The long years of obscurity

Fic: Shelter

2012-08-13T15:46:19Z

Title: Shelter
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: After the rave, Stiles doesn't want to go home, and Derek doesn't want him to either.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 8000
Notes: Just a post-208 feelings-and-porn thing that somehow grew to nearly 8k, because my pack feels cannot be contained. (Also because knotting.) Thanks to Yvi and Shane for the awesomeness, encouragement, and help.

Shelter @ AO3

This entry was originally posted at http://five-ht.dreamwidth.org/19849.html.

Fic: Catalyst

2012-05-24T22:20:46Z

Title: Catalyst
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Arthur is a freshman omega in college who hasn't yet had his first heat. Eames is a friendly alpha who is willing to lend a hand.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3300
Warnings: Alpha/omega dynamics.

Catalyst on AO3

This entry was originally posted at http://five-ht.dreamwidth.org/19520.html.

Fic: Necessity

2012-03-01T16:17:49Z

Title: Necessity
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Inspired by this prompt, the gist of which is that Arthur is stressed on a job, but Eames knows how to take care of him.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5200
Warnings: D/s, daddy kink, spanking.
Notes: Written as an exceedingly late pinch hit for the dream_holiday exchange on LJ, for gothicauthor. HUGE HUGE thanks to Aja for the encouragement and help, and to Yvi for giving me the energy and enthusiasm to write this in the first place.

Necessity

Now let's see if I managed to figure out how to crosspost this to LJ without disaster...

This entry was originally posted at http://five-ht.dreamwidth.org/19388.html.

I can't actually shuffle

2011-11-18T17:13:20Z

Did some friends list shuffling just now, mostly removing people who I didn't recognize or at least don't really talk to. It's nothing personal, I've just been doing a lot of whining lately, and I'm... well, I'm a paranoid fuck.

The friend removal page on LJ is ludicrously ill-designed, so like, if you and I speak on Twitter all the time, or we once had a really awesome conversation somewhere about Arthur's ass or our feelings (or our feelings about Arthur's ass), and you are shocked and dismayed at my having removed you, please let me know, because chances are I've either fucked something up technically, or your Twitter and LJ names are different and thus confused me.

Regarding somewhat more interesting things: This isn't a new policy, but I'd like to put in writing that anyone looking to podfic/illustrate/create an interpretive dance for any of my fics is more than welcome. :) I'm putting this up on my sticky post as well, so it'll always be visible. All I ask is that you link me to the work so I can enjoy it too. ♥

The things that are happening

2011-11-06T23:17:43Z

I've been pretty sick. Those with the misfortune of following me on Twitter are already privy to the gory, unnecessary details. Suffice to say, I have spent the last week in and out of the hospital, whining and moaning and generally being a twat. I'm feeling better now though. Yeah.

I am procrastinating a lot of Really Important Things and it is going to bite me in the ass, but hey, that's how I roll. I don't need to actually go to grad school, right?

I posted some of my Steve/Tony fics under a pseud at AO3 (and that's in bold because I've had some questions about it). They can be found here. Just to be clear, since I don't want to be misleading (anjkfds I have no idea how to deal with this), I'm not actually in that fandom anymore. I wrote for it in 2008 and 2009. I have no idea what next summer and the Avengers movie will bring, but I have no current plans to write anything else for that fandom. There are one or two other fics that I haven't uploaded yet, so they might go up in the next little while, but nothing new. They were all previously posted on my old fic journal, but I made them private a few months ago in a fit of extreme (but absolutely characteristic) awkwardness.

This is such an uninteresting entry. I should go write some porn.

Fic: Not Necessarily the Best Policy

2011-10-07T14:22:59Z

I wrote something! And all it took was having 48459834945 more important things to procrastinate!

Title: Not Necessarily the Best Policy
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Arthur has a lot of feelings, mostly about Eames' penis. Yusuf's accidental truth drug helpfully illuminates them.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5200
Notes: Written for cherrybina’s Kink Fest 2.0.

Read at AO3 or at the kink fest, in comment form because I'm too lazy and disorganized to be dealing with more than two copies of this thing lying around.

Fic: Things Are Gonna Slide (1/2)

2011-08-03T14:11:06Z

Title: Things Are Gonna Slide
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Eames forges Satan for a job, and can't quite shake it when he wakes up. Arthur learns some things. A story of sex and weird mixed-up feelings (mostly sex).
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 13,000
Warnings: D/s. Technically impaired judgment (under the influence of a forgery) in one scene.
Notes: Written for this prompt (my fill is here), which has several awesome fills. This is approximately 65% porn.

Huge thanks to platina, who took this thing from random jumble of words to coherent sentences on many an occasion, and slapped some sense into me when I was working myself into a tizzy. (... on many an occasion.)

And every ounce of love in my bones to cherrybina, who is the reason this fic exists, as well as the reason I'm reposting it here. A patient, thorough beta and basically just a saint for putting up with me and all of my crazy. You get all the snuggles, Bina, all of them. ♥ ♥ ♥

There are few things that Arthur is genuinely afraid of. Lung cancer, family reunions, recessions -- dream-heist being considered a somewhat more frivolous expense by even the biggest of spenders -- and dentists pretty much make up the entire list. He's never been afraid of something in a dream (notable exception of the Fischer job and the possibility of serious brain damage notwithstanding).

Right now, he's afraid of Eames.

He has no real reason to be, given that he's never even had a belief in, much less a fear of, Satan. And that aside, he's seen Eames forge monsters before, both human and mythical, and nothing ever got under his skin like this. The unnaturally sharp angles of an otherwise familiar face, the way Eames applies the forgery slowly, so gradually that the mark doesn’t see it until it’s too late -- even Arthur would be unnerved if he hadn’t been watching for it over his cards, across the worn felt top of the poker table.

“You should be careful who you play games with, Mr. Hallett,” Eames lays his cards down face-up. But it isn’t Eames, now; his voice sounds like a dozen men are trapped in his throat and speaking in unison, and while his face is still chillingly recognizable, his skin is red and waxy, his cheekbones too high, his eyes black.

Arthur swallows hard, and when he speaks, he can’t chalk his hoarseness up to acting alone. “What the fuck is this, Hallett--”

“Quiet,” Eames shoots at him, silky and dangerous, part of the script -- but it doesn’t stop Arthur from tensing. Eames is very good.

With Arthur as convinced as he is even knowing the truth, Hallett has no chance; it’s mere minutes before he’s leading Eames to the safe in his gauche Vegas hotel room. Arthur waits in the lobby, avoiding the eyes of the projections until he hears the opening strains of The Devil Went Down to Georgia -- Eames’ choice -- filtering through the walls.

Arthur opens his eyes to the ceiling of Hallett’s real hotel room, this one in New York, and is pulling his line out and standing before Eames stirs.

“Might be less than a minute before he’s up,” Arthur tells him, pulling the IV from Hallett’s arm and winding it back into the PASIV. Eames doesn’t seem quite as bothered by the urgency of the situation, but he hands Arthur his line, standing from his chair and straightening his clothes.

“I got the numbers,” Eames says, watching Arthur snap the PASIV shut. “He handed them right to me.”

“That’s good,” Arthur says tersely, giving the room one last check before nodding toward the door and following Eames’ maddeningly slow pace out through it.

Arthur walks swiftly down the hall while Eames lags behind, reaching the stairwell when Arthur is already halfway up one flight. Biting his tongue, Arthur finds himself slowing his pace when he reaches their floor, holding the door open for Eames to walk through, with one eyebrow quirked in amusement at Arthur’s expression.

Arthur’s jaw stays set tight all the way down the hall and into their room, but the click of the lock behind them is like the flip of a switch.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, dropping the PASIV on the bed and collapsing on his back next to it. He feels like laughing; a reflex reaction to the rush of the tension leaving him. He scrubs his hand over his face, “You could have at least pretended you were in a hurry,” he says, though he’s only a little exasperated, now that the element of risk has been largely removed.

“I could have,” Eames says lightly, somewhere near the desk, “But that would have deprived me of the view offered to a man walking behind you on the stairs.”

Arthur drops his hand from his eyes, raising up onto his elbows to look at Eames and gauge his expression, because Eames would pick right now to turn suggestion into full-on flirting. He offers Arthur a smirk and another raised eyebrow, leaning back against the desk, his shirt stretching over his shoulders.

“Right,” Arthur says, cautiously amused, then glances at the PASIV, at the files scattered over every available surface in the room. Hotel suites make shitty offices, but the job required proximity. “You need to write those numbers down before you forget them.”

“It’s amazing how much you can get done,” Eames says, clicking lazily through his phone, ”When you’re not running through the halls like your gorgeous arse is on fire.” He holds the screen for Arthur to see a list of security codes.

Arthur hesitates. “Fair point,” he concedes, allowing himself a grin. “You were really fucking good down there,” he says, though the moment it’s out of his mouth, he knows Eames wasn’t in need of confirmation.

“I did notice that, when he nearly burst into tears at the sound of my voice,” Eames says coolly. He slouches back against the desk like he expects Arthur to stare -- not that Arthur’s ever needed an invitation before -- and adds, “And you as well.” His eyes rake over Arthur in a way that gives Arthur a few hard-to-suppress urges, the least embarrassing of which is to spread his legs.

“We need to get out of here,” he says, ignoring the dig and leaving off the end of the sentence, before I ask you to get on top of me. He pushes himself off the bed and starts to cross the room to where his laptop is set on the table in the corner, but Eames reaches out, catching Arthur’s shirt just above the waistband of his pants.

“But a job well done calls for a celebration, does it not?” Eames smiles at him, dangerous and enticing, so like the smile he flashed at Hallett when he asked to join the game. He tugs Arthur in, and Arthur’s skin hums at the proximity, just inches separating them.

He starts to point out that they’ve never celebrated a job before now, least of all such a straightforward one, but that now worryingly large portion of his brain that controls his sex drive asks him What the fuck is wrong with you? and when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “Eames.”

“And darling, we’ve already gotten ourselves a room. When opportunity knocks...” Eames leans in, trailing his lips down the side of Arthur’s neck.

“Not -- not that I’m objecting to this turn of events,” Arthur manages, shivering as the tip of Eames’ tongue traces over his ear, “But we have other rooms. In hotels not occupied by a man whose mind we just invaded.”

“A man,” Eames says, “Who just woke up from a dreadful nightmare of devils and poker games, and will drink himself back to sleep within the hour.”

Eames’ hand slides around his waist, fingers tracing his spine, pressing firmly and drawing Arthur closer. “I know you’ll say yes. I know you, Arthur,” he whispers, a lilt of amusement lacing through his voice, “Tell me you don’t want it.”

In lieu of answering, Arthur turns his head, drawing his mouth over Eames’ stubbled cheek until Eames turns toward him. The hot dart of a tongue between his lips is all it takes for Arthur to give a shuddering moan.

“Good answer,” Eames says, then presses them together in a kiss that leaves no question of who’s taking the lead, and no doubt in Arthur’s mind that he just made an excellent decision.

He can feel Eames’ smile against his own mouth, and it even feels cocky; everything about the way Eames is moving feels self-assured and almost frustratingly cool. Arthur tries to play along, but a thick thigh works between his own, and Eames’ hand strokes teasingly over his hair, petting him. When Arthur shudders, unable to suppress it, Eames breaks the kiss and grins.

“Arthur,” he purrs, pressing up with his leg and bringing Arthur onto his toes. The pressure is almost too much, and Arthur has to clutch at Eames’ shoulders to keep steady. “Pretty Arthur.”

“Pretty,” Arthur scoffs, wanting to roll his eyes, but Eames thumbs over his cheekbone and it occurs to Arthur that he might be serious, for all he is quite obviously teasing.

“Pretty when you let me play with you,” Eames says, singsong, one hand gripping Arthur’s ass and rocking him forward, rubbing him against Eames’ thigh.

“Jesus, Eames,” he says, though he loses his amusement quickly when he starts to harden against the friction. He's lifted up too high for proper balance or leverage, and Eames is controlling the pace, with Arthur just along for the ride. His pulse starts to quicken when Eames moves in close, his breath hot in Arthur’s ear, teasing and light. Arthur shivers, his fingers tightening on Eames’ shoulders as goosebumps raise on his skin.

Arthur feels reckless and easy, the adrenaline of the job and the culmination of months, maybe years of attraction fueling him. Eames guides him through rutting against Eames' thigh and Arthur arches into it, tilting his head and seeking out Eames' mouth. Eames kisses him just like he’s done everything else tonight, licking his lips apart and claiming like it's a game, like he doesn’t need to try, and Arthur supposes he doesn’t. Eames' hand on his ass feels possessive, fingers running along the seam of Arthur's pants, and the suggestion makes him groan.

"I could have you just like this," Eames breathes into his mouth, "Make you ruin your trousers for me, you'd like that."

He wants to disagree, wants to at least point out that it's been about a decade since he’s come in his pants like a kid, but Eames jostles his thigh and Arthur has to swallow his words. He's so hot already, riled and frantic, and he couldn't come yet, but it feels like it could be moments away. Eames' approach here isn't exactly what he expected, but the dominance itself comes as no surprise – Arthur's never had a fantasy about Eames that didn't hinge on that trait.

"But I've got plenty of time to play with you tonight," Eames is saying, dropping his thigh and pulling Arthur tighter against him. Arthur whines, grinding himself against Eames' hip, and Eames grins, "Let's see how pretty you are underneath all this."

Eames kisses him again and draws Arthur's tie from his collar, winding it around his hand as he pulls. Arthur starts to unbutton his waistcoat, but Eames pulls his hands away, ignoring Arthur’s huff of protest as he works the buttons open at a maddeningly slow pace. Breaking the kiss, Eames splays warm hands across Arthur's ribs, and the touch feels less muted now with just Arthur's shirt between them.

"So many layers, Arthur, you must feel terribly restricted," Eames smiles, pushing the waistcoat off Arthur's shoulders and starting on his shirt, "I think I can guess what that means about you." He pulls the shirt free of Arthur's pants and lets it flutter to the floor.

"You want to tie me up?" Arthur asks, desperately wishing the hotel's headboard wasn't a featureless piece of wood. Eames takes one of Arthur's wrists, guiding it behind his back and twisting it upwards, just far enough to make the hold impossible to squirm out of. Arthur sucks in a breath, meeting Eames' eyes with what he hopes is a smirk of his own.

"I could, couldn't I?" Eames says, releasing Arthur's arm. Instead of answering, Arthur toes off his shoes and socks. When he starts to open his belt, Eames knocks his hands away again, peeling Arthur out of his trousers and underwear, leaving him standing bare. Eames' appraising eyes feel different now, and Arthur reaches for Eames' shirt buttons just to expose some skin, make him feel a little less like curling in on himself, but Eames flicks his hands away carelessly.

"You are a sight, darling," he says, his hands on Arthur's shoulders, pressing him down. "Now show me what you can do."

Arthur eases down at Eames' urging, settling on his knees. "What I can do," he grins, running his hands up Eames' thighs, but Eames swats him away again. Arthur looks up at Eames as he opens his trousers, arousal flaring in his belly. "You won't be disappointed."

"I never doubted," Eames says, placing one hand on the back of Arthur's head as the other draws his cock out of his boxers, "Eyes down, love, there's a good boy."

Arthur's skin feels too hot, his whole body burning at the words as Eames angles his head down to break their eye contact. He guides his cock against Arthur's lips and says, "Open up," but Arthur's already taking him in.

Lips stretched wide around the head of Eames' cock, Arthur is almost relieved at the salty, bitter taste of precome on his tongue, proof that Eames isn't as unaffected as his teasing would suggest. Arthur laps at him, thorough and insistent. He hollows his cheeks, humming, determined to take it when Eames rocks his hips forward. Maybe he's showing off, maybe he's trying to make a point – or maybe he just wants to hear Eames groan, feel that playful hand clench in his hair. Maybe he wants Eames to tell him he's a good boy again.

Every little twitch from Eames sends a thrill through him, makes it easier to swallow around his cock, take it deep. Arthur’s fingers clench on his own thighs, just teetering on the edge of giving in and touching himself. He groans as Eames’ fingers tighten in his hair, holding him still for a moment with his mouth stuffed full.

"Oh, Arthur," Eames says, his voice rasping, just a little. "You’re as predictable as ever. I knew you’d be slutty for it."

Arthur’s eyes dart up to Eames’ smirking face, but Eames quirks an eyebrow, thumbing lightly over Arthur’s cheekbone.

"Down," Eames reminds him, and Arthur flushes, closing his eyes. "Good, good boy," he hears Eames murmur. Arthur shivers.

When Eames releases his head, he launches back into it, a vague thought of I’ll show him slutty in the back of his mind. The way Eames is handling him should be patronizing, humiliating -- it is, really, but it's breaking something in Arthur, stripping away his shame. It’s easy to open his mouth, suck hard and moan for it, when Eames is giving him full license.

The first snap of Eames’ hips feels like a reward, like Arthur finally got him there, got his breath to hitch and his arousal to take over. Arthur holds himself still in silent invitation, tilting his head for the best angle for Eames to thrust. Eames groans, a low, harsh sound, pushing his cock between Arthur’s lips carelessly, as deep as Arthur can take it. Arthur wants to see Eames’ face go slack with pleasure from his mouth, but he keeps his eyes shut obediently, listening to Eames’ ragged breath, dizzy from the sound.

"Look at that," Eames is growling, the edge of dark amusement still coloring his tone, "Just made to take it, fuck--" he holds still, keeping Arthur on him deep, throat working frantically and breath coming fast through his nose, "Proper little whore for it, you are."

