FIC: High Hopes 1/7 || Arthur/Eames || NC-17
Title: High Hopes
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, inexplicit Arthur/OC(s)
Word Count: ~36,500 (overall) | ~5,750 (this part)
Warnings: Underage (Arthur is seventeen in the beginning), attempted sexual assault & the immediate aftermath, violence
Summary: Arthur at seventeen is not the same as Arthur at twenty-nine; Eames is one of the few people to have met Arthur at both ages. Some days, Arthur thinks that if he could go back in time and smack some sense into his teenage self, he would.
A story about lust, love, and the years between.
A/N: Written for this prompt on inception_kink. A huge, heartfelt Thank You to everyone who commented there; I can't even begin to tell you how much your comments mean to me, you blew me away. ♥
MASTER POST
*
I: The Forger
Mr. Eames was a forger.
"You can just call me Eames, darling," he told Arthur the first time they met. His voice was low and a bit rough, and Arthur could feel himself blushing. Mr. Eames' laughter was warm and amused.
"Well, aren't you precious," he said, sweeping his knuckles playfully across Arthur's heated cheek.
Dom came back in with the new PASIV prototype, took one look at them and narrowed his eyes at Eames.
"He's seventeen," he said, dumping the case on the table.
"Oh, yeah?" Mr. Eames looked Arthur up and down, smirking like he enjoyed watching Arthur's blush deepen. It made Arthur feel mortified and turned on in equal measures.
"Eames." Dom said, and Mr. Eames took a step back, holding his hands up.
"Alright, I can take a hint. No corrupting your little stray, however delicious he might be."
"I appreciate your self-restraint, Eames," Dom said. He was feigning exasperation, but Arthur could tell he was amused.
"I'm right here," Arthur said, crossing his arms.
"How terribly rude of us," Mr. Eames said. "My sincerest apologies."
"Yes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes not-quite-discreetly. "You sound completely sincere."
Mr. Eames' laughter was smoky and infectious, and it sent a thrill through Arthur's blood to know that he'd done that; he'd made Mr. Eames laugh.
"We do have some work scheduled for today," Dom said mildly. "So whenever the two of you are ready."
"Of course," Mr. Eames said, quirking an eyebrow, still amused. Arthur was already moving to the table, feeling the sting of Dom's reprimand even though, logically, he knew it wasn't intended as such.
"So this is the improved version, then?" Mr. Eames asked, hand skimming over the machine Dom was setting up.
"Yes," Dom said. "We're still testing the chemical compounds for the best effect."
"It's more precise," Arthur said, shifting as Mr. Eames looked at him. "The previous prototype was sometimes off with the countdown. By a small margin, but it all counts in the dream."
"Good catch," Mr. Eames said.
"Arthur has an eye for details," Dom said, and Arthur felt a flare of pride at the offhand compliment. "Okay, let's try it. Five minutes."
Arthur winced a little as he hooked himself up, still not quite used to the sting. Dom activated the machine and they went under.
-
It was Dom's dream. The setting reminded Arthur of Dom's campus during the summer, the lawns between the buildings dotted with projections of students.
"Who's that, then?"
"Excuse me?" Arthur said, startled, turning to look at the woman who'd come to stand next to him. The woman grinned, and Arthur's eyes went wide.
"Mr. Eames?" He asked, and the woman pursed her lips, disappointed.
"I told you to call me Eames," she said, touching Arthur's chest briefly with a perfectly manicured hand. "No need for formality between us, is there?"
Arthur stared. With her blond hair, heart shaped face and curvy body, she didn't look anything at all like Mr. Eames. Dom had explained forging to him, of course he had, and it had sounded fascinating, but it was only real to him now, seeing it with his own eyes. His whole life was far-fetched these days, and forging, as it turned out, was just another one of those impossible things that could only exist in dreams.
"Is it really you?" Arthur couldn't help asking, lifting his hand before he could stop himself. He curled his fingers into his palm, but the woman snatched up his hand before he could drop it.
"It's okay," she said, "You can touch. I promise I won't bite." Then she winked at him and added, "Unless you want me to, of course."
Arthur blushed even as he rolled his eyes, but didn't resist as she pressed his hand against her cheek, then dragged it down all the way to her chest. Arthur watched his hand resting against her breastbone and swallowed.
"You feel real," he said.
"I'm as real as anything else in the dream," she said with a shrug, still smiling that flirty smile at him. His fingers twitched, and he ducked his head, taking his hand back.
"Can you really be anyone you want?" He wanted to know.
"Looks are the easy part," she said, and morphed into another woman, one with long, dark hair and flowing skirts, looking more at home in the college setting than the blonde of a moment ago. "Well," she said, smirking. "For me, at least. Getting the mannerisms right is where the real skill lies."
"Why does this one look more -- genuine?" Arthur asked, frowning. He hadn't really thought of it at first, but the blonde woman hadn't been quite as lifelike as this one -- there had been something off with her, like she'd been too much of a part of the dream, smooth and unreal.
"In comparison to the bombshell?" Even the voice of the new woman was different. "That's because she's a creation of mine -- this one is modeled after a real person. It's easier to imitate someone than it is to create a person from scratch. Like my little bombshell, they end up looking too perfect, not enough flaws -- it puts people off. I'm working on it."
Before Arthur could inquire more, Mr. Eames nodded towards Dom and asked,
"So, hey, who is that?"
"Who?" Arthur turned.
"The leggy brunette Dom's talking to."
"Oh, that's --" Arthur sighed, put upon, as he caught sight of Dom, who looked completely preoccupied. "That's Mal. She's Miles' daughter -- you know, Dom's mentor? I guess that's a part of why Dom hasn't had the guts to ask her out yet."
"So he stalks her in his dreams? How very charming and not creepy at all."
"You could call it practice for when he does ask her out?" Arthur said with a shrug. He glanced at Mr. Eames from the corner of his eye. "Speaking of-- Do you think --"
"Full sentences, please, my dear."
"Could you show me how you... do that," he said, vaguely indicating the shape of the woman Mr. Eames was pretending to be.
"You want to forge, my sweet little morsel?"
"Um," Arthur said, then decided to ignore the fact that Mr. Eames was obviously messing with him. "I would like to try?"
"Hmm." Mr. Eames looked at him with a thoughtful expression, then glanced at Dom, who was still deep in the imaginary conversation with his crush. "On one condition."
"What is it," Arthur asked, wary but not surprised. He knew better than to expect anything for free.
"Drop the 'Mister', alright?" Mr. Eames said, surprising him.
"I haven't --"
"You're still thinking it, I can tell," Mr. Eames said and, embarrassingly, Arthur's hands flew to his head, as if it would make any difference if Mr. Eames really could see his thoughts. Mr. Eames' laughter sounded different coming from the college kid's mouth, but it was still just as infectious and easy.
Dom turned at the sound of it and seemed to realize that getting caught up in a conversation with a projection of your crush wasn't the most professional way to start the day, even if they weren't in the dream to do much more than observe. It was the principle of the things, Arthur thought.
"Fine," he told Eames, hating the fact that he was blushing, again. "So will you teach me?"
"We'll see how you take to it," was all the reply he got.
-
Arthur didn't take to it. It had been two days, and there hadn't really been any progress. He couldn't understand why it was so difficult for him when the thought of being someone else, even if it was only in dreams, was so appealing to him.
