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Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture!

Written for Inception Bingo. The prompt: erotic torture.
Wordcount: 7,444


"You spent three weeks obsessing over the carpet in a dream and yet can't be arsed to buy chairs so we don't have to eat dinner on the floor," Eames says.

"In Japan, eating on the floor is the norm," Arthur replies as he flips through the mail. Bills, bills, more bills.

"Yes, on immaculately clean tatami mats, not on dusty hardwood," Eames replies. "You've owned this place, if not lived here, for over six years and it looks like you moved in yesterday."

"Well—" Arthur glances around his living room and kitchen, barren but for the coffee table and a single floor lamp. Maybe Eames has a point. "It's minimalist?"

"Minimalism is a design choice," Eames says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is a serial killer's safehouse."

Arthur barks out a surprised laugh. "Okay, fine, I hear you. Why don't you buy some furniture, then?"

"Are you authorizing me to make interior décor decisions?" Eames' eyebrows almost meet his hairline. It occurs to Arthur that even though Eames has been living in the apartment since Arthur recruited him into NORDA, he hasn't moved much into the place aside from his clothing and minor personal effects.

"Yeah, get whatever you want," Arthur says. "You're what makes it feel like home to me, anyway."

"My sweet darling." Eames walks over to press a kiss to Arthur's cheek. "Of course I won't be purchasing furniture myself. I'm hiring a decorator."

"Of course," Arthur replies dryly; as if Eames would ever pass up the chance to spend money. "You want me to give you Lia's contact info? I thought she did a good job with NORDA's office."

"God no," Eames shudders. "No, no. The last thing I want our home to resemble is the office."

Arthur shrugs. "Okay, wasn't that guy we slept with last month an interior designer? What about him?"

"Simply because his shapely arse is qualified to take my cock doesn't mean I'm about to entrust my home to him." There's a suspicious gleam in Eames' eye. "Actually, I already have someone in mind."

Arthur sighs internally. He should have guessed this was a set up all along.

* * * * *

When Arthur sees the interior designer's invoice, he nearly keels over. "Is our apartment going to be lined with gold and covered in diamonds?"

"We have to purchase furniture, curtains, rugs, and something for the walls besides that sad little pamphlet about recycling you taped next to the light switch," Eames replies, unperturbed.

"What do we need rugs for?" Arthur asks. "They'll cover up the hardwood floors."

"Rugs pull a room together aesthetically," Eames says, a bit primly. "They also help define the color theme and mood for a space."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, squinting at Eames' laptop screen. "And these are…?"

"Photos of possible seating options," Eames replies. "Any preferences?"

They're all enormous chairs, with fussy detailing and heavy upholstery. More importantly: hideous. "Uh," Arthur says, praying that Eames isn't seriously considering them for the apartment. "I don't think these are really my jam."

"No?" Eames looks—maybe—disappointed, but closes out the window. "A lighter wood finish, perhaps?"

"Yeah, maybe," Arthur says, not sure that's the problem.

"Are you sure you don't want to meet with the designer?" Eames asks. "Suki is really quite excellent and would appreciate your input."

"Can't. Landed a new client. Some hedge-fund guy that wants the mock-up for a ten hour dream by the end of the month. I'm going to be practically living at the office until that's done."

"What does he want?"

"That's the thing—he's given me no parameters. Wants the best I can create, a one of a kind experience made for him."

"With no direction whatsoever?" Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur's nod. "What is he expecting?"

"He says he wants something he can't experience in reality."

"There are many things one can experience only in dreams, but that doesn't mean I'd pay for those things," Eames says. "How are you going to deliver when he won't say what he wants?"

"He gave me carte blanche to do whatever I think best. I'm going all out."

"Alright," Eames says. "And you still have no opinions whatsoever that you'd like me to convey to Suki?"

Arthur leans forward to kiss Eames lightly on the lips. "I love your style, baby. I'm sure I'll love what you pick out."

* * * * *

Arthur's routine is this: he wakes up every day at 6AM for a run. The neighborhood they live in is nice, a mix of residential and business space, not too many neighbors to keep tabs on. He has six carefully plotted routes that he alternates taking throughout the week. It helps keeps things fresh and provides an opportunity for him to see if anything seems out of the ordinary, or if any enemies might be in town, past or present.

After he finishes his run, he returns to give Eames a good morning blowjob, fucks him afterwards. If Arthur doesn't have an early meeting, they draw it out, savor it. If they're pressed for time, Arthur fucks Eames quick and efficient, comes in a few short snaps of his hips. Afterwards, they shower together and talk about plans for the day.

Arthur goes to the office almost every morning, though now that the business is doing a little better, Eames has been lobbying for Saturdays off. Arthur's agreed to give it a month-long trial, anxious about being away when logically he knows he has everything he needs to work remotely.

Arthur likes going in, likes the structure it gives his days, but Eames became a criminal partly to avoid feeling trapped in an office. So Eames usually works relentlessly half the week—two days in the office, two days from home—and then gives himself three days to do whatever he wants, whether that's sleep, his various side hustles, or, recently, all this home renovation stuff. Last year, Arthur suggested Eames take up cooking as a hobby (hoping that one day he might come home to a meal that didn't begin its life as a frozen entrée) but that hasn't caught on yet. Sadly.

Arthur tries to make it back for dinner every evening, but only succeeds about half the time. Eames never seems particularly bothered by it, usually sends Arthur a text around 7PM inquiring about whether he should be put Arthur's portion of the takeout in the fridge. Arthur tries not to stay out too late, but sometimes gets lost in work and comes home after Eames has already gone to sleep. Sometimes, if there's a looming deadline and an early meeting the next day, Arthur even opts to stay all night at the office (he has a fold-out couch and several changes of clothing).

Eames doesn't complain, merely welcomes Arthur back whenever he does come off his work bender. In fact, it's Arthur who finds himself missing Eames after a day or two away, invents excuses to call Eames simply to hear his voice. Arthur's the one that can't get enough cuddling when he finally returns, doesn't want to let Eames leave the bed for anything short of a bathroom emergency.

The weirdest thing is, after three and a half years, Arthur is still smitten with Eames. Arthur's never had a relationship that lasted this long before, and never one as happy and easy as this. They argue sometimes, but on the whole, things are smooth. Harmonious, even.

Arthur's waiting for the new car smell to wear off any day now. To react with detached boredom when Eames smiles, to feel familiarity drift into contempt, to find conversation predictable and stale. But Eames is ever changing, always throwing himself into new hobbies, renewing interest in longtime pursuits like painting, currency forgery, and rare book collecting.

If anything, Eames is the one more likely to grow bored. After all, Arthur's entire life has narrowed down to NORDA.


* * * * *

Arthur spends three days breathing and eating research about the client. Davos has been in the public eye for over fifteen years, which means there's a ton of press to wade through in addition to normal background checks. Davos is also a controversial figure, having been sued numerous times for varying reasons (including unpaid bills). He's alienated plenty of people on the way to amassing billions of dollars.

The tricky thing with people like Davos is that he can already buy access to anyone or anything he desires. The normal luxuries that might sate most clients—food, incredible landscapes, flawlessly beautiful people—won't suffice for someone who has a private jet on call, a harem of beautiful people in every major city.

So Arthur designs a trip into space, complete with a shuttle launch, a moon walk, and the opportunity to shed the space suit to touch moon dust. It's inspired, if he does say so himself. Visiting another celestial body is something only a handful of astronauts have ever experienced, and something all Davos' money still can't buy yet.

Unfortunately, it requires intense research to achieve verisimilitude: viewing endless videos, a weekend spent touring a NASA base, and a trip on the zero gravity simulator nicknamed the vomit comet—for good reason, as it turns out.

Arthur spends three weeks planning, plotting, and working. Most of it's done in the office, but he also takes several trips around the country to study the interior of space shuttles, to experience weightlessness, to learn more highly technical cosmonautical information. Through it all, he barely has time to eat, sleep, and kiss Eames goodnight.

Davos wants a preliminary model before the end of the month and he's running out of days.

* * * * *

After a second decidedly unpleasant trip on the vomit comet, Arthur returns to an apartment covered in tasseled rugs, carpetbag like curtains, and humongous furniture. There's unfamiliar art on the walls, shelves full of knick knacks, and curios strewn across every surface.

"Welcome home, darling," Eames says, emerging from the kitchen and dispelling Arthur's faint hope that he'd wandered into the wrong apartment. "Are you staying for the evening or heading straight to the office? I can order dinner."

"Hi, baby," Arthur says, dropping his bag to the floor. "Dessert first."

They get off once, quick, and then again, more slowly. Eames smells and tastes like home, even if the rest of the apartment doesn't.

"Suki's completed the furniture order for the bedroom," Eames says, tugging Arthur's arms more comfortably across his chest when they're lying together in bed. "I held off on moving it in since I didn't want you to come back to a state of chaos."

"We're keeping the bed, right?" Arthur says, eyeing the baroque monstrosities Eames calls furniture in the living room.

Eames pauses. "This particular bed?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it."

"It doesn't quite—go with the rest of the décor."

"I like it," Arthur says, flatly, because he does. It was the first piece of furniture he bought for this apartment and he spent a good amount on both the frame—sleek, dark wood—and the mattress.

"Ah," Eames says. "I'd assumed we were redoing the entire apartment as a blank slate, but I'm sure Suki can make a few tweaks to make the bed fit with the rest of the bedroom plans."

"We?" Arthur repeats. "I wasn't aware we were doing anything about the bedroom at all."

"But of course." Eames sounds a little impatient. "It's an empty room with plastic blinds, and a makeshift nightstand made up of a pile of your books with a lamp on it. I've been storing my socks and underwear in a suitcase for over three years because there are no other places for them to be put."

Arthur rolls over onto his back, abruptly feeling too hot and sweaty to want to spoon anymore. "Okay, but it's not going to be like the living room, is it?"

"Do you not care for the living room?" Eames asks, and there's an edge in his voice.

"It's—" Through the open door, Arthur can see the straight back of what looks like the least comfortable chair in existence. "It's not what I expected."

"You told me to do what I wanted. That you trusted my taste."

"Yeah, well. I thought—" Arthur clamps his mouth shut.

"You hate it."

Arthur struggles to find a tactful way to put his feelings. "I think it's—a lot."

"Yes, well, what did you expect?" Eames snaps. "I have a wholly bloody house in Mombasa and now I'm compressed into this absurd shoebox of a flat."

Arthur's throat constricts. "I thought you were going to sell that house."

"I was, but then I'd have to hire people to move my things into storage, not to mention find a buyer, and overall it didn't make financial sense." Eames exhales gustily. "You're the one always harping on about fiscal responsibility, aren't you?"

Arthur rests his palms over his heart, tries to take comfort in the recurring beat. "Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Mombasa," Arthur clarifies. "Your house. Living—" he can't quite bring himself to say 'alone.'

"I do miss how cheap everything was there." Eames sounds wistful. "And the food."

The doorbell rings and Arthur gets up, thankful for the reprieve. "Must be the delivery."

Arthur pulls cartons out of the bag—beef teriyaki from his favorite place—and stares at the decorated living room. He recognizes some of the pieces, now. A lamp from Mombasa, a bizarre hunting painting from Eames' family estate in Wales. Eames has always had a penchant for the eclectic, but in combination the whole place is strongly reminiscent of a pawn shop. An insanely expensive pawnshop.

Arthur takes a seat at the dining table, which features an elaborate centerpiece and table linens, as well as a statue that resembles a gnarled old man. As nice as it is to finally have a table to eat at, he feels like he's eating inside a stuffy restaurant rather than his own home.

"How's the teriyaki?" Eames asks, squeezing Arthur's shoulder as he sits down beside him.

"Delicious as always. Thanks for ordering it, baby," Arthur says, some of his irritation over the apartment fading. It's replaced by gratitude--he's damn lucky to have Eames in his life—and something less pleasant. Something that makes him feel a little queasy, a faint and unnamable fear.

"The client presentation is tomorrow, isn't it?" Eames asks around a mouthful of shrimp tempura.

"Yeah, I gotta go back in to put in the finishing touches." Arthur says slowly, as an idea comes to him. "If all goes well, I'll be more or less living in the office the rest of this week. I was thinking we could try something since, you know, I won't be around."

"Try...?"

"That thing we talked about last month that you've been wanting."

Eames sits back. "You know I'm always keen on sexual adventures, but are you sure this is the right time? I don't want to distract you."

"That's what makes this the perfect time," Arthur says, suddenly afraid Eames might say no. "I was thinking it's a way we can still be—close—even when I'm at the office."

Eames studies Arthur for a long moment. "Alright."

Arthur smiles, relaxes. "Okay. I was thinking we could do it over a few days."

"Three days. We ramp up, start slow." Eames' voice drops an octave as he puts a possessive hand on the back of Arthur's neck. "I look forward to hearing you come for me."


* * * * *

Arthur wakes up the next morning at six AM, goes for his morning run, and blows Eames. They don't fuck after, though.

Eames instructs Arthur to jerk himself off, slowly. Eames watches, eyes dark as Arthur strokes himself, eager and on edge. He makes Arthur draw it out, though, until Arthur's smearing precome all over himself, balls tense and unused to being made to wait this long.

When Eames finally allows him to come, Arthur shudders and ejaculates all over Eames' spent cock. After being on edge for what feels like the entire past month, release is fucking incredible.

"You were perfect," Eames murmurs as he leads Arthur to the shower, washes him off. "You'll do this again for me later today. After you're done, send me a photo of your come and your cock."

Arthur nods, reveling in Eames' attention. There's a pleasant shiver of anticipation at the idea of finding a free moment to lock himself in the office. In between appointments, maybe, or before he heads home for the day, so he can send a text to whet Eames' appetite.


* * * * *

Then the meeting with Davos happens.

Rather than being inspired by the prospect of space travel, Davos hates it. Hates the idea of going to the moon, of space suits, and being an astronaut. He alternates between boredom and irritation, curtly cutting off Arthur's pitch and declining even a five minute demo. He wants a new idea, has no suggestions for what that might be in (after all, isn't that what he's paying Arthur for?)

Arthur retains his composure until he makes it to his office. He locks the door, sits down, and lets his forehead hit the desk. There goes a month of work. And now he needs to come up a something new by the end of the week or Davos will back out and probably badmouth NORDA to every rich asshole he knows.

"Fuck," Arthur says as he raises his head and drops it down again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

What the hell does he do now? His previous list of ideas included: deep sea exploration, mazes and paradoxes, and meeting the goddamn Easter bunny. But given Davos' apparently hatred of nature and wonder, none sound promising.

A part of Arthur wants to call Eames to hear his voice, his counsel; he would have ideas. But Eames had reservations about taking Davos on as a client from the start, and an equal part of Arthur doesn't want to admit that Eames was right (as always). Petty, but there it is.

Arthur opts for a third option of hiding and feeling sorry for himself. He gives himself an hour to wallow before getting back to work. Administrative business unrelated to Davos which still needs to be handled even if Arthur is having one of the most crushing days of his life.

Around six, he remembers Eames' assignment for him and groans; the last thing he feels like doing is masturbating.

Arthur checks to make sure everyone has left for the day and locks himself in his office. He pulls up some porn to get in the mood: two burly men grunting as they go at it. He clicks aimlessly through the different categories of porn on Gaytube—massage, threesome, gangbang—and eventually plays a clip of a bear deepthroating a twink as background noise.

Arthur had been initially reluctant to put any personally identifying information on his cell, much less photos, even after settling down for NORDA. Years of paranoid habit and all that. But he'd caved shortly after the first time Eames sexted him with a photo attached. Now he has a truly impressive gallery of Eames in various states of undress, not to mention some rather risqué videos of them together.

He brings up photo of Eames' ass first, swipes through to a lovely angle of his balls, and admires one especially nice shot of Eames fingering himself.

Arthur takes a minute to imagine it as he works his own cock: Eames spread over the desk, naked and begging for Arthur to put his cock inside—

Arthur orgasms, fumbling his phone out of the line of fire barely in time.

He snaps a photo of his come streaked hand wrapped loosely around his cock and forwards it to Eames.

The response is gratifyingly rapid, phone lighting up with an incoming call which displays a rare image of Eames smiling—his real one, with crinkled eyes and crooked teeth on full display. Eames hates that photo because he thinks it's terribly unflattering, but hasn't pressed Arthur to delete it. Almost seems pleased that Arthur still has it.

"Hey," Arthur says as he wipes himself down.

"You are utterly gorgeous, do you know that? Will you be home soon?"

"Might as well," Arthur says, despondent. "Davos hated the space idea. I need a new build by the end of the week."

"Darling, I'm sorry," Eames' voice curls around Arthur like a warm blanket. "I know how hard you worked on that dream."

"Yeah," Arthur sighs. "Maybe I can repackage the idea and pitch it to some other client in the future. Get some use out of all the zero-G barfing I did."

"I personally would love to give your trip to the moon a try," Eames sounds sincere. "I can be your first guinea pig."

"Yeah?" Arthur feels his mood beginning to lift. "Really?"

"It sounds incredible," Eames says. "Come home and eat. We can drum up new ideas for Davos together."

So Arthur does. He eats beef teriyaki from his favorite place, takes refuge in Eames' arms. It doesn't erase the shittiness of the day, but it helps.


* * * * *

The next morning, Arthur scrapes himself out of bed, goes for a run, sucks Eames awake, and jerks himself off. Eames ushers Arthur into the shower and even offers to accompany him into the office.

"Suki's going to do the bathroom today, isn't she?" Arthur says. "Don't reschedule. I'm okay, I got this."

"Darling—"

"No, it's cool, I'm serious." Arthur puts a finger over Eames' lips to stop further protests. "Just tell me how many more times you want me to come before I get home."

Eames gives him that long, searching look again. "Three times. And I'd like two of those to be one immediately after another."

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Okay."


* * * * *

The hours fly by in a haze of coffee and file folders. Arthur reviews every piece of research, his notes—all in search of clues for something that would blow Davos' mind. Walking the bottom of the ocean floor? Conversing with long dead philosophers? Entering a maze cerebral enough to make someone's head explode?

