Arthur, yes. I want—”
“I know,” Arthur answers, pulling off. His lips are shiny with spit and pre-come, his voice rough, and Eames wants to grab him and roll him and ride him until both of them are panting and sweaty and neither of them can move.
Only this is Arthur’s game now, Arthur’s plan. He wasn’t sure Arthur had this in him; he suspected of course—it’s always the quiet ones, of course—but it’s gratifying to have his suspicions confirmed so pleasantly, to have Arthur sit back on his knees with a look full of so many things Eames can’t wait to figure out.
He makes room for Arthur between his thighs, spreads his legs wider as Arthur shuffles forward, knees bumping Eames’ ass. One hand on his cock, one hand on Eames’ thigh, Arthur pauses, just looking.
Tucking a leg around Arthur, nudging him forward, Eames asks, “What are you waiting for, darling?”
Arthur smirks and says, “Nothing.” He pushes in and once again, Eames applauds the wonders of dreaming and the way they’re able to do this with so little effort.
Eames blinks up at him, a sight to behold, lips bitten and cheeks flushed, skin fresh and clean and touchable, so much of it calling for Eames’ palms, his fingers, his mouth and tongue and teeth.
He squirms against the bed, pinned, caught by Arthur. He doesn’t want to get away; he just wants a little more room.
“Arthur,” he says, voice gone rough, thick. “Arthur—”
Arthur pulls back smoothly until only the head of his cock remains. One slow push forward and Arthur’s in fully, hips pressed back against Eames, no space between them. He repeats the motion, eyes never leaving Eames’ face, and Eames can’t look away, is mesmerized by the focus in Arthur’s eyes, the way he takes in everything, leaves nothing unobserved.
Eames licks his bottom lip, tongue sliding across it, and watches Arthur follow the movement, watches Arthur’s fingers press bruises that will never appear on his skin into his thighs, and jerks his head. “Well,” he says, “get down here.”
They’re on the same page, the both of them. The same wavelength. For all of their poking and prodding, their bickering and bantering, they understand one another; Eames doesn’t have to tell him twice.
With hands pressed against the bed, Arthur supports his weight as he leans forward, changing the angle of his hips until he’s close enough to kiss, close enough that Eames can trace Arthur’s bottom lip with his tongue, doesn’t have to be content with his own.
Arthur kisses him, fucks him, presses inside him with slow intent, and Eames kisses back, takes it, welcomes it, pulls Arthur as close as he can with his legs and presses back until Arthur’s hips are snapping against his, fast and steady and sure, a rhythm they’ve been dancing to since they met.
Eames has been waiting for this from day one, been wanting it since he noticed Cobb enter a crowded bar with an unknown, unnamed suit at his side, serious-faced and business-minded. Since they shook hands and Arthur surprised him by allowing a bit of flirtation.
Now though, now…
Arthur’s teeth catch his bottom lip, his tongue following behind to sooth the sting. They breathe each other’s air and pant each other’s names, throw themselves together in mind and body, nothing held back, cards on the table here in the infinite bend of dreams.
Arthur’s going to be the death of him. That’s all right, though; Eames will just wake up in the real world—the real world where Arthur will be, too—and they’ll do this all over again.
Hips stuttering, Arthur’s hand finds his at the headboard, fingers tangling as Arthur kisses him, as Arthur pulls away, eyes screwed tight, mouth open, coming with Eames’ name on his lips.
Eames groans, legs tightening, muscles flexing as he follows Arthur over. He can feel Arthur inside him, over him, around him, surrounding him completely here in Arthur’s head, in Arthur’s dream.
There’s nothing but Arthur here, Arthur and himself.
The last thought Eames has is that he quite likes it.
*
Blinking awake, the first thing Eames sees is the roof of the warehouse, dim and distant in the evening light.
The second thing he sees is Arthur in the chair beside him, awake and watching him with a wary look on his face, eyes unreadable. Eames opens his mouth to say something, to ask what that looks about, to tell Arthur he’s more than a little proud of him for figuring it out.
Unfortunately, the first thing Eames really hears is Saito’s voice, coming from behind them.
“Pleasant dream, gentlemen?” Saito asks, and Eames turns to find him sitting with Yusuf, boxes of take-out open between them.
He looks back at Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t say anything, his eyes no longer on Eames. He just unhooks himself and stands, a bit wobbly about the knees. It’s nothing anyone else would notice, but Eames still thinks, Well, that’s something.
Disconnecting himself, Eames turns back to Saito and Yusuf. “Oh, as pleasant as expected,” he says, one ear on the sounds of Arthur puttering around at his worktable. “You know dear Arthur, all about the work.”