He looked into the mirror, frustrated at seeing his own face staring back at him. The best he'd managed hadn't quite been him, but it hadn't been anyone else either. Just... wrong.
Eames came to stand behind him, letting the bombshell slide away like water, easy, leaving just himself behind.
"You think too much," he said, his hands coming to rest on Arthur's shoulders, heavy and warm. "You're too attached to your perception of yourself. Even if you do figure out how to look like someone else, I'm not sure you'll ever have the imagination -- the flexibility of the mind -- it takes to be a forger."
Arthur shrugged Eames' hands away. Knowing that the words weren't said with malice didn't make them sting any less.
"Hey, hey." Eames tugged him back and turned him around, away from the mirror. "So you're not a forger -- it's not the end of the world."
"I just," Arthur said, taking a deep breath. "I just wanted-- I'm not used to-- to failing."
"I get it," Eames said. "No one likes to suck. Or, well..." He paused, tilting his head in thought.
Arthur pushed at his shoulder, exasperated, biting his lip to keep from smiling.
"You're incorrigible," he said.
"It's part of my charm," Eames said, smiling, and all at once Arthur realized how close they were standing. "Look at it this way: at least now I don't need to worry about you pushing me down the stairs to become the next star in forging."
"That makes me feel so much better, yes, thank you," Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
"You're welcome, darling," Eames said, teasing. He smoothed his hands soothingly over Arthur's arms, and suddenly Arthur wanted. If he couldn't have forging, he thought, recklessly, maybe he could have the forger.
He leaned up and pressed his mouth against Eames' before he could think better of it. For a moment, Eames was still against him, and Arthur pressed in closer, insistent, desperate. Then Eames gave in -- Arthur could feel it in Eames' body, like an inhalation, like a surrender -- and kissed him back, his hands coming to hold Arthur, one at the small of his back, the other cupping the side of his face.
It was intoxicating. Arthur curled a hand in Eames' shirt and hooked an arm behind his neck, pulling him in. Eames pressed them together, pushing a thigh between Arthur's legs, and Arthur moaned.
"Christ," Eames murmured against his mouth, "I'm going to hell."
"I'll send you there myself if you stop," Arthur told him. The next thing he knew, there was a wall at his back and Eames hoisted him up, burying his face in Arthur's neck with a groan as Arthur lifted his legs up and around Eames' hips, crossing his ankles and using the leverage to grind their hips together.
"Yes, fuck," Eames said, his breath hot and moist against Arthur's skin. Arthur felt a hint of teeth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then Eames was pressing open mouthed kisses along his jawline. Arthur shivered, his breath catching in his throat, and clenched his hands in the back of Eames' shirt.
Eames crushed him against the wall, seeking and finding more contact, the roll of his hips against Arthur's insistent. Arthur started shaking with how good the friction felt, loosing coordination until he was just hanging on, panting and shivering in Eames' arms.
He came apart with a cry, his head connecting with the wall, the orgasm so intense he could feel tears in his eyes from the agony of it. He held on, trembling, as Eames reached his own climax, his hands bruising where they gripped at Arthur, holding him up. Eames leaned against him, heavy. He felt Eames' lips against his cheek and turned his head to meet him. They were too wrung out to put much effort in it, and the kiss was little more than the two of them breathing against each other, open mouthed and messy.
After a while, Eames patted him on the hip, and he unhooked his shaky legs, letting them drop back down. They barely held his weight, and if it weren't for Eames' grip on him, he might have slid down. Eames' breath was warm against Arthur's cheek when he chuckled.
"Baby's first time having sex in a dream?" He asked, sounding amused, but he was still a little out of breath, which made Arthur feel better.
"You wish," he said, not about to give Eames more ammunition by admitting his lack of experience.
Eames drew back from him, his expression still amused, but didn't test Arthur's claim. His eyes went a little unfocused as he took in the state Arthur was in. He licked his lips, bringing his hand up to smooth a thumb over the corner of Arthur's mouth.
"You're a mess," he said, his voice rough and lazy. "We're lucky this is a dream, or Cobb would take one look at you and murder me on the spot."
"He's not my keeper," Arthur said, frowning. "I can make my own decisions."
"I believe you," Eames said, pressing his thumb harder against Arthur's lower lip, pulling it down. He watched as Arthur tentatively licked it with his tongue, eyes half-lidded.
-
Eames stayed with them for a week. The night before he was scheduled to fly out, Arthur showed up at his hotel. It had taken Arthur the whole week to work up his courage, and he was still nervous enough that instead of announcing his presence, he was standing in the hallway, debating the merits of knocking versus turning on his heel and walking out of the hotel. They'd fooled around a couple of more times in dreams, but that had only fueled Arthur's yearning for something more, ultimately leaving him frustrated and wanting. Which was why he was standing outside of Eames' hotel room like a fool, trying to gather up his nerve.
Finally, fed up with himself, he raised a hand and knocked sharply on the door. He knew what he wanted, and he hadn't come this far just to back out. It took Eames just long enough to open the door that Arthur had time to go through several scenarios wherein Eames had already left, or had company, or would laugh in Arthur's face, or --
"Arthur," Eames said, sounding surprised, but not unpleasantly so.
"Expecting someone else?" Arthur asked, putting his hands into his pockets. He was wearing jeans and a striped shirt under a short jacket, and suddenly wondered if he looked too much like a kid, or if Eames found his clothes boring. "Room service?"
"Haven't ordered anything," Eames said, opening the door wider to let Arthur in. He closed the door behind him, and it was only when he tucked the gun into his waistband that Arthur realized he'd been armed. Eames noticed him looking and shrugged.
"Unexpected visitors aren't usually a good sign in my business," he said. Arthur nodded, feeling chagrined. It also made him wonder about having a gun of his own; he was getting to be a pretty good shot, but Dom said he was too young to be carrying a gun around in the real world. Arthur wasn't sure he agreed, but he supposed he could go along with it for now.
He looked around the room, bare apart from the duffel on the floor near the end of the bed. He moved to the window, restless, and flicked the closed curtains a little to look outside.
"So," Eames said from behind him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Maybe I just came to, I don't know. We could get coffee or something," Arthur said, turning to look at him. He didn't know what showed on his face, but it made Eames raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, darling, no," he said, shaking his head. "This is a terrible idea."
"Why?" Arthur asked, feeling stubborn enough to forget about his nerves.
"You're seventeen," Eames pointed out. Arthur smirked a little, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor.
"So? It didn't seem to bother you before," he said. Eames licked his lips.
"Cobb will kill me," he said, but his eyes were fixed on Arthur, watching his approach with a conflicted, hungry expression that thrilled Arthur to the core.
"You afraid of him?" Arthur asked, stopping right in front of Eames, resting his hand lightly against Eames' stomach, feeling the heat and muscle through the threadbare t-shirt he was wearing.
"I'm in no hurry to die, love," Eames said, but didn't step away from Arthur's touch, didn't tell him to stop.
"He doesn't need to know," Arthur said, looking at Eames through his lashes. He didn't think he was very good at being coy, but Eames didn't seem to mind. "I can keep a secret," he whispered, pressing flush against Eames.
"Arthur," Eames said, closing his eyes. Arthur loved the way Eames said his name. It sounded different, coming from him; better. Beautiful, almost.