Arthur hears himself whimper, feels Eames’ hips twitch again, but this time it’s just one touch too far. He chokes, tears springing to his eyes, jerking back reflexively against Eames’ hold. Above him, Eames grunts, tugging at Arthur’s hair. Arthur can’t fight it when Eames pulls him off his cock, but he tries, mindlessly, straining forward when it slips from his lips.

"Oh, pet, little pet," Eames says, amused, thumbing over Arthur’s bottom lip. "I know what you want, Arthur, don’t you worry."

He gives another tug at Arthur’s hair, urging him roughly to his feet. Finally meeting Eames’ eyes again, Arthur wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, finding it wet with spit.

"What do I want?" he asks, more just to hear Eames say it than to actually challenge him.

Eames’ smirk is back in place, and Arthur wants to make him moan again, get back on his knees and show him how deep he can take it this time.

"You want to get on the bed for me," Eames crowds up against him, backing him up toward the bed, "Isn’t that right?"

Arthur’s legs hit the mattress and he lets Eames push him down. He leans on his elbows, feeling like he wants to be on display, wants Eames to look and grin and just fucking jump him, rough as he pleases, claiming. It’s overwhelming, how strong that desire is, how dizzy he is with the anticipation of it.

Eames leans over him for a kiss, more possessive than teasing now, teeth tugging at his lip, pulling a rough moan from Arthur. He clutches, trying to get that weight on top of him, but Eames moves back.

"Eames," he breathes, pulling at Eames’ collar, "You going to fuck me or what? Come on."

"On your front," Eames says, and this time it sounds like an order rather than a casual whim, like Eames really wants him there, on his front and spread out. Arthur moves back on the bed and complies, rolling onto his stomach. Eames makes a low sound, "Up on your knees."

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, pulling his knees under him, flushing hot at how easy it is to obey, at how much he wants to.

He hears Eames move away then, footsteps soft on the hotel carpet, then tapping on the tile of the bathroom. The footsteps return quickly, and Eames drops something onto the bed. Arthur looks over his shoulder to see a tiny bottle of complimentary lotion on the bedspread.

"Low on supplies, love, I’ve gotta improvise when you can’t wait for it," Eames tells him, and Arthur watches him pull a condom from his wallet and toss it next to the lotion. He reaches out, trailing his fingers over Arthur’s ass, dipping into the crease, and Arthur can’t help pushing back, pressing his cheek to the mattress as if that will hide his flush. Eames drops his hand.

"Let me see you," he orders, and Arthur hesitates, already bared on display with his ass in the air. Eames picks Arthur’s hand up from the bed, twists it around and splays Arthur’s fingers over his ass. "Show me," Eames says.

Arthur bites his lip against his moan, the heat flaring in his cheeks as he brings his other hand around, spreading himself open for Eames’ inspection. Eames steps back and Arthur can’t fight his whine, arousal just beating out shame, open and exposed but so hot it feels like he’s burning. It’s not that he’s out of control -- but maybe he is, maybe Eames has all of it. He’s coaxing Arthur out with condescension and teasing, and it’s nothing like Arthur expected, but it’s so easy to bend to.

"Eames," he moans, eyes shut tight because he’s not sure if he could survive seeing Eames’ expression right now.

"Good boy, Arthur," Eames rumbles, and Arthur shudders. "Fuck, you’ll do anything for it, won’t you?"

"Jesus," Arthur rasps, too turned on now to be shocked at himself, "Come on, please."

He wants to sob with relief when he hears the clink of Eames’ belt buckle, and he opens his eyes, dropping his arms to look over his shoulder. He needs a glimpse of Eames without his clothes, but Eames doesn’t go further than dropping his belt to the floor before he gets on the bed.

"Let me hear you beg for it," Eames says, kneeling behind Arthur and rubbing the rough pad of one finger over Arthur’s hole, making Arthur whine. "Really beg for it, darling, tell me what you want."

"Fuck me," Arthur says, grateful for the opportunity to ask for it, "Just fuck me."

"Oh, I know you want that, I can see that right here," Eames says, the tip of his dry finger just pressing in, "How greedy you are. What do you want right now?"

"Your fingers," Arthur moans, hitching back, clawing the bedspread, needing something to hold onto.

"Needy little Arthur," Eames purrs, and Arthur is nearing his tipping point, close to screaming, Stop fucking toying with me, but then Eames pushes his finger deeper. It’s dry and it drags against his skin, and Arthur’s breath catches helplessly. It's not deep or wide enough to hurt, not yet, but it's close.

"Eames," Arthur says, carefully.

"You wouldn’t stop me," Eames murmurs then, and something in his tone, awed and dark, makes Arthur's shoulders tighten. "I could stretch you open like this, you wouldn’t say no."

It’s not true, not at all, but it sends sparks skittering down Arthur's spine, cutting through the tension. He’s never wanted that, never understood that fantasy, but it feels safe here to moan, let himself entertain it. Just the words, the implication, when he knows Eames would never -- there’s a certain appeal.

Eames presses in a little deeper, and it's enough to steal Arthur's breath, just for that second, but then the intrusion is gone. Eames doesn’t offer any reassurance, but when his fingers touch Arthur again, they’re wet with lotion. Arthur can’t deny that he feels himself relax, just a little, at the sensation.

For all his teasing before, Eames seems like he’s rushing now. He stretches Arthur fast and rough, spreading him with two fingers, pressing a third in almost too soon. Arthur grunts, arching his back to try and adjust the angle, and Eames leans over him, biting at his shoulder blade.

"You can take it," Eames says, and Arthur’s not complaining, so desperate to be fucked it feels like it’s worth the haste. The fingers drive inside hard, and Arthur has to brace himself to keep from rocking with it. "Little slut, you can take it."

"Fuck me," Arthur gasps, then remembers the command from earlier, "Please, please fuck me," and Christ, but it feels good to beg for it.

"Say it again," Eames orders, pulling his fingers out roughly, making Arthur whimper. The crinkle of the condom wrapper spurs him on, and Arthur reaches back with one hand, splaying his fingers over his ass and spreading himself again.

"Please, Eames, come on, oh--" he chokes off his words when he feels the blunt head of Eames' cock at his entrance, rubbing.

"Desperate for it, aren't you?" Eames growls, and Arthur's so riled that he just nods against the mattress.

"Fuck, put it in me, Eames, please," he babbles, rocking back so he can start to feel the stretch.

Eames grits out something then, something rough and obscene, but he's pressing inside and all of Arthur's attention has narrowed to that point of contact, the pleasure and the edge of pain lighting up across his nerves. He pushes back against it, the need for more and deeper almost too intense.

He can hear himself whimpering, high and frantic, when Eames' hips come up flush on his ass. Eames doesn't wait for him to adjust, pulling back and snapping forward in a vicious, demanding thrust. This is it, this is what Arthur's been gasping for, and he's not surprised when he finds himself moaning out a litany of, "Yes, yes, yes."

Eames' fingers wind in Arthur's hair, keeping his head down and keeping him still as he fucks him. The zipper on Eames' pants scratches against his thigh when he grinds in deep, and Arthur shivers with the thought of having a mark there, a little red line of proof.

All of Arthur's skin feels hyper-sensitive when Eames leans over him, buttons on his shirt rubbing against Arthur's spine as Eames thrusts. There's hot, harsh breath in his ear, and Arthur relishes the closeness, all the contact he's been craving. He cranes his neck, and he can't reach Eames' mouth, but he can see him, drinking in Arthur's reactions, dark and fiercely intent. Arthur grinds back, moaning, squeezing around Eames' cock, overcome with the need to keep all that attention trained on him.

"Arthur," Eames says, a low, menacing rasp, "Made for this, made to take it, you little – little fucking slut, Arthur."

"Yes, yes, fuck," Arthur agrees, as if he hasn't been agreeing all night. "I'm gonna come – can you just—" he gropes for Eames' hand, tries to pull it down to touch him, but Eames wrenches away.

"You don't need it," he says, driving hard and fast into Arthur's body, "Do you?"

"Fuck," Arthur groans, "Fuck, fuck—" and he arches his back just as Eames' hips snap, and of course Eames is right. Arthur goes taut all over, clenching on Eames inside him and coming, wailing into the mattress. It feels like the longest orgasm of his life, with Eames fucking him through it, harder and faster than before. Even when Arthur goes limp, wrung out and slumping toward the bed under the force of the thrusts, Eames doesn't slow.

Every little shift sends sparks through Arthur's limbs. He feels his breath catching, stuttering through his throat, his nerves singing with overstimulation. He knows the sobs he can hear are coming from him, wrenched out every time Eames drives inside him, but he twists his fingers in the bedclothes and holds on, riding it out, clenching hard on Eames' cock.

It's just bordering on pain, on too much and too hard, when Eames pulls out abruptly, groaning. Arthur gasps a moment later when he feels it, Eames' come hitting the small of his back, hot and wet and undeniably possessive.

Trembling, Arthur lets himself drop to the bed, uncaring of the wet spot underneath him. Eames slumps beside him, breathing raggedly, and Arthur tries to regain control of his body, slow the tremors coursing through him. He can't get a handle on the passage of time, but when he opens his eyes again, he's boneless and sleepy, and he guesses minutes. Maybe a lot of them.

He shifts, turning his head with considerable effort, to face Eames, whose eyes are still closed.

"Don't think I can make it to the shower," he says, surprised at how difficult speech has become.

Eames' eyes open slowly, a crease between his brows. He blinks, makes an aborted movement with his arm, then rolls over suddenly, standing.

"I'll get a cloth," he mutters, keeping his pants up with one hand as he walks out of Arthur's line of sight.

Eames doesn't emerge from the bathroom right away, and Arthur finds himself drifting again, sated. He opens his eyes when the room starts to go dark, Eames switching lamps off as he returns to the bed, cloth in hand. He tosses it on the nightstand to strip off his clothes, and Arthur watches blearily, wishing he could do more than hum in appreciation of the sight.

Eames picks up the cloth and crawls onto the bed. Arthur bites his lip against the cursory protest as Eames runs the damp cloth over his back, cleaning him up.

"Roll over," Eames says, and Arthur complies, just barely fighting back a grin at the intense, almost bewildered concentration on Eames' face.

"I can do it," Arthur says, reaching out with one inordinately heavy arm. Eames ignores him, wiping over Arthur's legs and stomach, where he was lying in the wet spot. Arthur hisses, still sensitive, when the cloth runs over his cock, but Eames makes a low humming sound, and it's -- nice. It's sort of soothing.

When he's satisfied, Eames pulls the rumpled bedclothes out from under Arthur, and settles them both underneath.

"C'mere," Eames murmurs, and Arthur thinks he catches a little of that cocky possessiveness creeping back into his tone. Every exhausted muscle in Arthur's body is screaming for him to collapse against Eames' chest, so he does. Whatever they need to talk about -- if there's anything at all; Arthur's not exactly processing at maximum capacity right now -- they'll talk about it in the morning.

Eames' arm around his shoulders is solid and heavy, and if Arthur lets his muddled brain think in sentimental metaphors, it's like the weight is pulling him down into unconsciousness.

*

It's still dark when Arthur wakes, disoriented after what feels like just a few minutes of sleep. His first instinct is to roll over and bury his head in the pillows, but after a beat, he realizes there's a distinct absence of warmth at his side. He opens his eyes, squinting into the dim light to see Eames sitting up, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Eames," Arthur says, and Eames starts.

"Sorry," he says, looking over his shoulder, "I didn't..." he lets out an unsteady breath, "We should talk."

Arthur feels his stomach clench at the words, but he's exhausted, and feeling ill-prepared for this kind of discussion. "Right now? What time is it?"

"Nearly five," Eames says, looking away to rub at his eyes again.

Reaching out, Arthur touches Eames' shoulder, running fingers down his bicep. Eames tenses noticeably, and Arthur lets his arm drop to the bed.

Eames exhales again, long and shaky. "I think I should go," he says, then pushes the covers off himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Arthur asks, frowning at his back, "Why?"

"Last night, I wasn't... myself," Eames says haltingly, like he's choosing his words with care. He glances back at Arthur, then turns away again, quickly. "Have you ever noticed, after certain jobs, I get a bit odd?"

Arthur struggles to imagine what Eames' definition of 'odd' might be. Maybe he's a little more subdued after some of their more intense dreams, but everyone has a different reaction to this type of work. Arthur's never questioned it.

"Sometimes you get quiet, I guess," Arthur says, cautious, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"When I forge, sometimes my forgery's personality... lingers, in my mind. It can change how I act and think, and I can't shake it," Eames says, reaching down to retrieve his pants from the floor, "I'm good at hiding it, or keeping it in check, when it's just a normal person I've been forging. Or I just lock myself in my room and wait it out. But I don't think Lucifer would have taken kindly to being caged."

Starting to understand, Arthur fights the urge to pull the blankets up higher, feeling suddenly and ludicrously exposed.

"So you didn't want to sleep with me. That was the forgery," he keeps his voice steady, monotone, and doesn't flinch when Eames barks a laugh, standing to pull his pants on.

"No, I definitely wanted to sleep with you," he says. He's backlit by the window when he turns, his face in shadow, but his voice is soft, "I still do; that's really why I have to leave, I can't think with you around. And the way I treated you..."

Arthur tries to keep his frustration in check, feeling like he's being strung along with only half the required information necessary for this discussion. "The way you -- what's wrong with how you treated me? You're a... a dom, right, isn't that what you do?" he cringes, wishing there was a way to ask a question like that without sounding like a nervous virgin.

Eames freezes halfway through buttoning his shirt. "How do you even know about that?"

Arthur shrugs, "Research." He might not have developed quite such a thing for Eames if that hadn't shown in his background information; he might not have spent an embarrassing number of nights imagining Eames in dark leather gloves, those big hands coming down hard on Arthur's skin. He doesn't know a lot about that scene, but his mind has no trouble filling in the gaps.

Eames fastens the rest of his buttons, shaking his head.

"That wasn't how I do things, Arthur, no. And even if it had been, that was not how that should have gone. I was completely out of control." Eames steps closer, leaning down onto the bed, propping himself up on one hand and touching Arthur's chest almost hesitantly. He looks scared, and it makes Arthur tense. "I don't know what I could have done, the way I was thinking... I could have hurt you, I could have -- I don't know if I would have stopped, if you'd asked me to."

Arthur sucks in a breath. "Okay. I think you would have stopped. I mean, you... you used lube," he says, and knows instantly that that was the wrong thing to bring up. Eames makes a small, pained noise as he moves away again, glancing around on the floor, finding his wallet.

"I really need to get out of here, I need to get my head straight."

Watching helplessly as Eames tucks his shirt in, Arthur sits up, full of nervous energy now. "You would have stopped," he says, and he's sure of it, sure that Eames was in there somewhere last night in the way he looked at Arthur, the way his arousal won out over teasing, the careful way he cleaned Arthur up when they were finished. But Arthur didn't ask him to stop, so he has no ground here. They'll never know.

"Look," Arthur tries again, changing tack, "Why don't you just stay, so we can talk about this? I know it's weird, but it happened. Now we should deal with it. If we sort it out now... maybe it doesn't have to fuck anything up." He doesn't add between us, but he feels it's heavily implied.

Eames is silent, crossing the room to where his shoes sit near the bathroom door, crouching to put them on. Arthur can finally see his expression when he stands, lit from the side by the light filtering in through the curtains. Arthur doesn't like this expression at all.

"Arthur," Eames says softly. He comes back to the bed, leaning over enough to rub his stubbled jaw against Arthur's cheek, press his lips to Arthur's temple. "I don't know if that was any way to start a relationship."

Arthur has to bite back his protest, only because he knows he'll be shot down. Eames moves away again, picking up his jacket from the desk chair, where he hung it before they went up to Hallett's room. It seems like days ago.

"I'm not going far," Eames tells him, hand on the doorknob. "I'll call you, okay? I'll call."

Harsh hallway lighting spills into the room as the door opens, and then Arthur is plunged into darkness again, very much alone, and wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now.

*

Arthur doesn't get any more sleep.

He gets up, pulls his pants on for dignity and paces the room, jumpy and hyper, trying to process what just happened.

He wants to insist that it doesn't make sense, it's not possible -- but then, it does, and it is. The more he lets himself think about it, the more sense it makes, and the stupider he feels for not having noticed anything off.

He feels vaguely cheated that that might have been his only night with Eames, and he didn't even get to have it with Eames. More frustrating still is the nagging knowledge that none of it would have happened if Eames had been in his right mind.

He sends his first text when the sun starts streaming through the window:

Can you tell me where you are? I don't even know what hotel you're staying at.

He figures that sounds calm, not too invasive or desperate, certainly nothing like what he's currently feeling. He just has to say something, because every hour of radio silence feels like the window of opportunity getting narrower and narrower. What he wants (and needs crows an insistent voice at the back of his mind) was dangled in front of him, and he wasn't even given a chance to reach for it.

And all romantic complications aside, he and Eames make a good team. It would suck if he lost the capacity to work with one of the only competent forgers in the field.

At least, that's what Arthur tells himself when he sends the second text, not thirty minutes later.

I just think we should talk, I don't see how any of this is going to get resolved (one way or the other) without us talking.

There's no response, but Arthur tries to be reasonable. It's only been a few hours, and Eames needed space. Maybe he decided to get some sleep, maybe he turned his phone off and is drinking himself blind in his hotel room. It's none of Arthur's business.

The call of the minibar is strong, but Arthur resists, mildly revolted at himself for being such an appalling cliché.

Instead, he puts himself to work. He sits down with their files for the job, ties up the loose ends, contacts their backers and the client. He answers his email, does some cursory probing into a few potential job offers (though who knows if he'll even be part of a point-forger package deal by tonight). When check-out time rolls around, he accesses the hotel's server and finds that Hallett has left three days ahead of schedule. He wonders if Eames' forgery was good enough to spook Hallett even after waking.