Arthur's so absorbed in his work that he jumps when a greasy takeout bag lands on his desk. He looks up at the open door of his office and blinks at Eames, who is standing, improbably, in front of him. "I thought that was locked."

"It was." Eames pulls out a carton of chicken tikka masala. "Now eat. You skipped lunch."

"Shit, I did." Arthur glances at the clock, which reads three o'clock already. "And I still don't know what Davos wants."

They eat (Arthur discovers he is ravenous) and Eames shows him some paint swatches for the bathroom. It's nice, almost relaxing, and they cap off with kisses that lead to wandering hands that lead to Arthur jerking them both off.

Afterwards, Arthur sags back in his seat while Eames kisses his temple and strokes his hair. "You did wonderfully," Eames murmurs. "Are you ready for your second?"

Arthur's not, really, his dick tingling after orgasm. But he dutifully reaches down until Eames stops him.

"Allow me," Eames says, sinking to his knees between Arthur's legs.

Arthur doesn't know how many blowjobs Eames has given him over the years—triple digits by now, surely--but the sight of that gorgeous mouth near cock will never fail to arouse. "Isn't this cheating?" Arthur gasps as Eames begins to lick, gently.

"I'll tell you when you can touch yourself again," Eames says as he mouths at Arthur's balls. "I want you to paint my face."

Arthur exhales shakily, dick rising to smear precome against Eames' cheek. It feels raw, exposed and oversensitive against Eames' stubble; he holds still despite wanting to flinch away. Eames takes him into his mouth and Arthur shudders, his legs falling wider open. His hips twitch, not sure whether to press in or back.

"Eames, I'm gonna—"

Eames pulls off and takes one of Arthur's hands, wraps it around his cock. Arthur strokes himself shakily, stares at Eames' flushed red mouth, his dark eyes—

There's not much ejaculate after coming two times in one day already, but Arthur's dick still twitches in his hand as he orgasms. Semen lands on Eames' cheeks, the corner of his mouth. He waits until Arthur is finished before surging up for a kiss.

"Beautiful," Eames whispers into Arthur's sweaty ear. "Absolutely beautiful."

Arthur releases his cock and leans in to kiss Eames. He tastes like curry and come. It sounds like a horrible combination and it is, sort of, but Arthur makes out with him anyway.

"Feeling better?" Eames asks as he leans back, brushing the hair from Arthur's forehead.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles, and gently wipes Eames' face clean. He's pretty damn lucky. "Definitely."

Eames sticks around a while longer to discuss work. He has surprisingly little to say about Davos, until Arthur asks him point blank.

"He's your client and you should do what you think best," Eames says, carefully.

"But," Arthur prompts.

"But—" Eames pauses. "I'm beginning to wonder if he's the sort of man who will ever be satisfied. He's a serial entrepreneur even though he has all the money he could ever need. He changes wives like batteries. Will any dream you come up with be enough?"

"And maybe caviar tastes like sawdust in his mouth, but regardlesss, he hired me to create a dream that rocks his world," Arthur says, good mood slipping away. "That's the assignment. That's what I have to deliver."

"With no instruction? No hints as to what he might like to see or not?" Eames replies, mouth tightening. "Hardly fair, is it? You can't send someone off into the woods and be upset when they return with something you don't expect."

Arthur wonders if they're still talking about Davos, or if Eames is trying to say something else in his maddeningly indirect British way. "He's paying me to run around a forest and come back with truffles. That's what I have to do, fair or not."

"Do you remember the Abramovic brothers? Absolutely mental, and everyone in dreamshare knew it," Eames says, abruptly. "They must have approached every operative in the bloody world at least once with that mad scheme of theirs. And do you remember what you said to them?"

"Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bastards?" Arthur says, not sure where this is going.

"Precisely. Because you realized that working with such a client would simply drive you round the twist with frustration and expectations which could never be met. Thus, you parted ways with them." Eames gives Arthur a pointed look. "Perhaps it's time you parted ways with a more current client."

"Break up with Davos?" Arthur says, something tightening in his chest. "He's paying a shit ton, plus, he could badmouth me to all his rich fucking friends if I back out."

"Refund the money. And who gives a toss about his friends? You want more clients like him?"

"If they're wealthy and sane—"

Eames gives Arthur an unimpressed look. "What sane person would choose to associate with that sort of man?"

"Wealthy people who don't know any better, I don't know!" Arthur throws his hands up and turns, almost wishing Eames hadn't come in to the office in the first place. "He's got a platform. He could sue me. He could destroy NORDA with an army of lawyers."

"Sue you for what? For not devising an impossible dream?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I know NORDA's a joke and a hobby to you—"

"It's not—"

"But I can't fuck this up." Arthur presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "This is the first time I'm—this isn't Cobb's project. This isn't someone else's company. This is me, mine, and I need to make this work."

"The business won't collapse if you lose one lunatic client—"

"You don't get it." Arthur stares down at the faded scar on the back of his wrist. "I'm not like you. I don't have family estates to go back to. I didn't grow up horseback riding and eating quail."

"Pheasant, actually." Eames sighs when Arthur doesn't crack a smile. "Is that what this is about? You know I'd never allow you to become destitute or live on the streets—"

"I don't need your charity, Eames," Arthur snaps, getting angry though he's not sure why. "This isn't about money. It's about building something of my own. Something to hold on to."

"You have built something. A moderately successful business that's lasted three years with an office and everything." Eames gestures around them. "A business that will survive losing Davos, might I add."

"And what if it doesn't? What if he sues me and—"

"Then we leave and start over. You can build another business anywhere in the world. Darling," Eames takes Arthur's hands in his, "you're the magic behind it all. Everything else is details."

"Ugh," Arthur says. "Why do you have to be so reasonable and supportive?"

"To more effectively torment you." Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I'll leave you to your work. Try not to stay out too late, and do remember to send me a photo after you've had your final wank for today."

Arthur nods, mind already buzzing with everything else he has to do. His dick is oversensitive and tired; the prospect of coming again anytime soon sounds uniquely unappealing.

* * * * *

Hours pass. Arthur fleshes out some proposals for Davos and squints at the computer screen until his eyes cross. His head hurts, his stomach aches, and now he's got to wring another orgasm from his tender dick.

Arthur brings up some porn with a half-hearted hand down his pants. He watches with vague interest as a muscular ginger is spitroasted and finds himself checking his watch more often than he strokes his cock. It's not unpleasantly oversensitive anymore, but it's not exactly enjoyable either.

After about twenty minutes, he stares down at his lap, where he's failed to achieve any sort of erection whatsoever. Jesus.

He skips ahead in the video to the money shot. The redhead comes all over himself with a groan, and he's uncut, like Eames. Normally, this would be the type of thing that would get Arthur off fast. Right now his cock seems mostly indifferent.

He opens up a new video, some gangbang. When that fails to yield results, Arthur skips through several in succession, tries a couple new sites. He brings up a few old favorites, as well, confused and dismayed when even those fail to move the needle.

Desperate, Arthur goes to a deeply buried bookmark for one particular porno. In it, a blond, tattooed man fingers and fucks himself ecstatically with a vibrator. Arthur and Eames watch a fair amount of porn together—critiquing the more absurd moments, using some videos for inspiration (with mixed results). But this is a video Arthur will never share, because the star bears a striking resemblance to Eames and Arthur doesn't think he could ever live down jerking off to porn because it reminds him of someone he's already sleeping with.

But even watching that doesn't work.

After an hour of various videos, fantasizing, and jerking off, Arthur's soft and frustrated. He calls Eames, a last ditch effort to rally at the sound of his voice, maybe. As soon as Eames picks up, Arthur's heart sinks and he knows Eames can't help him.

"Hello, gorgeous," Eames purrs. "Have you come for me yet?"

"Hey." Arthur rubs a hand across his face, roughly. "I've tried. I've been trying for the past hour. I don't think I can—I'm sorry, I—"

Eames' tone changes immediately, "Arthur, there's no need to apologize. Are you still at the office? Are you on your way home?"

Arthur glances at the clock—it's almost eleven PM—and closes his eyes. "I promised you, I said I'd—"

"Nevermind all that, I want you to come home. I would like you here, beside me."

Arthur sags in his chair. "But there's so much to do."

"Nothing that can't keep till tomorrow. How much sleep have you gotten in the past week?"

"Four hours a night? Five?" Arthur scrubs his eyes again, which feel weighted down. "Varies."

"We both know better than anyone the dangers of sleep deprivation," Eames says, voice gentle, kind. "I'm coming round to pick you up in the car. Fifteen minutes."

Arthur stares at his flaccid cock and open pants. A part of him wants to resist, doesn't want to admit defeat, doesn't want to abandon the endless work, doesn't want to return home to a disappointed Eames and an apartment filled with ugly furniture. The rest of him is exhausted. "Okay."


* * * * *

The common areas are as ugly as Arthur remembers.

The bedroom has changed, too, but in a less extreme way. It takes a second for him to pinpoint that the walls have been painted—a light, subtle gray. And there's a carpet on the floor, something plush with a high pile that feels nice against his toes. That's as far as he gets in analysis; Eames pushes him into bed.

"Come here," Arthur says, holding out his arms when Eames steps away.

"One moment." Eames carefully hangs Arthur's suit and disrobes, taking less care with his own clothing. He crawls between the sheets and allows Arthur to ensnare him, thread their arms and legs together. "You did so well for me."

"No," Arthur replies, face buried against Eames' clavicle. "I failed."

"You came for me three times, twice in succession." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I'm pleased."

Arthur closes his eyes, not sure he believes it. "I got barely anything done."

"I'm glad you're here." Eames' voice drops to something quieter, less certain. "Thank you for coming home."

Arthur twists, to look up at Eames' chin, the frozen way he holds his jaw. "Baby?"

"I know how important your work is." Eames' Adam's apple bobs up and down. "But have—have you been avoiding the apartment?"

Arthur breathes in. Tries to think of the right thing to say. Settles, ultimately, on the only thing his exhausted brain can summon: the truth. "Yeah."

"Because you don't like the furniture I've selected?"

"I don't—I don't recognize it, anymore." Arthur can feel Eames tense around him. "But it's your home, too."

"I wanted it to be our home, someplace that we both—" Eames hesitates. "Something which welcomes you after a long day."

"You're—"

"Don't say that I'm all you need when we both know that's patently untrue," Eames says, a spark of humor in his tone.

Arthur huffs. "Fair enough."

"You need to tell me what you want and what you like," Eames says, softly. "I've tried guessing at your taste and failed in a spectacular fashion."

"Will you hate me if I say I don't know what I want?"

"A little," Eames says, and Arthur can't help but laugh. "At this point, I'd settle for a hint. A clue. A muddy footprint in the right direction."

"A wrench in the drawing room with Colonel Mustard," Arthur jokes. It's not particularly funny, but he feels Eames untense, slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm used to building other people's dreams and tastes, not mine. I haven't stopped to think about what I might want in—a long time."

"We can build whatever we'd like," Eames says as Arthur leans up to kiss him. "We can find out together."

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, rolls out of bed, and starts when Eames mumbles something about joining him. "Are you sure, baby?" Arthur asks while Eames stumbles into running shorts. Eames cracks a tremendous yawn and nods as he puts on his sneakers.

They run together (more of a brisk jog, really) along Arthur's shortest route. When they get back to the apartment, Eames tackles Arthur to the bed, muttering, "I forgot how much I love seeing your tight arse in those ridiculous shorts."

Arthur laughs while they kiss, relaxing into it as Eames pulls said shorts down. They fuck like that, Eames easing inside. He guides their hands on Arthur's cock and it's easy to come, with Eames warm and alive surrounding him.

Afterwards, they shower and Eames announces he's going into the office, too.

"But it's not one of your days," Arthur says as he helps lather the shampoo in Eames' hair.

"I know." Eames kisses one of Arthur's soapy palms.

* * * * *

The work is every bit as grueling and tedious as before. Eames' presence in the building does make it better, though, a calming force in the sea of Arthur's mind.

Arthur slogs until noon and orders pizza (the non-sex-metaphor kind) for the whole office. While he's waiting for it to arrive, he sends a bunch of furniture images he likes to Eames, gathered from googling around interior design websites. Tearing himself away from work, however briefly, is a struggle. But Arthur reminds himself that it's worth it—that Eames is worth it.

Late afternoon, Eames comes by Arthur's office to express his happiness over the links and images, says they've been forwarded to Suki for analysis. She'll come up with a plan for the apartment that incorporates both our tastes, Eames explains. She'll make it feel like home for both of us.

Arthur kisses Eames' nose in acknowledgement, but doesn't get his hopes up. Then he jerks off while Eames fingers him, takes him apart slowly with that luscious mouth on Arthur's balls. It's an enjoyable diversion that gets Arthur out of his head for a brief while, at least.

"Thank you for indulging me," Eames whispers as they cuddle together on the couch. It's a somewhat uncomfortable cuddle, the couch not made for two grown men on their sides, but Arthur hangs on anyway.

"I like it," Arthur says, though he's not sure whether Eames is talking about the copious orgasms, the couch cuddling, or transforming their apartment into a secondhand store.

"No, you don't," Eames replies easily, patiently.

"I like making you happy," Arthur says, which is true, at least.

Eames kisses the scar on the back of Arthur's wrist. "You never told me where this came from. Knife fight? Car crash? Bomb shrapnel?"

"The truth's pretty disappointing in comparison to those scenarios," Arthur says. "I got it when I was a teenager. We used to hang out around this abandoned train yard, lighting bonfires and drinking. Got wasted one night and tripped near a railroad spike. Bled all over the damn place."

"Bonfires and drinking were not my first guesses, no." Arthur can hear the smile in Eames' voice. "Wholesome Americana."

Arthur snorts. "Something like that. My mother used to tell me stories about when the town was booming and trains shipping coal would run day and night. I couldn't really imagine. All that was left were abandoned tracks by the time I got there."

"Your mother—" Eames pauses for a beat. "She passed away when you were young, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Arthur says. He wonders if talking about her should bring up bad memories, emotions. But it's like a wound from so long ago he can't remember what it felt like when it hurt anymore. "After she died, I got passed around to all my relatives in that shitty town. They didn't want me, not when they could barely afford to feed their own kids. None of them would wanted to move, either, pack up for somewhere better, with more jobs. I always thought it was stupid to be so attached to a place."

"Especially when places change, and you can't always rely on what worked before," Eames says quietly, stroking Arthur's wrist.

Arthur squints at Eames, wonders if he's doing that thing where he's saying one thing and talking about something else. "Right."

Eames sits up, gazing with such fondness Arthur can hardly believe it's real. "I'll let you get back to work."


* * * * *

When Arthur gets home that evening, there's less of, well, everything. Fewer tchotchkes, fewer table linens, and fewer pieces of furniture. It's still not to the degree that Arthur would prefer, but it feels like he can breathe again.


* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, jogs with Eames, and jerks them both off in the shower. They dress and hurry to the office for a meeting with Davos, which goes as poorly as Arthur has come to expect.

Arthur pitches ten of his most inventive ideas and listens to Davos shoot them all down. Eames pitches his five ideas and receives a similar response. At the end of it all, Davos shouts for ten minutes about how they're incompetent idiots out to swindle him until Arthur stands up, opens the conference room door, and invites him to leave.

Davos storms out with several choice insults for them both.

Arthur instructs his secretary to email Davos a confirmation letter terminating their business relationship and referring him to the Dream Perfumerie, where Xander Cheng might be able to better serve his needs. Arthur then proceeds to walk into his office, sit, and plant his face on the desk.

He's in the midst of panicking over what he's done when Eames lets himself in and says, "I think you did the right thing."

"Or I have doomed my business to bankruptcy and crushing failure," Arthur mumbles, not lifting his head. There's a pen mashed across his cheek.

"We will find other clients." A hand strokes gently down the back of Arthur's neck. "I have it on good authority that we haven't exhausted all the landed gentry of Scotland yet."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "Thank god for your relatives, I guess."

Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I thought you were very brave."

Arthur straightens, slowly, and slides into Eames' arms. "Let's go home."


* * * * *

The apartment changes, slowly. Suki sits Arthur down with binders full of images for him to look over, takes note of all the things he likes. They continue decluttering the apartment, change the curtains, and swap the tasseled rugs for sleeker, more modern ones. Some of the furniture Eames picked out stays, mostly the stuff he had shipped from Mombasa.

"Every piece has history," Eames says, "a story behind it. That's what I love about them."

Arthur's not sure what's so great about history when it comes to furniture; the past is done, after all, and they're dealing with the present. But he can live with the hunting painting, the coffee table made out of a tree stump, and the other weird crap if it makes Eames happy.


* * * * *

"Thank you," Arthur says as he inserts the PASIV cannula into Eames' arm. "For being understanding. And patient. And shit."

Eames chuckles as he leans back on the chaise lounge. "You're about to send me to the moon for my birthday and you're thanking me?"

"Well, yeah, because—"

Eames covers Arthur's mouth with a hand before he can launch into a full explanation. "I know. And I love you, too."

Arthur stares at the ground after Eames pulls his palm away. "I just worry sometimes. If I do enough or—or spend enough time with you."

Eames' mouth softens. "We're both independent people, you and I. The time apart helps us better appreciate the time together, I think."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, heart rising with hope. "And you'd—you'd tell me if you were unhappy? Unhappy enough to leave?"

"I would and I will," Eames says, quiet and serious. "Did you think I'd—"

"I don't know," Arthur says, words running together in a rush. "I've never lived with someone before and I don't really. Uh. Know what I'm doing."

Eames chuckles as Arthur takes a seat on a recliner and hooks himself up to the PASIV. "Neither do I."

"Right." Arthur looks down at the PASIV, at the lines where they're connected. "I guess we're making it up as we go along."

"I'm rather adaptable." Eames smiles at Arthur. "And you're excellent at improvising."

"Yeah." Arthur smiles back. "We've got this."

fin

Foreplay	Hurt/comfort	Reincarnation	Beloved enemies	Bedsharing
Erotic torture	Regency AU	Multiple orgasms	First time/last time	Sex under the influence
Animal transformation	Magical AU	Medical fetishisation	Intoxication and altered states	Time travel
Exposure	Pining	Confessions	Anti-heroes	Discomfort during sex
Exhibitionism	Cybersex	Deathfic	Genderbend	Heroic gestures

Dread Persephoneia

Thanks to: sibilantly
Written for i_reversebang and evisionarts' wonderful art.
Wordcount: 3200




Arthur opens his eyes. He's flat on his back in sand, too weak to move. Waves wash over him and the sun beats down as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

He's roused by the sound of voices. He can't make out the words, and he doesn't resist when they drag him away from the pounding surf.