"Say my name again," he said, looking at Eames' face intently. If Eames felt his stare, he didn't show it. "Please," Arthur breathed against his mouth, and Eames gave in with a groan, sliding a hand in Arthur's hair.
"Anything but temptation," he murmured, opening his eyes. "Arthur," he said, and pressed his mouth against Arthur's. When Eames threw himself at something, it was with abandon; Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to keep up -- being the sole focus of Eames' attention was overwhelming.
He slipped his hands under Eames' shirt, inhaling through his nose at the feel of heated skin against his fingertips. Eames withdrew from the kiss in order to pull his shirt roughly over his head before swooping back in to possess Arthur's lips. His hands slid around Arthur's back, bunching up his shirt; he pushed forward, backing Arthur against the bed. Arthur went without protest, running his palms up and over Eames' chest, enjoying the feel of coarse hair between his fingers.
He was so hard, so painfully aroused, he was afraid he'd come the minute he got any kind of friction at all. He raised his arms, obedient, when Eames tugged at his shirt. Once the shirt was gone, Eames pushed at him and he fell backwards onto the bed. He got up on his elbows and scooted back, expecting Eames to follow him, but for a minute Eames just stood at the end of the bed and stared. Arthur felt like a wreck, blushing at the though of what he must look like, half-naked and hard, sprawled across the bed with kiss-swollen lips and messed up hair.
"What?" He said, breathless and defensive, and Eames shook his head like he was trying to wake himself up.
"This is crazy," he said, climbing on the bed before Arthur, thinking Eames was about to back out, could protest. "You make me crazy." Eames fitted his hand behind Arthur's neck and pulled him up and into a kiss while working Arthur's fly open with the other. He broke the kiss, sitting upright to drag Arthur's jeans and underwear over his hips and off his legs. Eames tossed them carelessly on the floor and pushed Arthur flat against the covers. Arthur ran his hands over Eames chest, across his shoulders, his breath hitching when Eames ducked his head to suck kisses against his collarbones, down his chest.
"Eames," he breathed, fisting a hand in Eames' hair. Eames ghosted his fingers across Arthur's ribs, his palm settling, heavy, on Arthur's lower stomach, the flat curve of his hip.
"What do you want, Arthur?" Eames asked, his lips brushing against Arthur's breastbone. He ran the backs of his fingers up the underside of Arthur's cock, and Arthur almost choked on nothing, his hips coming off the bed. He gulped for breath, cursing.
"Don't-- Don't do that, I won't last long," he said, embarrassed but not willing to settle for a quick handjob.
"Of course you won't," Eames said, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's cock, holding it. "You're seventeen." He flicked his tongue against Arthur's nipple, and again, slower, mirroring the upwards drag of his hand; Arthur whined.
"The upside," Eames continued, flicking his thumb over the slick head, "is the recovery period. Given proper motivation," he said, his tone contemplative, mouthing over Arthur's ribs until he could nip at his belly button with his teeth, "I'm sure it won't take long for you to show interest again."
He raised his head, looking straight at Arthur, the movement of his hand becoming quicker, rougher; it was the look in Eames' eyes, intense and dark, no trace of amusement or ridicule, that finally pushed Arthur over the edge. His head slammed back against the pillows, his back curving, his hands grasping against the covers, empty and wanting.
He was shuddering, gasping for air as he came down from his orgasm. He felt Eames moving away from the bed but lacked the capacity to question it. After a while, the bed dipped under Eames' weight, and Arthur made an effort to open his eyes. He blinked a few times, feeling like his lashes were clumped together, too spent and relaxed to feel startled when Eames ran a damp cloth over his stomach.
"Hi," he said, stupidly, as he blinked up at Eames.
"Hello," Eames said softly, amusement back in his eyes, in the curve of his lips. His eyes dropped briefly to Arthur's mouth, and he bent down to press an open mouthed, almost affectionate kiss against Arthur's parted lips before getting up and off the bed again.
When he came back sans the damp cloth, he'd taken off his own pants and underwear. Arthur followed the strong lines of his body with half-lidded eyes, his appreciation matching his body's lazy response, a distant echo of arousal tugging at his insides. He let his eyes linger on Eames' cock, running his tongue absently over his lower lip, thinking, yes, I want that; I want him.
"I want you to fuck me," he told Eames, who paused, kneeling on the bed with his hands braced on his thighs.
"Yeah?" Eames asked, his voice rough.
"Yeah," Arthur said, moving his hands up above his head in a full-body stretch, enjoying the way Eames followed the movement of his body with his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips. "Do you want me to use my mouth on you while we wait for the proper motivation to catch up?"
Not that Arthur had any real experience, but he'd done research, and some practicing -- he was ninety per cent sure he could avoid completely embarrassing himself or tipping Eames off about it being Arthur's first time with an actual human being.
"Uh," Eames said, the corner of his mouth twisting up as he tugged at his own balls a little. "Probably not the best idea if you're serious about wanting to get fucked. Unlike some, I'm not a teenager anymore."
"Hmm," Arthur said, shifting his hips to find a better position. "Suit yourself."
Eames shot a look at him, shaking his head even as he lay down on the bed, propped up on his forearm, and reached over Arthur to get the lube from the bedside table. Arthur swallowed, covering up his nervousness with a twist of his lips and a raised eyebrow.
"You don't even bother to keep it in a drawer?" He looked pointedly at the bottle in Eames' hand.
"Hey, who wants to waste time opening drawers when they can just keep everything close at hand?" Eames asked like it was a philosophical question, opening the top with a flick of his thumb.
"The hotel cleaners would probably appreciate it," Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the sight of Eames slicking up his fingers.
"Eh, I bet they see far more scandalous things than a guy with a habit of jerking off," Eames said, dismissive. "Move your legs a little, there's a dear," he said, nudging at Arthur's thigh with the back of his hand.
"Are you an exhibitionist too, then?" Arthur asked, blinking at the ceiling as he spread his legs.
"Aren't you a riot," Eames said, moving to kneel between Arthur's legs. He trailed his fingers along the back of one thigh until he could hook a hand behind the knee, lifting the leg up and to the side. Arthur felt a flash of arousal mixed with embarrassment. He took a deep, quiet breath and didn't startle when Eames' slick fingers brushed at the skin behind his balls, sliding down the crack to his opening. The fingers stayed there for a moment, rubbing in slow circles, and Arthur's hips twitched, a blush licking at his cheeks.
"Come on," he said, tilting his head against the pillows to look down at where Eames' hand disappeared from sight.
"Patience, young one," Eames said absently, not taking his eyes off what he was doing with his fingers, but finally did push in the tip of one digit.
"I'm, ah --" Arthur said as the finger slipped in further. "Not that young."
"If you say so," Eames said, wetting his lips. "What you are though --"
"What's that?" Arthur swallowed as Eames withdrew the finger, then pushed it back in, a slow slide up to the third knuckle. The corner of Eames' eye twitched, and he shifted his shoulders like he was uncomfortable -- then he smiled a little, meeting Arthur's eyes fleetingly before looking back down.
"Lovely," he said. "You look lovely."
Arthur wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond, so he didn't. Eames pulled his hand back and reached for the lube again, pouring more of it on his fingers before pushing back in, and it was fine, it felt fine -- a little uncomfortable, a lot weird, but Arthur liked it, wanted more of it. The thought -- the sight -- of Eames between his legs, Eames' fingers in him, preparing him for getting fucked, was enough to send spikes of arousal down his spine until all he wanted to do was push back against the hand gently working him open.