He eats an eight dollar bag of peanuts. He checks his phone.

It's ridiculous to be annoyed, Arthur knows this, but surely Eames could do him the courtesy of a text. A greeting, the name of his hotel, a confirmation that he's not face down in a rain gutter with a flask in his hand. Arthur starts to feel stupid for waiting, angry at Eames for walking out on him, tired as hell because it's past noon and he's barely slept.

He crawls back into bed, sullen, trying not to feel too much like he's somehow proving a point. Fuck you, Eames, I'm not losing sleep over this. Only he doesn't send that. He hasn't yet progressed to the self-sabotage portion of the day.

He actually sleeps for two hours, but he wakes feeling more exhausted than ever, his annoyance having increased exponentially with the time. He refuses to look at his phone, dragging himself into the shower and standing under the hot spray until he starts to feel ridiculous, albeit slightly more awake.

His phone is predictably void of notifications when he finally looks at it, and he fires off another text:

I realize you're having a crisis, and I'm more than sympathetic, but has it occurred to you that I might be going through something too? Fucking call me.

He tosses his phone aside and gets to work gathering up their papers and laptops, packing them into a suitcase with the PASIV. He straightens himself up as much as he can, wishing he had a change of clothes. He's almost pleased when he picks his phone back up and it's still blank, because it gives him an opportunity to send off one last text, the gist of which has been festering in the back of his mind for quite a few hours:

Go fuck yourself, Eames.

He's striding through the lobby toward the front desk, suitcase in tow, when his phone lights up in his hand.

Chelsea Hotel, room 305.

*

Part 2

Fic: Things Are Gonna Slide (2/2)

2011-08-03T14:10:46Z

*

Eames answers the door in a worn undershirt and jeans, and Arthur tries not to let that distract him too much.

"I'm not handling this well," Eames says. Arthur is almost too relieved to see him to feel satisfied at the fact that he looks even worse than Arthur feels. Almost.

"Well, at least we're on the same page."

Eames steps back to let him into the room, running his hand through his hair, which looks damp. Arthur walks past him and hears Eames sigh as the door clicks shut.

"I'm sorry. But I'm... not, really," he says, and Arthur looks around at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry this is frustrating for you, but I don't think there was another way for me to do this. I look at you and I can't think rationally about any of this."

Arthur closes his eyes. Twenty-four hours ago, hearing Eames say he wants Arthur so bad he can't think would have been grounds for Arthur to throw himself at him. Now, it's just frustrating.

"Do you even hear yourself?" he opens his eyes and Eames is still standing in the entryway, looking uncomfortable. "Why are you ignoring what that means? Why is wanting me a bad thing?"

Eames' brow furrows, and Arthur gets the distinct impression that he's being appraised. Eames steps closer, but then he's walking past Arthur, sitting heavily on the end of the bed.

"Did you like what we did last night?" he finally asks, "Is that something you want?"

Arthur leans back against the desk, a suitable distance away. "Yeah, Eames, it was hot, I liked it. I haven't been analyzing it for the last twelve hours the way you have."

"Maybe you should have been," Eames says, a little sharply. "Maybe you should be asking yourself what you want, Arthur, because you have to know, you have to be sure. What happened last night, the way I was treating you then, is that what you want? Do you want that again?"

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, then hesitates. He feels awkward, again like he's being strung along through a conversation where he only has half the necessary information. "I don't know, it was hot, it felt --" his throat catches on the word freeing, because even in his head it sounds ridiculous. "-- good. I don't know the specifics, what do you want me to say?"

Bringing his hands up to his face, Eames groans. "This is so fucked up. It's so fucked up," he drops his hands, and the look he gives Arthur is defeated, making something anxious clench in Arthur's stomach. "Maybe I should take off for a while. Saunders has been trying to tap me for a job in Istanbul, I could be out by morning. Give us both some time to cool off."

Arthur wants to scream. "Why do you keep talking like that? Why can't we give this a try, why do we have to cool off?"

"Because you don't know what you want, Arthur," Eames almost yells, then takes a breath, lowering his voice. "Given the circumstances, this doesn't seem like the best way to get you involved in a relationship like this."

"No, fuck that, I know what I want," Arthur says, trying not to sound desperate, but it's hard to keep his voice steady. "I want you, I want to try. How am I supposed to know any more than that if you don't show me what you can give me?"

Eames doesn't say anything then, but he holds Arthur's eyes, and Arthur forces himself not to waver. Even exhausted and rumpled, Eames is beautiful. Arthur thinks about last night, about Eames' praise, the firm hand in his hair, the harsh scrape of teeth on his neck. He thinks about being on his knees, feeling every one of Eames' groans like they were his own pleasure.

He thinks about how stupid he's going to feel if he lets Eames get on a plane to fucking Istanbul before he gives this his best shot.

Arthur strips off his jacket and his waistcoat quickly, holding Eames' gaze as he does it. Without allowing himself another second to think, he steps up to the bed, casting his eyes downward. Slowly, as gracefully as he can manage, he sinks to his knees at Eames' feet.

"I want you," he whispers, bringing one hand up to rest on Eames' knee, leaning his cheek against Eames' thigh. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. "I -- I think I need it, Eames. Please tell me you want me like this."

"Arthur," Eames says, and it's a low rumble, so similar to the way he growled Arthur's name last night, but so much warmer. Arthur feels arousal pool in his belly when Eames' hand touches his hair. "Look up, love. Look at me."

Eames waits until Arthur meets his eyes before he cups Arthur's jaw, holding him there, thumb brushing over his mouth.

"You look perfect, Arthur," Eames says, "If we do this, I don't want you looking at the floor. I want you to show me what you're feeling. If I can't see you, if you're hiding something from me, then I can't make this good for either of us, least of all you. So I want you to look at me."

His thumb slips between Arthur's lips, and Arthur laps at it, hungry, until Eames draws it back again. "Anything," Arthur says, already hot just from those little touches.

"No, not anything," Eames says, brushing Arthur's hair off his forehead, "The only rule tonight is that you let me know what you're feeling, and that includes telling me if it gets to be too much, and you need to slow down or stop or even walk out of this room and never do this again. You have to be able to recognize if that happens. You have to know that you can say no at any point, and I'm not going to hold it against you. Can you promise me you'll do that?"

Arthur nods, thinking of Eames' empty threat to fuck him dry last night, thinking of how sure he was that he would have put a stop to it himself, if Eames had pushed that too far. "I promise."

"Good. Stand up."

Arthur does, rising from the floor to stand between Eames' knees, and Eames starts pulling Arthur's tie off immediately. Eames undresses him like it's a ritual, like it's something he's been waiting do to. Every item of clothing comes off slowly, fluttering to the floor, forgotten, when it reveals more skin for Eames to touch. Arthur is quiet, biting his tongue to keep from saying something ridiculous like thank you.

When Arthur is naked, Eames pulls his own shirt over his head quickly. Arthur's fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and run across Eames' shoulders and through the coarse hair on his chest. Eames adjusts his position so that he's perched on the edge of the mattress.

"C'mere," he says, taking Arthur's hips and guiding him into Eames' lap.

Arthur feels unsteady when he straddles Eames, with no room to plant his knees and only the slope of Eames' legs under his ass. He clutches at Eames' shoulders, but Eames catches his hands, guiding his arms behind him. Eames wraps his fingers around both of Arthur's wrists, pinning them at the small of his back, and Arthur tenses, trying to keep his balance.

"Relax," Eames tells him, "I've got you, you won't slip."

Arthur shuffles his knees, but finds no more purchase. Finally he exhales, letting himself sink into Eames' hold, and finds that Eames is right -- he does have him.

Eames smiles, running the palm of his free hand across Arthur's chest, mapping out every inch, "That's it."

Arthur's in unknown territory here, feeling anxious and exposed like a virgin, but Eames doesn't give him the chance to dwell on that. There's too much to think about, too many things that are too good to miss; rough, warm fingers exploring his torso, the attentive way Eames watches his face, the brutal grip on his wrists that keeps him balanced, reminding him why this is worth the risk. He squirms, pleased when he feels Eames is getting hard, even more so when the motion makes Eames' breath hitch.

"Christ, like you had to ask if I wanted you like this," Eames says, "You don't know how long I've thought about having you right here. The things I want to do to you..." his fingers trail low on Arthur's belly, wrapping lightly around his cock and stroking a few times before moving away to dance over his hip.

Arthur shivers at the thought of Eames fantasizing about him -- he wonders if Eames ever spent any of those nights in adjoining hotel rooms, touching himself the way Arthur had been. "Tell me," he says, humming when Eames' fingers trail down the cleft of his ass.

"Tell you what?"

"What you want to do to me," Arthur breathes, dizzy. "I've gotta make an informed decision here, right?"

Eames huffs a laugh, "You do," he agrees, and Arthur feels Eames' hand grip his ass. "I don't know how many times I've looked at you in those bloody beautiful suits of yours and thought about bending you over my knee. Pulling those trousers down and bringing my hand down on your arse until it was bright red, and you were sobbing..."

"Fuck," all of Arthur's breath leaves him in a rush, and he bows his head to Eames' shoulder when he feels himself flush pink. "I want that. God, I've thought about that so much."

Eames' hand comes up to tug at his hair, pull him back up so Eames can look at him. "You would want it, wouldn't you?" Eames asks, and guides Arthur in for a kiss, deep and claiming. His hand finds Arthur's cock again, now with a firmer grip, and he breaks the kiss with a rumbled growl. "Do you want to hear more?"

Arthur nods, silent except for a small moan, pushing into Eames' fist, a little too dry but still so good.

"I'd put you on my bed, tie your wrists to your ankles and have that gorgeous arse up in the air and on display for me," Eames swipes precome down Arthur's length, and that little bit of slick has him bucking, trusting Eames to keep him stable. "I'd sit there and touch myself and talk to you until you went mad for it, and you broke and cried for me to fuck you."

"Christ, Eames," Arthur finds himself grinding down to feel Eames' erection, feverish at the thought. He can't help his eyes slipping closed, but he doesn't hide his face this time, feeling the heat spread down his neck.

"And I'll spread you open and tie you like that, on your back," Eames goes on, and the shift from hypothetical to definite isn't lost on Arthur, "Bring you off again and again with my mouth and my fingers and my cock, see how many times I can make you come before you beg for mercy."

"Oh god," Arthur says, a rough edge on his voice, his body practically vibrating with arousal, "Fuck, Eames, keep going."

"Oh, love," Eames' grip on his wrists tightens almost painfully, and his hand leaves Arthur's cock. "It gets so much better, but I could give you a little preview instead, what do you think?"

"Yes," Arthur gasps, straining forward to press himself against Eames' abs, but Eames tugs his arms back, keeping him still. "Show me," he says, and he doesn't even really know what he's asking for, but he's as sure of it as he is of Eames' fingers squeezing bruises into his wrists.

Eames releases him then, bringing his hands to Arthur's hips and guiding him off Eames' lap. Arthur stands shakily, and Eames follows, tangling his hand in Arthur's hair to bring him in for another kiss, rough and demanding. It's completely at odds with the gentle, quiet confidence in his voice when he pulls away, saying, "On the bed for me. On your back."

It thrills Arthur to comply, crawling onto the bed while Eames crosses the room to his suitcase. He settles on his back as he watches Eames pull a bottle of lube and a condom from a side pocket, and comes back to the bed, his eyes running over Arthur's body.

"Bend your knees up," he says, a deep rumble in his chest, "Spread your legs for me."

Arthur can feel his cock leaking on his belly as he obeys, opening up for Eames. It shouldn't feel so different from last night, from Eames inspecting him on his knees, but it does. Arthur can read arousal in every one of Eames' movements, in the flush of his cheeks, in the hot, intent way his gaze sweeps down between Arthur's legs.

Eames strips his jeans off before he climbs onto the bed, and Arthur has to grip the sheets to stop himself from reaching out for him before Eames has a chance to crawl on top of him, fitting comfortably between Arthur's legs.

Fingers brush the hair off his forehead, and Eames kisses him, quickly this time. "How do you feel?"

"Good, really good," Arthur says, then, figuring complete honesty is the best strategy in the face of Eames' searching eyes, "A little nervous, but... I like this."

"Good, nervous is fine. I might be concerned if you weren't," Eames says, "But you've got nothing to worry about. We're not going to do anything intense right now."

Arthur nods, swallowing where his throat has gone slightly dry, "I trust you."

Eames kisses him again, and now it's back to the norm, rough and possessive, licking behind Arthur's teeth. "Let me earn that," he says as he pulls away, a bit breathless, "Let me earn your trust."

Arthur can't imagine a scenario where he wouldn't trust Eames -- Eames, who's always watching his six, who Arthur is so accustomed to working with that he wonders sometimes if he could work alone again -- Eames already has Arthur's trust.

"I trust you," Arthur insists, inching his legs apart further and turning his palms up on the bed, as if that might illustrate the point. "You've never given me a reason not to. You've already earned it."

"Arthur," Eames says, sounding ruined, "God, you make this too easy."

He reaches for the lube then, squeezing some of it out onto his palm and moving off of Arthur to stretch out next to him. Arthur gasps at the cold when Eames' hand wraps around his cock, but the shock only lasts a second. Eames' grip is slick and tight, stroking him steady, bringing him quickly back to a state of trembling arousal.

"I'd have you all to myself if I could," Eames murmurs in his ear, "You'd be all mine, you don't know, Arthur."

Arthur reaches one shaking hand up to touch Eames' jaw. "I want to know," he says, "It doesn't scare me, I want you."

"Just let me show you," Eames says, like there's still a secret Arthur has to discover. Eames strokes him quickly, pinning Arthur's hips with his knee and forcing Arthur to keep still. He feels himself coiling tight way too soon, and he scrabbles at Eames' shoulders.

"I can't -- I'm gonna come," he warns hoarsely, not entirely sure he wants Eames to stop.

"I want you to come," Eames says, slick hand working him into a frenzy, "I want you to let go for me, just let yourself go."

And it's so easy to do it then, to accept whatever pleasure Eames wants to offer, let self control slip away and come with a cry, with a full-body shudder. Eames strokes him through it, insistent, and Arthur's breath all catches in his chest as the waves roll over him and he spills onto his stomach.

But Eames doesn't stop when Arthur goes boneless. He doesn't let up at all, he keeps stroking and the waves start to turn into shocks, little jolts of electricity that travel up Arthur's legs and center on his oversensitive cock

"Eames," he manages to gasp, though the air in the room feels too thick and too hot to enter his lungs.

"Hold on," Eames whispers, moving down his body. Arthur feels his throat tear on a sob when Eames' tongue swipes, flat and thick, over the head of Arthur's cock. It's too much, but Eames keeps going, licking and sucking at him, gathering up Arthur's come on his fingers and pressing them at his entrance, slipping inside to tease at more hyper-sensitive nerves.

Arthur's muscles are rigid, and he tries to hold on, tries to breathe as his brain short-circuits, unable to classify the sensation as either pleasure or pain. It's too much, he can't get a breath, his eyes sting with moisture. He doesn't want to stop, but he doesn't know if he can hold on, and maybe he needs to ask Eames to slow down, just a little --

But then Eames is moving back up, his fingers still probing deep and rubbing at the spot that makes Arthur's whole body tremor.

"Good boy, Arthur," Eames says gently, a sharp contrast to his fingers stretching Arthur open and driving inside him roughly, "You're still hard for me, can you feel that? You're doing so well, just breathe deep for me, just take it, you can do it."

Arthur hears himself sob again through the rushing in his ears, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he relaxes, just a hair, with Eames' weight on top of him and that voice murmuring praise in his ear.

"That's it, that's perfect, keep breathing," Eames says. He fingers Arthur with a demanding pace, and all the little shocks running through Arthur soon start to feel like pleasure again, at Eames' coaxing.

Arthur actually whines when the fingers leave him, his body now more than welcoming the stimulation.

"Eames," he rasps, still reeling. He feels himself trembling, feels his eyes stinging, but this time it's -- different. It feels like catharsis, like he just figured it all out; pushed past what he thought were his limits, urged through it with Eames' hands forcing his body and Eames' words stringing him along.

"How fucking perfect are you," Eames says, and Arthur opens his eyes to find Eames looking down at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Arthur touches Eames' chest and feels his heart hammering almost as fast as Arthur's own. This is perfect.

"Don't stop," Arthur whispers, "Whatever you want to do, please don't stop."

Eames grinds down on him, making the breath catch in both their throats. "Right now, I want to fuck you. I want to see your face while I fuck you."

"Yeah," Arthur gasps, arching up against Eames, the friction on his cock still sending jolts through him. Eames slicks his fingers again, and Arthur's instinct to beg, to tell Eames he doesn't need any more prep, he can handle it, is chased away by the wet fingers sliding easily back inside him. It feels too good to rush, any part of Eames inside him feels so fucking good when Eames is watching him like this, eyes intent and searching.

"I wish I could have seen your face the first time I did this to you," Eames says, scissoring his fingers and letting Arthur feel the stretch. "I can't believe I missed it."

Arthur lifts his head up to kiss Eames, whining into his mouth as a third finger presses in, spreading apart and spreading him open. "Doesn't count," he breathes against Eames' lips, "This is a do-over."

Eames follows him down when he drops back to the pillows, kissing him again, fucking Arthur's mouth with his tongue in time with his fingers. Every nudge at his prostate is a shock down Arthur's nerves, welcome overstimulation driving him out of his head.