Arthur snorts and shuts the PASIV case, footsteps falling quick and sharp across the concrete floor as he crosses the room; he leaves the case behind. “I think I’m calling it a night,” Arthur says, the words tossed over his shoulder.
Eames frowns and jumps up, ignores the look he catches Yusuf exchange with Saito out of the corner of his eye. Let them think what they will.
He catches up with Arthur near the door, Arthur pausing to pull on his coat, grab his bag.
“You’re certainly in a hurry, love,” Eames says. “Hot date I don’t know about?”
Arthur looks up from where he’s fiddling with the strap on his bag and, oh, Eames must have really thrown him because Arthur never fiddles.
“What do you want, Eames?”
Eames takes a step forward, another, feels a bit of a thrill at the way Arthur’s eyes flicker downwards before returning to his face, the way the color in Arthur’s cheeks heightens.
“I thought that was fairly obvious, darling,” he says, crowding Arthur against the door. He leans in, so close he can practically taste Arthur, wonders if Arthur will taste anything like he did in the dream or if it will be different, better, more. Arthur.
“What are you doing?”
Eames pulls back far enough that Arthur’s face resolves into one solid image. “What we both want.” He presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s mouth, a little too much tongue to be chaste, before stepping away, moving to collect his things. “Wait.”
Arthur’s face is adorably bewildered. “What? Why?”
“If you think I’m not going home with you, Arthur, you’ve got another thing coming.”
There’s a delicious twist to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, a hint of dimple, a glint of something new and familiar in his eyes.
“Hurry up then,” Arthur says, and Eames does, can hardly wait to get him alone.
Arthur/Eames
NC-17
5944
Genderbending, mild bondage.
Eames doesn't know Arthur as well as he thinks he does.
I've had some version of this in mind since the film opened. Massive thanks to
perfumaniac for everything and to mclachlan for the awesome beta.It isn’t so much that Arthur’s subconscious is boring or pedestrian, it’s that it’s predictable.
Maybe Eames just knows him too well.
He ends up on a busy street corner that isn’t London or Paris but instead looks a little like both, outside of a bar that reminds him vaguely of one Arthur and he frequented fairly often the last time they worked together. If he remembers correctly—and Eames always remembers correctly—it wasn’t far from the hotel they were staying at during that particular job.
He also remembers the type of women that went there, had ample opportunity to observe the ones that tended to make eyes at Arthur. By the time they were finished, everyone paid and sorted, he knew which women would approach Arthur and which would hang back. The ones to which Arthur would respond.
It’s knowledge he plans to use to his advantage tonight.
Eames knows Arthur, so he knows Arthur must be inside. The bar is full of dark wood and polished metal, light that coats everything the same way scotch coats ice cubes—warm and golden.
Arthur’s easy to spot, the figure he cuts distinctive even across the room, even sitting in a crowded bar. He’s drinking, flirting with a brunette at the end of the bar. She could be any number of women Eames has seen Arthur seduce back to his hotel room, which is promising, but there’s also a slight resemblance to Ariadne—the way she holds herself, the shape of her mouth when she smiles at something Arthur leans in to say—which is less so.
It doesn’t matter. Eames has a plan.
He sashays across the bar, likes the feel of this particular projection. It’s a good design, not one of his more popular plastic blondes. Arthur’s contempt for them can be seen from orbit with the naked eye; Eames will never get what he’s aiming for tonight with that kind of bait.
No, tonight calls for something more subtle, something tailored just to catch Arthur’s attention and lure him in. The projection is an amalgamation of the women he’s seen turn Arthur’s head; gorgeous, but not glamorous, polished and intelligent, dark hair and eyes, legs no one would refuse and perfect pouting lips.
Not precisely Eames’ usual type, but he’d give her a tumble.
She is, he thinks, more than a little Arthur-like after all; there’s something delightfully narcissistic about that.
He turns a few heads as he cross the room, not enough to draw too much attention to himself, but enough to make the act believable. He can’t see Arthur’s face from this angle, Arthur turned in the opposite direction, so he takes in the line of his neck, the way his dark jacket fits neatly across his shoulders, and appreciates the view as he gets closer.
Eames slips past Arthur, close enough their shoulders brush, gives an extra swing to his hips before he slides onto the unoccupied stool on the woman’s other side. He knows he’s got Arthur’s attention already when he looks up to find Arthur’s eyes on him over the woman’s shoulder, dark and calm and focused.
The bartender approaches and Eames sets his clutch on the bar, crosses his legs and orders a glass of Laphroaig, neat. The bartender brings it, and Eames takes a sip, feels it burn against his tongue, slip down his throat. When he looks up, the woman sitting between them is gone, slipped away to whatever part of Arthur’s psyche she originated from.
