the understood boundaries of self (2/2)

[strzyga]

Eames holes himself away in his flat and drinks himself stupid for two days straight. He wakes up the morning of the third day and spends a good hour throwing up in the bathroom, and thinks to himself, this is pathetic. He downs a liter of water and a couple pain pills, and steps out for some groceries around noon because there is not a crumb in the apartment.

When he returns, almost an hour later, Arthur is waiting for him.

He is sitting, prim and solemn, on Eames' couch when he walks in the door. There is a small plastic bag at his side. Eames freezes, heart lurching in his chest like it's trying to break free of his ribcage, and almost drops the bags of food he is carrying.

Quietly, Arthur says, "Sit down, Eames."

And he does, right there in the middle of his living room floor, surrounded by groceries with the door to his apartment still open at his back. He stops, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He most certainly had not had any intentions of doing that.

After a long and mutually awkward silence, Arthur says, "That's not exactly what I meant."

"Yes, darling," Eames says, "I assumed as much." He moves stiffly to his feet, closes the door behind him. Arthur helps him carry the groceries into the kitchen. Aside from Arthur asking where this or that food belongs, they move silently about the room, maneuvering around each other as though they've been doing it for years. Eames thinks it strange that this doesn't feel stranger, being so domestic together. They've never even kissed, not really. Not in reality.

When they've finished Arthur pauses and looks around, seeming a little lost, hesitant. He licks his lips, an unusually nervous tic. "We should talk."

Eames turns and glares out the window; suddenly he is very angry. "About what?" he asks, more loudly than he'd meant to. "About the fact that you've got me so twisted up around you I can hardly tell my feet from my arse? That was common knowledge years ago. About the fact that you flirt, and you play, and then you clam up like a bloody virgin on prom night? That's nothing new." He whips around, teeth gritted, and spits, "Or maybe we should talk about the fact that you've spent the last two weeks demanding everything from me and never give anything in return because you're so terrified--"

The look on Arthur's face, vulnerable and almost painfully young, stops the words in his throat. For a second they simply stare at each other, helpless. Eames wipes a hand over his mouth, chest heaving, breath coming too fast. He swallows, and his Adam's apple razors his throat.

"I've never known you to be frightened of anything before, Arthur," he says, in a voice like broken glass.

Arthur looks blankly at him for what feels like hours. Finally, "When I was twenty years old," he says, "I had a boyfriend who was curious about getting into the scene. He'd experimented a little, of course, things he thought were kinky; handcuffs, blindfolds." He swallows visibly, wets his lips. "I was hesitant, at first. You have to understand--" His mouth twists into something he might possibly have intended to look like a smile; it is ugly, and it is bitter, and Eames isn't sure he wants to hear the rest of this story anymore. "--it wasn't something that came up in everyday conversation. I hadn't even talked with anyone about it since my first boyfriend, back in high school. I don't honestly know how he found out I was into it."

Here he shrugs, tight as though it hurts to move. His arms have come up to wrap around his abdomen, and his gaze is fixed sightlessly on Eames' coffee maker.

"So I was hesitant, but we'd been together for over a year, and he really did seem genuinely interested." A muscle in his cheek jumps. He looks small, smaller than Eames has ever seen him. Fragile. "So we played around, got a little heavier with each scene. Spanking, wax play, a light caning, once. I never did more than redden the skin. He wanted to try a little knife play. I thought it was a little weird, jumping so suddenly into something so heavy, but he insisted. We sat down, we talked about it, made sure we were both clear on everything. I didn't want there to be any surprises. I'd tied him up -- he loved the rope; you should have seen him, Eames, he was beautiful -- teased him for a while. But when I pulled out the knife, he panicked. Refused to safe word, but dammit, I'm a dom, I know when my boy's afraid."

Eames can't take his eyes off him. He sounds genuinely offended by the memory.

"He was so angry with me when I untied him," Arthur says. His voice is distant, like he's watching it happen all over again. Maybe he is. "He called me awful things, told me I was sick, I was wrong..." He trails off into a wet laugh, bleak, hollow. Then, like he's reminding himself, like he's trying to convince himself, "He agreed to everything. I never did anything we hadn't talked about beforehand."