The fingers pull out then, one swift motion leaving Arthur gaping, whining at the emptiness but desperate for what's coming. It really does feel like this is their first time, the crinkle of the condom wrapper sending a thrill of need through him, his body thrumming with anticipation.

Arthur barely has time to draw a breath before Eames presses inside him, one firm push right to the hilt.

"God, you feel good," Eames rasps, resting his forehead against Arthur's and panting against his lips. Arthur nods, frantic, because Eames feels incredible inside him, unmoving and big and hot and almost too much. It's nothing like before, the quick, efficient fuck from behind; everything about it feels different. This is a different person.

Arthur clenches, his body begging for movement, and Eames gets leverage on his elbows and surges forward, less of a thrust than a press to get further inside. Arthur wants to open his legs wider, wants to wrap them around Eames' waist and get him deeper, but he's as deep as he can go.

"Perfect, look at you," Eames says, and Arthur realizes he's clawing at the bedclothes, arching against Eames, mindless. Eames kisses him, swallowing Arthur's whimpers. "Don't hold back, love, you'll get what you need."

Arthur hears himself moaning, a rough, wild sound he barely recognizes, and Eames starts to move, rutting against him. It's not a lot, and it shouldn't really be satisfying, but Eames is so deep, Arthur feels like his breath is being pushed out of him with every roll of Eames' hips. He's high on Eames' body, the heavy bulk between his thighs, all that muscle and strength that promises the best kind of aches and bruises.

If Arthur could speak through his panting, it would be some barely-coherent proclamation, some worshipful, breathless babble of how good, how full, how much he needs. He thinks Eames, with his savage kisses and the sharp force he uses to drive into Arthur's body, might understand.

Arthur clutches hard at Eames' shoulders when he feels him tensing, hears his moans getting rougher, like he's right on the edge.

"Yeah, come on," Arthur whines. He can't come again himself, not yet, but he wants to see Eames' face when he falls, beautiful and powerful and taking his pleasure from Arthur's body. He hooks his legs over Eames' hips to urge him on, but then Eames growls, winding one hand in Arthur's hair and going still.

Arthur can feel the tension in Eames' muscles, tremors running through him like he's moments from coming, taking gasping gulps of air. Before Arthur can speak, Eames is kissing him, fucking him with his tongue as though in apology, like he's trying to make up for the utter lack of movement of his hips. Arthur could get lost in Eames' claiming kisses, he could, but there's something hard and hot shoved up his ass that is giving his body other ideas.

He doesn't realize he's moving, squirming on Eames' cock, until Eames breaks the kiss with a wet sound and reaches down, one hand wrapping around Arthur's hip.

"Stop." Eames says, and it sounds like an order, so Arthur does, shivering. "Good boy."

"Fuck," Arthur moans, tensing with the effort to keep still. Eames kisses him again, swallowing up all of Arthur's noises, a hand on his hip and one in his hair keeping him steady. Arthur does his best, kissing back with what coordination he has, clenching hard on Eames' cock when the pressure starts building again.

Eames pulls back with a smile, "I like that you're desperate for it," he says, swiping over Arthur's mouth with his thumb, pushing it between Arthur's lips. "And that you'll wait for me anyway."

Arthur sucks greedily at Eames' thumb, in case Eames just needs a little incentive to get moving again. Eames takes his hand away, pushing himself up so he can trail it between them. Arthur's legs strain open wide at the feel of Eames' fingers tracing his hole, slick and stretched around the base of Eames' cock. Eames draws his hips back and Arthur nearly gasps, beyond ready to get fucked again.

"Tell me if it's too much," Eames says, then pushes back in, two fingers easing in alongside his cock, stretching Arthur impossibly wide.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Arthur gasps, trying to pull his knees up, keening, "That's -- big."

"You can tell me to stop," Eames says, but he's still pushing in and in and in, like he knows what Arthur is going to say.

"Don't, don't stop, I can take it."

"I don't doubt it," Eames says, reverent, starting to fuck Arthur in deep, smooth strokes. This isn't hard or fast either, but Arthur's eyes still clench tight and tear up with pleasure, opened impossibly wide around Eames' fingers and his cock. The stretch is bigger than anything he's felt before, just riding the edge of too much.

He arches off the bed when Eames spreads his fingers apart, soothing the little hurt with a deep stroke in. Arthur hears himself, mindless noises spilling from his lips, but he has no control, over that or anything else.

"You are lovely like this," Eames says, his voice raw, "I've always wanted to take you apart, figure out what you were hiding under all that pretty cloth. If I'd known..." he gives a hard thrust in and Arthur cries out, clutching Eames' bicep and feeling the coiled strength as he holds himself up. "... I'd have gotten you on your knees for me ages ago, darling."

"I'd have done it," Arthur promises, and he doesn't know how long that's been true, but it's been a while. He feels Eames speeding up then, feels the snap of his hips that means he's close, and Arthur wants it so badly. "Christ, yes, yes," he says, Eames' fingers now just holding Arthur open so he can thrust in faster and harder. Arthur meets it as much as he can, arching up and pulling Eames closer, letting him drive in deep -- but then Eames stills, pulling his fingers free, growling low in his throat like it pains him to stop this time.

Arthur is writhing, clenching his teeth against the no and the please, and Eames grips his hip again.

"Stop," Eames tells him, his voice hoarse this time, torn up with pleasure, but it's no less a command. The desire to be good is almost overwhelming, and Arthur makes himself stop squirming, moans when Eames drops back down on his elbows and kisses him deeply. "Just wait. How do you feel?"

"Fuck -- fucking amazing," he says, completely honest, all nervousness and hesitance washed away. He's never felt so blissfully strung out, so desperate and yielding and owned. And he doesn't remember when the pleasure went from too much to perfect, but he feels like he could come now, whenever Eames starts to move again.

It occurs to him then that Eames hasn't been making Arthur wait; he's been holding himself off -- holding off so Arthur can get there again, so he can come with Eames inside him.

The realization has him reeling, every muscle taut with the effort to stay still. "Eames," he chokes out, "Eames, fuck, I want--"

"Tell me," Eames murmurs, "Beg for it, Arthur, tell me what you need."

"Please fuck me," Arthur moans, sure he's about to rip the sheets between his fingers, "Hard, fuck me hard, I need it, please."

"Good," Eames groans, teeth against Arthur's jaw as he picks Arthur's legs up, hooking them around his arms. "Good boy, Arthur, that's--" but the rest is muffled into Arthur's neck, lost under a cry ripped from his throat as Eames thrusts in deep.

Eames fucks his breath out of him, so hard it hurts, harder than last night but so much better with Eames groaning his name, leaving wet, biting kisses everywhere his mouth reaches.

Arthur can't beg for anything now, can't think of anything he needs that isn't this. He knows he's sobbing, knows the headboard is leaving dents in the wall, knows all of Eames' strength is behind every thrust. He babbles a litany of "Yes, yes, yes," as Eames sucks a mark onto his neck. Arthur wants every reminder he can get.

Eames pulls Arthur's legs up over his shoulders, folding him in half, crushing Arthur to the bed with his weight. "How -- how do you feel?" he asks again, his voice breaking on his thrusts.

"Need you," Arthur manages, "Need to come, please, please."

Eames leans in as if for a kiss, but neither of them can coordinate it, panting into each others' mouths.

"Come for me," Eames says, "Come with me."

Arthur thinks he hears himself scream, some harsh, primal noise torn out of him as he comes, with Eames fucking into him ruthlessly. He spills onto his stomach again, onto his chest, floored by the force of his orgasm. Eames' hips snap harsh and quick as Arthur clenches around him, and he comes, moaning against Arthur's mouth, halfway toward a kiss as they fall to pieces together.

Arthur has never been one for coordination or coherence after orgasms, but when Eames slumps on top of him, he feels like he could sleep for days. He's aware that they lie there for some not inconsiderable amount of time before Eames shifts, but that doesn't stop Arthur from whining at the prospect of having to move.

He can only cling weakly, too exhausted to do anything else, when Eames slips out of him. He'd like to keep Eames' weight on him for as long as possible, but Eames rolls away, and Arthur feels the bed dip and rise as he stands.

He hears footsteps and the sound of running water, and it feels a little bit like last night, with Arthur blissed out and Eames bustling around the room with altogether too much energy. What's different, though, is when Arthur opens his eyes at the sound of Eames standing over him, and instead of the confused, closed-off expression from the last time, Eames' face is soft, a lopsided smile quirking his lips.

"Do you always get like this after sex? Just out of curiosity," Eames says, setting a glass of water on the nightstand and kneeling on the bed, cloth in hand.

"Like what?" Arthur mumbles, then reaches out when Eames starts to clean up the mess on his belly. "You don't have to --"

"But you like it when I do," Eames smiles, a little indulgently, and Arthur sinks back against the sheets, cheeks warm with pleasure.

"It's nice," he says, watching Eames' face.

Eames takes longer than necessary to clean Arthur up, slow strokes of the cloth across his stomach, his legs, his cock. When Eames speaks, it's soft, still with that smile, like he's getting as much out of this as Arthur is.

"This part can be as good as anything else. If you'll let me, if you'd like to, I'll wear you out till you can't even stand, and when it's over, I'll pick you up and carry you to the bathtub for this. And I'll clean you up, and touch you till you come back to life for me. Soft and easy."

Arthur lets out a low moan, lifting a heavy arm so he can stroke his hand up Eames' thigh. "Fuck, that sounds good."

When Eames finishes, he picks up the glass of water, propping Arthur up with his arm. Maybe it should feel patronizing to let Eames hold the glass to his lips, especially when he's certain his hands work just fine, but it doesn't. It's too good to let Eames take care of him like this, they're both enjoying it too much.

Eames kisses his temple when he sets the water back on the nightstand, easing Arthur down to the bed again, leaning over him on his hands.

"We should probably talk, huh?" Eames says, and Arthur's eyes are closed, but he can still hear the smile.

"Do I look like I can talk right now? Now it's sleeping time."

"It's just after six."

"Nap, then," Arthur mumbles, already halfway there. The bed moves again, and Arthur pries one eye open to watch Eames draw the heavy curtains over the window, plunging them into almost-darkness.

Eames doesn't say anything else as he gets back onto the bed, gathering Arthur up against him and kissing the top of his head as Arthur throws a leg over Eames' hips. Arthur puts his cheek over Eames' heartbeat, and he's out before Eames can even pull the covers up around them.

*

"Incoming."

Arthur starts at Eames' voice in his ear, pulled from a mental rehearsal of the latest changes to their maze. He turns in his chair in time to see their current client striding toward them across their workshop.

"A word, gentlemen?" he asks as Arthur stands, smoothing out his shirt.

"Certainly," Eames gestures to the only set of table and chairs not covered in paper, but Whalen simply comes to stand in front of them, a head taller than both of them, and just a few inches too close for friendly conversation.

"I'd like you to tell me about your work."

Arthur glances at Eames, who looks as though he's biting through his tongue with the effort not to laugh.

"Is there something specific you'd like to know?" Arthur asks quickly, "It's a little late in the game for you to be having second thoughts." A little late meaning two hours before the job.

"Well, for example, I'd like to know what Mr. Eames' role is in all of this."

Now Eames just looks wary. "I'll be locating our target's secrets in the maze we build in his mind," he says.

"Exactly," Whalen says, "You sold yourself to me as an extractor."

"Where is this going, Whalen?" Arthur asks, bristling at the tone.

"He's a forger," Whalen points an accusatory finger at Eames, "He hid it well, but my people found it."

Arthur has no patience for people who can't do their own research. "We didn't hide anything, you weren't looking."

"I assure you, Mr. Whalen, I am a more than capable extractor. The fact that my reputation as a forger overshadows my other considerable and varied talents is neither here nor there," Eames' eyes flash, belying his even tone.

"You two are playing with my livelihood here," Whalen says, "I expect more than 'capable'."

It takes every ounce of willpower Arthur has not to roll his eyes. Every client's job is their fucking livelihood, or their life's work, or their worth as a human being. "We understand that," he says calmly, "But this is a routine extraction, and your money doesn't go anywhere until we get you your information, so you're taking no risk."

Whalen narrows his eyes. "I'm aiding a crime that I didn't even know existed a month ago. There's always a risk." He points his finger at Eames again, and Arthur clenches his jaw against the urge to snap it off. "Don't fuck this up."

His shoes tap on the cement as he turns and walks away, apparently satisfied with his intimidation tactics. Eames lets out a growl, knitting his fingers behind his head, as soon as Whalen is out of earshot.

"Remind me again why we took this job?"

"You remember all those zeroes?" Arthur scrubs at his eyes, sighing when the workshop door slams shut.

"Right, the zeroes, of course."

Arthur turns back to his desk, but he's tense now, in need of a coffee and a dart board with Whalen's face on it. He sucks in a breath when Eames' hand snakes around him, fingers splaying out over his chest.

"D'you think we'll even remember to check our accounts once we come out on the other side of this?" Eames murmurs, hand sliding up to wrap loosely around Arthur's neck.

"Maybe in the morning," Arthur says, leaning back against Eames and turning his head to nudge his nose against Eames' cheek. Eames tightens his thumb and index finger on Arthur's throat just a shade, and Arthur lets his eyes slip closed, trying to imagine what it will feel like to have a strip of leather there, snug and secure. He hasn't seen it yet, but he's had weeks of promises to imagine it. He wonders if Eames will want him on his knees when he puts it on him for the first time, he wonders how tight it will be, whether Eames will be able to hook a finger underneath it to lead him, or if there'll be a ring or even a chain for that purpose. He flushes with arousal as Eames' free hand roams across his chest and stomach, casually possessive.

"Maybe," Eames says, dropping his head to kiss Arthur's shoulder. He lets go of Arthur's throat to stroke his finger across it, right where Arthur knows his collar will sit. "Doesn't seem so important now."

They stand there for a minute, silent, Eames running his hands over Arthur like he's leaving his mark, and Arthur leaning against him, all his aggravation easing away. Even months into this, he still wonders how he could have gone so long without knowing how badly he needs it. How badly he needs it from Eames.

When Eames steps away, Arthur feels loose-limbed and calm, still amazed at how easily Eames can pull the tension straight from his bones with a few touches. He knows they'll pull this job off, for the same reason he knows that he won't hesitate when Eames tightens the collar around his neck tonight. Eames has his back, he always did. It's never been a question.

FIC + ART + PODFIC: That's Why I'm Easy

2011-06-29T20:27:45Z

So, ae_match has taken over my brain. This is my first contribution for Team ~~Fluffy Porn~~ Romance, served up with a lovely podfic version from aphelant, and gorgeous art by platina. :D

Title: That's Why I'm Easy
Word count: 1700
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s (in a domestic, sleepy morning sex kind of setting)

That's Why I'm Easy

Fic: A Shot Across the Bows

2011-06-03T00:08:31Z

I have no self-restraint.

Title: A Shot Across the Bows
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary Pirate AU. Eames is the first mate, Arthur is the disgruntled captive cabin boy turned highly competent ship's medic (still disgruntled).
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2500
Warnings: No actual violence occurring during the time frame of the story, but Arthur does have a bit of a kink for hearing about the origins of Eames' scars. They're pirates, they're not the good guys.
Note: I'd say that there are probably one or two historical inaccuracies, but this is mostly just an excuse for me to air my obsession with pirates, so. Historical inaccuracies, but only if you're set on taking this seriously. (You shouldn't.)

"Just so we're clear, I can't stitch internal organs," Arthur says drily, frowning as Eames thunders down the steps to the infirmary, latching the door behind him.

He glances down at the large, wet bloodstain on the front of his shirt, and grimaces, "Ah, that's not mine. This, however," he pulls his hand away from his upper arm so Arthur can see the gash in his flesh, "Is. I don't think that's outside your considerable expertise, is it?"

Arthur gestures for him to sit on the poorly-padded bunk in the corner, and starts pulling out his supplies. "Someday, you're going to come to me with your entrails hanging out, and you'll thank me for having the decency not to say 'I told you so'."

"Well, it would be the first time you'd patched me up without comment, darling, so it might be worth getting disemboweled to experience the silence."

Arthur stops on his search for the properly-labeled vial of liquid long enough to arch one unimpressed eyebrow in Eames' direction. Eames grins.

Once his implements of mild torture are collected, Arthur pulls his chair over and sits in front of Eames. He cuts the sleeve of Eames' shirt at the shoulder, and Eames winces as the fabric pulls away from the congealing blood around his wound.

"You're still sloppy with the broadsword," Arthur tells him, splashing alcohol on the cut while Eames grits his teeth and hisses at the sting. "You strike to the right and don't cover your left, you've got to be quicker."

"That sword weighs about as much as you do," Eames says, "Quick isn't exactly an option."

Arthur rolls his eyes dismissively, picking up his needle and steel thread. "You're always too slow. Perhaps if you lost some of this bulk," he gestures at Eames' torso before he gets to work sewing Eames' skin back together, cool and efficient as always.

"I seem to recall your hands all over this bulk not twelve hours ago; I'm certain you'd miss it more than I would."

Arthur doesn't look up from his work, but Eames can see his lips twitch, the shadow of a smile appearing before he sets his face back to neutral disinterest.

Eames has endured far worse pain than being stitched, and at any rate, has experienced this particular pain enough to have adjusted to it, but watching Arthur's calm, methodical work always helps to dull things a little further. His long, thin fingers move swiftly but not messily, catching the blood with a rag, thread and needle moving so fast from hand to hand that Eames can scarcely follow the motions.

Arthur ties the stitching off and cuts the string, then wraps a strip of cloth around Eames' arm. He reaches back to drop his supplies on the table, saying, "It's a deep cut. The scar will be big."