Eames added a second finger, and it was -- it wasn't painful; Arthur focused on that thought, forcing his body to relax. And then Eames' fingers pressed against something inside him that tore out a completely unintended sound from his throat, a breathless cry that mirrored the way his body suddenly seized up with want.
"There we are," Eames mused, resting Arthur's leg against his thigh and leaning forward, curving his free hand against Arthur's waist. "You like that, right? Not everyone cares for prostate stimulation."
"Yeah, it's," Arthur managed, took a deep breath; "It's good."
"Good," Eames said, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and then did it again. And again.
By the time Eames withdrew his fingers and slicked himself up with long, smooth strokes, Arthur was a shivering mess, his body flushed and hard with arousal. He felt wanton and open, but he could still feel the thread of nervousness at the back of his mind, threatening to undo the work the foreplay and the previous orgasm had done to loosen him up. He eyed the size of Eames' cock, fully hard and flushed dark with blood, and bit his lip. Eames tossed the lube back on the bed and Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position, drawing his legs up and turning around, getting on his hands and knees. His body wasn't too fond of having to move, but he thought it'd be better like this, easier; at the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about what his expressions might reveal.
"You want it from behind?" Eames said, rising up on his knees behind Arthur and running a heavy hand over his spine.
"No," Arthur said, looking over his shoulder and rolling his eyes, trying to shake the lingering feelings of embarrassment and uncertainty. "What made you think that?"
"No need for snark, pet," Eames chided him, his voice soft and smoky, his hands sliding down to cup Arthur's ass, massaging gently before prying the cheeks apart with his thumbs. Arthur let his head drop, feeling vulnerable and so turned on he could hardly breath.
"Eames," he said, swallowing, his throat suddenly dry, and Eames said, "Yeah," and, "Arthur."
Arthur was so slick he felt like he was dripping with lube, but Eames' cock felt huge going in, stretching his opening until Arthur felt like sobbing with it. He swallowed a breath, his hips twitching -- away from the invasion or towards it, Arthur wasn't sure -- as Eames pressed further in, then withdrew a little, his thumb rubbing softly against the stretched skin next to where he was breaching Arthur's body.
"Arthur," Eames said, sounding strained and faintly troubled.
"Wh-- ah?" Arthur asked, pushing back a little, experimentally.
"Nothing." Eames sounded gruff, but his hands were gentle. "You're so fucking tight."
"Mm," Arthur said, his eyelids fluttering, his fingers curling into the sheets as Eames got over whatever hang up had made him pause. He grabbed Arthur's hips, his hands big and rough on Arthur's flushed skin, and pushed in, slow but relentless, until his whole length was buried within Arthur's body.
Arthur could hear himself making noises -- embarrassing, helpless noises -- but couldn't make them stop. Eames withdrew until just the head was inside, then pushed pack in until his balls were flush against Arthur's ass. He did it slowly, at first, and then faster, rougher, fucking Arthur with long, deep, relentless strokes. When he shifted the angle and the head dragged across Arthur's prostate, Arthur let out a throaty, wrecked moan, and his arms gave out; he gave in without a fight, resting his forehead against the bed, panting.
"Yeah," Eames breathed, snapping his hips forward, hard. "Yeah, Arthur, you look so good like this."
Arthur gasped for breath against the covers, feeling desperate. Eames was overwhelming, the roll of his hips unrelenting. Arthur felt like he was coming completely undone, and he thought, Eames' hands, Eames' cock, Eames --
-- and, oh, he was so in over his head, he thought, choking on a laugh, and then Eames took hold of his erection, jerking him off with hard, rough pulls, and it took no time, no time at all, before Arthur was tensing up and crying out and shaking apart, coming in Eames' hand, with Eames still rocking in and out, the rhythm of it hard and unforgiving.
Arthur focused on getting his breathing under control, letting himself be fucked; his body didn't even feel like his anymore, just something of Eames' he'd get back, maybe, when Eames was done with it. The hands holding his hips were the only thing keeping him from crumbling bonelessly onto the wet spot. He felt floaty and wrung out, weightless and worn in the aftermath of his own pleasure. The room was filled with their harsh breaths, the sound of flesh against flesh, until Eames' strokes into him became shorter, harder, more erratic; Eames grunted, cursed, his hips flush against Arthur's ass. As he came, his grip on Arthur tightened almost painfully, his fingers pressing against the bone and muscle of Arthur's hips. Feeling the flood of warmth inside him, Arthur thought, condom -- but the thought was muddled and distant, his mind too close to sleep to hold on to it.
Eames leaned his hand heavily against the bed next to Arthur in an attempt not to collapse on top of him. For a minute, Eames stayed where he was, breathing hard. Then he touched Arthur's back with a gentle hand, smoothing his palm over the curve of Arthur's spine as he slowly withdrew. Arthur bit his lip as the head slipped out of him, leaving a sticky trail along the back of his thigh. Eames moved to the side and fell next to him on the bed, and Arthur laid down, too tired to care about the wet spot. He closed his eyes, trying to get used to the sudden emptiness inside of him, the ring of muscles at his opening grasping at nothing, unable to close completely. He shifted; the area felt swollen and sticky. Used, his mind told him, a trace of something that might have been satisfaction curling around the thought.
After a few minutes, Eames got off the bed again. Arthur fluttered his eyes open, watching as Eames disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a freshly dampened cloth.
"You alright, love?" He asked, brushing a strand of hair away from Arthur's sweaty forehead as he knelt next to him on the bed.
"Mm, yes," Arthur said, rubbing his cheek against the bed. Eames chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Let's clean you up a little," he murmured, nudging Arthur's legs apart.
"Um," Arthur said, blushing.
"You're getting shy on me now?" Eames asked, snorting. "Darling, I've already seen it all. No need to pretend you're modest."
"Fine," Arthur said with as much bite as he could in his current condition, which admittedly didn't amount to much. He frowned against the pillow and spread his legs, tilting his hips for better access, and shivered at the feel of the damp cloth against his skin. He closed his eyes as Eames cleaned away the sticky trails of lube and semen, turned his head further into the pillow when Eames touched the hot skin around his entrance with cool fingertips. He moved when Eames urged him to turn over, watching with half-lidded eyes as Eames ran the cloth over his stomach for the second time that evening, and allowed himself to be prodded until they could strip off the top sheet. Eames took a minute to fetch a glass of water while Arthur got under the covers, setting it on the night table within Arthur's reach.
"Drink it," he told Arthur before going back into the bathroom. Arthur felt like pointing out that he wasn't a child, thank you very much, but was too thirsty to get around to it. He leveled himself up on an elbow and drained the glass. He was mostly asleep when Eames stepped into the room and switched the lights off. He felt the bed dipping when Eames got in next to him -- it was his last flash of awareness before sleep overwhelmed him, dragging him down like an anchor.
He didn't dream.
-
When he woke up, Eames was gone. Arthur swallowed as he sat up, tangled in the messy sheets, naked and sore and alone. There was a note on the nightstand, next to the empty glass, on which Eames had written in a messy scrawl,
Thanks for the coffee, pet.
PS - The room's booked till ten.
Arthur stared at the note for a long time, the quiet of the hotel room loud in his ears, and told himself he hadn't expected anything else.