The deep breath Arthur takes in is ragged, shaking. "I never saw him again."

Good, Eames thinks, helplessly. He wants desperately to hunt down this man and throttle him. "Arthur..."

"He wasn't the only one," Arthur says. "He was the one who hurt the most, but there were others. Eric, in college. Wanted a dom, but wanted to play the field at the same time. I'm possessive, I don't share well. Matthew, about five years ago. Wanted me to hang him on hooks from the ceiling. I just wanted to tie him up, hold him down. Make him come with a word." He looks at Eames again, finally. He looks desperately lonely. "I was never enough for any of them."

The hot surge of emotion nearly knocks him over. He wants nothing more in that moment than to make Arthur happy.

Arthur licks his lips again. His voice, when he speaks, is shaky. "I don't do casual relationships, Eames. If we do this, I need to know it all stops, the women, the flirting." He pauses, swallows audibly. "I can't do this if I don't know it's serious."

"Darling," he says, remarkably steady. "It's always been you. That's all I've ever wanted."

After a moment Arthur nods, closes his eyes. "Okay," he says. "Okay." Then, like an afterthought, "I'm sorry, for what I had to do in the club."

Eames stares, tries to breathe around the lump in his throat.

"I don't share," Arthur says, "and I don't expect you to, either."

"That's good," Eames rasps. His head is spinning.

They stare mutely at each other for a small eternity. Then Arthur steps forward, reaching out and stroking the back of his knuckles across Eames' cheek. The contact ignites a line of fire in his skin, and Eames moans, sways hungrily towards him.

"Are we doing this?" Arthur asks, quietly. "You should know that I don't want a slave," he adds. "Outside of a scene I have no authority over you. I don't want authority over you. I want a partner." He cups Eames' jaw, brushes his thumb across his cheek.

Eames swallows, says, "Yes."

"It won't be easy." Arthur says this like a warning, like it matters, like Eames doesn't know it already. Like it could ever change his mind. "For either of us."

Again, Eames says, "Yes."

"I want you to be sure," Arthur says, sounding a little desperate. He appears to be babbling. "You can say no, and I'll walk out that door right now and we'll never speak of it again--"

"Arthur," Eames says, and he is laughing, smiling at how ludicrous this is. They've known each other for years; for them to be so nervous at a time like this... "I want this. It's all I've been able to think of for the past two weeks."

"Oh," Arthur says, sounding a little surprised.

"Darling." He laughs again, the tightness in his chest unfurling. "If you couldn't tell then you are far less observant than I give you credit for."

"I wasn't entirely confident I wasn't projecting what I wanted on you," Arthur admits, smiling sheepishly. His knuckles are still resting against his cheek. "I had to be sure."

Eames wets his lips. "And are you?"

The smile on Arthur's face makes his dick twitch. His eyes are dark, laden with promise. "Yes, Mr. Eames," he says, "I am."

"Good," Eames says, weakly. He sways towards Arthur again, drawn to him like a compass to true north. "So, what now?"

"Now, Eames, you are going to wait in your bedroom." Arthur's eyes are heavy-lidded; he lets his thumb rest, casually possessive, on Eames' lower lip. "You will be naked by the time I get there."

Eames clears his throat. "What will you be doing?"

"Making you wait," he says, and dimples evilly.

"Oh." His voice is faint. He swallows, throat clicking. He is startlingly dizzy.

One of Arthur's hands slides down to curl around his hip, thumb sweeping broad arcs across the sharp blade of his pelvis. "Go," he says, and gives him a small nudge.

If asked, Eames can quite honestly say he doesn't recall the brief space of time between Arthur's order and lying naked on his bed. Presumably he walked, unless by some miraculous crack in the laws of physics he spontaneously mastered teleportation. Somewhere in there he must obviously have stripped, but he can remember no other details.