“The day couldn’t have been that bad,” Eames hears Arthur say, leaning his elbows against the edge of the bar, body turning toward him.
Eames mirrors him, turning and lifting an eyebrow.
“Straight to whiskey without stopping for beer?” Arthur says, gesturing at the Laphroaig. “You’re either contemplating homicide or it’s been a long day at work. I really hope it’s the latter.”
Eames half-smiles, corner of his mouth curling up, and takes another sip. Apparently he’s found a way to appeal to Arthur’s sense of chivalry. “Well.” He slides his tongue along his bottom lip, setting his glass down on the bar. Arthur’s eyes focus on his mouth and Eames marks that down as a win. “It certainly just got better.”
The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks upward into a smirk and he takes a sip from his own drink—scotch on the rocks, Dewars Eames reckons—before moving smoothly across the space between them to the now empty stool. “I’m glad things are looking up.”
Re-crossing his legs toward Arthur, Eames turns even more into his space, foot brushing against Arthur’s calf. He lets his eyes drift down Arthur’s front, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his neck. He follows the line of his tie—silk, burgundy, dark against the pale pink of his shirt—down Arthur’s chest to where it disappears beneath his charcoal waistcoat, follows the waistcoat as it hugs his chest, his waist, past the neat row of buttons to Arthur’s crotch, his thighs.
If Eames isn’t mistaken, he’d say they’re parted invitingly.
He is rarely mistaken.
Arthur is checking him out, too, much more subtly. Arthur is very good at what he does—the best—and part of what he does is know things. Eames knows Arthur is looking, though; he can tell Arthur likes what he sees by the way he shifts ever so slightly forward, the way his fingers twitch against his glass, the weave of his trousers stretched over his thigh.
Eames slowly drags his eyes back to Arthur’s face, wants Arthur to feel every inch of his gaze. “Not yet, but we can work on that.”
Arthur looks down at the drink in his hand, swirls it around the glass, making the ice clink. His eyelashes are dark smudges against his cheeks, his lips wet and slightly parted. He looks up at Eames through those lashes, coy and charming and certain, and Eames’ heart knocks against his ribs.
“You sure about that?”
Eames blood races. The game’s afoot.
“That’s for you to find out now, isn’t it?”
*
They stumble through the door of a hotel room—Arthur’s hotel room from their last job—and Eames feels drunk even though he hasn’t really been drinking, knows that it’s just his subconscious keeping up with Arthur’s dream. He feels hot and heavy and knows he can blame Arthur for that because each feeling can be traced back to Arthur’s hands and the places where they’re touching him: his wrist, his hip, Arthur’s nose against his cheek, Arthur’s lips against his jaw.
Eames shudders and shifts his weight, leans into Arthur until Arthur’s off-balance, taking one step, two steps back until he’s against a wall. Arthur blinks at him, eyes bright, and Eames grins, wrist slipping from Arthur’s grasp so he can slide his hands up Arthur’s chest, feel him firm beneath his palms through all of the careful layers Arthur wraps himself in.
Everything’s contained and in its place with Arthur, and Eames just wants…God, he wants to unsettle it, pull it all out. Leave it a mess. He wants to get Arthur under him, work him until he’s a sweaty and rumpled and panting, until they both are. That’s where the fun’s at.
They’ll get there soon enough. They have time.
The tip of Arthur’s tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, leaves it shining pink and wet, and Eames can’t deny he wants a taste of that. Here in this room, in the stretch of Arthur’s dream, he doesn’t have to. Leaning in, he feels Arthur’s breath against his cheek before Arthur inhales sharply, the movement rocking them both, and tilts his head. They’re a moment away, half a second, when Eames turns, brushes his lips against Arthur’s cheek, down toward the line of his jaw.
Arthur makes a sound like frustration, his hands firm on Eames’ hips, and Eames pulls back, notices the blush of lipstick he’s left on Arthur’s skin. “Problem?”
“Tease.”
Eames presses forward, rubs against Arthur, feels Arthur hardening against his hip. Beneath the projection, Eames’ own body responds. “Oh, you don’t know me at all, darling.”
The word slips out before he can stop it, fits so easily, so comfortably between his lips when he looks at Arthur, that Eames doesn’t even think about it until it’s there, hovering between them. His breath stutters and his heart pounds and for a second it has nothing to do with the way Arthur is pressed against him and everything to do with his body—this dream manifestation of his body—preparing for fight or flight.
Arthur, though…Arthur doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t push Eames away, doesn’t react at all, and Eames thinks, good, the game isn’t lost yet.
“If you say so,” Arthur says, the flex of his fingers on Eames’ hips the only warning he gets before Arthur’s mouth is on his, hot and demanding, and he’s dragging Eames forward, no space between them at all.