The strangers—a masked man and a woman, Arthur can make out now—carry him an indeterminate distance. They're dressed like security guards and don't speak further.

He's brought through the front gates of imposing building resembling a medieval Scottish castle. Overall, the impression is correct, but the details are wrong.

The interior is nothing like a true castle aside from having stone walls. The floor is carpeted in deep reds and blues, the walls hung with richly patterned tapestries, purple drapes across the windows. There are more masked guards at the front entrance and all along the corridor.

Arthur wonders who they're trying to keep out. Or who they're meant to keep in.

He's brought into a Grand Hall, filled with masked courtiers in revealing, baroque costumes and intricate black masks which cover half their faces. They're all staring up at the raised dais at the end of the room.

The guards dump him unceremoniously in front of the dais, clothing still wet and sandy. His face feels raw from baking in the sun, lips cracked. He pushes himself upright and stares up at the throne, where a familiar man sits.

"Eames," Arthur says, voice a parched croak.

Decked in dark royal regalia and a golden crown, Eames frowns. "You dare speak to a king that way?"

Eames has lost track of reality, Arthur thinks as he forces himself up on unsteady legs. He knew there was a possibility. Eames has been down here for months, maybe years. There's a dusting of gray throughout his hair and beard, wrinkles Arthur doesn't recognize. Salt and pepper isn't a bad look on him. "You're in Limbo," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

The blonde woman standing beside Eames bends down to whisper in his ear. Despite her dark feathery mask, Arthur recognizes her as one of Eames' forgeries. Emilia, Eames called her—his idea of a joke, Arthur supposes.

"That is quite a claim. What proof do you have that what you say is true?" Eames asks, and Arthur realizes that they're the only two people in the room not wearing masks.

"How long have you been down here?" Arthur asks, voice gaining strength with use. "Do you remember?"

A flicker of confusion crosses Eames' face as the courtiers murmur amongst themselves.

"Our Lord Eames has always been king," Emilia declares, staring down at Arthur coolly.

"Yes," Eames agrees, confusion smoothing away. "Yes, I have always been king."

"How did you become king?" Arthur presses. "Were you born a prince? Were you crowned as an adult?"

The mutters of the crowd grow louder, more displeased.

"Who are you to challenge the rule of our majesty?" Emilia demands, taking a step forward.

"Eames, we need to leave," Arthur says. "It's time for you to go back to the real world."

"Usurper," Emilia cries, pointing an accusatory finger. "You've come to kidnap our liege and seize the crown for yourself."

Guards move towards Arthur as the crowd echoes her, "Usurper, usurper!"

"Eames, listen to me," Arthur still too exhausted and dehydrated to do much besides stand, much less fight off guards. "We've known each other for years, we achieved inception, and you still call me the biggest stick in the mud—"

"Throw him in the dungeon," Emilia commands, eyes triumphant.

"Listen—"

"No," Eames' voice rings out, silencing the entire hall. "Attend to this man's needs. Feed, clothe him. I will question him personally."

"Eames," Arthur starts, but Eames says no more and dismisses him.

All the courtiers are quiet as Arthur is hauled—firmly, but more courteously, now—away to a private bathing chamber. He's left alone to strip and sink into the bathtub, relieved to brush away the sand that's crusted to his body. The water is blissfully hot, the heavy fragrance of roses filling the air.

He steps out of the tub to discover that his ruined suit has disappeared. It's been replaced by a gauzy piece of fabric that might generously be termed a loincloth. Arthur rolls his eyes as he wraps a towel around his waist over it. He tries to summon a shirt and jacket, but fails to materialize even a pair of real underwear. Maybe it's because he's in Eames' territory, now.

He's escorted to the dining room by guards that ignore his requests for more substantial clothing. Once he gets there, he's distracted from the issue by the enormous table piled high with freshly prepared food and drink.

Dangerous, a part of Arthur's mind warns. The more you engage with a dream, the further enmeshed in it you become. But the prospect of no longer being thirsty or hungry is so thrilling Arthur can't quite restrain himself from filling up his plate.

Everything is delicious, bursting with juiciness and flavor. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin of exquisite dark lace. Beneath his bare legs, he can feel the delicate silk of the cushion, the smooth wood of the chair, the luxurious damask backing. He eats until he can't anymore, drinks his fill of refreshing cold water.

He settles in front of the fireplace with a glass of beautifully aged wine—only one glass, no more—and can't remember the last time he felt this level of bodily contentment. He thinks he can even hear the faint strains of violin music through the walls.

The door opens and Eames appears. Wordlessly, he crosses the room, takes Arthur's face in his hands, and kisses him.

Arthur freezes. Eames' lips feel as plush as they look. Arthur's fantasized about those lips before—who hasn't—but these aren't the circumstances under which he thought something would finally happen between them.

Eames pulls back a few inches, gaze moving over Arthur's face avidly. "My god, I can see your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. They're beautiful." Eames punctuates his remarks with three delicately placed kisses over said features.

"Eames," Arthur says, still uncertain how to handle this sudden onslaught. Topside, they've flirted aimlessly but never taken it further than that. This feels like decidedly more than flirting. "Do you remember me?"

"Of course I do. What sort of question is that?" Eames has moved on to threading his fingers through Arthur's hair, nuzzling his jaw. "You smell incredible."

"I'm not sure we should be doing this right now," Arthur says, voice not as steady as it could be with Eames kissing down his throat. "We should get back—"

Eames pauses in his trail downward to lick at Arthur's nipples. "You removed them?" Eames asks, and Arthur can't begin to guess at what he might be talking about.

"Don't you want to—"

"What I want," Eames says as he eases Arthur's towel open, pushes gauzy fabric away from half-hard cock, "is to feel you come down my throat."

Arthur's mind goes blank as Eames kneels between his legs, wraps that unearthly mouth around his dick. Arthur should probably protest more, put a stop do this. He should.

Eames begins to lick and suck, head bobbing with all the practiced skill Arthur could have ever hoped for. He looks amazing, feels better, and Arthur melts into a boneless slump against the back of his chair.

The last thing he should be doing is lazing in front of a fire, allowing Eames to suck him off in Limbo—god knows what's happened to Eames' mind in the time he's been down here. Dangerous to linger, to allow him to keep them down here for any longer. But Eames is sucking at Arthur's cock ardently, one hand between his own legs as he does. How much could another ten minutes down here hurt, really?

"Gonna come," Arthur mutters before he does, shuddering at the way Eames ducks down to swallow, eyes trained on Arthur's face the whole while.

Eames crawls up Arthur's body as he continues to stroke himself. Arthur kisses him appreciatively, joins his hand with Eames'. Arthur's tasted his own come before but it's a little different here, possesses a nearly alcoholic edge. Unsettling, but Arthur doesn't have much time to consider it before Eames is ejaculating across their stomachs, moaning as he does.

Eames continues to kiss Arthur, deep and thorough and intoxicating. Arthur loses himself in it, allows himself to finally indulge his fantasies by helping Eames strip, drags greedy fingers over his muscular body.

"We need to wake up," Arthur mumbles as he palms Eames' beautiful, round ass. "We—"

"No, no." Eames twines his arms around Arthur's neck. "When I wake up, you're always gone."

"I—" Arthur struggles to find a response, but it's difficult when he feels so sated and warm with a lapful of Eames. "I'll be right there next to you."

Eames sighs as he traces the bridge of Arthur's nose with the tip of his own. "There's daylight and we're not in my bed chambers. How is this possible? How are you here?"

Arthur doesn't know how to interpret what he sees in Eames' expression. "What?"

"You always leave." Eames kisses him again, hard enough to leave Arthur gasping for breath. "Not tonight, though. Now that you're here."

Arthur blinks, feeling strangely sluggish and distant as something metal snaps round his left wrist. The haziness he'd attributed to a fantastic orgasm sharpens into the realization that he's been drugged. Alarm pierces through the fog that's settling through his mind, but briefly. "Why--"

"You are my subject now," Eames says as Arthur's vision fades to black. "I am your king."

* * * * *



Arthur awakens to the sound of rhythmic creaking.

His eyelids feel immensely heavy as his other senses slowly come back to him. The smell of roses is thick in the air; it's almost difficult to breathe. His wrists are chained above him, his ankles to the floor. He's wearing nothing aside from that diaphanous loincloth.

As he slowly forces his eyes open, there's confirmation that he's in a bedroom, chained in front of an enormous four poster bed Eames is currently having sex on.

The room is dark, lit mostly by a large fireplace and a few scattered candles. It takes Arthur a minute to resolve the shapes before him. Eames--on all fours, being fucked by a dark-haired man--staring at Arthur with possessive hunger. It's as unsettling as it is undeniably arousing, watching Eames take a cock and so obviously enjoy it. Not a good situation for that kind of interest, Arthur tries to tell his dick, but it ignores him.

The man fucking Eames is masked, like everyone else, but there's something familiar about his hair, the shape of his face. Arthur squints as his eyes attempt to adjust to the low light--

"You're still here," Eames says, words punctuated with a sigh of pleasure. "Now you're both mine."

No. It's not possible. He wouldn't—

"You taste different than him. You smell different," Eames says. "Will you fuck me the same way?"

It's a projection of Arthur.

Eames is being fucked by a masked projection of Arthur: hair slicked back, a series of earrings down the shell of his ear, bangles around his wrists jangling with every thrust into Eames' ass. The projection leans back to readjust his grip on Eames' hips, and Arthur can seeing the nipple piercings now, the trail of a necklace down to his bellybutton.

Impossible. Shocking. Bizarre.

Yet Arthur can't help the way his cock twitches when Eames comes with a groan, can't help drinking in Eames' dazed, pleasure-drunk expression. The projection fucks through it, hips stuttering to a halt with an open mouthed expression Arthur hopes he doesn't make in real life.

"You spoke," Eames murmurs, crawling towards the edge of the mattress, towards Arthur. "I should have known when you spoke."

Arthur stares in horror at the projection. "It doesn't talk at all?"

"Never." Eames sits up to stroke the line of the projection's jaw with something that resembles sadness. "No matter how many times I asked."

The projection leans into Eames' touch, sinuous and wordless. Arthur can't read its expression behind the mask.

"Jesus, Eames," Arthur says, not sure what part of this whole situation to be most disturbed by. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Years," Eames' tone is distant. "I said no at first, even though you kept appearing in my bed. Then two years passed, and I couldn't—I couldn't say no anymore. Five years of this, then eight."

"Ten years?" Eames nods, slightly.

A decade is a long time for a man to be lost in his own mind.

"But now you're here." Eames climbs off the bed, and Arthur can't help but notice the obscene trickle of come down inner thighs. Can't help but want to lick, to taste. "You won't disappear in the morning. You're mine."

"I'm not one of your projections," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

Eames caresses Arthur's cheek. "Yes, I can wake up to you now."

"No, Eames, listen to me: this is all a dream. Do you remember the job we were prepping for, the new blend of Somnacin we were testing?"

"A job…" Eames' expression goes unfocused. "But I've always been king here."

"You had a bad reaction on the second level." Arthur twists in his chains to grab Eames' forearm, feels the muscle jump under his palm. "The dream started to come apart and you fell deeper into it instead of waking up."

"No." Eames takes a step back into the arms of his projection, which curl around him protectively. "You're not real. Nothing is real except me, because I am king."

"I'm not a projection. Like you said, I came here during the day and surprised you. I'm here to get you out."

Eames either doesn't believe Arthur or he doesn't care, because he turns back to the projection and speaks no more.


* * * * *

Eames and the projection fuck again. Arthur makes himself hoarse, asking, yelling, demanding Eames listen to him. Neither of them acknowledges him.

Eames and the projection finish eventually, go to sleep untroubled by Arthur's shouts. Arthur dozes off occasionally as well, arms aching from being held in chains, body still feeling the effects of what he was dosed with.

* * * * *

In the morning, the projection is gone.

Arthur stretches, tries to work the soreness out of his muscles and joints. He's tired, but reminds himself that this is all a dream, that he doesn't actually need sleep down here. It helps, a little.

Eames opens his eyes amidst rumpled sheets and a slow smile breaks across his face when he sees Arthur. It's a beautiful smile: sweet and pure and happy. It's open in a way Arthur never suspected Eames—guarded, careful, smirking Eames—could be.

For a moment, Arthur feels a pang of—something. All these years they've been working together and never once has he seen Eames smile like this.

"I can see you in the sun," Eames whispers as he slides out of bed. "I never thought I would."

"Let me show you the real sun again," Arthur says, sensing his opportunity. "Unchain me."

Eames bites his lower lip, worries at it. "But what if you leave?"

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"It isn't his fault that he left." It's a declaration, but Eames sounds uncertain when he glances at the empty bed. "He wanted to stay."

"That's right," Arthur says, beginning to understand. "I didn't want to mean to leave you behind, Eames. I thought the kick would wake you up, too."

Eames puts a palm flat on Arthur's sternum. He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes. "We were never like this up there, were we?"

Arthur doesn't move, save for the rise of his breath. "No. We weren't."

"Down here, I was king," Eames says, and removes his hand. "I controlled everything. But I couldn't make you speak."

"I can now," Arthur says. "Unchain me."

"Will you stay here with me?" Eames asks, voice quiet. "I can give you anything you want."

"Don't you want to wake up?" Arthur counters. "Don't you want something real?"

"What's real?" Eames glances out the stained glass window, a wash of reds and pinks and oranges lighting across his face. "You're real down here, too. I'm real."

"I can't stay down here," Arthur says. "You know you can't keep me. I'll find a way to get out. Before I do, I want to take you with me."

"That's why you came back?"

"I came back for you," Arthur says as he feels the manacle around his left wrist tense and release. He reaches out to catch Eames by the hip, draw him closer. "I didn't want to leave you down here."

"I'll be different." Eames sways closer as the other manacles fall open.

"We'll both be different," Arthur says.

He snaps Eames' neck: a quick, clean death. After easing Eames' body to the ground, Arthur follows him up.


* * * * *

Arthur opens his eyes on the second level, more than a little concerned that Eames might have panicked and run off. He needn't have worried; Eames is seated on the bed, staring at the hotel room uncomprehendingly. In comparison to the castle in Limbo, it looks hopelessly sleek and modern, all hard reflective surfaces.

"It truly was a dream," Eames says, barely a whisper. "Ten years—in a dream."

"Now it's over," Arthur says. "You're almost free."

"Free," Eames echoes. He stands, tugs at the sleeves of the linen sport coat he's wearing. "Yes, I suppose that's partly what I wanted."

Arthur opens the balcony door, cool wind rushing through the room. He's relieved to be clad in a suit once more. "Are you ready?"

Eames peers over the railing; the drop down to the ground below is fatal. "You'll be there?"

"I will," Arthur says, helping Eames climb up. They fall together.


* * * * *

The first level is a simple one: a grassy field on the side of a mountain overlooking a placid lake. There are birds chirping when Arthur opens his eyes.

"I remember this sky," Eames says, staring up at the sun. "The way the air tastes. We've been here before."

"Shouldn't base dreams off memories, but this was supposed to be a test run, in and out." Arthur removes the cannula from his arm. "Didn't feel like coming up with something from scratch."

"You don't remember?"

Arthur glances at Eames quizzically. "Remember…?"

"The first time we met," Eames says. "I was wearing Emilia."

"That's right. We were on separate teams working the same mark." Arthur huffs a laugh as he recalls how pissed he'd been. "You got the jump on us. Shot me out of the dream."

"You used this build then, too."

Arthur shakes his head. "That was back before I knew better."

"Now you're simply lazy." There's a hint of Eames' familiar smirk.

Arthur snorts. "Guess I walked into that."

Eames walks to the edge of the cliff, the faintest smile curling his lips. The memory of those lips stained with come drifts back—already fading the way dreams do.

"Hey," Arthur says. "At the end of the Lindbergh job, I thought we were—I don't know. Moving in a certain direction. But you turned me down when I asked you out for a drink."

Eames pauses, doesn't turn to face Arthur. "You weren't wrong. I found you most—intriguing, as you well know by now. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but earlier that day I'd received a generous offer from a third party for the information we'd extracted."

"You were considering selling us out?" Arthur asks. He knows Eames' history; he's always been a little surprised Eames hasn't double-crossed him yet.

"I considered it, and declined." Eames glances over his shoulder at Arthur. "I didn't wish for you to be cross with me. But I also didn't think—I wasn't quite ready for a drink, yet."

"Fair enough." Arthur joins Eames at the edge of the cliff, ready to step off one last time.


* * * * *

Eames is already awake when Arthur opens his eyes. Their chemist, Shimizu, is buzzing around in obvious relief, recording vitals and drawing blood for further tests. She barely glances at Arthur as he sits up.

Arthur's not sure why he expects Eames to look different; barely twelve hours have passed in the real world since Eames went under. Already, the details of the various dream levels are beginning to slip away, leaving hazy memories of a castle, a hotel room, a mountain.

"Do you recognize me?" Shimizu asks Eames. At his nod, she points at Arthur, "How about him?"

"Shimizu and Arthur." Eames' drawl is unhurried, easy. "Would you like your full dossiers or are your current criminal aliases enough?"

"No lasting damage, I see," she wanders back to her machines and mutters, not quite under her breath, "more's the pity."

Eames seems more amused than miffed, submitting to a full battery of tests. After watching Eames get poked and prodded for twenty minutes, Arthur asks whether he should be examined, too. Shimizu turns to him with blank surprise and says, "You're still here?"

Arthur takes that as his cue to leave, driving back to the short-term rental apartment, undecided about whether sleep sounds appetizing or appalling. He's fixing himself some dinner when there's a knock on the door.

It's Eames.

"The dream took some turns," Eames starts after Arthur invites him in.

"Some crazy shit went down," Arthur translates.