What he does remember is the breathless wait, what feels like every nerve in his body alight with anticipation. Licking his lips, trying to swallow around his suddenly copious saliva, his fingers clenching arrhythmically in the bed spread. His breath loud in his ears. The heavy thud of his heart in his chest, his blood in his dick, lying hard against his thigh. His eyes, fixed on the doorway, watching, waiting.

After what could easily have been five minutes or a million years Arthur appears in the doorway.

He's wearing the suit from the club.

Eames makes a noise, a truly pathetic noise which he will deny to his dying day, high in his throat. It is only by force of will that he stays on the bed, that he doesn't throw himself to the floor at Arthur's Testoni-clad feet.

One of Arthur's eyebrows swings sharply upwards, his eyes dark and blown as he looks Eames over from the doorway. "Yes," he says. His voice has dropped a register, heavy, dark like his eyes. Eames might possibly whimper. "I think I like you like this, very much."

Between one second and the next Arthur has climbed onto the bed, settling astride Eames' outstretched legs. Eames cannot look away from the way the fabric of his slacks pulls tight across his thighs, the bulge of his cock where it presses huge against the zipper. Arthur makes a low, thoughtful noise, spreads his leather-clad palm across Eames' chest, lights a fire beneath his skin. "Where to begin," he muses, head cocked to the side and eyeing him like a falcon might its prey. "Safe word?"

Eames licks his lips. He's thought about this. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. "Espionage." It was how they'd met, long ago, back when Eames had actually disliked him, before he'd become the gravity well at the heart of Eames' galaxy.

One side of Arthur's mouth quirks upward in amusement; he doesn't seem to make the connection. "Alright," he agrees. "And to slow down?"

That throws him, something that hadn't actually occurred to him. He has to think about it before he finally says, "Sinclair."

Arthur goes very still, looks down at him in silence for a long moment. "Okay," he says, and his voice is hoarse. He seems suddenly to be reevaluating the first safeword, and whatever conclusion he's drawn leaves him rattled. Then he seems to shake off whatever shadow has taken hold of him, and he is Arthur again, cool, confident. Dominant.

"We'll keep this light today," he says. "Typical rules apply. Don't speak unless I ask you a question or you need to safeword. You don't get to come until I let you, and it's going to be up to you to control yourself. No cock rings."

Eames' throat is tight with want, his whole body vibrating. He nods frantically.

The smile on Arthur's face is soft, genuinely affectionate. "God, Eames," he sighs, something wistful crossing his expression. He leans forward, his tie tickling Eames' chest, and takes his mouth in a kiss that is at once both achingly sweet and blisteringly hot. Eames moans, low in his throat, and presses upwards into it, eyes falling closed, lets Arthur steal his breath with every deliberate sweep of his tongue.

Eventually Arthur pulls away, his mouth bruised, his breath coming a little faster against Eames' skin. "Fuck," he whispers, "the things I want to do to you."

A whimper escapes before he can contain it, and Arthur's eyes flash.

"Mm," says Arthur, "you like that, don't you?" He settles back on his heels, and Eames' eyes fall, riveted, to where cotton stretches obscenely across his dick. Arthur licks his lips, and Eames trembles. "I think I'd like to fuck your mouth," he says, thoughtfully. "Just kneel on your shoulders and make you take it. Would you like that?"

"Yes," he gasps, a wave of heat crashing over him. "Yes, very much."

"Good." Arthur looks him over, a firm hand stroking its way down Eames' side. "Hands up, over your head," he orders, and as Eames obeys the hand not on his hip plays idly at the buckle of Arthur's belt. Then he unbuckles it, one-handed, pulls it tantalizingly slow through the loops of his slacks and leans up, over Eames' head. His tie brushes against Eames' nose, and the scent of him is overpowering, thick and masculine. Eames is so distracted by the stripe of bare skin he can just see between two of the buttons on his shirt that it takes him a moment to realize his hands are being tied to the headboard with Arthur's belt. He jerks, a strange, desperate noise catching in his throat, and as he feels the restraints hold, the leather around his wrists, he shivers all over and falls limp to the sheets.