***
II: Sidesteps
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, inexplicit Arthur/OC(s)
Word Count: ~36,500 (overall) | ~5,750 (this part)
Warnings: Underage (Arthur is seventeen in the beginning), attempted sexual assault & the immediate aftermath, violence
Summary: Arthur at seventeen is not the same as Arthur at twenty-nine; Eames is one of the few people to have met Arthur at both ages. Some days, Arthur thinks that if he could go back in time and smack some sense into his teenage self, he would.
A story about lust, love, and the years between.
A/N: Written for this prompt on inception_kink. A huge, heartfelt Thank You to everyone who commented there; I can't even begin to tell you how much your comments mean to me, you blew me away. ♥
MASTER POST
*
I: The Forger
Mr. Eames was a forger.
"You can just call me Eames, darling," he told Arthur the first time they met. His voice was low and a bit rough, and Arthur could feel himself blushing. Mr. Eames' laughter was warm and amused.
"Well, aren't you precious," he said, sweeping his knuckles playfully across Arthur's heated cheek.
Dom came back in with the new PASIV prototype, took one look at them and narrowed his eyes at Eames.
"He's seventeen," he said, dumping the case on the table.
"Oh, yeah?" Mr. Eames looked Arthur up and down, smirking like he enjoyed watching Arthur's blush deepen. It made Arthur feel mortified and turned on in equal measures.
"Eames." Dom said, and Mr. Eames took a step back, holding his hands up.
"Alright, I can take a hint. No corrupting your little stray, however delicious he might be."
"I appreciate your self-restraint, Eames," Dom said. He was feigning exasperation, but Arthur could tell he was amused.
"I'm right here," Arthur said, crossing his arms.
"How terribly rude of us," Mr. Eames said. "My sincerest apologies."
"Yes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes not-quite-discreetly. "You sound completely sincere."
Mr. Eames' laughter was smoky and infectious, and it sent a thrill through Arthur's blood to know that he'd done that; he'd made Mr. Eames laugh.
"We do have some work scheduled for today," Dom said mildly. "So whenever the two of you are ready."
"Of course," Mr. Eames said, quirking an eyebrow, still amused. Arthur was already moving to the table, feeling the sting of Dom's reprimand even though, logically, he knew it wasn't intended as such.
"So this is the improved version, then?" Mr. Eames asked, hand skimming over the machine Dom was setting up.
"Yes," Dom said. "We're still testing the chemical compounds for the best effect."
"It's more precise," Arthur said, shifting as Mr. Eames looked at him. "The previous prototype was sometimes off with the countdown. By a small margin, but it all counts in the dream."
"Good catch," Mr. Eames said.
"Arthur has an eye for details," Dom said, and Arthur felt a flare of pride at the offhand compliment. "Okay, let's try it. Five minutes."
Arthur winced a little as he hooked himself up, still not quite used to the sting. Dom activated the machine and they went under.
-
It was Dom's dream. The setting reminded Arthur of Dom's campus during the summer, the lawns between the buildings dotted with projections of students.
"Who's that, then?"
"Excuse me?" Arthur said, startled, turning to look at the woman who'd come to stand next to him. The woman grinned, and Arthur's eyes went wide.
"Mr. Eames?" He asked, and the woman pursed her lips, disappointed.
"I told you to call me Eames," she said, touching Arthur's chest briefly with a perfectly manicured hand. "No need for formality between us, is there?"
Arthur stared. With her blond hair, heart shaped face and curvy body, she didn't look anything at all like Mr. Eames. Dom had explained forging to him, of course he had, and it had sounded fascinating, but it was only real to him now, seeing it with his own eyes. His whole life was far-fetched these days, and forging, as it turned out, was just another one of those impossible things that could only exist in dreams.
"Is it really you?" Arthur couldn't help asking, lifting his hand before he could stop himself. He curled his fingers into his palm, but the woman snatched up his hand before he could drop it.
"It's okay," she said, "You can touch. I promise I won't bite." Then she winked at him and added, "Unless you want me to, of course."
Arthur blushed even as he rolled his eyes, but didn't resist as she pressed his hand against her cheek, then dragged it down all the way to her chest. Arthur watched his hand resting against her breastbone and swallowed.
"You feel real," he said.
"I'm as real as anything else in the dream," she said with a shrug, still smiling that flirty smile at him. His fingers twitched, and he ducked his head, taking his hand back.
"Can you really be anyone you want?" He wanted to know.
"Looks are the easy part," she said, and morphed into another woman, one with long, dark hair and flowing skirts, looking more at home in the college setting than the blonde of a moment ago. "Well," she said, smirking. "For me, at least. Getting the mannerisms right is where the real skill lies."
"Why does this one look more -- genuine?" Arthur asked, frowning. He hadn't really thought of it at first, but the blonde woman hadn't been quite as lifelike as this one -- there had been something off with her, like she'd been too much of a part of the dream, smooth and unreal.
"In comparison to the bombshell?" Even the voice of the new woman was different. "That's because she's a creation of mine -- this one is modeled after a real person. It's easier to imitate someone than it is to create a person from scratch. Like my little bombshell, they end up looking too perfect, not enough flaws -- it puts people off. I'm working on it."
Before Arthur could inquire more, Mr. Eames nodded towards Dom and asked,
"So, hey, who is that?"
"Who?" Arthur turned.
"The leggy brunette Dom's talking to."
"Oh, that's --" Arthur sighed, put upon, as he caught sight of Dom, who looked completely preoccupied. "That's Mal. She's Miles' daughter -- you know, Dom's mentor? I guess that's a part of why Dom hasn't had the guts to ask her out yet."
"So he stalks her in his dreams? How very charming and not creepy at all."
"You could call it practice for when he does ask her out?" Arthur said with a shrug. He glanced at Mr. Eames from the corner of his eye. "Speaking of-- Do you think --"
"Full sentences, please, my dear."
"Could you show me how you... do that," he said, vaguely indicating the shape of the woman Mr. Eames was pretending to be.
"You want to forge, my sweet little morsel?"
"Um," Arthur said, then decided to ignore the fact that Mr. Eames was obviously messing with him. "I would like to try?"
"Hmm." Mr. Eames looked at him with a thoughtful expression, then glanced at Dom, who was still deep in the imaginary conversation with his crush. "On one condition."
"What is it," Arthur asked, wary but not surprised. He knew better than to expect anything for free.
"Drop the 'Mister', alright?" Mr. Eames said, surprising him.
"I haven't --"
"You're still thinking it, I can tell," Mr. Eames said and, embarrassingly, Arthur's hands flew to his head, as if it would make any difference if Mr. Eames really could see his thoughts. Mr. Eames' laughter sounded different coming from the college kid's mouth, but it was still just as infectious and easy.
Dom turned at the sound of it and seemed to realize that getting caught up in a conversation with a projection of your crush wasn't the most professional way to start the day, even if they weren't in the dream to do much more than observe. It was the principle of the things, Arthur thought.
"Fine," he told Eames, hating the fact that he was blushing, again. "So will you teach me?"
"We'll see how you take to it," was all the reply he got.
-
Arthur didn't take to it. It had been two days, and there hadn't really been any progress. He couldn't understand why it was so difficult for him when the thought of being someone else, even if it was only in dreams, was so appealing to him.
He looked into the mirror, frustrated at seeing his own face staring back at him. The best he'd managed hadn't quite been him, but it hadn't been anyone else either. Just... wrong.