A sound of surprise escapes Eames, and he feels more than hears Arthur chuckle. He nips at Arthurs bottom lip in response, and Arthur groans, hands clutching at his hips, and fuck Eames wishes they were his hips, his and his alone. He’ll take what he can get, though; he always does.
Arthur pushes forward, hands sliding to the small of Eames’ back, maneuvering them away from the wall, farther into the room. Eames stumbles once in his heels and pauses to kick them off, his hands slipping beneath Arthur’s jacket to push it off his shoulders.
The jacket falls to the ground in a heap, and Eames half expects Arthur to stop what they’re doing to bend down and pick it up, hang it over the back of a chair at least.
But Arthur doesn’t; he’s focused instead on Eames, body against his in the best ways possible, ways that could only be made better by the removal of more clothing.
Arthur’s hands slide up Eames’ back, his fingers tugging at the fabric of Eames’ dress. They’re persistent, Arthur’s mouth on his distracting, and Eames doesn’t know if he wants to push forward or back, doesn’t quite like this feeling of being caught, not when he’s the one who was doing the catching tonight.
Eames knows the bed is behind him, so he takes a step back, another, pulls Arthur along with him until they’re both beside the bed, until he can turn and push Arthur down until he’s sitting on the edge of it.
Dropping to his knees between Arthur’s, Eames smiles up at him, hands traveling up Arthur’s thighs, soaking in their heat. He runs them up, never quite reaching Arthur’s cock where he can see it hard beneath Arthur’s trousers.
Arthur’s not wrong; he is a tease.
For now, anyway.
Eames sits back on his heels, hands smoothing down toward Arthur’s knees, down past one calf to untie one shoe, to pull it off and set it aside, move to the other.
Arthur’s socks follow, and Eames tugs one off, balling it up and tossing it over his shoulder with a quirk of his eyebrow.
Arthur watches him, eyes unreadable, and doesn’t say a word.
Licking his lips, Eames looks away, pulls the other one off, his fingers lingering on the arch of Arthur’s foot. Arthur’s toes twitch, and Eames grins.
“Don’t even think about it,” Arthur says, the gruff tone of his voice sending shivers down Eames’ spine.
He doesn’t move his foot from Eames’ hands, though, and that’s…hmm. Interesting.
Eames schools his face and looks up, complete innocence. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Something flutters around Arthur’s mouth, amusement or disbelief, something that never lands long enough for Eames to pinpoint. “Yeah,” he says, “I bet you don’t.”
And then Arthur’s hands are on either side of his face, fingers sinking into his hair as he leans down, captures Eames’ mouth with his own.
Arthur’s tongue runs across Eames’ bottom lip, presses forward, and Eames groans, opens up to Arthur, lets him take.
And take Arthur does, his lips finding the best way to fit against Eames, his teeth and tongue finding the best ways to take him apart. All Eames can do his hang on, hands wrapped around Arthur’s forearms, wrinkling his sleeves.
If Eames had known Arthur could kiss like this, he’d have done this sooner.
No, that’s not true. If he had known Arthur could kiss like this, he’d have cornered him as soon as he met him. Cornered him and pinned him and snogged him breathless. He probably would’ve gotten clocked for it, but, fuck, it would have been worth it.
He pulls back, breathless, and laughs. “A little eager, are we?”
Arthur’s lips brush his again, quick against the corner of Eames’ mouth. “Just thought I’d help move things along.”
“Hmm, a gentleman I see.” Eames leans up, sinks into Arthur’s mouth, kisses him wet and hot and dirty, and Arthur groans, his fingers hard against Eames’ hair.
When Eames pulls away, they’re both panting. Arthur’s lips are full and pink, the skin around them smudged with lipstick. Eames can’t help but think that if he were himself right now, Arthur’s skin would be rubbed pink from something else, Eames’ lips hard against his.
Hands on Arthur’s thighs, Eames stands, Arthur’s fingers trailing away across his cheeks, down to catch on the straps of his dress, down to land back on his hips. Eames steps forward, hands in Arthur’s hair, mussing it up like he’s wanted to do for ages, like he thinks about doing every time Arthur is in the room. He can’t help it; he wants to see Arthur less smooth, less slick, wants that sharp look he knows it would get him.
He doesn’t get that sharp look now. Or if he does, it’s obscured by his dress, Arthur’s face pressed against the low plane of his belly, breath hot even through the layers of the projection and Eames’ clothes, mouth so close to where Eames wants it. He could just push Arthur a little, press his hands against his hair and guide him where he wants him.