Arthur sits back, looking over his handiwork, Eames a puddle on the mattress before him. "Oh, yes," he says, that same wicked smile curling his lips. "I think you may actually have been made for this."

Eames lies on the bed, his blood roaring in his ears. His fingers play at the edges of the leather around his wrists; he is first and foremost a thief, and he could work his way free if he wanted. He doesn't, though. There is something almost profanely easy about this. He's never let himself be tied up before, but now that he has he finds the rush of his thoughts quieting, the urgent need to move and act and observe sinking backwards, beneath the calm. Arthur is huge above him, a faint crinkle of crisp cotton as he moves, leather against his skin where he touches him. He floats. The smile on his face is beatific.

Above him, Arthur stops moving, hands frozen on Eames' sternum. "Are you in--" He sounds confused, a little startled. Then, as Eames blinks lazily up at him, makes a faint, questioning noise, he says, "Holy shit, you are."

He blinks, slowly, tilts his head to nuzzle at Arthur's fingers, shivering. The taste of leather is smoky on his tongue.

"My god," Arthur says, wide-eyed. His chest is heaving, the touch of his fingers to Eames' jaw almost reverent. "You're in sub space."

Then, "No, no, sh, shhh," because Eames is stirring, looking up at him with renewed awareness, and his fingers stroke affectionately, soothingly across Eames' face, the curve of his ear. "It's okay, hush, stay where you are," and Eames settles again, breath coming slow in his chest. Arthur does not smile, his face solemn, but there is something indulgent, something fond in the set of his mouth, the corners of his eyes. "There we go, good boy."

Eames sighs, the strange hectic upset in his throat now quiescent, shifting contentedly in his bonds.

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, expression turning predatory. He keeps up a steady flow of reassurance, voice soft and warm, and undoes the zip of his trousers, slips the button free, at the same time loosening his tie, stripping out of his waistcoat. Eames watches, mesmerized, as Arthur sheds his shirt, and with each button he undoes reveals more of the pale perfect skin of his chest. He licks his lips, want a low, ceaseless thump in the pit of his stomach.

Once he is entirely naked Arthur walks further up the bed on his knees till he is straddling Eames' chest. His dick is beautiful, long and just thick enough to be deeply satisfying, flushed a dusky pink and red at the head, jutting upright from a bed of thick, dark curls. Eames moans hungrily, cannot look away as Arthur takes it in hand, strokes firmly.

"Open your mouth," Arthur says, husky.

He does, desire a hot coal in his groin. Arthur sinks into his mouth on a long, slow glide, the taste of him thick and bitter on his tongue. Eames hasn't done this in many a year, has almost forgotten the weight of a dick in his mouth, the taut stretch of his lips around the heavy length. "Don't move," Arthur rasps, resting his weight on his arms against the headboard, eyes heavy lidded.

Eames moans around the dick on his tongue, fingers grasping desperately at leather. He deliberately relaxes his throat, suckles greedily as Arthur sits momentarily frozen. Arthur is bent above him, breath quick in his chest, his cheeks flushed. "Fuck," he gasps, hips jerking. Eames jumps as his dick hits the back of his throat, then swallows, a high noise escaping him.

Then Arthur pulls back, thighs quivering, and snaps his hips forwards, sets a rhythm fucking Eames' mouth that rattles through his bones. He can feel his throat struggling to accommodate, and he shivers, heat an electric surge in his blood. He tastes skin, and warmth, that heavy musk so peculiar to the male sex, precome making his mouth water. He moans wildly, hips jerking with every thrust, sucks desperately. There is nothing he wants more in this moment than the taste of Arthur's come in his mouth, the feeling of that wet heat filling him up.

Above him Arthur is coming slowly undone, his breath ragged, low moans spilling from his mouth. His eyes are black, sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat. He fucks harder, faster; it is a wild thrill in his gut, the way Arthur uses him like an empty receptacle.