Eames chuckles. "Yes, that's—accurate." Arthur waits and Eames scratches his nose. "I suppose it's become obvious that I may desire more than a purely professional relationship at this juncture."

"Are you asking for a date or a fuck?" Arthur asks, not sure what answer he'd prefer.

"I don't know, to be quite honest." Eames is looking all around the apartment living room, as if taking in all the details.

"I'm making some dinner, if you want to start there," Arthur says, after a pause.

"Dinner." Eames smiles, something familiar and lovely and sweet in it. "Yes, I think I'd like that."


fin

The Adventures of Eames the Satyr, Arthur the Sexy Shepherd, and the Thrust of Destiny

Thanks to: sibilantly
Written for i_reversebang and skipping_pledge's wonderful art.
Wordcount: 3200



Eames' furry, pointed ears perk up: a short distance away is the unmistakable sound of a handsome human singing. It's a rather nice baritone that can actually carry a tune, which makes it even better.

He follows the sound through the lush forest to a secluded blue pond, fringed by some rather suggestively shaped cattails. There is indeed a gorgeous man seductively sluicing water over his naked body while humming the theme to the Harry Potter movies. Eames decides to settle in behind the bushes for some quality voyeurism.

Unfortunately, he trips over a log and rolls headfirst into the water, promptly ruining that plan.

The bathing man turns, not bothering to cover an inch of silky smooth skin, and asks, "Who goes there?"

Eames stands and brushes stray leaves out of his chest fur. "It is I, Eames the Satyr. And who are you?"

"Arthur, a simple shepherd of the peasant village Dullington," Arthur replies. He points at Eames' turgid member, clearly visible given Eames' nudity (Satyrs don't wear clothing, after all). "Is that for me?"

"Not specifically, no. It's always like that," Eames replies. "Part of my Satyric nature. But even if I didn't have a constant erection, I would very much like to have sex with you. It's why I was watching you bathe from the bushes."

"I could be into that," Arthur says. "But before I fuck a total stranger of a different species in the woods, I like to ask where he's going in the literal and non-metaphorical sense. Therefore: where are you going?"

"I'm on a quest to drink from the Goblet of Destiny."

"How fascinating," Arthur says. "When I was a baby, there was a prophecy which foretold that bathing in the forest that would lead me to my destiny."

"You've been bathing for a while, I take it?"

"I have. My fingers and toes have gone all pruney." Arthur holds them up as proof. "But it sounds like you're my cue to stop washing myself in a seductive manner. Your goblet must be the destiny that was foretold."

"Sounds about right," Eames agrees, hoping this will all lead to a blowjob. He'd settle for a handjob, though. "You're welcome to join me on my quest, if you'd like."

"Alright." Arthur wades out of the water, glistening in the sun like a chiseled god. "Is the Goblet of Destiny the key to saving the world?"

"No, but I hear it's filled with the best wine in the world," Eames says.

Arthur shrugs. "I like wine. You want a pruney handjob?"

Eames does.

* * * * *

After a rousing exchange of handjobs, Eames and Arthur set off. Arthur puts on clothing, sadly, because human feet and skin are terribly delicate. At least it's a very tight shepherd's outfit with a startling amount of cleavage.

"What's with the pan flute?" Arthur says, pointing at the pipe instrument dangling around Eames' neck.

"Oh, you know, I play provocative songs upon it to tempt mortals into orgies," Eames replies. "Also, wind instruments keep my lips limber for spectacular blowjobs. Not to mention the breath control."

"I'm not sure I should simply believe you like some country rube," Arthur says. "I may have to verify for myself."

"I stand behind my claims," Eames says, licking his lips as he undoes the front of Arthur's trousers.

After Eames has put to use his breath control and Arthur demonstrated some of his own techniques in return, they start walking again.

"Now, I have to admit that I've never fully understood the point of prophecies," Eames says, jaw pleasantly sore. "Are they meant to be helpful? Because the ones I've heard are so vague and obscure they're virtually useless."

"I think they're mostly useful for causing people to do things that otherwise wouldn't make much sense."

"Right, like joining up with a complete stranger on a quest," Eames replies as they round the corner to the location of the first clue to the Goblet of Destiny. It's a gnarled old tree around which a store has been built, proudly named: Adventurer's Sex Supply Shop.

There's a portly woman, presumably the shopkeeper, standing at the door and bellowing at prospective customers. "Come inside to solve the ancient riddle! And while you're at it, shop! All the latest fashions in fur loincloths and chainmail bikinis sold here!"

"I may be a sheltered shepherd from an incomparably boring village, but this seems like a fantastic combination of arboreal mystery and commerce," Arthur says.

"Ah yes, welcome, welcome," the shopkeeper replies, beckoning them in. "I, too, hail from an incredibly tedious little village. In the aimless wanderings of my youth, I saw dozens of would-be fortune hunters stop at this tree and spotted a business opportunity. Also, an ideal excuse to leave my hometown for good."

"I left to help a Satyr get drunk, so I hear you," Arthur says as they step inside and start examining her wares. "You don't sell any non-sexy armor or food here?"

"Used to," she shrugs. "But almost all my sales came from lube packets, condoms, and erotic armaments. So I figured, hey, let's give the horny people what they want. Hence, a shop for all a swashbuckler's sexual needs was born."

"We do have many needs," Eames says.

"If you're interested in a snack, I do carry aphrodisiacs like chocolate, bananas, and chocolate covered bananas. Not to mention the ever popular edible underwear, candy thongs, and whipped cream bras."

"Your tits would look great in a whipped cream bra," Arthur says to Eames, who preens and doesn't disagree.

"And you would look bloody fantastic in a fur loincloth," Eames says, holding up a narrow triangle of cloth decorated with a growling wolf's face.

Arthur considers the loincloth and heads into the dressing room to change. He comes out a minute later, naked but for the artfully placed wolf face. "Do you think I should switch to adventuring in this?"

Eames circles Arthur to admire the view of his chest, his legs, and especially his arse, which is on full display. "Absolutely, yes. You'll terrify your enemies with the allusion to your bestial nature and inspire wild lust in nearby Satyrs."

"I do enjoy ravishing Satyrs," Arthur says as he goes to haggle with the shopkeeper. He returns with a gift for Eames as well.

"A jeweled cockring?" Eames asks. "Darling, how did you know?"

"It's the one cockring to rule them all." Arthur helps Eames try it on in the dressing room with a maximum amount of groping. It takes a rather long time, and Eames finds himself on his back with legs in the air.

"I'm not quite sure what my arse has to do with the cockring," Eames pants as Arthur fucks him splendidly with his fingers. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Nothing, really. I'm just testing the efficacy of my loincloth," Arthur replies.

"Two hundred percent efficacious," Eames declares as he comes with a happy sigh. He returns the favor on his knees and swallows, so as not to muss up Arthur's brand new garment.

After neatening up, they walk to the very back of the shop where the tree is located. The riddle is etched into the trunk in a long dead language. Luckily, underneath is a handy plaque with a translation: What can be polished by hand, thrust into bodies, and is harder than a rock?

"A cock?" Arthur suggests after a moment of puzzling at it. Nothing happens.

"A tumescent cock?" Eames offers. Nothing.

"A dildo?"

"A jewel-encrusted dildo?" Still nothing.

"I don't think we're very good at riddles unless they're dirty ones," Arthur says. Eames is forced to agree.

The shopkeeper drifts over. "Since you two are currently my favorite customers, I'll give you an exclusive deal: buy one more item in my shop and I'll throw in the answer for free!"

"Well," Eames says. "I was interested in that magical talking prostate massager."

"Ah yes, one of our most popular toys," she replies. "It comes with three personality settings ranging from humiliating dirty talk to tender word-snuggles. If you're playing with a partner, it's like having a threesome with fewer complicated feelings involved!"

"I do enjoy word-snuggles," Eames says.

"Who doesn't?" she replies as she rings him up. "Congratulations on your excellent purchase. The answer to the riddle is 'The sword in the stone' and please come again! In all senses of the phrase."

They return to the tree. Eames repeats the password, which prompts a ghostly woman to appear and announce, "In the field of wildflowers where unicorns frolic, you shall find the sword buried in a tight, round stone. Remove it and be rewarded with the next secret spot on your journey to climax, which in your case means the Goblet of Destiny."

The figure vanishes and Arthur leers at Eames. "I'll show you a sword."

"Oh yes." Eames spreads his legs eagerly. "Please do."

* * * * *

They set off for the Wildflower Field of Unicorns, which takes two days to reach from the Adventurer's Sex Supply Shop. It's actually only a few hours' walk, but Eames accidentally drifts behind Arthur and becomes too distracted by the sight of bare arse to navigate properly.

They also make several stops to use the talking prostate massager and ensure all the various personality settings work. It really is like having a threesome with fewer complicated feelings involved.

Upon reaching the field, they wade through floral vegetation that comes up to their waists. The pollen causes Eames to sneeze more or less incessantly, which earns them disapproving looks from the unicorns frolicking about. In the middle of the clearing is a sword embedded in a round stone with a rather familiar cleft.

"Is that yours?" Eames says, taking to a moment to admire the curves of the stone and compare them with Arthur's arse.

"No, I'm positive that's yours," Arthur says, encouraging Eames to bend over so he can make a more thorough comparison.

Some time later, they get around to trying to extract the sword from the stone. It turns out not to be as easy as it looks.

Arthur tries first: yanking, pushing, and finally cursing it. Eames tries pulling, then wiggling, and eventually cursing it as well.

A nearby unicorn observes their struggles and trots over. "You're doing it wrong," it informs them in a voice like twinkling wind chimes on a sunny day.

"Oh yeah? Why don't you try pulling it out?" Arthur says, somewhat belligerently. Only somewhat, though. They are still talking to a unicorn, after all.

The unicorns rolls its eyes. "Because I lack opposable thumbs, duh. Anyway, you can't just start grabbing at a hilt and expect it to go somewhere. You need to use some finesse. Massage a little, warm up before you really start going at it."

"So we need to tease the sword until it's overwhelmed with desire," Eames says. "Then we can remove it?"

"Exactly. And they say Satyrs are too dumb to learn," the unicorn coos in a baby voice, giving Eames' ear a fond nip. "Who's not a stupid Satyr? Who?"

Using some of the lube packets at the bottom of their Bag of Holding, Eames proceeds to rub the hilt until it's flushed and practically purring in his palm. Together, they ease the sword out of the stone while it hums with contentment.

"That was surprisingly erotic," Eames says as he gives his own cock a few strokes; no point wasting good lube, after all.

Arthur licks his lips as he eyes Eames' cock. "Yes. And it's nearly nightfall, so we might as well make camp for the night."

Eames lays down on a bed of crushed wildflowers (not as comfortable as it sounds) while Arthur climbs on top. Although most of his attention is focused on Arthur riding him, out of the corner of his eye he can see a whole herd of unicorns gathered round to observe.

"Perhaps we ought to put up our tent?" Eames suggests, groaning when Arthur works his hips just so. "Feels a bit weird with these unicorns watching us."

"In a minute," Arthur replies, breathless as he chases his own orgasm. "Close your eyes and pretend they're robots."

Eames closes his eyes even though the idea of robot unicorns is singularly terrifying, and ignores the sound of unicorns chewing flower petals as he comes.

* * * * *

The next morning, after some intense cuddling along with a stream of compliments regarding its intelligence and beauty, the sword is persuaded to reveal the location of the next trial: the Saucy Tavern.

The Saucy Tavern is a wooden building filled with warmth, delicious food, and scantily clad serving men. Arthur and Eames avail themselves of the hearty stew and beers on tap before heading into the side room where the third trial awaits.

"The third trial is a test of bravery," a bored attendant intones while picking at her nails. "He who has the courage to engage the glory hole shall gain entrance to the Castle of Ennui and the Goblet of Destiny."

Eames and Arthur stare at the wooden wall with a dick-sized hole carved into it. Peering into the hole reveals nothing, as it's completely dark and impossible to see what's behind it.

"What's on the other side?" Arthur asks the attendant, who shrugs.

Eames stares down at the hole. "Is it humanoid, at least?"

"The third trial is a test of bravery," the attendant repeats. "He who has the courage to engage—"

"Yes, we got it, thanks," Arthur interrupts. "You can't tell us anything about what's on the other side because that would ruin the test."

The attendant chews her gum loudly.

"We've only known each other a short while, but I can state confidently that you are far more courageous than I," Eames says. "You should do the honors and fulfill your destiny."

"Yeah, but you're already erect," Arthur points out.

"Damnit," Eames says. "Foiled by my perpetual erection again."

Eames gingerly eases his dick into the hole and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the dreaded sensation of teeth. Luckily, what he receives instead is a hot wet mouth and a great deal of tongue. It's not the best blowjob he's ever received, but it's not the worst either. Considering he's receiving it via a hole in the wall, Eames has no complaints.

After he orgasms, the glory hole magically widens to reveal a tunnel down into the earth.

"Hark, the fearless explorer has survived the final trial," the attendant says, reading off a paper script in monotone. "Behold: the secret passage to the Castle of Ennui where the Goblet of Destiny awaits. Sally forth, and travel with the blessings of the Saucy Tavern upon you."

The scantily clad serving men enter the room, clad even more scantily than before.

"I think they want you to show them your secret passage," Arthur comments, and Eames is more than happy to oblige.

* * * * *

An enjoyable round of bukkake later, Eames and Arthur head down into the tunnel beneath the Saucy Tavern. It is suitably spooky, filled with giant cobwebs, flickering blue ghostlights, and an improbable number of unopened treasure chests.

They emerge from the tunnel loaded down in gold chain necklaces and diamond bracelets. The Castle of Ennui appears to be deserted except for a few rats that pause when Eames and Arthur enter the room, only to resume their activities with great indifference.

A few wrong turns later, Eames and Arthur make their way to the throne room, where an enormous red dragon is sleeping, body curved around a marble pedestal upon which rests a plastic goblet.

"Shit," Eames murmurs under his breath as he tries to inch back out of the room, "perhaps it's a friendly dragon?"

One enormous dragon eye opens, and the most melancholy voice imaginable fills the air. "No. I have no friends."

"Er," Eames says, backing away more quickly. "We'll be off, then. Terribly sorry to disturb you."

"Or you could stay," the dragon says, low and tremulous. "Not that you will, I expect. No one ever does."

"To be fair, you are, objectively speaking, a nightmare creature," Eames says.

"I have hopes and desires, too, you know." The dragon heaves a long sigh, smoke issuing in wisps from its nostrils. "Not that anyone can ever see past the superficial to appreciate that."

"Uh, it sounds like you might be going through some stuff," Arthur says. "We actually just came for the Goblet of Destiny."

"I figured as much," the dragon says, flicking its tail at the pedestal. "That's what they always come for. Never me."

"Do you want them to come for you?" Arthur asks. "Because I'm pretty sure anyone who does would be trying to slay you for glory or honor or something."

"Yeah, I guess." The dragon heaves another huge sigh. "It'd be nice to have more visitors, all the same."

"Well," Eames says. "This has been a scintillating conversation, ta very much, we'll leave you to your brooding—"

"You came for the Goblet of Destiny? You can take it."

Arthur and Eames stop.

"Is this a trap?" Arthur asks.

"What does it matter?" The dragon shakes its enormous head despondently. "We're all pieces on some cosmic chessboard, dreamed up by a fickle creator. Might as well drink and escape into the void."

"This is not quite the note of victory I wished to end my quest on," Eames says as he takes the Goblet off the pedestal.

"One last celebratory screw before we drink?" Arthur offers.

"I suppose that would cheer me up." Eames glances up at the dragon. "Perhaps in another room, though."

Eames gives Arthur's lovely cock one last ride before tucking it back under the fur loincloth. "I've enjoyed traveling with you a great deal, sexy shepherd Arthur. I'm glad we embarked upon this journey together to many climaxes."

Arthur, still flat on the ground and panting, gives Eames a thumbs up.

"To destiny," Eames toasts, then drinks from the cup.

His vision goes black, and he wakes up.

* * * * *

"What just happened?" Arthur says upon opening his eyes.

"We shared a rather unique dream experience." Eames sits up and examines the front of his trousers, which are clean. More than a trifle surprising, given the sheer number of orgasms he experienced while asleep. His cock does ache with a pent up desire to come, however.

"I was a sexy shepherd and you were half goat," Arthur says. "Were we having the same dream?"

"It would appear so." Eames eyes the flatteringly large tent in Arthur's trousers. "Our subconscious minds may have been attempting to tell us something."

Arthur stands and stretches, seeming entirely aware of Eames' attention. "That we should fuck like talking animals, ASAP?"

"I was going to say that we were both in need of hydration, but fucking like talking animals works as well," Eames says.

And so they do.

The end.

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Foreplay, Hurt/comfort, Reincarnation, Beloved enemies, Bedsharing
Erotic torture, Regency AU, Multiple orgasms, First time/last time, Sex under the influence
Animal transformation, Magical AU, Medical fetishisation, Intoxication and altered states, Time travel
Exposure, Pining, Confessions, Anti-heroes, Discomfort during sex
Exhibitionism, Cybersex, Deathfic, Genderbend, Heroic gestures

I've highlighted the tropes/kinks that seem especially appealing to me. It should come as a surprise to no one that the ways they play out may or may not be especially sexy (and may also be set in the Sex Bucket List universe). Posting runs from 1st of July (opening of Inceptiversary) to August 5.

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Title: A civilized conversation

"Would you ever fuck someone for money?" Eames asks and takes a long sip of his brandy. He fully expects Arthur to scoff, tell Eames to piss off, or say, no, never. Americans do tend to be amusingly fussy about sex.

Arthur leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the table thoughtfully. "How much money?"

"I suppose it'd have to be something worth your while," Eames says, trying to mask--poorly--his shock. "Let's say it was the equivalent of a decently paid extraction job."

"If I could do it in a dream, yes," Arthur says. "Topside, it'd depend on who they are, what they want to do, and for how long."

Eames takes another swig of his brandy, liquid heat down his throat. "Anything goes when you're asleep, eh?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Why? Were you planning to make me an offer?"

Eames chuckles. "Well, now I'm not certain I could afford you."

"If you could afford me," Arthur takes a sip of his gin and tonic, "what would you do with me?"