Eames came to stand behind him, letting the bombshell slide away like water, easy, leaving just himself behind.
"You think too much," he said, his hands coming to rest on Arthur's shoulders, heavy and warm. "You're too attached to your perception of yourself. Even if you do figure out how to look like someone else, I'm not sure you'll ever have the imagination -- the flexibility of the mind -- it takes to be a forger."
Arthur shrugged Eames' hands away. Knowing that the words weren't said with malice didn't make them sting any less.
"Hey, hey." Eames tugged him back and turned him around, away from the mirror. "So you're not a forger -- it's not the end of the world."
"I just," Arthur said, taking a deep breath. "I just wanted-- I'm not used to-- to failing."
"I get it," Eames said. "No one likes to suck. Or, well..." He paused, tilting his head in thought.
Arthur pushed at his shoulder, exasperated, biting his lip to keep from smiling.
"You're incorrigible," he said.
"It's part of my charm," Eames said, smiling, and all at once Arthur realized how close they were standing. "Look at it this way: at least now I don't need to worry about you pushing me down the stairs to become the next star in forging."
"That makes me feel so much better, yes, thank you," Arthur said, rolling his eyes.
"You're welcome, darling," Eames said, teasing. He smoothed his hands soothingly over Arthur's arms, and suddenly Arthur wanted. If he couldn't have forging, he thought, recklessly, maybe he could have the forger.
He leaned up and pressed his mouth against Eames' before he could think better of it. For a moment, Eames was still against him, and Arthur pressed in closer, insistent, desperate. Then Eames gave in -- Arthur could feel it in Eames' body, like an inhalation, like a surrender -- and kissed him back, his hands coming to hold Arthur, one at the small of his back, the other cupping the side of his face.
It was intoxicating. Arthur curled a hand in Eames' shirt and hooked an arm behind his neck, pulling him in. Eames pressed them together, pushing a thigh between Arthur's legs, and Arthur moaned.
"Christ," Eames murmured against his mouth, "I'm going to hell."
"I'll send you there myself if you stop," Arthur told him. The next thing he knew, there was a wall at his back and Eames hoisted him up, burying his face in Arthur's neck with a groan as Arthur lifted his legs up and around Eames' hips, crossing his ankles and using the leverage to grind their hips together.
"Yes, fuck," Eames said, his breath hot and moist against Arthur's skin. Arthur felt a hint of teeth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then Eames was pressing open mouthed kisses along his jawline. Arthur shivered, his breath catching in his throat, and clenched his hands in the back of Eames' shirt.
Eames crushed him against the wall, seeking and finding more contact, the roll of his hips against Arthur's insistent. Arthur started shaking with how good the friction felt, loosing coordination until he was just hanging on, panting and shivering in Eames' arms.
He came apart with a cry, his head connecting with the wall, the orgasm so intense he could feel tears in his eyes from the agony of it. He held on, trembling, as Eames reached his own climax, his hands bruising where they gripped at Arthur, holding him up. Eames leaned against him, heavy. He felt Eames' lips against his cheek and turned his head to meet him. They were too wrung out to put much effort in it, and the kiss was little more than the two of them breathing against each other, open mouthed and messy.
After a while, Eames patted him on the hip, and he unhooked his shaky legs, letting them drop back down. They barely held his weight, and if it weren't for Eames' grip on him, he might have slid down. Eames' breath was warm against Arthur's cheek when he chuckled.
"Baby's first time having sex in a dream?" He asked, sounding amused, but he was still a little out of breath, which made Arthur feel better.
"You wish," he said, not about to give Eames more ammunition by admitting his lack of experience.
Eames drew back from him, his expression still amused, but didn't test Arthur's claim. His eyes went a little unfocused as he took in the state Arthur was in. He licked his lips, bringing his hand up to smooth a thumb over the corner of Arthur's mouth.
"You're a mess," he said, his voice rough and lazy. "We're lucky this is a dream, or Cobb would take one look at you and murder me on the spot."
"He's not my keeper," Arthur said, frowning. "I can make my own decisions."
"I believe you," Eames said, pressing his thumb harder against Arthur's lower lip, pulling it down. He watched as Arthur tentatively licked it with his tongue, eyes half-lidded.
-
Eames stayed with them for a week. The night before he was scheduled to fly out, Arthur showed up at his hotel. It had taken Arthur the whole week to work up his courage, and he was still nervous enough that instead of announcing his presence, he was standing in the hallway, debating the merits of knocking versus turning on his heel and walking out of the hotel. They'd fooled around a couple of more times in dreams, but that had only fueled Arthur's yearning for something more, ultimately leaving him frustrated and wanting. Which was why he was standing outside of Eames' hotel room like a fool, trying to gather up his nerve.
Finally, fed up with himself, he raised a hand and knocked sharply on the door. He knew what he wanted, and he hadn't come this far just to back out. It took Eames just long enough to open the door that Arthur had time to go through several scenarios wherein Eames had already left, or had company, or would laugh in Arthur's face, or --
"Arthur," Eames said, sounding surprised, but not unpleasantly so.
"Expecting someone else?" Arthur asked, putting his hands into his pockets. He was wearing jeans and a striped shirt under a short jacket, and suddenly wondered if he looked too much like a kid, or if Eames found his clothes boring. "Room service?"
"Haven't ordered anything," Eames said, opening the door wider to let Arthur in. He closed the door behind him, and it was only when he tucked the gun into his waistband that Arthur realized he'd been armed. Eames noticed him looking and shrugged.
"Unexpected visitors aren't usually a good sign in my business," he said. Arthur nodded, feeling chagrined. It also made him wonder about having a gun of his own; he was getting to be a pretty good shot, but Dom said he was too young to be carrying a gun around in the real world. Arthur wasn't sure he agreed, but he supposed he could go along with it for now.
He looked around the room, bare apart from the duffel on the floor near the end of the bed. He moved to the window, restless, and flicked the closed curtains a little to look outside.
"So," Eames said from behind him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Maybe I just came to, I don't know. We could get coffee or something," Arthur said, turning to look at him. He didn't know what showed on his face, but it made Eames raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, darling, no," he said, shaking his head. "This is a terrible idea."
"Why?" Arthur asked, feeling stubborn enough to forget about his nerves.
"You're seventeen," Eames pointed out. Arthur smirked a little, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor.
"So? It didn't seem to bother you before," he said. Eames licked his lips.
"Cobb will kill me," he said, but his eyes were fixed on Arthur, watching his approach with a conflicted, hungry expression that thrilled Arthur to the core.
"You afraid of him?" Arthur asked, stopping right in front of Eames, resting his hand lightly against Eames' stomach, feeling the heat and muscle through the threadbare t-shirt he was wearing.
"I'm in no hurry to die, love," Eames said, but didn't step away from Arthur's touch, didn't tell him to stop.
"He doesn't need to know," Arthur said, looking at Eames through his lashes. He didn't think he was very good at being coy, but Eames didn't seem to mind. "I can keep a secret," he whispered, pressing flush against Eames.
"Arthur," Eames said, closing his eyes. Arthur loved the way Eames said his name. It sounded different, coming from him; better. Beautiful, almost.
"Say my name again," he said, looking at Eames' face intently. If Eames felt his stare, he didn't show it. "Please," Arthur breathed against his mouth, and Eames gave in with a groan, sliding a hand in Arthur's hair.