Abruptly Arthur makes a deep, guttural noise, and his hips stutter, and then he is flooding Eames' mouth with his come, Eames swallowing around him. The taste of it explodes on his tongue, thick and heavy and a little sour. Eames whines, his own hips thrusting blindly into empty air.

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur gasps above him, hips still thrusting mindlessly. After a moment they fall still, and Arthur hovers above him, stomach fluttering, chest heaving along with his breath.

He can't help but continue to suckle, Arthur's dick so warm and soft now in his mouth. Arthur makes a tight, choked noise, jerking. He slips out and Eames whines, tries to follow. He gets a light cuff to his ear. "Stop that," Arthur says, breathless. He sounds amused, though, so Eames subsides to the bed without worrying, licking his lips.

"You're good at that," Arthur says, his breath slowly returning to normal. There is a definite smile on his face now, and he settles back, resting his weight carefully on Eames' chest, strokes a calloused thumb firmly across his swollen mouth. "Not surprising," he observes, "with a mouth like this."

Eames preens, arching, lips at Arthur's thumb. Arthur's mouth quirks, and he rumbles a low laugh, vibrating through them both and finally settling in Eames' chest, lodged between his ribs.

"Yes," Arthur says, fondly, "you are a proud thing, aren't you?" If he minds at all he makes no indication of it.

He turns, nuzzles at Arthur's knee. Arthur huffs another laugh, bends himself almost in half and takes another kiss, tongue slipping into Eames' mouth and utterly owning him. Eames moans, presses into it, lets Arthur taste every corner of his mouth until he shakes with it. Then Arthur pulls away, places a quelling finger to Eames' lips when he tries to follow again, shakes his head. "No, Eames," he says, but his mouth is tilted in a small smile and his eyes are dancing. "Don't move."

And then he is up off the bed, moving naked across the room, and Eames watches, yearning, feeling abruptly cold. When he returns he settles in the cradle of Eames' hips, running his fingers along the lines of his thighs in delicate caresses that raise gooseflesh across Eames' body. He shivers.

"Up," Arthur says, cupping a hand around the back of each of his knees. He obeys, bares himself before Arthur's hungry eyes. A thread of vulnerability furls hot in his belly, and he trembles, his fingers clutching at the belt. Arthur watches him, running soothing hands down the backs of his thighs. "Have you ever done this before?"

Eames swallows thickly, breath shuddering. "Once," he says reluctantly, "long ago." It had been an experience that could only be generously described as horrible.

Arthur frowns, but says only, "Okay. This might feel a little strange at first," and then a long, slick finger slips into him and he jumps, feeling himself stretch in ways he'd long forgotten. He wonders when Arthur lubed himself up. Arthur is careful, lets him adjust before beginning to move. The uncomfortable stretch blossoms into a low burn, and Eames groans in surprise, arches back onto it. A strange smile on his face, Arthur crooks his finger, digs around for a second, and then Eames leaps almost out of his skin, crying out as a jolt of fire roars through him, setting his whole body alight.

For a long moment Eames stares blindly at the ceiling, gaping like a beached fish, gulping raggedly for air as Arthur scrapes his nail repeatedly against that spot.

"Ready for another one?" Arthur asks, smirking.

He nods frantically, and this time is more prepared for the burn as Arthur slides two fingers into him, deep as they'll go. Eames lets out a throaty moan, struggles to keep his knees tucked up against his chest instead of letting them fall to the side. His thighs ache. He jerks helplessly, breath catching on a noise alarmingly like a sob as Arthur fucks him with just his fingers. By the time Arthur has buried three fingers deep in him he is frantic, keening. He can hear himself making high, desperate noises.

Arthur pulls out, and Eames whines pathetically, thighs twitching. "Shhh," Arthur says, looming abruptly over him. "It's okay, I've got you." He hooks one of Eames' thighs around his waist, the other over his shoulder. Pauses just long enough to put on the condom he has grabbed from nowhere. He grips him tight around the hips and says, "It's going to be very important that you relax."