"I'd sink to a level of depravity that would be quite shocking," Eames licks his lower lip and notes Arthur's gaze flickering to his mouth. "Nothing I'd be able to speak about in civilized company, of course."

"Too bad you can't afford me. Guess we'll never know." Arthur stands. "Goodnight, Eames."

Arthur slings his jacket over a shoulder and walks off; Eames watches with undisguised interest. When Eames turns back to his drink, he notices a cocktail napkin wedged under the glass. There's a room number written on it.

fin


Title: Radiant

Eames doesn't know Arthur can forge. No one does, in fact.

Beyond the value of having a hidden talent Arthur can call upon should a situation require it, there's a reason he doesn't broadcast his ability: he can only copy a few people. One of them being Eames. While there's an amusing meta quality to forging a forger, the only clients who'd be interested in paying for that are those who'd use it as a weapon against Eames.

Arthur stands in front of a mirror and envisions Eames. He imagines the width of him, the swaths of hair from tip to toe, the angle of a pinky broken and set wrong. There's the face: creased forehead, eyes changeable with the light, and a mouth literal poetry has been written about.

Arthur's seen his share of handsome men. But Eames is beautiful in a way that still catches Arthur off-guard on occasion. When Eames wakes up in the morning, hair disheveled before he combs it. The way his false smiles don't reveal crooked teeth while his genuine ones are bursting with them. His somber frown after they argue.

"That's not bad," Eames--the real one--says, walking up from behind Arthur. "You're right, my arse is bloody phenomenal from this angle."

"From all angles, really," Arthur says in Eames' voice. The accent's not right--a strange mash-up of English historical drama and American newscaster--but at least it's in the right vocal range. Probably.

"From all angles," Eames agrees, wearing Arthur's face now. He wraps his arms around Arthur's waist--feeling lean, relatively smooth and hairless in comparison to Eames' usual bulk. "Don't we make quite the pair."

"Yeah, you got pretty lucky."

"I did, didn't I?" Eames kisses Arthur's cheek, their gazes meeting in the mirror. His smile as Arthur is radiant.

fin


Title: Khaki

The Somnacin formulation is called the 'Truth Serum' for the unintentional side effects that occur upon waking from a shared dream. Given that dreamshare is largely centered around secrets and lies, it's not a particularly popular formula despite its good qualities.

The side effects last for twenty-four hours. Which means that on the rare occasion a team decides to use the Truth Serum for a job, they all split up and retreat into solitude upon waking.

Arthur and Eames have only been dating for a few months. For the sake of their burgeoning relationship, Arthur should probably give Eames space to work through the side effects on his own.

Or, Arthur could follow Eames into his hotel room and see what comes out when Eames can't polish every word and meticulously craft every sentence before he speaks.

"I love the color khaki," Eames says earnestly. "I know some claim it isn't a color, but I disagree."

"Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to go back to dating women," Arthur says, words emerging unbidden from his mouth. "Then you make me laugh or suck my cock and I reconsider."

"Even though we've already slept together, I still fantasize about you when I jerk off."

"This is terrible," Arthur says, already filled with regret about his ill-conceived plan. "I suggest we have sex instead of talking."

"Yes," Eames agrees. "I can't believe I told you about my passion for khaki."

"It's okay," Arthur says. "I've known for a while now."

fin


Title: The Piper

A dame walks into the office of a disgraced-copper-turned -private-eye. She tells her sob story and even though it doesn't all add up, the down-on-his-luck gumshoe takes the case. Because money's money, no matter how long the legs it walks in on. He starts investigating, finds himself caught in conspiracies and webs upon conspiracies and webs. The oldest story in the book.

When Eames walked through my door, I wasn't sure why he'd come calling. He didn't wear a ring, so no cheating wives to catch. Gambling, maybe—he smelled like the type. Educated, born with looks and a silver spoon guaranteeing a lifetime of people ready to dance his tune no matter how badly he played.

Not me, I told myself.

But as soon as Eames opened his cherry red lips and purred, "Arthur, what a pleasure," I knew all I'd be able to do is forestall the inevitable. In the end, I'd waltz and foxtrot and tango as long as he'd have me, long after the crowds went home and the lights

went out.

"What's a guy like you want from a shady someone like me?" I'd asked, trying, desperate, to keep my distance.

"Why, darling," Eames leaned in close enough for us to share breaths, with a slow smile that bared teeth, "absolutely everything."

I always figured it'd be a dame that would take my number and burn it to a smoky crisp. But it turns out a beautiful smile's deadly no matter who's wearing it.

fin

World's End

Written for ae_ldws & inspired by the prompt: apocalypse AU.
Wordcount: 495

"You should shoot me," Arthur says.

"This isn't a dream," Eames replies. "You won't wake up."

"That's the idea." There's a wound on Arthur's wrist. Small thing, barely a knick—nothing like the enflamed bite-marks plastered across the news. "We both know where this is headed."

Eames scours Arthur's face for signs of sickness. Arthur looks pale, but otherwise handsome and well. "We don't know that you've been infected--"

"I do." Arthur tugs his sleeve up, tucks the wound away. "I can—feel it."

Eames swallows. "Somnacin in the bloodstream slows the transformation."

"Slows, doesn't stop." Arthur stares out the window at the desolate, blasted landscape. "Better to shoot me now, while I can—control myself."

"They're developing a cure."

Arthur touches Eames' cheek. "Not in time for me."




It starts slow, symptoms like a common cold. Fatigue, difficulty focusing, slight fever. "Quarantine," Arthur says when Eames climbs into bed. "I could expose you—"

"Oral transmission." Eames straddles Arthur. "As long as you don't bite me."

Arthur traces Eames' lower lip with his thumb, eyes dark and sad. "We shouldn't."

Eames kisses down the center of Arthur's chest, his skin warm and unblemished. He takes Arthur's cock in his mouth—using a condom, Arthur insists—and tries to block out everything else: the dread, the fear, the desperation.

After Arthur comes, Eames' gaze is drawn back to Arthur's wrist. He wants to put his mouth to it, suck the sickness out like a poison. He's not sure he'd care if it poisoned him as well.




"We can extend time, dreaming, go three levels down," Eames says. He doesn't add, or deeper.

"Intravenous connection." Arthur's skin has an unnatural grayish cast. "You could be infected."

"That's none of your concern."

"I rigged the PASIV to deliver a lethal dose of Somnacin," Arthur says, slowly and quietly. "It'll kill me and render the machine unusable."

Eames wants to shake him. "Fuck you."

"Eames." Arthur grabs him, grip bruising and cold as ice. "End this. Everything is—it's all slipping."




Arthur stops looking at Eames—doesn't seem to look at much in particular, anymore. He doesn't speak.

Eames tries to engage as Arthur falls deeper into catatonia. Questions, cajoling, shouting--even a madcap song and dance. Nothing disturbs that vacant gaze until Eames goes to the kitchen and cooks: steak, bloody and rare.

Eames feeds him two bites before Arthur turns his head away.

"Not this," Arthur says.

Eames seizes Arthur in his arms, crushes his nose against Arthur's neck. There's hardly anything left to hold on to, but still Eames wraps himself around Arthur, tries to warm his marble-cold body.

Arthur doesn't seem to notice him there.




"You're a survivor," Arthur says, in a fit of lucidity. "You."

"Yes," Eames replies, even though watching Arthur disappear doesn't feel like surviving; it feels like dying.

Fin

Man Overboard

Written for i_reversebang & inspired by marourin's stunning art.
Wordcount: 2200

( Look like a motherfucking tourist, Arthur thinks as he takes inane photos of the Pacific OceanCollapse )

1. I have joined mini_wrimo again, pledging to write at least 100 words a day. A great exercise if you're interested in getting more consistent in terms of writing everyday or every other day. The accountability of having to post a daily wordcount is very helpful. Also...




Posting has begun at i_reversebang! Come check out all the wonderful Inception art and stories!

I'm editing my Inception Reverse Bang draft (based on the phenomenal art by motetus) and am searching for a beta. Anyone interested? It's about 4,500 words, Arthur/Eames, and involves a walrus.

BTW, all i_reversebang drafts are due September 13! So everyone should go send theirs in!

Other things I am working on: Gangstermoll, an Amuse Bouche coda. Exciting stuff!

1. The second check in for i_reversebang is due today! So get in there and check in if you haven't already!

2. i_reversebang Pinch hitter sign ups are also open. Sign up here.

3. I posted by final Sex Bucket List coda titled War & Peace here. Strange to say goodbye to a story that's been occupying my mind for so many years. I'm happy with how it all turned out and how it ended, though.

4. Have turned my attention back to Gangstermoll. Reread the whole story so far and have been doing some writing and planning for the next part, which is about 50% complete. Am also working on a summary of Act II and trying to decide how detailed that should be. Probably not very--there are too many nuances and threads for me to chapter, so I'll probably just go over it in broad strokes to jog people's memories. Hopefully, readers will just reread it all (and enjoy it again!).

5. A few other shorts I'm currently working on:
-porny ficlet for marourin's hot submissive Eames art
-Stay thou art - gangbang
-Amuse Bouche wedding
-Amuse Bouche meeting beth
-Amuse Bouche meeting Arthur's parents
-Amuse Bouche meeting Eames' parents
-IRB story (due Sept 13)

A lot is in the hopper!

The second round of i_reversebang art claims are up. Check it out here.

In other news, I feel like I've been working on his coda to the Sex Bucket List for about 30 million years. But I think I might be coming to an end soon. Very soon, I hope.

i_reversebang art due today! Submission guidelines here.

i_reversebang sign ups are open. Sign up as an artist, author, or beta!

Also, a list of some of the shorters works in progress I have:
-Eames gangbang set in the Stay, thou art so beautiful universe
-a coda to the Sex Bucket List in which Sudheer appears
-several codas to Amuse Bouche, in which Arthur & Eames go through some stuff, meet each others' families, and plan a wedding
-Possible A/E daddykink story
-a couple of possible stories set in the BL game universe of No, thank you!!!

And I have been actively working on Gangstermoll. Progress is slow, but it is coming along.

I feel like I've been pretty prolific this past two months, what with finishing a novel and writing some codas/short stories. A shame LJ has been so quiet lately, but it was bound to happen. Unfortunately, the current alternatives (Tumblr, Ao3, etc) are not for me.

A question: is anyone interested in another round of Inception Reverse Bang? I'm more than willing to mod a small round if there's enough interest. Leave a comment if you'd participate/like to see one.

Bang bang, I hit the ground
Wordcount: 4200
Written for i_reversebang, inspired by marourin's gorgeous art!



Eames is bored.

Surrounded by a throng of thralls, worshippers, devotees eager to prostrate themselves at the altar of his 'creative genius' or whatever the hell they see in his art, all Eames can think about is why the gorgeous man in the corner hasn't glanced his way once. That's not boredom, Eames supposes. He's intrigued, irritated, a little frustrated—he can't believe that he's failing to attract a visitor's notice at his own exhibition.

"Smile, Eames, smile," Yusuf hisses. He puts his arm round Eames' shoulders and poses them both for yet another photo. "Babbitz is here."

"Babbitz can take this hideous Rolex and shove it up his arse," Eames says, jingling the heavy watch Yusuf forced him to put on at the start of the night.

"Yes, well, he might be into that," Yusuf says, smile unwavering as more flashes go off.

"I told you to tell him no gifts—the only payment I want is in dollars or pounds Sterling."

"I did tell him. He just doesn't listen to anything except for the voices in his head."

"How much longer do I have to wear this thing?"

"Until Babbitz leaves. Oh, and speaking of which, he wants to talk to you about touring the building tomorrow."

"I don't need a tour. I already have keys and the paint has been shipped in—"

"He wants a ceremony to present the lobby wall to you, and then have another ceremony after you've painted the mural. He thinks it'll make for good advertising material to have the before and after photos."

"Fuck him. I don't want to be a part of his idiotic—"

"There are still cameras on us," Yusuf interrupts, affable expression belying his sharp tone. "The man is paying you millions for what will probably amount to two weeks' work, not to mention sponsoring this entire exhibition. You will appear in his advertising and you will bloody smile for it."

The crowd of photographers finally disperses, wandering off to document the canapés or the plants or whatever else there is to take pictures of. Yusuf says something about talking to someone--Eames isn't paying attention--and walks off.

Eames searches for the man he saw earlier, the unimpressed man with the dark hair and the slim-cut suit. Eames finds him standing in front of the largest painting in the exhibition, a massive black canvas with yellow paint splattered and streaked across the surface. Critics have already begun lauding its simplicity, the way it evokes a constellation in the sky.

In reality, the painting came into being by accident. Eames had been receiving a blowjob from an intern (assistant? apprentice? He can never bloody keep track of what Yusuf wants him to call them now that they're supposed to be paid) when he'd lost his balance and knocked over several cans of paint. Trying to chase the paint back into the cans had been a fruitless endeavor, and so 'Starry Night Sky' was born.

"This piece always brings to my mind precisely how small and insignificant we humans are in the scale of the universe," Eames murmurs, playing up his accent as he sidles up to the man.

He expects an impressed nod, perhaps a pretentious return volley, or at the very least a glance over and start of recognition. What he receives, however, is a disdainful snort. "I highly doubt there's anything of this world that could shrink your self-importance in a meaningful fashion."

Eames blinks, taken aback by the man's words as well as the unexpected depth of his voice. "I beg your pardon."

"This is bullshit," the man says, American accent underscoring his matter-of-fact tone. "You might as well have jerked off onto a canvas and called it 'Big Bang: the origins of the universe.'"

Eames draws his shoulders back, no longer amused. "I suppose there are some people who don't understand—"

"You're not going to try to argue that just because I don't like your piece means that I don't 'get' art, are you?"

"I believe you're the one categorically claiming that what I make isn't—"

"Not all your work is bullshit. The show you did in Berlin." The man turns to face Eames. Up close, he is even more breathtakingly beautiful—thick hair slicked back severely, expression cool and unfazed. "I saw the blood in it. The violence. You showed something real about war that no civilian could ever come up with."

"You—" Eames drinks the man's figure in, imagines what his naked body might look like underneath the sleek lines of his clothing. Deceptively lean, Eames thinks, but made up of pure muscle and scars. "You're in the military."

"Ex." The man notices Eames' scrutiny and doesn't seem bothered by it—seems amused, in fact.

"I'd tell you my rank and unit, but I doubt British titles would mean much to an American," Eames says. "Suffice it to say that I specialized in detecting and disabling landmines."

"Bomb-chaser, huh? I guess I should have known you'd be a thrill-seeker."

"And what were you?" Eames asks, taking a step closer. "Not a technician, or a medic. Some kind of support work?"

The man seems even more amused, hint of a curve in his pink bow lips. "I worked alone."

"Sniper," Eames guesses, and is rewarded with the faintest widening of the man's eyes. "A shadow. Inspiring terror in your wake. And what do you do now?"

"Me? I'm a ghost."

"Even ghosts have names." Eames trails a finger along the man's sleeve, down to his elegant cufflinks. "What's yours?"

The man regards Eames thoughtfully for a moment. Then he rotates his hand and catches Eames' wrist in a grip that's strong—nearly painful. "Let's go with Arthur, Mr. Eames."

Eames feels his cock twitch at the contact. He doesn't pull away, even as Arthur's fingers tighten. "The show in Berlin was five years ago. How long have you been watching me?"

"Long enough to know that you're wasting your talent on booze and drugs and sex with morons." Arthur drops Eames' wrist, as if disgusted. "You can take the easy paycheck and spend it on shit to snort up your nose, but don't kid yourself that this crap means anything."

Eames cradles his arm to his chest, unable to formulate a properly scathing reply. It's not as if Arthur is wrong. In fact, a commission to paint a mural in what will become a boutique hotel is what brought Eames to New York—and the patron, a hedge-fund arsehole by the name of Babbitz—is the one sponsoring this very show. This is what Eames has been reduced to: decorating hotel lobbies. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Arthur takes Eames by the jaw, touch brazen and shocking. "You can do better than this," he says, thumb tracing the seam of Eames' mouth. Eames' lips part before he can stop himself and Arthur's thumb presses in, forcefully, before withdrawing. "Goodbye, Mr. Eames."

Eames watches Arthur go, stunned and aroused and angry.



* * * * *



Eames takes two of the most attractive gallery visitors back to his hotel room. They fawn over him with pretty, blank eyes, and moan with unnecessary volume as he fucks them.

After he's done, he kicks them out and shifts restlessly in bed, hating that every last detail of Arthur's face appears to have been seared into his mind's eye. The only thing stopping his cock from hardening again is the fact that he's come twice already—and both times while fantasizing it was Arthur's arse he was plowing.

After an hour of staring at the feeble light sneaking in through the curtains, rolling onto his side in too-hot sheets, and aimlessly imagining what Arthur on his knees might look like, Eames gives up on sleep and dresses.

He leaves the hotel in sunglasses—nevermind that it's nearly midnight—and takes a cab to the Babbitz's building. If he's going to be awake and miserable about it, he might as well use the insomnia to fuel his work and ruin Babbitz's before and after photo-shoot plan in the process.

The place is dark and empty, no security beyond some flimsy door locks. The lobby itself is a towering, cavernous space with nothing in it besides Eames' paint and scaffolding equipment.

Despite Eames' assurances to Babbitz and Yusuf, he has neither plans nor vision for the blank wall he's supposed to be painting. He's never done a mural before, nor ever had a particular desire to. He'd simply assumed that when the time (and money) came, inspiration would strike.

Eames studies the smooth, featureless wall and hears a noise behind him. That's the last conscious thought he manages as something heavy strikes the back of his head and everything goes dark.




* * * * *



Eames' head feels heavy, stuffed with wet wool. His chin drags against his chest as he tries to raise his head up and open his eyes.

He's still in Babbitz's building, facing that blank wall. He's been seated on a wooden chair which scratches at the bare skin of arse, his thighs. That's when he realizes he's no longer wearing any clothing—stripped of everything, including the Rolex.

It occurs to him that this could be some sort of mugging, though that wouldn't explain why his upper body is completely bound in thin rope. His hands are tied behind his back, arms held to his sides with elegant knots. Whoever did this knew what exactly what they were doing.