It would be so easy…
That isn’t the plan, though, and Eames already feels what plan there was slipping through his fingers with every flex of Arthur’s hands, every look Arthur shoots him.
Swallowing hard, Eames pushes Arthur away, pushes him back until he’s flat against the bed.
“Hey,” Arthur protests, hands still reaching.
Eames grins down at him. “Get comfortable,” he says, hiking up his skirt, flashing some thigh. “We’re only getting started.” Kneeling against the mattress, he crawls up until he’s straddling Arthur’s thighs, settling just south of where he knows Arthur wants him.
“Night is young and all that, right?” Arthur asks, mouth quirking to the side, bordering on amused as his hands find the bare skin of Eames’ thighs, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of his dress.
“Mmm, yes,” Eames hums, shifting forward until his hands are on either side of Arthur’s shoulders, until his hair—long and dark—is brushing against the comforter. “The night is young”—his lips brush Arthur’s; Arthur’s hands slide up his thighs, up over his ass—“and spirits are high.”
Arthur’s hands are on his ass, on his back, everywhere; his mouth soft and wet below his, and good, so good.
Eames world tilts, turns 180 degrees, and suddenly he’s stretched out on the bed, one of Arthur’s currently larger hands circling his wrists, pinning them to the comforter about his head. Straddling Eames’ thighs, Arthur grins down at him, something bright and wicked in his eyes that ignites things beneath Eames’ skin, that makes him want to move, makes him want to stay.
He squirms, tests Arthur’s hold on his wrists, feels Arthur’s thumb hard against the bones there. Arthur’s hold is strong, his grip firm.
Eames blinks up at him, flutters his eyelashes a little, and makes sure Arthur feels the rolling movement of his hips. “Have you got me where you want me now?”
Arthur’s grin widens and he dips down for a kiss, tongue quick and teasing. “Almost,” he says, lips brushing Eames’. “Don’t move.”
“Who, me?”
The look Arthur gives him is pointed, but he releases Eames’ wrists, sitting back on his heels. Arthur reaches for his tie, pulls it free from his waistcoat, works the knot open, fingers pale against the dark sheen.
Eames watches him and waits, doesn’t move. Not so much because Arthur told him not to; no, he’s curious about what Arthur will do next.
He isn’t disappointed.
Arthur pulls the tie free in one long movement, slides it from around his neck. Reaching for Eames’ wrists, he loops it around them, first one and then the other. Arching his neck, Eames watches him tie his wrists together and has to admit it’s a good aesthetic, the burgundy of the fabric against the tender white of his skin.
“Mmm,” Eames says. “Kinky.”
Arthur’s eyes drop from the tie to Eames’ face, something in his look that Eames can’t place, and then Arthur pulls his arms straight, stretches them until he can tie Eames’ wrists to the headboard.
This is not exactly what Eames was expecting when he found Arthur asleep at the warehouse, hooked up and dreaming. It isn’t really what he expected when he thought about sex with Arthur at all.
And he has thought about sex with Arthur, frequently.
Bondage never really came up. At least, bondage that didn’t involve putting Arthur’s braces to creative good use. On Arthur.
“You know,” Arthur says, sitting back to survey his work; he seems pleased with the result. “This look suits you much better, darling.”
There’s something in Arthur’s eyes, something beyond the pleased tilt of his mouth that Eames isn’t sure of, something not warranted by this minor sort of mischief.
Swallowing, Eames ignores it, wiggling his hips against the bed, arching up against Arthur. It gets him a groan, a flutter of eyelashes, and Eames smirks. Ah, little victories.. “I’m glad you approve,” he says, testing the tie around his wrists, against the headboard. He’s not budging until Arthur decides to let him. Or until they wake up. “But perhaps we could move forward with playtime now? A girl could get bored down here.”
Arthur blinks, a slow slide of eyelids down and then up, and smiles, leaning forward until his lips brush Eames’, slip past his cheek, breath tickling his ear in a way that makes Eames want to press against him. “Good thing you’re not a girl then, isn’t it, Mr. Eames?”
Eames freezes, heartbeat stuttering in his chest. Thinking back, he tries to remember anything he might have said or done to give himself away. There’s nothing, though, nothing at all—
Darling.
There’s that. There’s that one tiny word, dropped and ticking like a time bomb between them, finally going off.
It’s just a word, though. Not proof.
There’s still a chance here.
Eames rolls his hips against Arthur, hears Arthur’s breath catch. “I’m all woman, I assure you,” he says. “Check for yourself.”
A brief huff of laughter and Arthur is pulling away, sitting back on his heels looking settled and triumphant. His fingers move over the buttons on his waistcoat, slipping them through their holes one after another. Arthur shakes his head. “No, that’s not how this is going to work.”