Then Eames is being split open as Arthur finally, finally thrusts in, and all of his bones turn to kindling as the breath is knocked from his chest. The heat of him, so deep inside, tears a shiver from Eames that knocks his teeth together. He bites his lip, stares helplessly into the dark wells of Arthur's eyes, pupils blown and utterly black. His hands are clenched so tightly around the leather belt the edges cut into his palms.

"Okay?" Arthur asks, voice hoarse.

Eames breathes for a long second, overwhelmed. Then he nods, sucking in breath through his teeth. Arthur looks him over, for what Eames doesn't know, then says, "Okay," and withdraws until just the head of his dick remains inside. For a brief instant Eames feels hollowed out and empty, and then Arthur lunges forward. Eames throws his head back and wails, hips bucking.

The pace Arthur sets is brutal, hard and fast, fingers pressing bruises into Eames' hips. Eames gasps for breath to scream, head tossing on the pillow, entire body thrashing in a paroxysm of ecstasy like nothing he's ever known. Looming over him, Arthur's shoulders are flushed a delicate pink, sweat slicking his skin. His breath puffs warm and humid against Eames' face. Arthur is all around him, the slap of their hips meeting filling his ears, body hot and sticky against him, Arthur's breath coming faster now, little grunts escaping with each thrust.

He takes it all in and moans wildly, gasps for oxygen, head spinning. Heat is pooling in his belly, a tightly coiled spring slowly being unraveled by the feel of Arthur moving within him. He makes a high, desperate noise, the beginnings of his orgasm roaring in his ears, knocks Arthur in the side with his knee. There's no way he can hold himself back.

Arthur looks down, to where Eames' cock is slapping against his stomach, bites his lip. His eyes flare, and he stoops, presses a sucking kiss to Eames' shoulder. "When I tell you," he says, "you can come."

Eames whimpers, chews urgently at his lip. He shakes, clenches his eyes closed and clamps down as best his can on his impending orgasm. His dick surges.

Above him Arthur's gasps have reached a fever pitch, the pound of his hips falling out of rhythm. He says, in a voice like gravel, "Now."

He comes, body turning molten in orgasm, his blood white-hot in his veins. Through the roar in his ears he can vaguely hear himself sobbing, the strangled noise Arthur makes as he comes, can feel Arthur's dick jerk and spasm, his hips faltering.

Silence, but for the sound of their mingled breaths and the ringing in Eames' ears. Then Arthur heaves a shuddering sigh and withdraws, pulling off the condom and tying it, tossing it in the direction of a waste bin, collapses to the side. Eames whimpers, feeling hollow again. Arthur makes a low noise, reassuring, reaches down and slips a pair of leather-clad fingers back into him. He shivers, but subsides, feeling a little less empty. His pulse is still racing, heart pounding against his ribs.

Arthur rolls towards him, settles on his shoulder and presses soothing kisses to Eames' temple, makes quiet, shushing noises. He frees Eames' hands from the belt, rubs them carefully to help the flow of blood, places an apologetic kiss against the inside of his wrist for the pins and needles. Eames is content to lie where he is, body shuddering with aftershocks, nestles into the curve of Arthur's throat.

Eventually the adrenaline wears off and Eames shivers with chill, and Arthur shoves him good naturedly around until he can get them both under the covers. At one point he rolls Eames onto his belly and pulls apart his cheeks, fingers touching and prodding; Eames makes a low noise, confused, and Arthur murmurs, "Shhh, just making sure you're alright." After a moment he presses a dry kiss to the small of his back. Then he lays down, belly up, beckons with one hand. Eames presses close, resting his head on a strong shoulder. It isn't as bony beneath his cheek as he would have expected, dense with sleek muscle, and he sighs, lets his eyes fall closed.

Arthur shifts once, beneath him, curls an arm around his waist. "Sleep," he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to his hair.

Eames does.

He wakes, to pale sunlight pouring across the bed, latticework shadows from the window frames. Sometime during the night they have rearranged themselves. Arthur is curled up against his back, a warm arm slung across his waist. His breath is hot against the back of his neck.