His legs are curiously unbound. He tests his bare feet against the floor and determines that he could stand and possibly run. He's about to when a leather-gloved hand descends on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't advise fleeing," Arthur says. "You never know what you might run into."

"Such as a bullet?" Eames twists to look at Arthur, some of the grogginess dissipating—but not quickly enough.

Arthur walks round to stand in front of Eames. "You shouldn't be here."

"I'm here to work. I have keys to the bloody building—"

"I'm here to work, too." Arthur eyes trawl up and down Eames' naked body; despite his compromised position, Eames feels his cock begin to stir.

"Don't tell me you work for Babbitz."

"I know you've been drugged, but you're definitely smarter than that." Arthur skims a finger along the lines of Eames' collarbones, raising gooseflesh as he does.

"You were lying in wait for—not me." Eames watches Arthur's impassive face warily as Arthur continues to chart a course down his chest. "Someone you knew would be here tomorrow. It was only scheduled to be me, Babbitz, and the photographer. No one gives a shit about some local photographer—which means you're after Babbitz."

Arthur traces the outline of Eames' left pectoral, flicks against the nipple delicately. "There we are."

Eames swallows as his nipple hardens under Arthur's attention, his cock not too far behind. "If you want the Rolex, my wallet, whatever money's in it—you can have it. I won't tell anyone I saw you."

"I don't want your Rolex."

"Then what—what do you want?" Fear and arousal mix together in the adrenaline pumping through Eames.

He could sweep Arthur to the ground with his legs, kick him and run. They're almost of a height, Eames broader while Arthur slightly taller, but something tells Eames that the fighting prowess he's allowed to atrophy in the seven years since he's left the military will hardly be enough. Not to mention the fact that Arthur is probably armed while Eames is entirely naked.

"You know the answer to that question." With one controlled push, Arthur sends Eames' chair back on its hind legs. Eames can't weight-shift quickly enough to regain balance and lands flat on his back, legs spread in the air.

"There it is," Arthur murmurs as he unzips his trousers and pulls his half-hard dick out. From Eames' view on the floor, it looks to be large and growing larger.

Arthur tugs Eames by the ankle onto the floor, where a tarp has been laid out on the ground. It hardly provides any cushioning for the cement floor underneath, but it does speak to the level of forethought Arthur must have engaged in while Eames was unconscious.

"Are you going to kill me?" Eames asks, allowing his legs to splay wider, Arthur's gaze pulled immediately by the motion.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?" Arthur gives his cock a few leisurely strokes before pulling out a condom and rolling it on. Eames watches, salivating at the sight despite the chills Arthur's words send down his spine.

"I don't give a fuck what you do," Eames says as Arthur pushes his legs apart and kneels between them. "I won't say a word."

Arthur lifts Eames' cock, semi-erect against his thigh. "This makes you hard."

"You make me hard," Eames replies, which is true. The stroke of leather against his cock is sweet, terrifying—Arthur could exercise his total control at any instant, in any number of brutal ways.

Arthur sets Eames' cock aside and examines his balls, more scientific than sexual. He then moves on to Eames' hole, rubbing the rim down thoroughly with lubricant.

This is the moment when Eames should catch Arthur's neck between his knees and snap it. This is when he should pull both legs back and kick in Arthur's nose with his heels. Arthur is distracted, vulnerable, horny. This is it.

Eames spreads his legs wider and imagines what Arthur's dick would feel like down his throat, choking him. "I could suck you."

"Tempting, but I don't trust you not to bite off my dick." Arthur drizzles the last bit of lube onto his condom-clad cock and takes Eames by the back of his knees. "This will do."

The first breach of Arthur's cock is agony; Eames hasn't had anything larger than a finger up his arse in years, decades, even. Arthur doesn't bother to go slowly or allow Eames to adjust, pushing inwards relentlessly. Eames feels the sting of tears under his eyelids as Arthur bottoms out with a satisfied exhale.

It hurts when Arthur pulls back, rubs raw against Eames' rim even with lube. It hurts more when Arthur shoves in again, Eames' body nowhere near prepared for a second assault.

Arthur's cock punches the breath from Eames' lungs with every thrust, grinds the rope against Eames' wrists, makes Eames' skin burn against the tarp-covered floor. And yet through it all, there's a tiny, dark ball of pleasure. Eames is still impossibly, miraculously hard, cock brushing against Arthur's waistcoat and jacket with every thrust.

The thickness of Arthur's cock hurts and creates a feeling of fullness that's staggeringly satisfying, sets nerves alight that Eames has never felt before. There's a strange want every time Arthur rocks out which is eased every time he pushes back in.

Arthur isn't looking at Eames' face, is instead staring at Eames' rope-wrapped chest. The part of Eames that's always loved to be observed thrills at the attention. Eames flexes and twists until his muscles stand out in greater relief, preens at the way Arthur's breathing grows ragged in response.

Then Arthur stops.

Eames doesn't realize he was moving his hips to meet the thrusts until Arthur goes absolutely still and leans back.

"You're leaking onto my suit," Arthur says, pressing one fingertip against the slit of Eames' cock and pulling away, a silvery strand of precome gleaming in the air. "If you come before I do, you're going to make a mess."

"You can suck me off and swallow," Eames suggests hoarsely, shifting upwards to offer his cock for a taste. "No mess at all, then."

"I'm not interested in that. But maybe..." Arthur smears the precome along Eames' lower lip. "A more creative use of your mouth might be in order."

Arthur begins to jerk Eames off, one hand round the shaft and the other massaging the balls. It's an expert handjob, Arthur's manual dexterity and strength wringing an orgasm from Eames' cock practically before his mind registers it happening.

Eames swallows a gasp as his hips buck up, Arthur's hands catching all his come. It slicks the palms of Arthur's leather gloves, which Arthur offers up to Eames' mouth.

Eames doesn't break eye contact as he licks Arthur's palms, sucks the come from Arthur's fingers. It smears across his cheeks, his nose, his eyebrows—and before he's finished, he can feel Arthur's hips begin to move.

Arthur lowers his hands to rest on Eames' chest, thumbing and twisting Eames' nipples as he thrusts. Eames allows his mouth to fall open, small whimpers issuing forth as Arthur fucks him. Now that he's climaxed, almost all the muscles in his lower body have relaxed. The pain that had been so overwhelming before has been replaced with pleasure that makes Eames' eyes roll back in his head.

"Aren't you full of surprises," Arthur says when Eames' thighs tighten against Arthur's sides, toes curling.

It still aches, a little, a bright edge to the electric pleasure thrumming through Eames' body. Eames doesn't think he can come again but he doesn't care. All he wants is for Arthur to keep fucking him.

Arthur picks up speed, rhythm growing erratic. Eames hums encouragingly, hazily, eager to see Arthur come.

Arthur gives Eames one last, body-shaking thrust and pulls out. He rips off the condom and finishes himself off, ejaculate spurting across Eames' chest and nose and mouth. It's warm and salty and faintly bitter on Eames' tongue. He catches as much as he can. He wants more.

Arthur stands up and tucks himself back into his trousers, chest heaving. "Should I kill you?"

Eames stretches along the ground, feeling sore and debauched and more alive than he can remember being in years. "I don't care who you are or what you came here to do. I'm no threat to you—I think you know that."

"Hm." Arthur runs his fingers through Eames' hair. "Keep a secret and I'll let you keep your life."

Eames twists up into a sitting position and presses his lips to Arthur's mouth. "Done."

Arthur's mouth is slack at first, startled. Eames drives in with his tongue, heedlessly, until Arthur pushes back with as just much force. They kiss a while, a battle of tongues and teeth and mouths, until Eames bites down hard enough to draw blood.

Arthur pulls back, licks the crimson from his lips, and smiles.




* * * * *


The show in New York closes a success. Eames' artwork fetches outlandish prices and sells out. He also returns home earlier than expected, due to the untimely death of Babbitz via what the coroner deemed to be natural causes.

With his newfound resources and freedom, Eames hermits himself away in his studio, working feverishly on a new painting series. Yusuf stops by in the midst of Eames' creative process and backs away quickly, says he's going to put a show together in an adults-only venue.

Eames comes out of his frenzy three months later, surrounded by triptychs and diptychs of various sizes, all featuring the same subject.

The show opens to great fanfare, critics reviewing it with a mixture of fascination, horror, and titillation overlaid with moralizing blather about its 'near-pornographic' content. Eames refuses to take down the most controversial pieces—namely, those featuring a larger-than-life cock ejaculating—and won't answer questions about whether it's modeled on his own anatomy.

On the closing night of the show, Eames wanders the room aimlessly, scanning the throngs of visitors for the one face he wants to see. It's nearly ten and the gallery is beginning to shoo people out so the breakdown crew can come in and disassemble the exhibits.

Eames sighs and walks into the loo, disappointment weighing on him despite the stream of happy texts Yusuf sends about how many buyers have bid on the art. He takes a piss and washes his hands.

The bathroom door closes and locks.

Eames feels a tingle on the back of his neck as he dries his hands. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"How could I miss a show titled, 'Big Bang: the origins of a universe?'" a familiar voice murmurs, a suit-clad body pressing up against Eames' back.

Eames takes a deep breath as a bolt of arousal shoots straight him. He looks in the mirror and meets Arthur's eyes. "Tell me: art or bullshit?"

"I think the more relevant question is: art or pornography?" Arthur reaches around to grab Eames's cock through his trousers, kneading as firmly as Eames remembers. "Imagine the surprise I felt at seeing my gloves, my waistcoat, my neck, and my prick—all covered in your semen."

"Covered in white paint," Eames corrects, sighing slightly as Arthur strokes him.

"Your semen covered up with white paint." Arthur bites Eames' earlobe. "I can smell it on your paintings."

Eames doesn't bother to deny it as Arthur continues to work his cock. Eames can feel the hard line of Arthur's answering erection and tilts his arse back towards it.

"Take off your shirt," Arthur says, stepping back. Eames immediately complies. "Take off your pants and underwear."

Eames pushes his trousers down to his ankles and steps out of them. He shivers, minutely, as he pushes down his pants as well. There's no way for Arthur not to see it, now.

"What's this?" Arthur kicks Eames' legs apart and presses Eames back down, effectively forcing Eames to bend at the waist and present his arse. Arthur tugs at the base of the butt plug, pulling it out.

Eames feels his hole contract in the chilly air, and watches Arthur's reflected expression. "I've been waiting for you."

"Have you worn this every night of the show?" At Eames' nod, Arthur touches the tender rim of Eames' hole. "This plug is a lot smaller than I am."

"I know." Eames widens his stand and takes hold of the counter. "I want you to fucking rip me apart all over again."

Arthur draws his cock out of his trousers and covers it with a condom. His motions are as deliberately paced as last time; he doesn't seem moved by the way Eames is spread and waiting for him. When he shoves in, Eames keens, the pain and pleasure so intense his knees nearly buckle. This is what he's been waiting for: Arthur splitting him open once more.

Arthur sets a punishing pace that rocks Eames forward until his hips hit the counter, forcing him to sprawl his arms and torso across a sink basin. Every thrust scrapes Eames' cock along the underside of the sink—rubbing against old piping and god knows what. Eames wants to keep his head up, to watch Arthur's face in the mirror but he can't—not with Arthur's cock driving deep inside, pleasure turning his entire body to jelly.

Eames' forehead falls against a faucet. His elbows are resting in puddles of water. Everything feels disgusting and raw and so good Eames can't do anything besides sob raggedly and take it.

"Don't stop," Eames rasps, feeling strung out. He's about to come, but he doesn't want any of the sensations to end.

Arthur yanks Eames' head back by the hair. "Do you think you can fit my entire cock down your throat?"

Eames blinks fuzzily at the mirror and licks his lips. "I can try."

Arthur backs off abruptly. Without Arthur to hold him up, Eames practically melts to the floor. He forces himself into a kneeling position, fingers wrapped round his own dick.

Arthur grabs Eames' jaw and pries his mouth open, feeds him cock. Eames chokes twice as it fills his mouth, tears spilling as he struggles with his gag reflex, but Arthur doesn't stop. Eames' hands are slippery with precome, his own dick leaking almost continuously at this point.

"There we are," Arthur says, fingers almost gentle in Eames hair while his other hand holds Eames' neck so he can't pull off. "I knew you'd love taking it."

Eames comes like that, wanking himself furiously while saliva drips from the corners of his stretched-wide mouth and tears stream down his cheeks. When Arthur finally pulls his cock out, Eames gasps for breath, dizzy from oxygen deprivation and climax.

"Pay attention, I'm going to come in your mouth. Suck and lick, that's it, just the head." Arthur returns his cock to Eames' lips. "No, don't be greedy. The head is enough."

Eames suckles at Arthur's dick blissfully, licking at the underside, lapping up the precome at the slit. The taste is salty and familiar, a hundred times stronger now, right at the source. When Arthur begins to come, Eames presses forward despite Arthur's orders and buries his nose in Arthur's groin.

Eames swallows every drop of come from Arthur's cock and surges up for a kiss.

They make out lazily, Arthur's hands running along Eames' arse, his chest. "You made a mess on my clothing," Arthur says, gesturing at Eames' come on his trouser leg.

"I'll cover it in white paint and sell it for millions," Eames says.

"Done," Arthur replies, and bites Eames' lip, hard enough to bleed.

fin

---

Command and Control
Wordcount: 5000
Written for i_reversebang, inspired by motetus' beautiful art!


Arthur and Eames have sex for the first time in the aftermath of a successful extraction. It catches Arthur off guard, mainly because they'd been dating for a month already and done nothing more than a little light groping (with their clothes still on).

Despite Eames' propensity for flirting shamelessly with men, women, and inanimate objects, it turns out that he takes dating quite seriously. And, as a result, takes sex quite seriously (see: slowly).

The dating began with a post-inception round of celebratory drinks Arthur had been fairly certain would lead to passionate, high-on-victory fucking. Arthur's plan to get rip-roaring drunk was replaced with a glass of fine whiskey and Eames' gentle flirtation, interspersed with sincere interest and questions about Arthur's childhood.

Arthur had been so surprised by the way the night was going that he lowered his guard and answered Eames' questions, even going so far as to talk about his relationship with his mother. His mother.

At the end of the evening, Eames offered to walk Arthur back to his hotel, which Arthur took as code for sex at his place. Eames had escorted Arthur to his room, thanked him for the lovely evening, and kissed him in a gentlemanly manner before walking off. Leaving Arthur confused and horny in the doorway of his hotel room.

The following three dates proceeded in a similar fashion, with Eames seeing Arthur off at the end of the night with no more than a kiss. Arthur started with suggestive hints, escalated to blatant invitations to sleep over, and ended with a frank, "Are you not into sex or something? Because I definitely am."

"I am most certainly into sex," Eames said, voice low and smoky with promise. "I can't wait to tear all your clothes off when the time is right."

Arthur's brain stopped processing words after 'tear all your clothes off', especially since the conversation ended in an epic make-out session the likes of which he hasn't enjoyed since he was fifteen. It was only after Eames left in a haze of, "Darling, I'm afraid I'm rather mad about you," and, "Dinner next week then?" that Arthur realized he still had no idea when he'd upgrade from sex with his own hand to the real deal.

The following day Arthur and Eames worked a job together (something small and low key, arranged before they began dating). They finished the extraction successfully despite encountering some gunfire from hostile projections towards the end, wiped down the dentist's office, and split up.

At least, they were supposed to be splitting up. Eames, in a breach of protocol, grabbed Arthur by the hand once they cleared the building and drove back to the hotel.

Rather than bring Arthur up to his room, he dragged Arthur to the public restroom, jammed the lock, and got down on his knees. Arthur's fly was open before he even knew what was happening, Eames sucking him to full hardness.

"Um," Arthur said, eloquently, mesmerized by the sight of Eames' lips wrapped around his cock. Reality was even better than the numerous fantasies that'd been circulating Arthur's mind of late, Eames doing things with his tongue that Arthur didn't know were physically possible. He came in an astonishingly short amount of time, barely remembering to warn Eames before he did.

Eames seemed not at all perturbed, swallowing Arthur down before standing.

"Wow," Arthur said, dazed. He kissed Eames, and the notion of reciprocation occurred to him. "Would you like me to…?"

"No need," Eames said, guiding Arthur's fingers down to the damp spot in the front of Eames' pants. It should have felt gross, but the fact that Eames came in his pants just from blowing Arthur was probably one of the hottest things he'd ever experienced. Fuck.

They made their way upstairs eventually, to have more sex. Glorious, messy, frequent sex with breaks for food and talking and sleeping. Arthur meant to ask Eames 'why now?' but got sidetracked by the luscious curve of Eames' ass. And then, later, by the way Eames smiled, crooked and happy, when they ate breakfast in bed.

* * * * *

They continue to work occasional jobs together. During their jobs apart, they stay in contact via phone calls and Skype, talking about their days and having virtual sex. Arthur finds himself looking forward to the chats, to seeing Eames, to being with him again physically—and not purely for sexual reasons.

Eames doesn’t do casual, it seems. Arthur is surprised to discover that he doesn't mind a bit of serious when it comes to Eames.

They keep a low profile in the dreamshare community, strictly professional in front of colleagues. Most jobs are easy, relatively simple extractions or lucrative militarization trainings. It isn't until they're running an extraction set on a dude ranch that Arthur discovers—well, a somewhat different side of Eames.

Everything was going fine. That is, until the mark revealed a secret and violent hatred for clowns. A hatred that manifested in angry projections chasing them outside of the house and into the fields.

"How much time do you need?" Arthur asks over the radio as he swivels around to assess the mob of adults and children in party hats chasing after them.

"Ten minutes," Zhu crackles back. "I'm inside the house, making my way to the cellar."

Eames, having shed his ill-fated clown forgery, says, "We can give you five."

Arthur wheels around to shoot more or less blindly into the crowd behind them. It drops a few projections, but nowhere near enough. "We'll lure them away and distract as long as we can, but you've got to hurry."

Eames hurls a grenade, which buys them both enough time to hop a fence and resume running. "I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this."