"More for you to love, then," he grins, running the toe of his boot up Arthur's bare calf, his tattered breeches only reaching past his knees. "I'll have to get another one on the right, this'll ruin my symmetry." He turns both arms to show the identical scars along the undersides, and doesn't miss the way Arthur's eyelids lower, his tongue darting out over his lips.

"I always meant to ask about those," he says, his flush belying the casual tone of his voice.

"Got them the same day I got this one," Eames says, touching another scar at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, "On the second ship that ever took me on as crew."

"The Serpent's Tongue," Arthur says immediately, reaching up to thumb over the scar on Eames' uninjured arm.

"The Serpent's Tongue, yes," Eames says, temporarily thrown, "The amount of information you know about me is occasionally unsettling."

Arthur ignores this, wrapping his fingers around Eames' arm as if to measure the length of the scar. "So what happened?"

"The first mate didn't take too kindly to having his gold stolen in small amounts over a period of days and weeks," Eames says, flexing a little for Arthur's benefit – and his own, to hear the sharp little intake of breath it earns him, "So the captain pulled me out of my bed in the middle of the night and had me tossed off the back. I caught some rope on the way down, and hooked my arms in," he holds his arms up from his body to demonstrate, showing where the ropes had worn into his flesh. "I hung there until the next sundown."

"Most of a day," Arthur breathes, shifting on his seat, his eyes flicking to Eames' face, hungry and intent.

"Most of a day," Eames confirms, "Then I pulled myself up, snuck into the cabins, took the first mate's gold and a spare boat and rowed away." He finishes with a flourished wave of his hand, but Arthur is engrossed in examining the scar, licking his lips, his cheeks pink.

"And this one?" Arthur asks, touching the knotted flesh on Eames' shoulder.

"Ah, well, the first mate wasn't as asleep as I'd been expecting. He tried to slit my throat – but I'm at least quick enough to sidestep that." Eames wraps his hand around Arthur's, guiding his fingers to trace along the thick line, listening to Arthur's breathing get heavier. "His knife caught me here, but it was his throat that ended up open, in the end."

Arthur surges forward, pressing their mouths together urgently, crawling onto the narrow bed to straddle Eames' lap.

"Thought you'd like that one," Eames says smugly, as Arthur breaks away to trace the scar on Eames' shoulder with his tongue. The front of Arthur's breeches are straining against his erection, and he presses it against Eames' stomach, unmindful of the bloodstains on his shirt.

"It won't be so appealing to me if you get yourself killed," Arthur growls, humming as Eames palms his backside roughly, pulling him closer.

"Well, I don't expect I'll die a natural death," Eames says, which is a reasonable assessment, as far as he's concerned. But Arthur doesn't seem to agree, coming back to bite at Eames' lips, snarling as he shoves down, rutting on Eames' cock.

"You--" Arthur grits at him, then seems to cut himself off before the words can form, instead taking a much more pragmatic path. "Fuck me."

Eames tugs at Arthur's breeches, yanking them pointedly as Arthur grinds against him. "Stand up," he urges, stilling Arthur's hips. Arthur slides off him long enough to tug his breeches to the floor, and retrieve a jar of oil from his supplies. Eames shifts back, giving Arthur enough room to move as he slides into Eames' lap once more, dipping his fingers into the oil.

"I could have done that for you, you know," Eames says, watching Arthur reach behind himself and tense, shuddering.

"You take too long," Arthur breathes, shoving down against his hand.

"You mean I enjoy myself?" Eames smirks, reaching around to feel where Arthur is stretching himself open around two fingers. "I believe I've made you scream for these fingers, don't tell me you don't like it too." Eames pushes his own calloused finger in alongside Arthur's, and Arthur moans, clenching tight around them both.

"I like it," he groans, "Like your cock better. Get those open," he says, nodding down at Eames' breeches.

Eames pulls his finger out reluctantly, tugging at his laces until his cock is free, and hissing as he drips cool oil onto it.

"That's fine, that's enough," Arthur pants, shuffling forward. Eames feels his cock nudge at Arthur's hole where he's still holding himself open with his fingers, his brow creased as he presses down.

"Careful, now," Eames says, though he only brings his hand around to put his fingers to use and help Arthur accommodate him, "You can't take the biggest you've ever had without a little work."

Arthur groans as the head slips inside and they pull their fingers free. "I was exaggerating then," he says breathlessly, "Just being kind."

"I have never known you to be kind," Eames grins, giving a short thrust.

"Fuck," Arthur gasps, "Fuck, do that again."

Eames lifts his hips, pushing in a little deeper, forcing Arthur's too-tight body to take him inside. They fuck like a fight, always a struggle, the way they do everything else.

Arthur is sweating by the time he sits flush on Eames' lap, clenching around him, his head dropped to Eames' shoulder where he tongues again at the long, pink scar there. Eames' injured arm twinges with pain as he lifts Arthur's weight, but it's worth it to slam him back down, enveloped by gripping heat and hearing Arthur moan against his neck.

When he pulls together enough coordination to move himself, Arthur sets the pace, hard and fast, aiming to be sore when they're finished.

"Next time—" he says, breaking off to whine as Eames shifts, changing the angle, "At the next port, you're taking me with you, and – fuck, there, right there."

"D'you like that?" Eames asks, ignoring the rest – they both know Arthur's not permitted to leave the ship, no matter how much Eames would like to fight alongside him.

"Yes, yeah," Arthur nods, rolling his hips frantically, train of thought apparently forgotten. His hand reaches back again, and Eames feels the ghost of a touch as Arthur traces where he's spread wide around Eames' girth.

"God, you little slag," Eames groans, thrusting up roughly, "Not the biggest, my arse. I'd like to see you take more."

"I'd like to see it too," Arthur says, eyes dancing, picking Eames' hand up from his hip and licking a clean, pointed stripe across his wrist.

"Fuck, you little slag," Eames repeats, hoping to drive the point home as he drives up into Arthur's body.

"You know me better than anyone," Arthur whispers, grinning against Eames' lips.

Eames laughs breathlessly, kissing him. He reaches for Arthur's cock, but his fingers barely brush it before Arthur knocks his hand away.

"Don't, just – come on," he says, clenching down hard, "Come on, make me feel it."

Eames growls, lifting Arthur up and forcing him back down, rolling his hips to match the movement. Arthur is nearly sobbing into his shoulder, shaky encouragements panted hot against his skin. He does it again, and again, then holds Arthur down, squirming and pressed flush against him, until Arthur's slender body tenses and Eames feels another wet stain join the blood on his shirt as Arthur comes.

As soon as Eames releases his hips, Arthur starts rocking again, shivering with overstimulation as the last drops trickle down the length of his cock. The shivers running through him make him tighten like a vice around Eames, and it's only a few more brutal thrusts before Eames is groaning, crushing Arthur in his arms and coming deep inside him, relishing in Arthur's moans almost as much as his own release.

Arthur is boneless after his orgasm, slumped onto Eames, and Eames himself is too exhausted, after a day's worth of fighting and fucking, to move. The sweat has started to cool by the time he shifts, lifting Arthur up to pull out of his body. Arthur's arms tighten around his neck, but Eames doesn't push him off, just settles him again, reaching down to trace Arthur's entrance. He presses one finger in, feeling his own come slicking Arthur's insides, waiting to feel Arthur tense, any evidence that they went too fast.

"Does that hurt?" Eames asks.

"Feels good," Arthur tells him. He whines softly when Eames pulls his finger free, but he's still too sated to demand more.

"So I assume we'll be hauling anchor shortly?" Arthur asks after a long moment, speaking into Eames' neck, "Unless you've developed more finesse and haven't left a trail of dead and wounded behind you this time."

"Ah, yes," Eames says, "I expect we'll be leaving the port as soon as the captain gets wind of this. Assuming he doesn't simply opt to make good on his daily threats to throw me over and rid himself of the nuisance."

"He'd be nowhere without you," Arthur says in an uncharacteristic display of honest praise, running his fingers idly through the hair on Eames' chest over the low collar of his shirt, "I don't understand why you follow his orders; you're stronger and God knows you're more intelligent, you could run this ship."

Eames raises an eyebrow that Arthur can't see, still slouched onto his shoulder. "And can I assume that by 'you', you actually mean 'we'?"

"Of course," Arthur says, undaunted, "Someone will have to teach you to cover your left side. Or at least sew you up when you don't."

Eames doesn't miss the transition from the hypothetical 'could' to the definite 'will', but he doesn't comment on it. Arthur doesn't have quite the experience Eames does, but his ideas are a long way from far-fetched. Eames would be lying if he kept insisting it couldn't be done. And Arthur may have a vested interest in this – his freedom hinges on mutiny led by someone who considers him more than a prisoner, after all – but when he's right, he's right. Mutiny is seeming more possible – and more appealing – every day, in Eames' mind. At least, mutiny with Arthur armed at his side.

But he's had enough blood on his hands, and his clothes, for one day, so for now, they both fall silent. Eames strokes Arthur's back underneath his shirt, feeling the slow, gentle roll of the ship in the sheltered harbour's waters.

The rare moment of tranquility is broken by a booming voice from the upper deck.

"Eames, you unmanageable brute, get up here!"

Eames sighs, nudging Arthur off his lap. He laces his breeches with difficulty, his muscle pulling at its stitches. "Sounds like it's overboard for me, then," he says as he stands.

Arthur bends to pull his own breeches back on, "Well, if you can't catch a rope on your way down," he says, straightening, regarding Eames with a smirk that's a shade more affectionate than sardonic, for once, "Look for me jumping after you."

Eames cocks his head, watching as Arthur shakes his hair back from his eyes.

"Come here," Eames says, pulling Arthur flush against him as he steps forward, kissing him. Arthur is soft and smooth and sharp against him all at once, and Eames finds himself making a promise that he is suddenly so sure of, he can feel it in his bones: "He'll be the next one over the side of this ship, once she's ours to keep."

Arthur huffs a laugh into Eames' mouth, catching the back of his head and kissing him fiercely. He pulls back, smiling, "But what good is the word of a pirate?"

There's a pounding on the cabin door, and the navigator's voice bellowing, "Eames, he'll hang you from the mast by your feet if—"

"Right, I got it," Eames shouts over his shoulder, placing one last kiss against Arthur's grin. "It's as good as yours on these waters, darling. You might as well trust it."

Hashtag morallybankrupt

2011-05-18T19:09:44Z

cherrybina posted the most beautiful picspam, and if there is anyone in this fandom who isn't into size kink yet, that should sufficiently sway you. So I tried to write size kink, but what came out was more like highly inappropriate jailbait porn with a few gratuitous references to Eames' muscles.

Warning for, like... jailbait, age difference, underage drinking, public sex, and all-around moral dubiousness. Also warning for the fact that I wrote this in like 2 hours and no one has even looked at it but me.

1930 words, and none of them defensible.

"Look, kid, I don't know how you got in here with this thing, but I'm not risking my job just to get you a cosmo."

Arthur scowls, snatching his fake I.D. from the bartender's hand. "I said rum and coke," he says pointlessly.

"Sorry, princess," the guy shrugs, nodding at another customer to take his order.

"Hey," Arthur slaps his hand on the bar to get his attention, "I'm already in here, why can't you just get me a drink?"

The bartender raises an eyebrow, giving Arthur a pointed look. "How about you stop asking, and I won't call security to drag your twink ass out of here?"

That appears to be that, inasmuch as the bartender then walks far enough away for Arthur's voice to be drowned out by the music, making Arthur's defense of, "I'm not a twink," rather ineffective.

"You are, actually, but we won't hold that against you here," an accented voice to his right informs him.

Arthur's first, irrational thought is that the bartender called security anyway – do they have silent alarm buttons? The guy standing at Arthur's side is bigger than the bouncer whose eyes Arthur avoided on his way in, his t-shirt stretched over a barrel chest that's wider than Arthur's shoulders, his arms so big he can't seem to hold them close to his body (and Arthur didn't even think that could happen in real life). Arthur is about to back away when he notices the guy is holding a glass out to him, filled with a measure of something dark.

"Fabien's a twat," he says, nodding at the bartender – or at least, in that general direction. Arthur can't tear his eyes away from this guy's shoulders long enough to check. "He forgets he was one of the twinks with a false I.D. two years ago, he'd have thrown a fit if someone talked to him like that."

Arthur clumsily takes the drink being thrust into his hand, croaks out a "Thanks," and tips it back, gritting his teeth and willing himself not to wince at the burn.

"Eames," the guy says, and it takes a moment for Arthur to realize that that must be his name. He picks up Arthur's fake I.D. from the bar and examines it. "And since you are not 6'2" and 25, I'm betting your name isn't Michael."

"Arthur," Arthur says, flushing hot, though he can't be sure if it's from the embarrassment, the booze, or the fact that this Eames guy is close enough for Arthur to smell his cologne.

"Arthur," Eames – Eames growls it, taking half a step closer, making Arthur's breathing feel shallow. "And how old are you really, sweetheart?"

"Eighteen," Arthur says immediately, the most plausible lie he thinks he can get away with.

"Right," Eames grins, showing crooked teeth, "In what, a year? Two years?"

Arthur considers sticking to his story, but Eames puts a hand on the bar next to him, giving no indication that he's going to walk away no matter what the answer. "Two years," Arthur admits, and he couldn't look away from Eames' eyes if he wanted to.

Eames purses his lips in something that looks like amusement, but Arthur can't bring himself to work up any indignation when Eames leans in to his ear.

"Would you like another drink?"

It turns out that Fabien is frightened enough of Eames that he doesn't give much more than a frown when Eames calls him over and orders two shots, while one hand curls unsubtly around Arthur's neck, daring Fabien to refuse to serve him.

"Had tequila before?" Eames asks him, setting a glass in front of Arthur and taking a salt shaker and a slice of lime from the tray that gets set in front of them. When Arthur shakes his head, Eames grins, picking up Arthur's hand.

Arthur's breath catches as Eames kisses his fingers, and his knees threaten to buckle when Eames' tongue flicks out to lick the back of his hand. Arthur watches dumbly as Eames shakes salt onto the wet spot.

"You lick this, then you take the shot," he explains, holding Arthur's hand up to his mouth. "Go on," he urges.

Arthur hesitates only a second before he opens his mouth, lapping at the salt, his eyes watering at the taste. He tips the shot back, and this time he can't help but grimace at the way it burns in his throat, but when he squeezes his eyes shut, he hears Eames, very close, murmuring, "Suck."

Arthur opens his eyes to see Eames holding a slice of lime in front of him, watching him with an expression that makes Arthur's heart race. He lets Eames push the lime between his lips, sucking and biting down a little, letting the bitterness flood his mouth. Eames' grin is hot and dangerous when he pulls his hand away.

"Good?"

Arthur licks his lips, tasting lime and alcohol. "Fucking great," he breathes.

Eames takes his own shot without the whole ceremony, then nods at Fabien for another. This time, Eames licks his own hand, holding it up for Arthur to lap the salt off, and when Arthur slams his empty glass on the table, Eames puts the wedge of lime between his own teeth. Before he can lean down for Arthur to take it, Arthur cranes his head up, feeling bold and reckless with the alcohol starting to do its work, latching onto the lime and pulling it from Eames' mouth.

Eames watches him suck on it for a moment before he reaches up and takes it away, one huge hand snaking around to span the small of Arthur's back, pulling him close and pressing their lips together. His mouth tastes like liquor and smoke, and the kiss is wet and rough, Eames licking into Arthur, biting at him, his broad chest vibrating with a growl.

When Eames pulls away, Arthur feels dizzy, crazy and desperate, wanting to wrap his legs around Eames' waist and grind against him, right here at the bar.

"Have you got a curfew, little boy?" Eames asks, his eyes twinkling.

Not if I get a better offer, Arthur thinks. "It doesn't matter," he says.

"Mmm, it might, for me. If your daddy's got a shotgun," Eames points out, but he's turning Arthur so his back is against the bar, pressing one thick thigh between Arthur's legs.

"I can keep a secret," Arthur breathes, his hips jolting against the pressure.

"Sweetheart, if I had it my way, there'd be no hiding it," Eames says, moving in to scrape his stubble against Arthur's neck, "You wouldn't walk straight for a week."

"Yes," Arthur hisses, his limbs feeling light and tingly from the booze, his hands running over Eames' shoulders, feeling the hard ridges under the straining cotton of his t-shirt.

Then Eames is leaning back, smirking at him. "D'you want to dance?" he asks, already hooking his fingers in Arthur's belt loops, dragging him away from the bar. Dancing was not exactly what Arthur had in mind, but he takes his good luck where he can get it, and he figures any activity that involves him being pressed up against a guy like this is a bigger victory than he expected to get out of this night.

But Eames isn't pulling him towards the dance floor, Arthur realizes belatedly. He's walking them towards the couches along the wall. Arthur raises his eyebrows when Eames sits.

"I thought we were dancing," he says, then squeaks as Eames pulls him down, arranging Arthur so he's straddling Eames' lap, his legs spread wide just to accommodate Eames' thighs.

"We are," Eames says, licking into Arthur's mouth obscenely, "Just listen."

Arthur does his best to absorb the music while Eames mouths at his neck, his hands sliding down to grip Arthur's ass. He grinds Arthur down against him, letting Arthur feel the hard line of Eames' erection against his own.

"We're not supposed to do this here," Arthur says, stupidly, before he can catch himself.

"Do what?" Eames asks, grinning, "You're going to dance for me, that's all," he says, guiding Arthur's hips into a rhythm.

Arthur feels himself flushing, but he's getting to the point where he might have to acknowledge that he's officially a little drunk, and Eames is squeezing his ass, lifting his own hips as he pulls Arthur down against him, and Arthur feels the last traces of embarrassment ebb away. He starts to move, circling his hips, letting his body find the beat of the music.