Eames makes a contented noise in his chest, wriggles backwards, nuzzles at Arthur's other arm where it lies beneath his head. He is absurdly fascinated by the skin of the inside of his elbow, gleaming faintly with a light coating of sweat. Against his skin he can feel the ridges of muscle in Arthur's chest, his belly. His dick lays warm and soft against the small of Eames' back. When Eames moves there is a sharp ache at the base of his spine, and he still feels a little stretched out; it's not entirely unpleasant.

"Mm," says Arthur, sleep-muddled and raspy. "Morning." He presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and Eames shivers all over.

"Good morning," he says, gravel-throated and a little breathless.

Arthur smiles against his skin, noses affectionately at the hair at his nape.

"Arthur--"

"Hush," Arthur says, pinching lightly at Eames' hip. He's still smiling, though. His dick twitches at Eames' back. "Breakfast, then we can have another go."

Eames takes a shuddering breath and nods, presses unconsciously backwards and receives a slap to his hip in return.

"Up," Arthur says, laughing. "Do you have any clothes I could borrow?"

He directs him to the top drawer of his dresser. They both pull on some clothing, and Eames mourns the loss of a totally bare Arthur. At least his only concession to modesty is a pair of boxer briefs, just a little too small for Eames to wear anymore. It's odd, to see Arthur in his clothing. It seems backwards.

They eat breakfast at the small table in his kitchen, legs tangled beneath the table, sunlight picking out golden highlights across Arthur's cheeks, his nose. The only sound is that of cutlery against porcelain, the drinking of coffee.

When they're finished, Arthur sits for a moment and stares at his plate, worries a napkin between his fingers. His shoulders are tense. Eames is just about to ask if something is wrong when he looks up and says, "I have a gift, for you. If you're interested."

Eames blinks, straightens in his chair. He remembers, suddenly, the small bag that had been sitting next to Arthur on the couch, the night before. "What kind of gift?"

Arthur hesitates, drums his fingers on the tabletop. "Come with me," he finally says.

He follows Arthur into the parlor, where he stands for a long moment, looking for the first time aware of and uncomfortable with being in Eames' boxer briefs and nothing else. His hands twitch at his sides, like he doesn't know what to do with them.

"Arthur?" Eames frowns, shifting his weight uneasily.

Inhaling a ragged breath, Arthur sits stiffly on the couch, drums his fingers against his knees. The plastic bag crinkles when he moves. "Come here," he says. His voice is shaking, slightly.

Still frowning, Eames crosses the room and drops to his knees at Arthur's feet, glancing anxiously at the plastic bag. "What--"

"First off," Arthur interrupts, and Eames blinks, quirks an eyebrow. Is he nervous? "You are under no obligation to accept what I'm about to give you."

Slowly, Eames says, "Okay..."

"I just want to make sure we're clear," Arthur says, licking his lips. "I don't want to pressure you--"

"Arthur," says Eames, a little exasperated, "what is it?"

Arthur stares silently, then blinks. He clears his throat, takes the plastic bag in hand and fidgets with it, bites his lower lip. His teeth are white against the lush pink of his mouth. Then he seems to steel himself, reaches into the bag, pulls out something that rustles in his hands. Eames can't quite make it out; it's wrapped in plastic, hidden behind Arthur's fingers. "I've never given one of these to someone before," Arthur says, eyes on whatever is in his hands. "I've never actually wanted to."

That takes him by surprise. He shifts forward, rests his cheek on Arthur's knee. Whatever this is, it's big.

"I'm not really sure what the protocol for this is," Arthur admits, dropping a hand to cup Eames' jaw. His thumb strokes idly across his cheek.

"You could just show it to me," Eames says. He turns his head to kiss Arthur's thumb when it makes another pass.

There is a sharp intake of air above him, and Arthur leans down, seizes his mouth in a kiss that is surprising in its urgency. Eames moans, presses up into it, feels heat surging across his skin. The ache in his arse makes itself known, and he wants, quite suddenly, desperately wants Arthur to fuck him again.

"Please," he says, breathy, "show me."