Arthur takes Eames' point—he's beginning to feel the first twinges of exhaustion across his body, from his overheated chest to his dry mouth. Arthur scans the horizon in front of them—mostly flat, barren pasture—and spots a lone horse grazing near the stable. It's some ways away, but could provide the perfect opportunity to put some distance between them and the projections.

"Can you ride a horse?" Arthur asks.

"Yes."

"Awesome." Arthur takes a deep gulp of air and forces himself to continue. "I'll get on and swing you up behind me. Cover me while I do."

"Roger that."

They skid to a halt beside the dappled grey horse. It skitters back a few feet, nostrils flaring.

"Whoa there," Arthur says, holding out a hand to calm it. "Everything's alright."

"I'm inside the cellar, almost to the safe," Zhu announces through their receivers and Eames groans.

"It'll take her at least another five minutes to crack it and retrieve the information," Eames says, shooting several projections as Arthur scrambles onto the horse.

Arthur offers Eames a hand up. "Then let's ride as far and fast as we can."

Eames swings behind Arthur, the horse neighing nervously. It doesn't try to throw them off, however, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief as he urges it into motion.

They move into a smooth canter, the horse straining only slightly at their combined weight. The projections can't keep up and Arthur is about to breathe a sigh of relief when the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell whizzes past his ear.

"What the hell was that?" Eames shouts into Arthur's ear, arms tightening around his waist.

"Some of them are armed now," Arthur shouts back, beginning to ride in a zigzag pattern. There's no cover to be found, flat farmland in every direction. This was supposed to be a routine extraction, the mark a laid-back middle manager who happened to be the unwitting possessor of some valuable information. Easy.

Arthur frowns as he guides the horse. Something's strange, but it takes him a moment to sort through all the stimuli to identify what's off. There's a curious lack of gunfire in his ears, which means Eames isn't turning to shoot at the projections as they ride. And he can feel something firm pressed up against his ass—something that's definitely not part of the saddle.

A moment later, there's a drift of sensation against his own groin—Eames' right hand is grazing lower, fingers rubbing a place that seems completely inappropriate at this juncture.

"Eames," Arthur says, unsure what to continue with. Is Eames rubbing one out against his ass while buckshot whizzes past them?

"Just a little longer, darling," Eames murmurs as the motion of the horse grinds Eames' hips more firmly against Arthur. "Almost finished."

"This is not the best time," Arthur mutters, mindful that Zhu can hear everything they say through their earpieces.

Eames nuzzles against the back of Arthur's neck. "The projections can't reach us on horse-back."

"They can if they're shooting," Arthur says, cock taking a heightened interest in Eames' proximity despite all good sense and reason.

"You're bloody marvelous," Eames whispers, punctuated with a breathy groan that means he's come. On a horse, rubbing one out against Arthur's ass, while projections chase them. Arthur can only hope that if Zhu heard, she thinks Eames has been shot.

"Got it," Zhu says. "I'm outta here, guys. See you topside!"

"Thank god," Arthur mutters. He reaches for a gun, but feels the press of steel against his back and knows that Eames already has it covered.

* * * * *

"Good job holding the projections off," Zhu says as they wipe down the therapist's office. "I'll wire everyone their cut once the exchange is made."

"Sounds good," Arthur says as they all take off.

He and Eames reconvene a few hours later in a hotel room.

"We need to—" Arthur starts as he enters to the room. But words fall away when he's greeted by Eames, completely naked, pressing him back against the door and kissing him senseless.

It's only later when he's fucking Eames over the back of a chair that a wisp of thought about something they need to discuss appears. Then Eames begins to groan lavishly, and the thought promptly dissipates once more.


* * * * *

"Bad news," Eames says, putting down his cell phone. "My getaway driver appears to have been mauled by a bear."

Arthur laughs reflexively as he skims the weather report online. When Eames is quiet, Arthur looks up. "Wait, seriously?"

"Believe me, I wish it were a joke." Eames is pacing. "The job's less than two days out. I don't know anyone in the immediate area I could call in, which means I'll have to rely on referrals, which could get expensive with a finder's fee attached. Not to mention anyone who is available and competent will likely charge an exorbitant markup for the timing. Bloody hell."

Arthur sits back, trying to think of contacts in the area. Unfortunately, most fail the 'available' or 'competent' tests. "Remini's not too far and could fly in if she's not booked already. Verret's within a three hour driving distance."

"Let's give them a ring."

Both are unavailable, and all other names Arthur and Eames generate lead to dead ends. They quickly exhaust their list of even marginally able contacts.

"I'm fucked," Eames says. "It's physically impossible for me to do the job without a second, which means I'm going to have to call in Chartwell."

"Chartwell is an idiot who can barely tie his own shoelaces without help," Arthur says. "He'll get you killed or caught."

"But he's local and guaranteed to be available." Eames stares at his phone, as if reluctant to dial. "I'll do everything myself in order to reduce the odds that he'll botch the job. All he'll need to do is drive—assuming he hasn't forgotten how."

"Screw Chartwell. I'll do it."

"You don't do topside crime anymore."

"I'll make an exception," Arthur says. "It's cheaper than paying for your bail, anyway."

"Are you sure?" Eames settles on the couch next to Arthur, familiar and warm. "I have worked with Chartwell before and avoided death. Narrowly, but it can be done."

Arthur reaches out to smooth the funny tuft of hair sticking up above Eames' ear. Unless Eames gels it down, he can never quite eliminate the cowlicks. "I'm sure."



* * * * *

The job is going according to plan, except for the three cars chasing after them.

"We need to drop this vehicle and switch to the backup," Eames says, peering back over his shoulder.

"Yes," Arthur says through gritted teeth, fingers tight around the wheel. "Tell me how to shake these guys and I'll get right on that."

There's the sound of metal striking metal, roughly bullet shaped. Now the fuckers are shooting at them.

"I can't fire back from this angle," Eames says, shifting in the passenger side seat. "They haven't shot out the back windshield yet."

"Time to go really fast then," Arthur says, and floors the accelerator. He hears the tires screeching as he whips around a few hairpin turns, the smell of burnt rubber wafting through the air.

Two of the cars can't keep up. One skids off the road and another slams into a telephone pole. The last remains in tight pursuit and Arthur adjusts his grip on the wheel, palms sweaty.

"Only one left," Eames says and puts a hand on Arthur's thigh. "You're amazing."

There's something off about Eames' voice and Arthur risks a glance over to confirm that there's a noticeable bulge in Eames' pants. "Seriously, Eames?" Arthur says with some alarm as Eames' fingers creep up Arthur's inner thighs. "This is not a dream. If I slam this car into a tree, it's game over and we die permanently."

"I have complete faith in you," Eames says breathily, in what Arthur can only describe as his sex voice. "Will you let me put my lips on your cock? I want—"

"Stop it right now." Arthur glances into the rearview mirror and prays there's enough distance to execute the maneuver he has in mind. "I need to fucking focus."

They're driving along an empty country road, fields and crops on either side of them. Fast approaching is a wooded area, the road winding through a crowded thicket.

"Hold on," Arthur warns before wrenching the wheel as far as he can to the right, effectively snapping them off the road, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around.

The car behind them doesn't catch on in time and attempts to replicate the move, but there's not enough open space between it and the trees. The car careens wildly into a large fir, the clang of metal all the confirmation Arthur needs as he speeds away. He glances in the rearview mirror to see smoke billowing up.

"That was incredible," Eames says, sounding awed.

"Thanks," Arthur says, voice shakier than he'd like. "When we get out of this, we're going to fuck, and then we're going to talk about this—this thing of yours."



* * * * *





"I don't know what to tell you. I'm fucked in the head," Eames says later, when they're lying in a hotel bed, sweaty and exhausted. "You know I'm not—I can control myself, most of the time. Except in certain situations with you, apparently."

"Situations of unspeakable danger?" Arthur replies, exasperated. "Situations where I need full concentration on the tasks related to keeping us alive and getting the job done?"

"I know." Eames groans and covers his face in his hands. "This doesn't happen when I'm the one responsible for ensuring our safety, only when it's you. And it's never happened with anyone else before."

"You've never had this happen with another colleague?"

"No, Arthur, I swear." Eames rolls over to face him, eyes huge. "I've never worked with anyone I've been dating before."

"It's not like I'd be upset if you had a one night stand," Arthur says, smiling faintly.

"I don't do that," Eames says, and given their dating history, Arthur is inclined to believe him. "I need to know someone and to know they—well, they care."

"I never would have pegged you as such a romantic," Arthur says, fondly.

Eames sidles forward to kiss Arthur on the nose. "You won't hold it against me, I hope?"

"No, but—" Arthur sighs as he touches Eames' hip. "Babe, what are we going to do about this?"

Eames presses closer to Arthur's side. "I don't know."

* * * * *

Arthur shifts on his motorcycle and waits. Overhead, the unrelenting sun beats down, only slight respite found in the shade.

The doors of the Toledo Cathedral fly open and a familiar figure emerges, arms wrapped around an enormous cross. Arthur turns the ignition and goes to meet Eames.

"You know I’m not always going to be around to save you like this, don't you?" Arthur asks as Eames climbs on behind him. He's hot, he's sweaty, and Eames is late.

"I don't believe anyone's been saved yet," Eames replies, gesturing to the angry people streaming out of the church behind them.

"You had to do this in broad daylight."

"It's when security is weakest, ironically enough," Eames replies as they take off. "In the evening the place is a bloody fortress."

"I still don't understand why you need this thing."

"I've been saving up to pay for another of your bespoke suits." Eames nuzzles the back of Arthur's neck. "I found a beautiful fabric I think will look marvelous with your complexion."

Arthur tries to suppress his smile, but can't quite manage it. Eames always insists on being a charming bastard, even when it's not called for. "You know I have plenty of suits already."

Eames squeezes Arthur's sides gently. "I know, but I can't wait to see you in this one."

And then a police car roars up behind them, sirens wailing.

Arthur snakes a turn into an alley—too narrow for the car behind to follow—and winces as they bounce over ancient cobblestones. The alley releases them back into a street that leads out of the city, onto winding mountain roads.

"Fuck," Arthur mutters as the wide, well-paved roads turn into twisty paths with meager guard rails—the only things separating them from a long, painful descent down the mountainside. He's forced to lose some speed and glances back over his shoulder to check for tails.

"They're gone," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear as he grinds not at all subtly against Arthur's ass.

Arthur abruptly pulls over to the shoulder of the road and kills the engine. He jumps off the motorcycle, leaving Eames to stumble off after him. "You don't ever stop, do you?"

Eames sets the relic on the ground and stares back at Arthur, unapologetic. "We're not in danger anymore. I don't see the harm."

"Of course we're in danger. That's why you're two seconds from begging to suck my cock," Arthur says, widening his stance when Eames' eyes go to his crotch area. Predictable.

Eames licks his lips. "You think I'd be that easily reduced to begging?"

"I think it's the only way you're going to get what you want." Arthur hooks his thumbs into his pockets. He can wait.

There's a long pause before Eames practically falls onto this knees, face pressed against Arthur's fly. "Please."

"Did I say you could touch?" Arthur asks, forcing himself to take a step back from Eames' questing hands. "Tell me how much you want this."

"I—" Eames puts a hand on his own cock, already erect through his pants. "I want this."

"What do you want?"

"I want your dick in my mouth." Eames swallows and shuffles forward on his knees. "I want you to choke me with your come. I want to come in my trousers, just from sucking you."

"That's—" Arthur clears his throat, voice hoarse. "That's better." He puts two fingers under Eames' chin. "Now, you're going to warm my dick with your mouth. Then I'm going to fuck your ass."

"Yes." Eames stares up at Arthur, eyes wide.

"Yes, what?"

"I want to be your cock-warmer. Your willing hole." Eames runs his tongue along the palm of Arthur's leather glove. Arthur takes a steadying breath as he feels his pants grow tighter. "I want your cock inside me, anywhere. However long."

"You get off on being used, don't you?" The answer is obvious in the way Eames licks the entirety of Arthur's gloved hand, sucking on each individual finger. But Arthur still needs to hear it. "How many times are going you to come before you'll want it to stop? Before you're finished?"

"I don't care how many times I come," Eames says, gaze lust-dark. "All I care about is feeling you inside me. Using me."

Arthur opens his fly, marking the way Eames' lips part. "No hands."

Eames presses his face against Arthur's cock immediately, rubbing his forehead and lips and cheek against it. Eames breathes heavily, dipping down to nose at Arthur's balls, his perineum. He eventually returns to licking at the head, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue flickers in and out. It feels—incredible.

"That's enough teasing," Arthur says, touching the back of Eames' neck meaningfully. Eames goes willingly—eagerly—and sucks the head of Arthur's dick into his mouth, lapping at the tip. Eames moans as Arthur hardens, mouth stretching wider to accommodate the girth.

"Shameless," Arthur murmurs as he watches Eames bob and suck blissfully. It's intoxicating, how much Eames wants it, and Arthur feels his orgasm coming on quickly. Too quickly.

Arthur reluctantly detaches himself from Eames' mouth. Eames whimpers and tries to follow. "But—"

"Stop being greedy. You can come on my cock when I—" Arthur halts, pushes Eames back slightly. "You've already come, haven't you?"

Eames looks up at Arthur with hazy eyes and nods. There's a wet patch staining the front of Eames' pants, spreading.

"You always get off sucking cock. Fuck," Arthur says, unable to resist giving his own cock a few jerks. "What do you want?"

Eames looks up at Arthur, glassy and mesmerized. "For you to come on me."

"You want this on your face?" Arthur says, slightly unsure. He wants to stop, to return to what he'd said he'd do, but the idea of splattering Eames with his come is almost unbearably hot. He's so close.

Eames turns his face up. "Yes, do it."

Arthur moans as he climaxes, keeps his eyes open, watches the come splash across Eames' cheeks, lips, and chin. It's gorgeous.

Before Arthur is completely finished, Eames ducks in to catch the last dribbles with his tongue. Arthur sighs as Eames bathes his dick gently—he's oversensitive but it still feels good.

"You've made me come." Arthur gestures for Eames to stand. "Now how will I fuck you?"

Eames wraps his arms around Arthur's waist and kisses him, mouth hungry and demanding, no longer pliable and docile. Arthur can't help but kiss back, losing himself in it until he hears the faraway sound of a car, driving over the mountain road.

"They're still chasing us," Arthurs says, breaking the kiss to peer into the distance. He can't see anything, which means they have a little time. "I bet that's made you hard again."

It has indeed, and Arthur pushes Eames' hand impatiently out of the way as he undoes Eames' fly. "I want you to bend over the back of that motorcycle with your pants down and your legs spread," Arthur says. "Can you do that?"

"Are you going to fuck me?" Eames asks, kissing along Arthur's jaw.

"Greedy for it, aren't you?" Arthur grabs Eames' ass, pinches hard enough to make Eames groan. "You want it?"

"Yes." Eames ruts up against Arthur's hip, cock smearing precome all over. "I want you to come inside me—"

"I told you to turn around and bend over," Arthur says, pushing Eames back a half-step. "Do it, before I lose interest and leave you here for the people chasing us to find. Bare-assed and jerking off, imagining my cock. Gagging for it."

Eames finally complies, draping himself over the back of the motorcycle like a work of art. Arthur gives his ass a sound smack and is rewarded with Eames' shocked moan.

"Think of all the people you pissed off today, stealing that relic," Arthur says, pouring lube generously. He could stare at Eames in this position for hours. "They could be here any second and what would they find? You with your pants down and ass in the air. What would they think if they saw you like? Legs spread and desperate?"

"Fuck, Arthur," Eames says, hips working restlessly. "Please, I need it. I need—"

Arthur drizzles lube over Eames' hole, watches it shiver and contract. "What if I let them do whatever they wanted with you? Let them use your mouth and your ass?"

Eames sighs as Arthur traces his hole, leather squeaking in the lube.

"Do you feel that?" Arthur asks as he presses in.

"Mm," Eames hums, legs spreading wider. "More."

"You think you call the shots here?" Arthur asks and removes his finger.

"No, no, I—" Eames twists around to stare at Arthur, imploring. "I need it, darling, please. I need it."

"What do you need?"

"You inside me." Eames tilts up his ass, obscene and inviting. "You to fuck me."

"You think you really deserve my cock after everything you've done?" Arthur jams two fingers in swiftly, relishing the way Eames keens. "After how recklessly you've acted."

"I'll make you come so hard. I can ride you, I can suck you, I can—" Eames gasps when Arthur presses against his prostate, back muscles tightening with pleasure. "Don't stop, don't stop, oh—"

"Are you going to come like this?" Arthur wonders aloud, pressing a third finger in, marveling at the dark leather against Eames' tan skin, his pink pucker. "Will this be enough for you? Three fingers? Four fingers? My whole fist?"

"I love it, I bloody—" Eames cuts off with a moan, voice hoarse. "I'm going to come, I am, but I still want—I need your cock—"

Arthur gives Eames' ass another slap and watches his entire body tense, toes curling as he groans through what must be his second or third orgasm by now. Arthur pulls his hand away, lines himself up behind Eames' limp body, and pushes in.

It feels amazing. Velvet hot, tight, and a beautiful sight to behold. It's mesmerizing, seeing his dick shove in and out of Eames' round ass, almost as amazing as every thrust feels. Arthur digs his fingers into Eames' hips to hold him still, fucking with rough jerks that force gasps from Eames' lips.

"So deep," Eames murmurs, breathless. "So good."

"Are you going to come again?" Arthur can barely manage to grit the words out in between thrusts. "Bent over this motorcycle, split open on my cock where anyone can see?"

"Fuck, yes," Eames moans, and clenches down hard.

"I'm going to make you lick up every trace of come you've left on this motorcycle." Arthur kisses Eames' ear, catches the corner of Eames' soft mouth, and forgets what he's about to say. "I…"

"Arthur," Eames murmurs, twisting around to kiss Arthur more fully.

Arthur loses himself in the kiss, cradles Eames' beautiful face, his wild and messy hair. It's usually so carefully combed, restrained, like what Arthur had always imagined Eames to be. But Eames is nothing like what Arthur expected, or expected to want, but here he is, just—

"Arthur," Eames says again, breaking the kiss to bump his nose gently against Arthur's. "We're running out of time."