"Yeah," Eames purrs, smiling dirty and sly, slouching down enough for Arthur to feel Eames' cock pressing against his ass as he grinds down. "That's perfect, darling, just like that."

Arthur groans, running his fingers over Eames' chest, pressing against the muscle just to feel it refuse to give. He can feel himself leaking into his jeans, but he can't bring himself to regret not wearing any underwear. Eames' hands on his ass help him keep his rhythm despite his body's tension, his urge to just press fully against Eames' torso, rut on those hard abs until he comes.

One of Eames' hands leaves him to pop the button on his jeans, but then it's back, sliding down below his waistband to cup his bare ass, fingers dipping between his cheeks. Arthur whimpers, rolling his hips and pressing down against Eames' dick, too turned on for restraint.

"You're a slutty little thing, aren't you? Getting off in the middle of the club, look at you," Eames says, his voice gravelly and pleased, and Arthur nods, more than willing to accept that label if it means he gets more of this. He starts to lose the beat, grinding harder, his hips stuttering. Eames growls, watching him with hooded eyes. "Look how desperate you are... that's it, come on, you take what you need."

Arthur hears himself whine, one of his hands slipping from Eames' chest to palm himself though his jeans, but Eames catches his wrist.

"Ah-ah, you don't need that," Eames says, gripping his hand tightly, wrenching Arthur's arm behind his back as the tip of one finger works into Arthur's opening, and that’s more than enough. Arthur cries out, uncaring of his volume and the people all around them as he presses down against Eames' cock, rubbing himself on Eames' stomach and coming hard in his jeans.

Eames lets him rock his hips until he's too sensitive to keep moving, then wraps his arms around Arthur's waist as he slumps, struggling to catch his breath.

He shivers as Eames' tongue traces the shell of his ear, keeping Arthur pressed firmly down on his lap, shifting against him so Arthur can feel how hard he is. Arthur can't get it up again quite yet, but it's not going to be a struggle, his body already putting in a valiant effort to respond.

"Well," Eames says, "I can hardly send you home in a state like this."

Arthur drags his head off Eames' shoulder, his lips curling into a smile, "I might have to shower at your place," he says, in what he hopes is a casual enough tone.

Eames huffs a laugh though his nose, kissing Arthur messily. "You won't be getting clean if you come home with me, love."

"Who said anything about getting clean?" Arthur asks, grinding down on Eames' erection pointedly.

Eames kisses him again as he lifts him, standing and setting Arthur on the floor. "I'm glad we're on the same page," he grins, taking Arthur's hand and leading him to the exit.

Lovely things, porny things

2011-05-07T15:24:28Z

STUFF.

spiderweb_wine wrote a fic over in the sub Arthur post from a few weeks ago, and let me just say, the comment subject lines call it "bathtub fluff", but it's a lot more than that. A really gorgeous view of Arthur and Eames' lives together, and the way their dynamic shifts and flows through the sex and the aftercare and the domestic day-to-day activities. Eames' quiet confidence, the ease of all their interactions, the little details of their relationship. Seriously, go read it. My eyes are filled with hearts for this fic. ♥

cherrybina wrote JAILBAIT SPANKING because I had a bad day and she is the sweetest. Oh god it's so hot, it's so hot, because no one knows jailbait sluts like Bina. This universe is starting to fill up with feelings and it's so good for me. Eames loves his little bb Arthur, oh fuck. HE LOVES HIM TOO MUCH TO SAY NO. I am the luckiest, sappiest perv. ♥

Announcement: I really love this fandom. Like, okay, it's obvious to anyone who's ever spoken to me about writing that I am a bit neurotic and that the scope of this fandom can, at times, freak me out slightly (I'm just a small-fandom girl ~~living in a lonely world~~). But I hope that I also make it clear how much I love all of you guys, and this fandom with all its love and its beautiful fics and art and all the people who contribute those things.

I'm a little floored at how active we are after so long, and I'm grateful, being that I basically lurked for the first six months. Thank you guys for being so incredibly welcoming, and for letting me flail and babble endlessly about Arthur's ass and capslock and keysmash all over the place in my sheer overexcitability. YOU ARE ALL ACES. SO MUCH LOVE, I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE. ♥ ♥ ♥

Just for neatness

2011-04-26T00:07:04Z

This is not a new fic, but I was putting everything up on AO3 (TY for the invite valtyr!), and I realized this fic was actually nearly 5000 words, and that's pretty much my standard length. So I might as well store it here like the pack rat that I am!

Title: Love Your Little Motions
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Eames educates a 16-year-old Arthur on why having things in his ass can be fun.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4900
Warnings: Arthur is underage (16), and there is a fairly large age difference.
Notes: This was originally posted here, at cherrybina's ass worship fest. It can now also be read here at my shiny new AO3 account.

"I don't know why Brad Pitt is actually hotter when he's wearing those hideous clothes," Arthur is musing, tilting his head as he stares at the television, "It's like it amplifies my desire to get him naked."

Eames takes a slow breath, the way he always has to when Arthur brings up sex like it's so fucking casual, like it doesn't make Eames think a multitude of terribly depraved thoughts. Arthur really is sitting very close to him tonight, in the middle of the couch instead of leaning against the other arm. Sixteen. Sixteen years old. Behave yourself, Eames.

"I guess," Arthur continues, "It could be that he just looks sexier in comparison to his clothes," he says this lightly, but the glance he casts at Eames, flicking his eyes from Eames' shirt to his face, is so far from casual it should be illegal. It sort of is illegal. Eames should care more about that, he's sure.

The movie ploughs on, but Eames has seen it a million times, and he's really a lot more interested in catching the looks Arthur is throwing him, subtle as a brick but probably not intended as sly. He's pushing further every weekend, hinting and flirting, finding excuses to touch Eames for too long or lean too close when they talk. Eames' moral code was never all that strong. Age is just a number. Eleven years is just an age difference. Age difference is just a number.

Arthur inches closer so their thighs are touching, and Eames lets his arm slip down a little from the back of the couch, because he likes the way Arthur shivers every time Eames touches him. The commentary continues.

"No matter how many times I watch this scene, I keep expecting it to end with sex."

"It's a shame she's not actually sleeping with Brad; he'd clearly be the better lay. I mean, the body alone…"

"Actually, you know what, every fight scene seems like it should end in sex. These guys are like two inches away from jerking each other off."

Absorbing the words, along with the heat from Arthur's body, Eames runs through all the possible ways this could go wrong. He starts with the least likely – that he's misreading things, and Arthur really just wants to be pals, which sounds pretty ridiculous in the present context – and ends at the most terrifying – that Arthur's enormous, overprotective father figures out where Arthur really goes every Friday night, and beats Eames into a fine pulp for corrupting his virginal Arthur. Eames spends a long time weighing the negative aspects of this possibility against the unspeakably appealing part about corrupting his virginal Arthur, and eventually realizes that he's lost track of time.

"When's your curfew?" he asks, looking at his watch while Ed Norton experiences mounting emotional turmoil.

Arthur shrugs, not meeting Eames' eyes. "I'm not late," he says, which is a lie, unless Arthur's father has suddenly decided the night is still young at 11:28PM.

"Come on, you'll blame me if you get grounded again, I know how you operate," Eames says, digging in the cushions beside him for the remote.

"I don't have a curfew tonight," Arthur mutters, looking at his lap, then up at Eames, faintly flushed in the low light, "He thinks I'm sleeping at Jeremy's."

Eames stalls, dropping the remote back into the depths of the sofa. "So," he says slowly, "Where were you planning on staying?"

Arthur's cheeks turn pinker, in direct contrast to the sardonic arch of his eyebrow, "Dad'll be in bed in an hour. I can sneak back in, tell him I left early when he wakes up tomorrow."

"That's the plan, is it?" Eames says, aiming to sound mildly amused but achieving something closer to mildly turned on.

"Until I get a better offer," Arthur says, and he's nervous underneath the posturing, and seems to be at least vaguely aware that that line is terrible, so it comes out rushed and a little breathless.

Eames leans closer, narrowing his eyes and studying Arthur's features, taking in that mix of defiance and anxious inexperience that's kept him inviting Arthur over every weekend for months now, addicted to watching Arthur push his own boundaries, reckless like a teenager should be.

"You expecting a better offer?" he asks, proud that his voice comes out steady, like maybe he's still got some composure left.

"Eames," Arthur breathes, shaky and soft, and there goes that thought, because Eames is so fucked.

Later, Eames will assure himself that Arthur kissed first, if only because it makes Eames sound like slightly less of an asshole, if he ever has to recount the experience. At present, though, all he registers is a clash of lips and teeth, frantic and messy and altogether too fast.

Arthur is practically vibrating when Eames brings his hands up, cradling his face and trying to slow the kiss to an easier pace. Arthur's having none of it, though, huffing a frustrated breath through his nose and curling his hands into fists in Eames' shirt, trying to climb on top of him.

"Hey," Eames pulls back and holds Arthur off him, almost as much for his own benefit as for Arthur's buzzing nerves, "Slow down."

Arthur's brow creases in a defiant frown, "Why?"

Eames knows him well enough by now to know that that look has more uncertainty under it than Arthur would ever admit, so he smiles, leaning their foreheads together and stroking his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone. "Because this isn't going to be much fun if it happens too fast to remember it, right?"

Arthur kisses him again, but he pulls back quickly, like it was an impulse he couldn't control. He's still shaking minutely, his hands clenching and releasing in Eames' shirt.

"Come on," Eames says, leaning back against the arm of the couch and nudging Arthur to turn around, pulling him back against his chest, "We've got time, let's just… take it slower, yeah?"

He feels his own heartbeat, hammering against his ribcage as Arthur leans back against him. Eames is grateful for the fact that Arthur can't see him close his eyes, trying to get a handle on quite a few impulses. He lets Arthur settle, biting his lip to stop from hissing as the small of Arthur's back presses against his cock.

Ed Norton is chasing himself around America; they've got some time to get comfortable, and an available distraction for Arthur to focus on while he gets there. Eames doesn't plan on doing a lot of looking at the television. He wraps his arms around Arthur, pressing lips to his neck, intimate in a way he's sure Arthur isn't accustomed to.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks. He thinks he knows the answer, but he's learned that it's safer not to assume.

"What's this, exactly?" Arthur returns, and Eames has to fight down his smile at the impatience in Arthur's tone.

"Anything," Eames says, "Sex, fooling around." he strokes his fingers across Arthur's belly, feeling the muscles twitch.

Arthur's shoulders tense, "Not really," he says shortly, but when Eames doesn't respond, he continues, "Handjobs, mostly."

"Mostly?" Eames licks at the shell of Arthur's ear, tightening his arms when Arthur shivers.

"Just handjobs, okay?" he says, sounding pained, "Why do you need to know?"

Eames trails his hand lower, hitching up Arthur's t-shirt and touching the soft skin just above the waistband of his jeans, "I just don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with."

Arthur twists in his arms, frowning up at him, "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't comfortable."

"I know," Eames says quickly, flattening his palm against Arthur's stomach, dragging it up to his chest, "But I don't want to move too fast, or—"

"Fuck that," Arthur cuts him off, placing his hand over Eames' and guiding his fingers to brush over Arthur's nipple. He takes a shaky breath, "I know what I want."

Eames shuts his eyes for a second, teasing Arthur's nipple and feeling him squirm and press back, and Eames is getting hard, so hard, against the warm pressure of his body. "So tell me."

"I… I want you to touch me," Arthur whispers, tilting his head for Eames to press a kiss to his neck. "I want to touch you… I want you – to, to suck me."

Eames bites down on a disturbing sort of growl, his hands roaming over Arthur's torso, "Keep going."

"I keep thinking about it, all the time. I want to come in your mouth," he whispers, his hand clenching on Eames' thigh. Eames bites down on a spot low on his neck, groaning when Arthur whimpers. "I'll let you fuck me," he goes on, and for a moment Eames is just bowled over by the words, by the concept, so it takes him a few beats to register the implication.

"You'll let me?" he says, smirking, "Is that a favour?"

Arthur squirms – Eames grits his teeth – and shrugs, "What, you don't want to?" he asks, only half-kidding, craning his neck to meet Eames' eyes. Eames almost laughs.

"You have no fucking idea how much I want to," he says, pressing his lips to that spot under Arthur's ear that's been making him shiver, "But you have to want it, too."

Arthur swallows, "It's not just about me."

Eames nods, trailing his hand down Arthur's belly, barely bypassing the bulge in his jeans in favour of stroking his inner thigh through the worn denim. "It can be a little bit about you, though, yeah?"

"Well – I think I'd like anything you did to me," Arthur says, uncharacteristically candid, inching his legs further apart. Eames kisses his neck and reaches so his fingers brush against Arthur's ass. Breathing heavily, Arthur makes a soft noise.

"You ever try putting your fingers in there?" Eames whispers. He presses a little firmer between Arthur's legs for emphasis.

Arthur stiffens, his breath catching before he speaks, "I tried… Tonight, in the shower, I tried it."

"And?"

"And it – it was weird. It fucking hurt like hell."

"It doesn't have to," Eames says, trailing his hand back up to cover Arthur's erection, straining against his jeans, "It can feel really, really good if you do it right."

"I know there's, like, the prostate. I mean, I've read about it," Arthur is pressing up against Eames' hand, but Eames isn't giving him much, just light pressure.

"That's only part of it, there's more than that. It feels like…" Eames trails off, casting around for a way to describe it in a way that won't sound terrifying, "Like you're full, and open, in a really good way. Like you can't get enough."

Arthur whines, and Eames is sure he's pressing back with purpose now, wriggling against Eames' cock. "It doesn't hurt?"

"Sometimes," Eames concedes, pressing his lips behind Arthur's ear, "But sometimes that's good, too, a little bit of pain. Makes everything feel sharper."

Arthur is quiet for a while, just breathing shakily, rocking his hips.

"It doesn't have to be someone's cock, either," Eames continues, curving his hand a little and letting Arthur work his hips up into the contact, "Sometimes it's even better when it's just fingers, hitting all the right spots."

Arthur reaches back, curling his hand around Eames' neck and pulling him down for a kiss. This time it's slower, his movements have lost some of the frantic edge from before. He parts his lips when Eames licks at them, moaning around Eames' tongue.

When he pulls back, he looks dazed, cheeks pink and eyes half-lidded like Eames is doing a lot more than just groping him through his jeans.

"I want you to show me."

Eames takes a deep breath, gathering shreds of control. He slides his hand to Arthur's thigh again, and this time Arthur bends his knee, arching into the touch.

"You're sure about this?" Eames whispers, expecting annoyance, needing to ask anyway.

But Arthur just nods, and if Eames didn't know him, he'd call it earnest. "I'm sure."

Eames presses another kiss to the side of his mouth, smiling, "Then we're going to have to change venues." He nudges Arthur up and pulls himself off the couch, holding his hand out to help Arthur stand.

"Your bedroom?" Arthur asks, not able to keep his voice strictly casual, and yes, right, Arthur's never even seen the bedroom before.

Tugging him to his feet, Eames kisses the back of his hand, then leans close to kiss his mouth, because he can't help himself. "I don't think you're a quickie-on-the-sofa kind of guy," he says when he pulls back, and the only reason Arthur's smile doesn't make Eames' heart stop is that he turns then, and leads him down the hall.

Eames intends to give Arthur a moment to center himself – or at least to take in his surroundings – once they reach the bedroom, but Arthur doesn't seem terribly interested in the pattern of the duvet. Hands tug at Eames' shirt buttons the moment they're facing each other, Arthur latching onto his lips again, buzzing with energy, eager to move along.

Being that he's only human, it takes Eames a little longer, this time, to pull up on the reins. Arthur gets his shirt open, running cold, trembling fingers over Eames' chest, breaking the kiss to look down with hitched breath and awestruck gaze, and fuck if that doesn't make Eames feel Goddamn invincible. He lets Arthur shove the shirt to the floor, lets him press his lips to Eames' shoulder, lets him get as far as pulling frantically at Eames' belt before he grabs Arthur's wrists.

"We're back to the start here, aren't we?" he says, and Arthur growls in frustration, his forehead creasing.

"I thought this was about what I want," he challenges, though he tilts his head to the side when Eames moves in to mouth at his neck, holding his wrists steady.

Eames grins and releases him, pleased when Arthur abandons his belt and brings his hands to Eames' shoulders instead. "Just trust me?" he pulls back to watch Arthur's face as he slips his hand around to the small of his back, working fingers under the waistband of his jeans to just brush over the curve of his ass.

Arthur smiles reluctantly, "I can try," he says, touching his lips to Eames' again.

To be embarrassingly honest, Eames would probably kiss Arthur for hours if he thought Arthur would let him. There are quite a few other things he'd like to do for hours, too, but spending some time memorizing the way Arthur sighs and shakes when their tongues touch, and leans into him like he trusts Eames to hold him up, that feels like a good place to start. Arthur's patience only goes so far, though, so Eames pulls back, freeing his hand from Arthur's jeans and tugging his t-shirt up and off.

With Arthur following his lead, Eames gets to take a moment to just look, to appreciate the pale skin and smooth lines of Arthur's torso, young and thin and lanky, because he's grown inches this past year and he's still a little awkward with it. Arthur tenses under the inspection, and Eames realizes too late that Arthur has likely never had anyone see him like this, or look at him the way Eames is right now.

Carding his fingers through Arthur's messy hair, Eames leans their foreheads together. Thoughts like beautiful and lovely and want to fuck you till you cry bounce through his mind, but he lands on, "You're so fucking sexy, do you know that?"