"Anything but temptation," he murmured, opening his eyes. "Arthur," he said, and pressed his mouth against Arthur's. When Eames threw himself at something, it was with abandon; Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to keep up -- being the sole focus of Eames' attention was overwhelming.
He slipped his hands under Eames' shirt, inhaling through his nose at the feel of heated skin against his fingertips. Eames withdrew from the kiss in order to pull his shirt roughly over his head before swooping back in to possess Arthur's lips. His hands slid around Arthur's back, bunching up his shirt; he pushed forward, backing Arthur against the bed. Arthur went without protest, running his palms up and over Eames' chest, enjoying the feel of coarse hair between his fingers.
He was so hard, so painfully aroused, he was afraid he'd come the minute he got any kind of friction at all. He raised his arms, obedient, when Eames tugged at his shirt. Once the shirt was gone, Eames pushed at him and he fell backwards onto the bed. He got up on his elbows and scooted back, expecting Eames to follow him, but for a minute Eames just stood at the end of the bed and stared. Arthur felt like a wreck, blushing at the though of what he must look like, half-naked and hard, sprawled across the bed with kiss-swollen lips and messed up hair.
"What?" He said, breathless and defensive, and Eames shook his head like he was trying to wake himself up.
"This is crazy," he said, climbing on the bed before Arthur, thinking Eames was about to back out, could protest. "You make me crazy." Eames fitted his hand behind Arthur's neck and pulled him up and into a kiss while working Arthur's fly open with the other. He broke the kiss, sitting upright to drag Arthur's jeans and underwear over his hips and off his legs. Eames tossed them carelessly on the floor and pushed Arthur flat against the covers. Arthur ran his hands over Eames chest, across his shoulders, his breath hitching when Eames ducked his head to suck kisses against his collarbones, down his chest.
"Eames," he breathed, fisting a hand in Eames' hair. Eames ghosted his fingers across Arthur's ribs, his palm settling, heavy, on Arthur's lower stomach, the flat curve of his hip.
"What do you want, Arthur?" Eames asked, his lips brushing against Arthur's breastbone. He ran the backs of his fingers up the underside of Arthur's cock, and Arthur almost choked on nothing, his hips coming off the bed. He gulped for breath, cursing.
"Don't-- Don't do that, I won't last long," he said, embarrassed but not willing to settle for a quick handjob.
"Of course you won't," Eames said, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's cock, holding it. "You're seventeen." He flicked his tongue against Arthur's nipple, and again, slower, mirroring the upwards drag of his hand; Arthur whined.
"The upside," Eames continued, flicking his thumb over the slick head, "is the recovery period. Given proper motivation," he said, his tone contemplative, mouthing over Arthur's ribs until he could nip at his belly button with his teeth, "I'm sure it won't take long for you to show interest again."
He raised his head, looking straight at Arthur, the movement of his hand becoming quicker, rougher; it was the look in Eames' eyes, intense and dark, no trace of amusement or ridicule, that finally pushed Arthur over the edge. His head slammed back against the pillows, his back curving, his hands grasping against the covers, empty and wanting.
He was shuddering, gasping for air as he came down from his orgasm. He felt Eames moving away from the bed but lacked the capacity to question it. After a while, the bed dipped under Eames' weight, and Arthur made an effort to open his eyes. He blinked a few times, feeling like his lashes were clumped together, too spent and relaxed to feel startled when Eames ran a damp cloth over his stomach.
"Hi," he said, stupidly, as he blinked up at Eames.
"Hello," Eames said softly, amusement back in his eyes, in the curve of his lips. His eyes dropped briefly to Arthur's mouth, and he bent down to press an open mouthed, almost affectionate kiss against Arthur's parted lips before getting up and off the bed again.
When he came back sans the damp cloth, he'd taken off his own pants and underwear. Arthur followed the strong lines of his body with half-lidded eyes, his appreciation matching his body's lazy response, a distant echo of arousal tugging at his insides. He let his eyes linger on Eames' cock, running his tongue absently over his lower lip, thinking, yes, I want that; I want him.
"I want you to fuck me," he told Eames, who paused, kneeling on the bed with his hands braced on his thighs.
"Yeah?" Eames asked, his voice rough.
"Yeah," Arthur said, moving his hands up above his head in a full-body stretch, enjoying the way Eames followed the movement of his body with his eyes, the unconscious parting of his lips. "Do you want me to use my mouth on you while we wait for the proper motivation to catch up?"
Not that Arthur had any real experience, but he'd done research, and some practicing -- he was ninety per cent sure he could avoid completely embarrassing himself or tipping Eames off about it being Arthur's first time with an actual human being.
"Uh," Eames said, the corner of his mouth twisting up as he tugged at his own balls a little. "Probably not the best idea if you're serious about wanting to get fucked. Unlike some, I'm not a teenager anymore."
"Hmm," Arthur said, shifting his hips to find a better position. "Suit yourself."
Eames shot a look at him, shaking his head even as he lay down on the bed, propped up on his forearm, and reached over Arthur to get the lube from the bedside table. Arthur swallowed, covering up his nervousness with a twist of his lips and a raised eyebrow.
"You don't even bother to keep it in a drawer?" He looked pointedly at the bottle in Eames' hand.
"Hey, who wants to waste time opening drawers when they can just keep everything close at hand?" Eames asked like it was a philosophical question, opening the top with a flick of his thumb.
"The hotel cleaners would probably appreciate it," Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the sight of Eames slicking up his fingers.
"Eh, I bet they see far more scandalous things than a guy with a habit of jerking off," Eames said, dismissive. "Move your legs a little, there's a dear," he said, nudging at Arthur's thigh with the back of his hand.
"Are you an exhibitionist too, then?" Arthur asked, blinking at the ceiling as he spread his legs.
"Aren't you a riot," Eames said, moving to kneel between Arthur's legs. He trailed his fingers along the back of one thigh until he could hook a hand behind the knee, lifting the leg up and to the side. Arthur felt a flash of arousal mixed with embarrassment. He took a deep, quiet breath and didn't startle when Eames' slick fingers brushed at the skin behind his balls, sliding down the crack to his opening. The fingers stayed there for a moment, rubbing in slow circles, and Arthur's hips twitched, a blush licking at his cheeks.
"Come on," he said, tilting his head against the pillows to look down at where Eames' hand disappeared from sight.
"Patience, young one," Eames said absently, not taking his eyes off what he was doing with his fingers, but finally did push in the tip of one digit.
"I'm, ah --" Arthur said as the finger slipped in further. "Not that young."
"If you say so," Eames said, wetting his lips. "What you are though --"
"What's that?" Arthur swallowed as Eames withdrew the finger, then pushed it back in, a slow slide up to the third knuckle. The corner of Eames' eye twitched, and he shifted his shoulders like he was uncomfortable -- then he smiled a little, meeting Arthur's eyes fleetingly before looking back down.
"Lovely," he said. "You look lovely."
Arthur wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond, so he didn't. Eames pulled his hand back and reached for the lube again, pouring more of it on his fingers before pushing back in, and it was fine, it felt fine -- a little uncomfortable, a lot weird, but Arthur liked it, wanted more of it. The thought -- the sight -- of Eames between his legs, Eames' fingers in him, preparing him for getting fucked, was enough to send spikes of arousal down his spine until all he wanted to do was push back against the hand gently working him open.