“How is it going to work then?” Eames asks, throat suddenly dry. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“The drink, the terms of endearment, your shoes—”
“My shoes?” Craning his neck, Eames tries to see his shoes where he kicked them off earlier.
“You always wear the same type of shoes, Eames. Always.” Arthur shrugs out of the waistcoat and tosses it over the edge of the bed. “You’re so predictable.”
“I’m predictable? Me? You’re the one who—”
The grin Arthur lays on him is wide and toothy, predatory, and Eames’ words die in his throat as his heart jumps in his chest, cock twitching beneath the projection.
Shit.
Arthur’s fingers work open his cufflinks, undo his watch, and he leans over, heavy against Eames’ thighs, to deposit them on the nightstand. He runs a hand over Eames’ bare arm when he sits back, and Eames shivers, wants so much more than that touch.
“What do you feel when I do that?” Arthur asks. “My fingers on your bare arm? Or through a jacket, your shirt? Or.” He pauses, runs the tip of a finger down the curve of his triceps. “You were wearing short sleeves today. Does that mean skin on skin?”
There are two ways he can run with this: lie, or truth. He’s so good at lying.
“I must admit this is kinkier than I expected, but I really have no idea—”
“Please, Mr. Eames.” Arthur’s tone is sharp, his look stern. “Don’t insult my intelligence and I won’t insult yours. I don’t know why you thought you had to do”—he waves a hand at Eames—“this, but own it when you’re caught.”
He could keep up the charade, of course he could, but that would only serve to make Arthur increasingly annoyed. Not in the amusing way that means Arthur will make faces at him and frown in that delightfully pouty way he does, but in the way that means Arthur is actually angry to the point of full-out ignoring him in the real world.
Eames hates it when Arthur ignores him.
He sighs, knows ultimately that Arthur is right.
“You must admit, Arthur,” he says, projection suddenly gone, “it was delightfully fun while it lasted.”
“While it lasted?” There’s a crease between Arthur’s brows, but a glint in Arthur’s eyes. “You misunderstand, Mr. Eames. We’re not done here.”
Eames’ chest feels tight. He swallows.
“You’re going to play nice and let me go, aren’t you, Arthur? A nice boy like you always does.”
Arthur slides his braces over his shoulders—oh, if Eames had only gotten to those braces first, he wouldn’t be the one restrained—before his fingers move to the collar his shirt, working it open from the top, revealing a pale strip of skin down his chest. “You mean like you were going to play nice?”
“I always play nice,” Eames scoffs, tugging at the tie. It doesn’t budge. “Nice and fun.”
Arthur chuckles, shakes his head, pulling his shirt loose from the waistband of his trousers. “The lies you tell yourself, Eames.”
He clucks his tongue, and Eames hates that it makes him aware of the way that very tongue was in his mouth, driving him crazy not so long ago.
“So deluded.”
Arthur’s shirt disappears over the edge of the bed in a flutter of soft pink and Eames is left with a view of a decidedly more natural shade, Arthur’s skin flushed and tempting.
“Arthur,” Eames says, giving his name as much weight as possible, “untie me.”
Whether it’s to take, to touch that expanse of skin, or to get away, Eames isn’t even sure anymore.
It doesn’t matter, though, because Arthur ignores him, smirking down at him like he knows best. Like he’s the one who has Eames pegged.
“No,” Arthur says, fingering the silk of his tie, tickling Eames’ wrist. “I think not. Like I said, this look suits you. Although…”
He runs a hand down Eames’ arm, over his shoulder, across his chest, detours to thumb a nipple through the fabric of Eames’ shirt before continuing downward to the bulge at the front of Eames’ trousers. Arthur squeezes his through the layers, and Eames groans, hips shifting toward him.
“I will admit some very pleasing improvements have been made recently.”
“You’re a cheeky bastard, you know that?”
The look Arthur shoots him doesn’t even try for who, me? innocence; it bypasses it and heads straight for please, keep up with the program wickedness just as Arthur’s fingers make quick work of Eames’ belt, the fastening on his trousers, to slip inside and press hot fingertips against Eames’ cock.
Arthur leans over him. “Given the evidence at hand,” he says, “I don’t think you can deny you like it.”
Before Eames can say anything, can even formulate a response at all, Arthur’s mouth is back on his, on his own lips for the first time, undeniable.
Arthur takes Eames’ mouth like he owns it, like it’s his to do with as he pleases and it pleases him to nip at Eames’ bottom lip, tongue the same spot a moment later, kiss and lick and suck and turn Eames’ brain to mush until Eames is vibrating with want and need and for god’s sake, Arthur, quit teasing.