And because Arthur is still Arthur, regardless of inexperience in the current situation, he doesn't disappoint. "Well, I figure there's a reason you invite me over here every weekend."

Eames hums, sliding his hand to Arthur's ass and pressing their hips together, letting him feel how hard Eames is for him. There's a gasp, and Arthur stiffens in his arms, so sensitive already. He rocks into the contact, making soft little noises and clutching hard to Eames' shoulders.

"Alright," Eames says, stilling Arthur's hips and moving to open his jeans, shoving them down then doing the same with his own. He walks backwards until he hits the bed, and sits on the edge, pulling Arthur on top of him, separated by nothing but underwear. Arthur looks instantly comfortable in this position, straddling Eames' lap, which is something he'll have to keep in mind.

Arthur leans down for a kiss, already rocking. Eames lets him move, lets him feel it out and explore, bringing one hand to Arthur's hip when he starts speeding up.

"Keep it slow, that's it," he murmurs, guiding Arthur into an easy rhythm, rubbing himself on Eames' stomach. Eames brings a finger to Arthur's parted lips, and he hesitates, briefly, before flicking his tongue against it. His confidence grows as Eames sucks in a sharp breath, Arthur wrapping his lips around the finger and taking it into his mouth, his hot, wet, gorgeous little fucking mouth – Eames' cock twitches in jealousy.

With effort, he slips free, bringing his hand around to push into the back of Arthur's underwear. Eames palms his ass, spreading him apart to touch his finger to Arthur's hole. Hips stutter and thighs shake, and Arthur goes tense in his arms.

"Are you gonna—" he says, his hair falling over his eyes as he ducks his head, struggling to finish the question.

"Not yet," Eames says, just circling his entrance, getting him used to the feeling of having someone touch him there. Arthur squirms against it, brow creasing, but he starts to adjust, colour on his cheeks and little noises leaving his throat as Eames rubs at him.

"I want to touch you," Arthur says, somewhat abruptly, one hand leaving Eames' shoulder to tug down the waistband of his boxers. Arthur's fingers are cool, nearly uncomfortable, but it's eclipsed by the way he moans when he feels Eames' cock in his hand, the way Eames can feel his hole clenching against the tip of his finger, and he doesn't need to ask about it to know what's on Arthur's mind right now.

Breathing getting sharper, Eames slips his free hand down to return the favour, pulling Arthur's cock from his underwear and stroking. Arthur's grip goes slack, too overwhelmed with it all to keep everything coordinated, so Eames takes over, pushing Arthur's hand off him.

Arthur groans as Eames wraps his fingers around them both. Eames almost feels like he's a teenager again, like everything Arthur feels is so intense, it spills over. He'd forgotten what this was like, how good it is just to have contact, just the feel of someone else's cock against your own, thrilling the way everything about sex is thrilling when you're sixteen and can't think about anything else. Eames kisses him, but Arthur can barely participate, just whining into it, pushing up into Eames' fist.

"Keep moving," Eames whispers as he presses just the tip of his finger into Arthur's body, dry, but not nearly far enough to hurt. Arthur's breath catches sharply, his head falling back as he moans, shoving against the grip Eames has on him just once before he freezes. Eames feels it, warm and wet on his fingers, before he realizes what's happened; Arthur is coming, all over their stomachs, clenching tight on the finger inside him. Eames fights not to lose control while Arthur shudders and gasps in his lap, moaning like he's never felt anything so good.

"Fuck," he finally forces out, burying his face in the crook of Eames' neck, "Fuck, god, I'm sorry, I couldn't…"

Eames kisses the shell of his ear, still reeling, huffing out a laugh, "You're – Christ, Arthur, don't be sorry." He falls back to the mattress, but Arthur is dead weight on his chest, so Eames gently pushes him off, rolling him onto his back. "Come on," Eames maneuvers him into the middle of the bed, loose-limed and sprawling.

"Let's get these off," Eames says, tugging Arthur's underwear down.

"You too," Arthur murmurs, yanking ineffectually until Eames gives him a hand and shoves his own boxers down and off. Arthur hums happily when Eames stretches out on top of him, pressed together everywhere and weighing him down. Eames kisses him, loving this new pliancy, the way Arthur just parts his lips and opens up for it, still in that soft, post-orgasm haze.

Eames pushes a hand between them, brushing his fingers over Arthur's cock, making him gasp, too sensitive. When Eames pulls his mouth away, Arthur looks like – like sex, young and dazed and exhilarated, and Eames feels like he's drunk on it.

"Spread your legs for me," he says, and Arthur does, giving Eames a look like it's the sexiest thing he's ever heard, letting Eames sit back, kneeling between his knees.

Stroking his hand up and down Arthur's thigh, Eames fixes him with the gentlest, least predatory expression he can manage under the current circumstances. "It doesn't have to go any further than this, you know. If you want to stop, or just wait…"

Arthur stares at him with a look of pure exasperation, "Are you fucking serious? I'm naked in your bed, you asshole, do you seriously think I want you to stop?"

Eames grins, reaching over to his nightstand to fetch the lube, "I was sincerely hoping not," he says, flicking open the bottle and pouring some onto his finger, "But you really do have to tell me if you want to take it easy, or slow down, or even stop, if it comes to that. Will you do that?"

Arthur swallows heavily, reaching out; Eames leans over him and lets Arthur pull him into a kiss. "I will," he breathes against Eames' lips.

Sitting up again, Eames touches one slick finger to Arthur's hole, pleased when Arthur just hums, bending one knee slightly and opening his legs further. "Just one right now," Eames says, and presses it in, barely further than before. He waits for a few breaths, then pushes again, past the width of his second knuckle, pausing before the limit for Arthur to adjust, because he's ludicrously tight. He doesn't look scared or like he's in pain, though, and soon he lets out a huff of air, and Eames feels his muscles relax, just slightly.

"How many fingers did you use when you tried this yourself?" Eames asks, pulling out a little, pushing back in slowly, gritting his teeth at the hitch of breath and the barely-there whimper he gets for his efforts.

"Tried for two," Arthur says, "They didn't – I couldn't get very far."

"Well then, tonight's secondary lesson will be concerning the benefit of proper lubrication," Eames smiles, fucking Arthur slowly, carefully with his finger, "How does this feel?"

Arthur's brow creases, like he hadn't thought about the answer. He rolls his hips experimentally, meeting Eames' hand, and gives a lopsided smile, "It's good. It doesn't hurt as much as I thought."

"Good," Eames moves down on the bed, stretching out on his stomach between Arthur's legs. There's come on Arthur's belly, and Eames laps at it, letting Arthur squirm and arch up toward him. He's hard again, already, but Eames isn't going to tempt fate and sixteen-year-old hair triggers by touching him.

Once Arthur's skin is clean, once Arthur is moaning openly and working his hips against Eames' hand, Eames pulls his finger out, slicking another, "Ready for two?"

Arthur licks his lips nervously, but he nods, "Yeah."

Eames is careful, so fucking slow, when he presses his fingers to Arthur's entrance. "Relax," he says, biting down on I'm not going to hurt you, because that is, technically, a lie; it's obviously going to hurt. Eames pushes against the resistance, the muscles like a vice around his fingers when he gets them in halfway. Arthur whines, taking short little breaths through his nose.

"I know it hurts, I know," Eames whispers, hearing his voice shaking, pressing a kiss to Arthur's inner thigh, "I'm not gonna move them yet. You tell me if you need to stop, all right?"

"I'm okay, just – need a second," Arthur says, his eyes screwed up tight.

"You take all the time you need, love," Eames says, pressing kisses to the inside of Arthur's trembling thigh, licking at the soft, pale skin.

Arthur lets out his breath, his fingers touching Eames' head, "That feels good," he says, relaxing minutely. Eames glances up at him, making a quick, possibly absurd decision. He takes Arthur's thigh in his hand, bending his leg up toward his chest, which Arthur takes like it's easy. Eames can't help his groan when he looks down at where Arthur's clenching on him, and has a similar lack of control over how he leans in, touching the tip of his tongue to Arthur's hole.

"Oh – fuck--" Arthur gasps, and that'll do fine for encouragement, so Eames does it again, licking at the skin stretched around his fingers. He's still tight, too tight for comfort, so Eames pulls his fingers free, using his hand to hold Arthur's cheeks apart and drag his tongue across his hole, wriggling the tip inside.

Arthur is absolutely shattered above him, shaking apart and breathing out tight little whimpers, "Ah, ah, ah," at every flick over his sore, sensitive skin. Eames gets him wet, gets him dripping with spit, and while Arthur's keening and begging for more, Eames slips his fingers back in. This time they go easy, as easy as Eames could hope, and Arthur makes a startled sound when they reach as far as they can.

"Eames, Eames," he pants, tugging at the sheets. Eames lifts his head, watching Arthur's face.

"Talk to me, tell me how it feels," he twists his hand a little.

"Fuck, oh, it's – it's like you said, feels full, it's good, don't stop," Arthur babbles.

Eames lets Arthur's leg fall back to the bed, nudging at his hip, "Move a little," he says, his voice shaking and rough, and he's barely been touched, but he doesn't remember the last time he was this turned on, "Move with me, find how you like it."

Arthur nods, arching and rocking his hips onto Eames' hand as Eames presses in. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Eames can't decide between kissing all over Arthur's thighs and stomach, and watching his face as he falls apart. He crooks his fingers, searching, until Arthur cries out.

"There we go," Eames breathes, Arthur working himself up and down frantically, straining for more.

"Is that—" he starts, but his voice dies as Eames rubs against the spot again.

"That would be your prostate," Eames confirms, dizzy and losing restraint, driving his fingers inside.

"God, Eames, oh God," Arthur moans, scratching at his shoulders, "I wish you'd fuck me."

Eames feels something snap in his brain, quieting the voice that's been telling him, all night, to keep his thoughts to himself. He moves up Arthur's body, leaning over him with his fingers still pushing in deep.

"Next time, I'll fuck you," he promises, "I'll get you so fucking wet and loose with my fingers and my tongue, you'll be desperate for it, you'll beg for my cock."

"Yes," Arthur gasps, nodding along, fucking himself on Eames' hand, "Fuck yes." His hand creeps between them, moving to grab his own cock.

"Don't touch yourself," Eames tells him, expecting resistance, but Arthur's hand stops, "I want you to come just like this."

Arthur moans, and he brings his hand to Eames' stomach instead, "Can I touch you?"

Jesus. "Yeah, go – oh," Eames grunts as Arthur's fingers wrap around his cock, smearing precome from the head.

Arthur jerks him with the same demanding pace that Eames has set. Eames' arm shakes with the effort of holding his own weight, still fingering Arthur hard enough to make him feel it in the morning, maybe make him squirm when he sits at his desk, trying to do his homework but too distracted to concentrate—

And with that thought, Eames comes all over him. Arthur's eyes go wide as Eames fucks into his hand, groaning, spilling onto Arthur's stomach, his cock. He shoves his face against Arthur's neck, mouthing inelegantly against his skin, mindlessly crooking his fingers, driving into him brutally.

Arthur shoves down on Eames' hand, positively sobbing, and then he's coming too. He goes impossibly tight, but Eames works him through his orgasm, stroking at his prostate and twisting his fingers until Arthur is spent and quivering from too much stimulation, covered in come and panting like he's run a marathon.

Eames collapses to the side, but just barely, still cradled between Arthur's legs. He moves off him in increments, each time he gets the strength to shift a little more. He ends up flopping over onto his back, tugging Arthur half on top of him, scratching lightly through his hair.

"You can stay, right?" Eames asks sleepily. He opens one eye to find Arthur staring at him, alarmingly lucid.

"Can I?"

Eames blinks, then cups Arthur's jaw, tipping his face up to kiss him hard and quick, then again, and again, until the message is clear, "Of course you can."

Arthur smiles, cheeks dimpling, and lays his head on Eames' chest. They're both sweaty and sticky; in a minute, they'll take a shower. Arthur sighs contentedly, fingers stroking up and down Eames' side. Maybe a few minutes.

Eames the Oversexed, Emotionally Stunted Manchild

2011-04-13T16:56:05Z

LOL YOU GUYS WHAT IS THIS FIC I DON'T EVEN KNOW. eleveninches posted about a kink meme prompt (which I will find later [ETA: over here]) about Eames and Arthur having a threesome and Eames getting so jealous he can't stand it. Or something. That's what I wrote, anyway. With bonus first time barebacking.

Eames is the most emotionally stunted. Arthur is a close second.

Title: Displays of Affection
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Eames/OMC (in a complete failure kind of way)
Summary: Eames wants to have a threesome, but really shouldn't be permitted to interact with civilized persons, period.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4500
Warnings: Unsafe sex (unplanned barebacking)
Notes: Shameless, irredeemable. The OMC is basically a talking prop. cherrybina has assured me that this is coherent; it is otherwise un-betaed.

"What about him?" Eames says over the music, for the sixth time in twenty minutes.

Arthur's gaze follows Eames' nod, to one corner of the dance floor. He can't tell who Eames is referring to, but he sees half a dozen average Joes trying to look butch while they grind to Casada, and that's enough information. "Please," Arthur says, with his most practiced disdain.

Knocking their shoulders together, Eames leans back against the bar. "Should I be flattered to learn that your tastes are so discerning? He's perfectly good-looking. It's just sex, just once; you're over-thinking this."

"But you know I have a thing for older men, pops."

Eames, who knows better than to take that as an insult, leans in to Arthur's ear, "If you wanted to call me daddy, all you had to do was ask, sweetheart."

Arthur elbows him away, "You need therapy. Stay here, I'll go find one."

He down his whiskey in one swallow and leaves his glass on the bar as he walks toward the edge of the dance floor. There are choices, obviously, in the sense that there are eyes on him and not one of these guys would turn down the offer, but Arthur has specific criteria here. At least, he'd certainly prefer to find someone he could safely classify as not Eames' type. Granted, everyone seems to be Eames' type under the right balance of fortunate lighting and alcohol, but he's not going pick up some simpering twink who's going to bend over and beg for Eames' cock. Arthur's got the market cornered on that, thanks.

It helps that the whole appeal of this, for Eames, seems to come from the prospect of watching Arthur get fucked by a stranger. Arthur can indulge voyeurism; he has no objection to letting some guy fuck him for Eames' entertainment. It's not a night he'd plan himself, but dick is dick. So he just needs to find someone who can fuck him.

The guys in the middle of the crowd are always high as kites, and the ones on the edges are too awkward for one night stands, so Arthur pushes through until the bodies just start getting denser. There's room here to dance without grinding on randoms, so Arthur starts to get into it, moving with the beat of some godawful remixed Katy Perry song, keeping his eyes sharp and surveying the crowd.

There's a lot of bad hair, a lot of skinny jeans, a worrying amount of eyeliner, and very few prospects. Arthur is about to shove his way to less arid ground when he catches sight of a broad chest and a pair of arms with actual definition. The guy's face is generic, more or less, but Arthur doesn't plan on looking at that much anyway.

He makes pointed eye contact, quirking his lip in a smirk when the guy immediately and unsubtly angles himself away from the group he's dancing with, giving Arthur an appraising look. Arthur glances quickly back toward the bar, long enough to meet Eames' gaze and tilt his head, beckoning him over.

The alcohol has started to buzz through Arthur's veins, just enough to make him move a little bolder, a little more fluid. Eames is at his back in no time, hands on Arthur's hips and falling instantly into the beat with him. Arthur keeps his eyes on his stranger as Eames's breath comes hot in his ear.

"He can't possibly be much older than you."

The impulse to elbow him in the stomach is strong, but the guy is starting to look nervous, so Arthur just says, "Look at him."

"I am, and he's not a day over thirty. Stepdaddy, maybe, if you're into that," Eames says. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I mean, look friendly so he doesn't think he's about to get clocked by my jealous boyfriend."

"Mmm, well that's not exactly the plan, is it?" Arthur can't see Eames' face, but whatever he does, it makes the guy relax (and wink, but Arthur supposes he can forgive that). He feels one of Eames' hands span his stomach, tugging at his waistcoat. "This would go quicker if I could break through your chastity belt and show him a little skin."

"I don't need skin," Arthur says, licking his lips and smiling at the guy, tilting his chin up in invitation. To no one's surprise, he immediately moves closer, close enough to reach out and trail fingers down Arthur's chest teasingly.

"You're good," Eames says in his ear, flattening his palm and pressing firmly against the place the guy touched. Arthur twists his head to see Eames smirking at their new friend, eyebrow raised in suggestion.

"I'm hot," Arthur replies, reaching back to bring Eames' head down, breaking that stare and pulling him in for a kiss that's lewd and wet, all tongue. Eames' hands on him are firm, and they tighten a little more when Arthur feels the heat of a body at his front.

He breaks the kiss to see the guy suddenly inches away, wanting in on the action. Up close, he looks a little wiry – at least compared to what Arthur's used to – and built for aesthetics rather than strength. He's maybe an inch taller than Arthur, and his posture is too relaxed for him to be at all intimidating. Arthur tilts his head back onto Eames' shoulder, closing his eyes briefly as he runs his hand over a chest that's not quite as broad or hard as the one behind him, but it'll do.

A strong thigh works its way between Arthur's legs. Arthur lifts his head, grinding a little and leaning in with an encouraging sigh. "I'm Arthur," he says, just brushing his lips against the shell of the guy's ear.

"Ryan," he replies, his cheek against Arthur's, smooth in a way Arthur isn't used to anymore. "Who's your boyfriend, Arthur?"

"Eames," Eames says, before Arthur can open his mouth.

"You guys are so sexy," Ryan says, and Arthur is grateful that he's still pressed close enough for Ryan to miss his eyes rolling.