Arthur swallows, nods. Then he opens his hands so Eames can see, and Eames' stomach swoops. He feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked from the room.

It's a collar.

More of a choker, really, wide metal plating atop thick black leather. The metal gleams dully in the thin light from Eames' kitchen, and at the center is a huge O-ring. He is stricken by an image of Arthur leading him around on a leash, yanking him towards his dick with it coiled around his fist.

He must have been silent too long, for Arthur says, anxiously, "Like I said, you don't have to accept it--"

"I want to," Eames interrupts, voice utterly wrecked. God, how he wants to.

Above him Arthur lets out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his body. He opens the plastic wrap with shaking hands, pauses for a moment to run a finger along the edge. "Once I put this on," he says hoarsely, "it doesn't come off. I won't let you take it off, not while we're still doing this."

Eames thinks of wearing it in public, the mark of Arthur's ownership where anyone can see it, Cobb, Ariadne, prospective clients. The want that pounds in his stomach is enough to make him sway. "Good," he says, and his voice cracks.

"Chin up," Arthur whispers. His fingers shake as he opens the clasp, and Eames holds his breath as he wraps the collar around his throat. The noise he makes when the collar snaps closed is indescribable. Arthur's eyes flash with want, and he spends long seconds tracing the edge of the collar where it meets Eames' skin. Then he hooks his finger around the loop and tugs Eames up onto the couch, straddling his thighs.

They kiss for what feels like hours, Arthur licking into his mouth, taking him in and owning him, until Eames is shivering apart in his arms, hips rolling unconsciously, a moan dripping off every breath. Arthur's dick is hard beneath him, jutting out just right for Eames to rub shamelessly against him. One of Arthur's hands cradles his jaw; the other is curled around his hip, thumb sweeping possessively over the wing of his pelvis, fingers pressing bruises into his skin. The sound of their mingled breaths, Eames' moans, Arthur's low noises, fills the room, loud in his ears.

Arthur breaks away, nips at the corner of his mouth when Eames makes a sound of protest, kisses a burning path down the line of his throat to the edge of the collar. "Fuck," he rasps, "you look so perfect like this."

Eames whines, lets his head fall back to bare his throat. Arthur makes a gravel-throated noise, deep in his chest, jerks Eames' hips against him and takes the flesh of his shoulder between his teeth, bites down until pain fizzes through him, bursting into shocks of pleasure like static electricity, red at the edges of his vision. Eames cries out, fingers clutching wildly at Arthur's shoulders, lurches against him. He babbles, an incoherent stream of praise and garbled noises, until Arthur takes his mouth in another devouring kiss.

When they pull away for breath, Arthur sucks a bruise into the skin beneath his jaw. "Up," he says, voice ruined.

Reluctantly, they both move to their feet. They stand, chests pressed together, slick with sweat. Arthur licks his lips, kiss bitten and swollen; he looks debauched, and Eames shivers. "Come," Arthur says, and leads him into his bedroom, walking backwards, one of Eames' hands in his own. Their eyes remain locked. When they get to the door Eames stops, and Arthur pauses, looks at him for a long moment. Then he eases backwards, settles on the edge of the bed, leans back on his elbows and sprawls across the floor.

There is a lump in his throat. He looks at Arthur, spread across his bed, his room like it belongs to him. In a lot of ways it kind of does. Eames thinks of Arthur, of the work they will have ahead of them. "It won't be easy," Arthur had said, "for either of us." It's true, Eames knows. He has a lot to learn, things he doesn't even know exist. He still doesn't really know where his boundaries lie.

But he has Arthur. Arthur, who is miles upon miles of perfect skin and lean muscle, that haughty tilt to his jaw, the clean lines of tendon in his throat. Arthur, master and protector and lover, who will take him apart and put him back together entirely new, spin him a chrysalis and break him free.

"Eames," says Arthur.

He has Arthur, and this is enough.

Eames crosses the room and sinks to his knees between Arthur's spread thighs.

MASTER POST | PART I | GRAPHICS