"Right." Arthur clears his throat and reluctantly pulls away from Eames' lips. "They're—they're right behind us. They'll catch up to us at any minute."

"But you're going to make me take your cock anyway," Eames supplies, voice husky.

"Yeah." Arthur begins to thrust, building up speed because he can hear the roar of motorcycles and car engines less than a mile away, now. "Yeah, I am."

Arthur comes just as the gunshots begin, sparks of pain flaring across his body and mixing with pleasure.



* * * * *


Arthur opens his eyes.

Lying beside him is Eames, breathing deep and slow. Arthur should probably sit up and remove his line. He should.

Eames stirs, tiny movements beneath his eyelids before they open. A smile curls the corner of his mouth. "Hullo."

"Hello," Arthur says, feeling an answering smile on his own face. "Sleep well?"

"I did." Eames brushes his fingertips against Arthur's hand, lying on the coverlet. "And you?"

"I had a sex dream," Arthur begins, watching Eames' face carefully. "It wasn't my usual but I—it was pretty good. I think."

"I had a sex dream as well." Eames tangles his fingers in Arthur's, and brings his other hand around to cup Arthur's cheek. "Quite marvelous."

"Yeah?"

"Multiple orgasms," Eames says as he gently removes the cannula from Arthur's wrist. "Even better than my conscious fantasy, in fact."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, feeling almost shy as Eames presses a kiss to the pinpricks left by the IV.

"Probably a healthier outlet for my dubious urges than groping during inopportune moments," Eames says, tone going dry. "All things considered."

"When I'm not in danger of being killed in the real world or on a job, I don't mind your urges." It's Arthur's turn to kiss the little downward turn of Eames' mouth. "I enjoy them. Even when I'm being shot at."

Eames smiles back, hesitant at first, but then more strongly as Arthur hooks his knee around Eames' calf, tangling their legs together even closer.

fin

---

Hole in One
Wordcount: 3000
Written for i_reversebang, inspired by pokemaster's adorable art!

"It should be relatively straightforward," Eames says. "You stay with the mark on the green while I retrieve the client list from the locker."

"Aren't I a little old to be pretending to be a caddy?" Arthur asks.

"Not at all. There are numerous professional caddies of various ages these days," Eames replies. "Caddies can sometimes serve as aides and lieutenants to top golfers—advising on the best way to approach a hole, the exact yardage and layout of the green, which clubs are best to use. Of course, in this dream you'll be playing a caddy that works for the golf course so the mark shouldn't be expecting extensive notes on his game."

"Wouldn't it be easier if I played one of his golfing buddies?"

"Do you know how to play golf on a professional level?"

Arthur has swung a golf club exactly twice in his life, both times at the beginning of miniature golf games that ended prematurely due to rain. He doubts those experiences apply. "Not exactly."

"Then it's simply not viable, I'm afraid," Eames says, shaking his head regretfully, though Arthur suspects he's not particularly sorry at all. "The mark is a tremendous snob about who he golfs with. Only plays with people as skilled as, or more so, than himself. Anyone else will draw his suspicions in an instant."

"Seems like you've got this job locked down already," Arthur observes. "Anything you need me to do?"

"I was thinking we could dedicate the latter half of this meeting to going under." Eames pulls out his PASIV. "Review the build, take a tour of the course."

"You have it built already?" Eames had called Arthur in for the job a few weeks ago, and Arthur arrived yesterday. He'd assumed Eames had done all the preliminary research, but Eames seems much further along in the planning stages than that.

"It's very basic, merely an amalgam of various golf courses and country clubs," Eames says as he rolls up his sleeve.

"Sure." Arthur settles into one of the overstuffed chairs. They're working out of Eames' hotel room. There wasn't any need to rent space since the team consists of just the two of them, though Arthur's starting to wonder if his presence is necessary to this job either.

Eames strides over with a wet wipe while Arthur rolls up his sleeve. "I would certainly appreciate your feedback on the build, of course."

"I haven't been on many golf courses before, so I can't comment too much on the aesthetics," Arthur says while Eames takes him gently by the wrist and runs the wipe over his skin. "This job seems straightforward enough that we shouldn't need to install anything too fancy. I'm happy to take a look, though."

"Marvelous. I'd be much obliged," Eames replies. He's still holding onto Arthur's arm, grip careful, as if Arthur were something that needed delicate handling.

"Eames?" Arthur prompts.

"Hm? Oh yes." Eames releases Arthur and steps back, coloring faintly. "Ahem. Yes."

Arthur watches Eames busy himself with the PASIV. There'd been a moment, years ago. Arthur had flirted a little—enough to convey interest while maintaining plausible deniability in case Eames rebuffed him. Eames had flirted back, much to Arthur's relief.

In fact, they even scheduled a date of sorts that Arthur was forced to cancel at the last minute. Complications arose with a previous job—semi-lethal complications—which involved him fleeing the country and going into hiding for months.

By the time he resurfaced, Eames had gotten involved with someone else. Arthur had been tempted to broach the topic again, but things seemed pretty serious with Eames' girlfriend. So that had been that.

Time passed, they both dated other people and subsequently broke up with them. Last Arthur heard, Eames was single again. And possibly still interested, if this carefully choreographed dance of a job is anything to go by.

It's a staggeringly simple extraction, one Eames could easily handle on his own. Which leads Arthur to postulate that this job has little to do with work at all.

"I can—" Arthur makes a half-hearted attempt to rise and reach for a cannula. Eames waves him off.

"My PASIV is rather old and this line can be finicky," Eames says as he skims fingertips along Arthur's forearm. "Best if I handle it, I think."

"Okay," Arthur replies, settling back. The view of Eames focusing intently on his arm, plush lips parted slightly is a pretty nice one. Arthur could get used to the attention.

"All set," Eames says, touching Arthur's shoulder. "Now, shall we?"

Arthur nods and waits for Eames to hook himself up. "I'm ready when you are."

Eames smiles at Arthur, expression warmer than one usually exchanged between strictly colleagues.

And then—lights out.


* * * * *

Arthur hasn't visited many golf courses in his life, but even he can tell that this is an unusually nice one. There are long stretches of immaculate green grass, small hills, and a blue sky overhead with the perfect ratio of sun and cloud.

Eames pulls up alongside Arthur in a golf cart, decked out in pastels. The outfit is complete with a driving cap and riding gloves. "Your chariot awaits," Eames says, a touch of mischief in his smile. He's wearing dark tinted aviators.

Arthur looks down at his own clothing, which consists of a white pair of coveralls. "This is one hell of an outfit."

Eames smiles, and Arthur gets the distinct impression that Eames is scanning him from head to toe behind his sunglasses. "It suits you."

"Thanks, I guess. I haven't worn a jumpsuit since I was in prison," Arthur says as he adjusts the bright white overalls into a more subdued white T-shirt and brown trousers. "Can't say I miss them."

"I didn't know you spent time in prison." Eames climbs out of the cart. "What were you in for?"

"They wanted me for burglary, assault, and corporate espionage," Arthur replies. "The only thing they could get to stick was a theft charge. It was a few months and I got out on parole for good behavior."

Eames gives Arthur a sidelong glance. "Such a checkered past you have. You're going to be a terrible influence, aren't you?"

"Because you're squeaky clean, huh?"

"Officially, yes."

"Officially, aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Eames waves a hand dismissively. "Legal semantics, really."

Arthur chuckles. "I thought you were going to give me the tour?"

"I am, but before we get to that, we're going to review some equipment basics." Eames hauls a considerable bag of clubs out of the backseat of the cart. "Most of what you'll be doing is retrieving the correct club for the mark to play with."

Eames explains the various types from putters to irons and woods (Arthur can't help sniggering throughout at all the names, especially when combined with discussion about various holes). They discuss wedges and head shapes and shaft lengths (more snickering, because good god) and what all the numbers stand for.

After a thorough explanation, Eames passes each club to Arthur to get a feel of the heft and weight.

"Now let's practice hitting a ball," Eames says. "You won't be called up to play, but a cursory knowledge will help in case the mark wishes to chat."

"Sure," Arthur says, suppressing a small smile at Eames' transparency.

"This is the grip." Eames holds the putter out for Arthur to take and folds Arthur's fingers over the handle individually. "Feel that? Firm, but no need to squeeze too tight. You don't want a club to fly away during the swing, but too much pressure will ruin the easy movement."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, mostly paying attention to Eames' hands on his.

"Now for the arc." Eames slides up behind Arthur, covering Arthur's hands with his. "I'll demonstrate the full swing forward and back, then you can try."

"Sounds good," Arthur says, distracted by the slight press of Eames' groin to his ass, the warmth of his skin.

"Keep the wrist and forearm straight. You want to be swinging with your whole body. Not just rotating the wrist." Eames' breath is warm on Arthur's ear, lips brushing ever so slightly against Arthur's earlobe.

"Like this?" Arthur asks, angling his face towards his shoulder. A few more inches and they'd be kissing.

Eames inhales quickly and goes still. "Yes. Precisely."

"What about the ball?" Arthur murmurs, stilling as well.

"You should constantly—" Eames' tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Keep it in your eye-line. Keep on your ball."

Arthur runs his thumb along the inside of Eames' wrist. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Eames murmurs, eyes unfocused.

They both startle when the golf club falls to the ground with a solid whoomp, jerking them out of the moment.

"Ah yes, the green," Eames says, not too subtly adjusting his pants as he steps away. "You always want to be aware of the terrain, of course, of the possible hills and valleys unique to each golf course, as well as the obvious things like sand traps and water hazards."

"Looks pretty level to me," Arthur says, not really paying attention. Mostly he wants Eames' body pressed against his again.

"Appearances can be deceiving, which is why a lot of golfers crouch down low to survey the land." Eames demonstrates, and Arthur crouches down as well. "You see that small rise over there? It would completely alter your ball's trajectory, which you have to account for when choosing a club to use and how to swing."

Is this a sport purely invented for use in bad sexual puns? Arthur thinks as Eames straightens up and walks to the golf cart again.

Eames drives them around the green, pointing out the various holes and bunkers. Now that sex is on Arthur's mind, nearly everything Eames says sounds like a euphemism dripped in innuendo. The raspy British accent certainly doesn't help.

Arthur wonders idly if he's going to get a boner and forever associate golfing with sex. Apparently, Arthur wonders for too long because Eames touches his knee with a concerned, "Arthur? Did you hear what I said?"

"What? Sorry, missed that last part," Arthur replies, shifting his legs to accommodate his cock, which is most definitely beginning to harden from the close proximity of Eames' hand.

"I asked if you had any suggestions for changes," Eames says, his hand still resting on Arthur's knee. Thank god for automatic transmission in golf carts, Arthur thinks.

"Everything looks good so far," Arthur says, vaguely. "Sometimes it's an advantage to have a dreamscape very similar to the real thing. Then you won't arouse--suspicion."

"That is an excellent point you make, Arthur," Eames says, all the r's rolling together. "I'm glad you approve."

Arthur tears his gaze away from Eames' mouth, back up to his eyes. "Maybe you can show me where the mark's secrets will be housed?"

"A splendid idea," Eames says as he turns the golf cart around.



* * * * *



Eames leads Arthur into an athletic facility, sparkling clean and devoid of any projections. They walk past gym equipment and pristine showers to rows of lockers, all labeled with various names.

Eames stops in front of a locker with the mark's name on it. It's empty.

Arthur traces the nameplate of the locker beside the mark's, engraved with 'Eames'. "If I opened this, what would I find?'

A smile plays over Eames' lips as he spins the combination lock. The door opens to reveal a single envelope addressed to Arthur. "See for yourself."

Arthur turns the envelope over in his hands a moment before he drops it back into the locker and shuts it. "Don't think I need to," Arthur says, and kisses Eames.

Eames is slow to react. Arthur takes the opportunity to press him back against the lockers, savoring the feel of Eames' lips against his. At last. He can't remember why it took him this long.

Eames begins to kiss back, tentatively, mouth opening and tongue sweeping out—clever, quick. Arthur responds, the kiss escalating until he sinks his teeth lightly in Eames' lower lip and breaks away to breathe.

"Finally," Eames says, eyes hooded.

"How much longer were you going to wait?" Arthur asks. His fingers inch underneath the hem of Eames' polo.

"Not long, considering the rather racy photos contained in that envelope," Eames replies, lifting his arms so Arthur can pull off his shirt.

"Photos, huh?" Arthur says, intrigued. "Photos of what?"

"The things I’m going to do to you." Eames pushes Arthur a half step backwards and makes short work of Arthur's belt. "The things I'm going to let you do to me."

"Have you imagined these things in great detail before?" Arthur asks, thumbing Eames' pink perky nipples and marveling at his gorgeous pecs.

"Oh, extensive detail," Eames undoes Arthur's fly. "And you've kept me waiting a long time."

"Me? You were the one that got a girlfriend."

"You were the one that disappeared for months," Eames counters. "I had no idea where you'd gone or if you were ever coming back."

Arthur pauses in his exploration of Eames' chest, flicking up to gaze at Eames' face. "Someone put a bounty on my head."

"Well, I didn't bloody know that, did I?" Eames says, tension threading into his tone.

"I didn't realize—" Arthur cups Eames' chin and kisses him again, softer. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"Damn straight you should have," Eames says, leaning into Arthur's kiss. "Now how are you going to make it up to me?"

"How about some mediocre head to start out with?" Arthur asks, undoing Eames' pants and pushing them down to reveal a very nice, uncut cock.

"Mediocre? Don't you mean mind-blowing?" Eames arches an eyebrow as he takes a seat on a bench.

"I prefer to under-promise and over-deliver," Arthur says. "Besides, blowjobs aren't my specialty."

"Oh? Then what is?"

Arthur takes the tip of Eames' cock into his mouth and cups Eames' balls, lifting them out of the way. He slides a finger backwards over Eames' hole meaningfully.

"Oh, well then," Eames spreads his legs even wider, welcoming. "Something we shall have to explore in depth later."

Arthur likes giving head. He especially likes it in dreams when everyone is generally guaranteed to be as clean and as well groomed as they'll ever be. He doesn't get to do it as often as he would like, owing to his hectic travel and work schedule, but maybe his luck is going to be changing on that score.

Eames has a decent-sized cock. Not overwhelmingly large, not shockingly small. Arthur tongues at the foreskin—still a bit of a novelty to him—and plays with it gently. Eames rests a hand on the back of Arthur's head and smiles, seeming amenable to this.

Arthur places one hand around the shaft of Eames cock (and now all this golf has got him thinking of club shaft widths) and jerks a few times to give his mouth a break. After a breather, he returns with new enthusiasm to lick and suck at the head, keeping a hand pumping back and forth along the base.

Eames breathes heavily throughout all of this, thumb stroking Arthur's cheek, eyes hooded. "I should have known after seeing you handle those clubs how good you'd be at this."

Arthur pulls off to stare up at Eames. "Seriously?"

Eames laughs and shakes his head. "Alright, it sounded better in my head than aloud. Please don't stop. I can be quiet."

Arthur teases one finger over Eames' perineum, then back and up against his hole. "I don't need you to be quiet, per se. But I am curious if this is what I have to look forward to going into the future."

Eames gasps, eyes falling shut as Arthur's finger works its way in with the assistance of dream lube. "Afraid it is. Sex does tend to reduce my—ah—facility with language."

"I see," Arthur says, searching for the prostate and smiling when Eames groans. "Are you going to go incoherent on me?"

"Very—" Eames inhales sharply as Arthur begins to stroke. "Very possibly."

"Good," Arthur replies, and applies his mouth to Eames' cock once more.

It's fucking hot is what it is, watching Eames quiver and groan above him, dick rock hard in Arthur's mouth, leaking precome steadily. Eames is reduced to some breathtakingly sexy moans pretty quickly, a fact Arthur feels proud about. When Eames comes, he mutters something incomprehensible and pulls at Arthur's hair. Arthur doesn't mind; he swallows. Dream come tastes better than real come, anyway.

"And now you," Eames says, sounding gratifyingly blissed out as he tugs Arthur in for a kiss. He flicks Arthur's fly open one-handed without even looking. His fingers—a thief's fingers, dexterous fingers--against Arthur's cock are incredible.

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur mumbles as he sways forward. There's no way a handjob should feel this good.

"A game of golf all begins with grip," Eames says as he strokes Arthur's shaft, thumbs the slit. "The club should be placed diagonally along the lower palm of the hand, not resting solely against the fingers."

"I'm close," Arthur says. Everything Eames is saying sounds dirty and hot now.

"And one must never forget to keep one's attention on the ball." Eames' other hand comes down to fold over Arthur's balls, and that's it—Arthur's done.

Arthur shudders through orgasm, sagging against Eames in the process. Eames eventually guides them both down onto the ground, where some semi-comfortable mats have appeared. Arthur opts to rest his head on Eames' chest.

"Is there even a real golf job?" Arthur asks, drowsy.

"Oh, the job is entirely real, I assure you," Eames replies. "The mark is mad about golf."

"And you?" Arthur asks. "You seem to know a fair amount about golf."

"It's alright," Eames says, leaning forward for a kiss. "I'm rather mad about something else at the moment. Have been for a while, really."

fin

---

Hope everyone enjoyed the last staggeringly long chapter of Sex Bucket List, which clocked in at 30,000 words (!!!). It was quite an endeavor to write, but I am pleased by how everything came out, including but not limited to the puppy play. I can't believe there's only one chapter left + an epilogue before Eames reaches the end of his journey in the story. Then it'll be officially complete and done. Madness.

But before I really dig into the final chapter of Sex Bucket List, I have to finish my i_reversebang stories. One is more or less written and in need of editing + beta/review. The other is still being written, but coming along nicely. Anyone interested in betaing either? They will be on the shorter side (one 3000 words, the other less than 10k) and both are Arthur/Eames.

Also, I have signed up again for mini_wrimo, one of my favorite writing challenge communities. The concept is that you commit to writing a certain amount of words per day, and check in every day in the community with the number of words you've written. The check in serves as a fantastic reminder for me to write, and really has helped me build the habit of daily writing into my life. I commit to writing 100 words per day and usually far exceed that number. I think I've only missed 2-3 check in days in the past few years I have participated. Such a great challenge and tool--a really great way to get traction on a writing project that might have stalled.