Only Arthur pulls back, his face that strange mix of serious and gleeful he sometimes gets, and says, “Hardly teasing, Mr. Eames. I definitely plan on following through.”
And then their clothes are gone and Eames is so fucking grateful for dreamspace, for the way their minds work, for finding Arthur alone and plugged in. For Cobb hiring him that first time, introducing Arthur with a nod and a smile and a simple If you need anything, Arthur’s your man.
Cobb hadn’t been exaggerating.
Eames is grateful for the way their bodies slot together, cocks pressed in the cradles of their hips, the way Arthur’s mouth fits against his.
The way Arthur apparently—apparently—wants this, too.
Oh, the things they’re going to do to one another.
“God, Eames,” Arthur pants against his mouth, hips grinding against his. “You can never do anything the easy way, can you? Everything has to be hard with you.”
Pressing his heels against the bed, Eames shifts beneath Arthur, leers up at him. If his hands were free, he would roll them, pin Arthur to the bed and make his point. “I’d say things are pretty hard with you as well.”
“I’d say,” Arthur begins, hips moving in a slow circle that makes it very hard for Eames to pay attention. Even Arthur’s own breath catches; Eames can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, wants to bite it, mark it his.
Arthur tries again, licking his lips. “I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched.”
Eames opens his legs farther, enjoys the way Arthur settles more fully against him. “Would you really, Arthur? I think that’s going a bit—”
Arthur ducks his head, teeth grazing the stubble on the underside of Eames’ jaw, lips finding his pulse, sucking a kiss against it as his hand slips between them, wrapping around Eames’ cock.
Eames’ fingers flex against the headboard, wrists pulling at the tie, and he loses his train of thought, just like that.
“You were saying?” Arthur pulls away to ask.
“Nothing,” Eames says. “I was, uh.” He swallows. “Nothing. Please, by all means, don’t let me stop you.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything; he just grins, dimples there and gone in a flash before his mouth is back on Eames’ skin, slipping over neck and collarbone, pressing against his chest, stopping at a nipple to lick and suck before skimming over to the other, fingers against Eames’ ribs.
Eames breathes deep and shudders and watches Arthur get closer and closer to where he wants him to be, tongue dipping into his navel briefly until finally, finally Arthur’s breath is against his cock.
Arthur licks his lips, and Eames does not—he does not—whimper. The sound he makes is completely masculine, completely in control, and the look he gets from Arthur because of it—eyes dark through his lashes, mouth a wicked curve—does not make him want to make that sound again.
Not even a little.
When Arthur lowers his head, fits his mouth around the head of his cock, and sucks, the sound Eames makes definitely isn’t a whimper. It’s a moan; it’s Arthur’s name; it’s yes and please and finally and the only way this could be better is if Eames’ hands were free to touch and stroke and hold. To guide Arthur where and how he wants him.
There’s always next time.
Eames grins at the top of Arthur’s head. God, yes, there will be a next time.
Arthur sucks him down, lips and tongue working, a hint of teeth, his fingers playing against Eames’ skin, holding his hips still before sliding lower, sliding past Arthur’s mouth on his cock, past his balls, dipping between his legs to press against his opening.
“Fuck, yes,” Eames groans. “Arthur, yes. I want—”
“I know,” Arthur answers, pulling off. His lips are shiny with spit and pre-come, his voice rough, and Eames wants to grab him and roll him and ride him until both of them are panting and sweaty and neither of them can move.
Only this is Arthur’s game now, Arthur’s plan. He wasn’t sure Arthur had this in him; he suspected of course—it’s always the quiet ones, of course—but it’s gratifying to have his suspicions confirmed so pleasantly, to have Arthur sit back on his knees with a look full of so many things Eames can’t wait to figure out.
He makes room for Arthur between his thighs, spreads his legs wider as Arthur shuffles forward, knees bumping Eames’ ass. One hand on his cock, one hand on Eames’ thigh, Arthur pauses, just looking.
Tucking a leg around Arthur, nudging him forward, Eames asks, “What are you waiting for, darling?”
Arthur smirks and says, “Nothing.” He pushes in and once again, Eames applauds the wonders of dreaming and the way they’re able to do this with so little effort.
Eames blinks up at him, a sight to behold, lips bitten and cheeks flushed, skin fresh and clean and touchable, so much of it calling for Eames’ palms, his fingers, his mouth and tongue and teeth.
He squirms against the bed, pinned, caught by Arthur. He doesn’t want to get away; he just wants a little more room.
“Arthur,” he says, voice gone rough, thick. “Arthur—”
Arthur pulls back smoothly until only the head of his cock remains. One slow push forward and Arthur’s in fully, hips pressed back against Eames, no space between them. He repeats the motion, eyes never leaving Eames’ face, and Eames can’t look away, is mesmerized by the focus in Arthur’s eyes, the way he takes in everything, leaves nothing unobserved.