Eames added a second finger, and it was -- it wasn't painful; Arthur focused on that thought, forcing his body to relax. And then Eames' fingers pressed against something inside him that tore out a completely unintended sound from his throat, a breathless cry that mirrored the way his body suddenly seized up with want.
"There we are," Eames mused, resting Arthur's leg against his thigh and leaning forward, curving his free hand against Arthur's waist. "You like that, right? Not everyone cares for prostate stimulation."
"Yeah, it's," Arthur managed, took a deep breath; "It's good."
"Good," Eames said, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and then did it again. And again.
By the time Eames withdrew his fingers and slicked himself up with long, smooth strokes, Arthur was a shivering mess, his body flushed and hard with arousal. He felt wanton and open, but he could still feel the thread of nervousness at the back of his mind, threatening to undo the work the foreplay and the previous orgasm had done to loosen him up. He eyed the size of Eames' cock, fully hard and flushed dark with blood, and bit his lip. Eames tossed the lube back on the bed and Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position, drawing his legs up and turning around, getting on his hands and knees. His body wasn't too fond of having to move, but he thought it'd be better like this, easier; at the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about what his expressions might reveal.
"You want it from behind?" Eames said, rising up on his knees behind Arthur and running a heavy hand over his spine.
"No," Arthur said, looking over his shoulder and rolling his eyes, trying to shake the lingering feelings of embarrassment and uncertainty. "What made you think that?"
"No need for snark, pet," Eames chided him, his voice soft and smoky, his hands sliding down to cup Arthur's ass, massaging gently before prying the cheeks apart with his thumbs. Arthur let his head drop, feeling vulnerable and so turned on he could hardly breath.
"Eames," he said, swallowing, his throat suddenly dry, and Eames said, "Yeah," and, "Arthur."
Arthur was so slick he felt like he was dripping with lube, but Eames' cock felt huge going in, stretching his opening until Arthur felt like sobbing with it. He swallowed a breath, his hips twitching -- away from the invasion or towards it, Arthur wasn't sure -- as Eames pressed further in, then withdrew a little, his thumb rubbing softly against the stretched skin next to where he was breaching Arthur's body.
"Arthur," Eames said, sounding strained and faintly troubled.
"Wh-- ah?" Arthur asked, pushing back a little, experimentally.
"Nothing." Eames sounded gruff, but his hands were gentle. "You're so fucking tight."
"Mm," Arthur said, his eyelids fluttering, his fingers curling into the sheets as Eames got over whatever hang up had made him pause. He grabbed Arthur's hips, his hands big and rough on Arthur's flushed skin, and pushed in, slow but relentless, until his whole length was buried within Arthur's body.
Arthur could hear himself making noises -- embarrassing, helpless noises -- but couldn't make them stop. Eames withdrew until just the head was inside, then pushed pack in until his balls were flush against Arthur's ass. He did it slowly, at first, and then faster, rougher, fucking Arthur with long, deep, relentless strokes. When he shifted the angle and the head dragged across Arthur's prostate, Arthur let out a throaty, wrecked moan, and his arms gave out; he gave in without a fight, resting his forehead against the bed, panting.
"Yeah," Eames breathed, snapping his hips forward, hard. "Yeah, Arthur, you look so good like this."
Arthur gasped for breath against the covers, feeling desperate. Eames was overwhelming, the roll of his hips unrelenting. Arthur felt like he was coming completely undone, and he thought, Eames' hands, Eames' cock, Eames --
-- and, oh, he was so in over his head, he thought, choking on a laugh, and then Eames took hold of his erection, jerking him off with hard, rough pulls, and it took no time, no time at all, before Arthur was tensing up and crying out and shaking apart, coming in Eames' hand, with Eames still rocking in and out, the rhythm of it hard and unforgiving.
Arthur focused on getting his breathing under control, letting himself be fucked; his body didn't even feel like his anymore, just something of Eames' he'd get back, maybe, when Eames was done with it. The hands holding his hips were the only thing keeping him from crumbling bonelessly onto the wet spot. He felt floaty and wrung out, weightless and worn in the aftermath of his own pleasure. The room was filled with their harsh breaths, the sound of flesh against flesh, until Eames' strokes into him became shorter, harder, more erratic; Eames grunted, cursed, his hips flush against Arthur's ass. As he came, his grip on Arthur tightened almost painfully, his fingers pressing against the bone and muscle of Arthur's hips. Feeling the flood of warmth inside him, Arthur thought, condom -- but the thought was muddled and distant, his mind too close to sleep to hold on to it.
Eames leaned his hand heavily against the bed next to Arthur in an attempt not to collapse on top of him. For a minute, Eames stayed where he was, breathing hard. Then he touched Arthur's back with a gentle hand, smoothing his palm over the curve of Arthur's spine as he slowly withdrew. Arthur bit his lip as the head slipped out of him, leaving a sticky trail along the back of his thigh. Eames moved to the side and fell next to him on the bed, and Arthur laid down, too tired to care about the wet spot. He closed his eyes, trying to get used to the sudden emptiness inside of him, the ring of muscles at his opening grasping at nothing, unable to close completely. He shifted; the area felt swollen and sticky. Used, his mind told him, a trace of something that might have been satisfaction curling around the thought.
After a few minutes, Eames got off the bed again. Arthur fluttered his eyes open, watching as Eames disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a freshly dampened cloth.
"You alright, love?" He asked, brushing a strand of hair away from Arthur's sweaty forehead as he knelt next to him on the bed.
"Mm, yes," Arthur said, rubbing his cheek against the bed. Eames chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"Let's clean you up a little," he murmured, nudging Arthur's legs apart.
"Um," Arthur said, blushing.
"You're getting shy on me now?" Eames asked, snorting. "Darling, I've already seen it all. No need to pretend you're modest."
"Fine," Arthur said with as much bite as he could in his current condition, which admittedly didn't amount to much. He frowned against the pillow and spread his legs, tilting his hips for better access, and shivered at the feel of the damp cloth against his skin. He closed his eyes as Eames cleaned away the sticky trails of lube and semen, turned his head further into the pillow when Eames touched the hot skin around his entrance with cool fingertips. He moved when Eames urged him to turn over, watching with half-lidded eyes as Eames ran the cloth over his stomach for the second time that evening, and allowed himself to be prodded until they could strip off the top sheet. Eames took a minute to fetch a glass of water while Arthur got under the covers, setting it on the night table within Arthur's reach.
"Drink it," he told Arthur before going back into the bathroom. Arthur felt like pointing out that he wasn't a child, thank you very much, but was too thirsty to get around to it. He leveled himself up on an elbow and drained the glass. He was mostly asleep when Eames stepped into the room and switched the lights off. He felt the bed dipping when Eames got in next to him -- it was his last flash of awareness before sleep overwhelmed him, dragging him down like an anchor.
He didn't dream.
-
When he woke up, Eames was gone. Arthur swallowed as he sat up, tangled in the messy sheets, naked and sore and alone. There was a note on the nightstand, next to the empty glass, on which Eames had written in a messy scrawl,
Thanks for the coffee, pet.
PS - The room's booked till ten.
Arthur stared at the note for a long time, the quiet of the hotel room loud in his ears, and told himself he hadn't expected anything else.
***
II: Sidesteps