Eames licks his bottom lip, tongue sliding across it, and watches Arthur follow the movement, watches Arthur’s fingers press bruises that will never appear on his skin into his thighs, and jerks his head. “Well,” he says, “get down here.”
They’re on the same page, the both of them. The same wavelength. For all of their poking and prodding, their bickering and bantering, they understand one another; Eames doesn’t have to tell him twice.
With hands pressed against the bed, Arthur supports his weight as he leans forward, changing the angle of his hips until he’s close enough to kiss, close enough that Eames can trace Arthur’s bottom lip with his tongue, doesn’t have to be content with his own.
Arthur kisses him, fucks him, presses inside him with slow intent, and Eames kisses back, takes it, welcomes it, pulls Arthur as close as he can with his legs and presses back until Arthur’s hips are snapping against his, fast and steady and sure, a rhythm they’ve been dancing to since they met.
Eames has been waiting for this from day one, been wanting it since he noticed Cobb enter a crowded bar with an unknown, unnamed suit at his side, serious-faced and business-minded. Since they shook hands and Arthur surprised him by allowing a bit of flirtation.
Now though, now…
Arthur’s teeth catch his bottom lip, his tongue following behind to sooth the sting. They breathe each other’s air and pant each other’s names, throw themselves together in mind and body, nothing held back, cards on the table here in the infinite bend of dreams.
Arthur’s going to be the death of him. That’s all right, though; Eames will just wake up in the real world—the real world where Arthur will be, too—and they’ll do this all over again.
Hips stuttering, Arthur’s hand finds his at the headboard, fingers tangling as Arthur kisses him, as Arthur pulls away, eyes screwed tight, mouth open, coming with Eames’ name on his lips.
Eames groans, legs tightening, muscles flexing as he follows Arthur over. He can feel Arthur inside him, over him, around him, surrounding him completely here in Arthur’s head, in Arthur’s dream.
There’s nothing but Arthur here, Arthur and himself.
The last thought Eames has is that he quite likes it.
*
Blinking awake, the first thing Eames sees is the roof of the warehouse, dim and distant in the evening light.
The second thing he sees is Arthur in the chair beside him, awake and watching him with a wary look on his face, eyes unreadable. Eames opens his mouth to say something, to ask what that looks about, to tell Arthur he’s more than a little proud of him for figuring it out.
Unfortunately, the first thing Eames really hears is Saito’s voice, coming from behind them.
“Pleasant dream, gentlemen?” Saito asks, and Eames turns to find him sitting with Yusuf, boxes of take-out open between them.
He looks back at Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t say anything, his eyes no longer on Eames. He just unhooks himself and stands, a bit wobbly about the knees. It’s nothing anyone else would notice, but Eames still thinks, Well, that’s something.
Disconnecting himself, Eames turns back to Saito and Yusuf. “Oh, as pleasant as expected,” he says, one ear on the sounds of Arthur puttering around at his worktable. “You know dear Arthur, all about the work.”
Arthur snorts and shuts the PASIV case, footsteps falling quick and sharp across the concrete floor as he crosses the room; he leaves the case behind. “I think I’m calling it a night,” Arthur says, the words tossed over his shoulder.
Eames frowns and jumps up, ignores the look he catches Yusuf exchange with Saito out of the corner of his eye. Let them think what they will.
He catches up with Arthur near the door, Arthur pausing to pull on his coat, grab his bag.
“You’re certainly in a hurry, love,” Eames says. “Hot date I don’t know about?”
Arthur looks up from where he’s fiddling with the strap on his bag and, oh, Eames must have really thrown him because Arthur never fiddles.
“What do you want, Eames?”
Eames takes a step forward, another, feels a bit of a thrill at the way Arthur’s eyes flicker downwards before returning to his face, the way the color in Arthur’s cheeks heightens.
“I thought that was fairly obvious, darling,” he says, crowding Arthur against the door. He leans in, so close he can practically taste Arthur, wonders if Arthur will taste anything like he did in the dream or if it will be different, better, more. Arthur.
“What are you doing?”
Eames pulls back far enough that Arthur’s face resolves into one solid image. “What we both want.” He presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s mouth, a little too much tongue to be chaste, before stepping away, moving to collect his things. “Wait.”
Arthur’s face is adorably bewildered. “What? Why?”
“If you think I’m not going home with you, Arthur, you’ve got another thing coming.”
There’s a delicious twist to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, a hint of dimple, a glint of something new and familiar in his eyes.
“Hurry up then,” Arthur says, and Eames does, can hardly wait to get him alone.