"We like to think so," Eames says, rather than repaying the compliment Ryan was obviously angling for, before snaking his hands around Arthur to grab Ryan's hips and pull him closer. Arthur's breath stutters at the pressure of Ryan's thigh between his.

There's a lot less regard paid to the beat of the music when you're dancing in a three-man team, pressed against each other in a way that really isn't conducive to movement outside of grinding. Eames is hard against Arthur's ass, and Ryan is hard against his hip, and Arthur is starting to feel a little dizzy from the heat of their shared breath. He tilts his head back for a deep inhale, and then Ryan's lips are on his throat, kissing and sucking in a way that feels a little demanding for a one night stand.

Arthur feels Eames' chest vibrate against his back, and hands land on his hips, pushing Ryan's off to grip and press Arthur's ass back against him. Ryan's lips are moving up, to his jaw, like he's angling for a real kiss. But Eames' hand is on his breastbone then, fingers fanning out, traveling up Arthur's neck, keeping his head tilted back so all Ryan can manage is an awkward kiss to his chin.

Eames' tongue curls around Arthur's ear, both his hands tightening, on Arthur's hip and his throat, his body going taut all of a sudden and the mood shifting from recklessly playful to something Arthur can't place. He feels dizzy with something else then, arousal that has nothing to do with the press of Ryan's thigh, and Eames rumbles a noise – though Arthur can't be sure if there were actual words in it – before he pulls away, and everything relaxes again.

"Our hotel's just down the block," he says to Ryan as his hands loosen their hold, like it never happened, "You up for it?"

Ryan holds Eames' gaze for a moment, like he noticed it too, but then he gives Arthur an appraising once-over, a look that Arthur might punch a guy for in another situation, and nods. "Lead the way, boss."

It's cool on the street, and Eames throws his arm around Arthur, ostensibly to rub his arm where it's covered by nothing but the sleeve of his thin cotton oxford. He walks them several paces ahead of Ryan, but their hotel was chosen specifically for its proximity to the pub district, so they're inside before too long. In the elevator, Eames keeps his arms around Arthur's waist, standing behind him, pressing his lips to Arthur's neck seemingly absently. Ryan leans against the wall and watches them, eyebrow raised, but making no move to join.

Eames is still attached to him like that when they make it into the room, sucking at Arthur's neck, having not cast a glance at Ryan since they left the club. Still, with the door closed, Arthur assumes it's all fair game. Ryan, apparently, assumes this too, because he steps in front of them with a smirk, winding his hand in Arthur's hair. He's close, and then they're kissing, and Arthur has enough time to register how soft it is, how lacking in tongue and teeth and stubble, but then it ends, abruptly.

It takes a moment for Arthur to know what's happening; Ryan stumbles back a step, looking dazed, and Arthur registers the hand on Ryan's chest, pushing him away. Twisting his head, Arthur looks around at Eames.

Eames has his eyes narrowed at Ryan, letting a huff of air through his nose like a bull, and Arthur doesn't laugh, but it's only down to his impeccable poker face.

"Eames," he says gently, glancing at Ryan, who looks like he's starting to get annoyed at being invited for a threesome where he's not allowed to touch anybody. Another heartbeat passes before Eames blinks, and his expression clears into bewilderment before he catches it with a cool raise of his eyebrow.

"That's not part of the deal, mate," he says, and Arthur knows there was no rule about kissing, but he's not about to argue. Eames' hand slides up to Ryan's shoulder, squeezing until Ryan drops to his knees with a grunt and a defiant stare. "You want to fuck him, you're gonna have to earn it."

Arthur watches as Ryan undoes his belt, pulling his pants open without ceremony. They're lucky, really – knowing Eames, that could have dissolved into a fight with a guy a little more attached to his dominance, and Arthur doesn't intend to have to pay the cleaning bill to get blood out of the hotel's carpet. Still, it would have been nice if Eames had explained his desire to play alpha dog, in case Arthur went and picked up some 250-pound bruiser.

Ryan's got a hot mouth, pouty and soft, and when he wraps his lips around the head of Arthur's cock, Arthur bucks a little, gasping. He half expects Eames to direct it, wind his fingers in Ryan's hair and push him around, but those hands are back on Arthur as soon as Ryan gets started. Eames tips open the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat, pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor, making quick work of his oxford, too.

Arthur loves the few seconds of contact after he's been in thick layers all night and every touch has been muted. Eames' hands on his stomach and chest feel electric now, nails scraping at his nipples, making his breath catch. Eames' mouth is on his neck, rough stubble and smooth tongue, growls vibrating out of his chest when Arthur whines, twitching his hips and pushing into the slick heat of Ryan's mouth.

The blowjob is good – Ryan sucks him like a pro, cheeks hollowing, taking him deep without preamble and humming around him, and that's good. What makes it great, though, is Eames, breathing heavy against his neck, rough hands dragging all over Arthur's torso, his hard cock pressing against Arthur's ass through their pants. What Arthur wants, what he really wants, is for Eames to fuck him, maybe with Ryan there, sucking him off and watching the show.

Arthur arches into Eames' touch, grinding back against him, suddenly wishing they could get this part of the plan over with. He opens his mouth to suggest moving along to the Ryan-fucking-him conclusion to act one, but what comes out is a moan, a shaky exhale that he can't bite off before it turns into "Eames."

His head falls back, and then Eames is kissing him, and it's like at the club, when they were showing off for Ryan, except now Eames's tongue invades Arthur's mouth instead of teasing, firm hands exploring Arthur's skin like he wants to mark it. Arthur shudders as Ryan licks a wet line up the underside of his cock, but the kiss doesn't break, Eames won't let it, one hand coming up to hold Arthur's jaw tight.

Arthur is trapped like that, breathing his moans into Eames' mouth, until Ryan takes a sharp breath and sinks down further, taking Arthur into his throat. Arthur's cry rumbles up from his chest, and he goes rigid with the effort not to thrust forward. Eames finally pulls back, watching as Arthur groans, "Oh, fuck."

Then the slick heat is gone, and Arthur again finds himself momentarily wondering what the hell is going on. He blinks and looks down to see Ryan staring up at them, exasperated. Eames' hand is wound in Ryan's hair, twisting his head at an awkward angle.

"That'll do," Eames says, his voice rough. Arthur is catching his breath as Ryan sits back on his haunches, wiping his mouth.

"Okay," he says flatly, looking at Eames like he's starting to regret following him into a locked room, and Arthur can't blame him.

"Lube and condoms are in the drawer," Arthur tells him, gesturing at the nightstand on the other side of the bed, hoping to get a few feet of space around Eames for a moment. Ryan stands, shedding his shirt with some hesitation, and walks around the bed to fetch the supplies.

Arthur turns in Eames' arms, one eyebrow raised, and Eames kisses him, open-mouthed and deep and hard.

"Eames," he says, pulling away and placing his hands on Eames' chest, "What do you want?"

Eames huffs a breath through his nose, his mouth set in a firm line that Arthur wants to call stubbornness.

"He's going to fuck you," Eames says, firmly. Then he adds, as if Arthur is the one experiencing some sort of cognitive dissonance over this, "I'll be there with you."

Arthur holds his gaze, waiting for him to crack. But Eames is a big boy, and this was his idea, and if he wants to keep going, that's what they'll do. He steps back to finish undressing, shoes and socks, then pushing down his pants and underwear while Eames watches. He hears the bed creak behind him, but he doesn't look, he just steps back up to Eames, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing his naked body against Eames' clothed one, the way he knows Eames likes.

"You'll fuck me after, right?" he murmurs against Eames' lips.

"Better than he ever could," Eames says roughly, not nearly low enough for Ryan not to hear it, because Eames has obviously lost all control of his higher faculties.

Arthur backs them up until his legs hit the bed, keeping eye contact with Eames until he climbs onto it, moving back to lie in the center. Eames kicks off his shoes and crawls up to kneel beside him. Arthur spreads his legs to let Ryan get between them, and Ryan is still wearing his jeans, which probably speaks more to his caution than to any lack of eagerness.

"Ready?" Ryan asks, and it takes a second for Arthur to realize that Ryan is now ignoring Eames and addressing Arthur only.

"Go ahead," Arthur says hesitantly, wondering if this was what Eames pictured when he said he wanted to get some stranger to fuck Arthur in front of him. He's struggling to see what Eames is getting out of it. Ryan pours lube onto his fingers, and circles Arthur's hole gently before he pushes one in. Arthur inhales, looking up at Eames, who is watching his face carefully. He reaches out and grasps Eames' wrist, trying to bring him back into it.

Arthur can't help his whimper when Ryan pushes in another finger, but he shakes his head anyway, "Harder, it's not enough."

Eames' eyes flick down, watching the movement of Ryan's hand as he fingers Arthur a little rougher. Eames is hard, Arthur can see his erection tenting his pants, but when Arthur lets go of his wrist and brushes his hand across the bulge, Eames barely twitches. Arthur squeezes his thigh instead, willing Eames to react, wondering if he could maybe get Eames' pants open and suck him off.

"Is that good?" Ryan is asking, as he adds a third finger.

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, and Ryan takes that moment to crook his fingers, bumping all three against Arthur's prostate, so all he can manage is a moan, his back arching. He clenches his eyes shut as the wave of pleasure shudders though him, but then there's a hand in his hair, gripping hard. Arthur opens his eyes to find Eames staring at him.

"Eyes up here," Eames tells him, looking for all the world like he wants to throw a punch.

Arthur 's flushed all over, his hips twitching from the strokes of Ryan's fingers inside him, but all he can concentrate on is the death grip Eames has in his hair, the way Eames' cheat is heaving, the way Eames is hard in his pants but isn't even moving to get Arthur to touch him. This is approaching ridiculous; no one is getting what they expected or wanted out of this experience, clearly, and if Eames is too much of an overgrown child to put a stop to it—

"Fuck this," Eames declares. He lets go of Arthur and moves toward Ryan, who jerks back, his fingers pulling out of Arthur roughly, just before Eames' hand hits the center of his chest and sends him toppling to his ass, already protesting.

"What the f—"

But Eames' fist collides with his face, and that makes talking difficult.

"Eames!" Arthur grabs at his arm, holding him back, but Ryan is scrambling off the bed, and Eames only seems to be glaring at him, anyway. Arthur knows it wasn't anywhere near the full force of one of Eames' punches – because Ryan's jaw hasn't dislocated – but still, probably a bit of a shock.

"What the fuck is your problem, old man?" Ryan spits onto the carpet, touching his lip and glaring at Eames.

Arthur keeps his hand wrapped around Eames' elbow, though Eames is frozen. "You should probably just leave," he says, sparing a glance at Ryan and managing what might even be an apologetic expression.

Ryan stares for another second, glancing between Eames and Arthur like he's actually weighing his options here, but then he deflates, stalking over to pick up his shirt.

"Fucking psychos," he mutters, and Arthur suppresses the desire to agree with him as he wrenches the door open and vanishes.

"You want to tell me what that was about?" Arthur demands, but Eames is moving as soon soon as the door clicks shut, pressing Arthur back to the bed, wrenching his arms over his head and biting at his neck.

"Couldn't fucking watch it," Eames breathes, teeth scraping Arthur's jaw, grinding his hips down hard against Arthur's cock. "Watching him touch you, what the fuck, Arthur," one hand leaves Arthur's arm and wrenches between them, between Arthur's thighs, shoving two fingers up inside him.

"This was – your fucking idea," Arthur points out, probably unnecessarily, but Eames is already stroking at his prostate, and Arthur's thoughts are starting to scatter.

"I know," Eames growls, adding a third and stretching Arthur further.

Arthur gasps, his nerves on fire with going from zero to sixty in five seconds, Eames rutting on top of him and forcing him open. "Oh, fuck. You're jealous, Eames," and Jesus Christ, he needs Eames to fuck him right now.

"I know – I need to—," Eames pants, his fingers slipping out as he sits back, fumbling with his belt.

"Fuck yes," Arthur nods, reaching down to help, yanking Eames' pants open. Eames empties half the bottle of lube out into his palm and slicks himself up frantically, and then he's moving forward again and Arthur is locking his legs around Eames' hips and Eames is shoving inside him.

There's no waiting to adjust; Eames is brutal from the off, burying his face in Arthur's neck, crushing him to the bed and fucking into him hard. Everything is magnified, Arthur's so hot from the whole night, from Eames grabbing at him and holding him and growling in his ear, because he couldn't stand to watch Arthur getting touched by someone else.

"You're fucking crazy," he forces out, feeling that it's very important that Eames is aware of this, even as he scrabbles at Eames' shoulders, clawing at his shirt.

"You're fucking mine," Eames says, slamming into him, and Arthur shudders all over, feeling himself tighten around Eames' cock. He winds his hand in Eames' hair, tugging his head up and crushing their mouths together so rough it almost hurts.

"Yeah," he breathes, rocking with the thrusts, tipping his hips up and taking each one, "Yeah."

Eames groans, kissing him, licking at Arthur's lips, at his teeth. Arthur is wound so tight he's sure it's not going to take him long, just a little more of this pace and Eames growling into his mouth, that's all he'll need to come.

"You're," Eames is panting, his forehead against Arthur's, their mouths barely separated, "You're—" but then the movement stops, with Eames deep inside, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"Arthur," he says hoarsely, "I forgot the condom, I didn't—"

He starts to push himself up, starts to pull out, but Arthur locks his ankles, wraps his arms around Eames' shoulders.

"Don't," Arthur says, his mind made up without a second of indecision, "Keep going, I want you to."

"Arthur," Eames says again, sounding strangled now, leaning up on his hands, but not moving back.

"Do you want to?" Arthur whispers, rocking his hips once.

Eames comes back down, dropping to his elbows and kissing Arthur again. "More than anything."

"Then keep going," Arthur urges, clenching his muscles and arching his back, moving Eames inside him. Eames shudders, snapping his hips. Arthur trails kisses along his jaw, nipping at his earlobe. "Fuck me, please just fuck me."

Eames starts to move again, thrusting a few times before he seems to decide he's not getting enough leverage, and leans back, taking Arthur's legs in his hands and folding him in half so he can slam inside.

Arthur cries out at the new angle, squirming helpless on the bed in Eames' hold, too hot by far with all of Eames' fully clothed bulk on top of him. He knows it doesn't really feel that different without the condom – he hadn't noticed, after all – but knowing that Eames is inside him with no barriers, that they're skin on skin, that's enough to send Arthur into a tailspin.

"Eames," he moans, grabbing at Eames' shirt, "I want you to come."

Eames drives inside him, making a move to reach awkwardly between them, going to Arthur's cock, but Arthur catches his arm.

"No, no, let me feel you first," he says, feeling like he might come if he just thinks about it too hard, "Fill me up, come on."

Eames groans, pulling Arthur's legs over his shoulders so he can lean down, panting into Arthur's open mouth, "You want me to come inside you," he breathes, and it's not really a question, but Arthur nods anyway.

"Yeah, fuck yes."

"You're gonna be so wet, darling, you'll be dripping with it," Eames goes on, and Arthur knows he's close when he starts babbling like this, pounding Arthur into the mattress.

"Please, Eames, come on," Arthur rasps, getting desperate. He feels the tension in Eames' body ratchet up and up until he slams inside, finally, all his weight behind the thrust. Arthur feels it, fuck, he feels the second Eames starts to come, hot and wet and filthy, deep inside him. Eames gives another thrust and Arthur keens with it, only dimly aware of Eames moaning above him, too focused on Eames slicking him up inside.

Eames lets Arthur's legs drop from his shoulders, and the position means Arthur's cock presses against Eames' stomach. He arches his back, groaning, just to get some friction, and the movement makes Eames' cock shift inside him, and that's all it takes. He claws at Eames' shoulders, wrapping his legs around Eames' waist as he bucks up against that warm, firm body, coming against Eames' shirt and his own stomach.

Arthur always loses a little time after an orgasm like that, drifting in a haze, so he doesn't know how long they lie there, but he knows he's never felt so filthy and so utterly okay with that fact. Boneless as he is, he can't do much to stop it when Eames starts to shift, but he does grunt a little in weak protest.

It feels as uncomfortable as always to have Eames pull out and roll off him, but he doesn't go far. He stays half on top of Arthur, only shifting his weight to one elbow, and reaching between Arthur's legs. He teases a little with one finger before pushing two inside, and their groans come in unison.

"That's fucking beautiful, that is," Eames says softly, and Arthur has to agree, feeling the wet slide of Eames' fingers, coated in his come.

Arthur squirms, turning his head and brushing his nose against Eames' stubble, shutting his eyes and shivering a little at the overstimulation, but not nearly enough to want it to stop.

"I don't get jealous," Eames murmurs, "I didn't think it would get to me, watching you with him, I thought I'd like it. I kept trying to snap myself out of it. I've done that before, it never bothered me like that."

Arthur takes a breath, trying to string the words together with Eames sliding his fingers in and out, making a mess of Arthur's thighs and the sheets. "It would have bothered me too. With you."

Eames doesn't say anything for a while, but he brushes his nose against Arthur's, his fingers moving almost absently, and Arthur starts to think that he could go for getting fucked again, or another finger, maybe, at least.

"I can't believe I punched him," Eames says finally, without a hint of guilt. Possibly amusement. Arthur has strange taste in men.

"I can't believe that's all you did, slugger," he says, reaching up to rap his knuckles against Eames' jaw. He shudders as Eames pulls his fingers free, tracing Arthur's hole before plunging back inside, and he really is dripping now. "As a point of interest, if we don't try to repeat the threesome experiment, we never have to use condoms again."

Eames grins, twisting his fingers and making Arthur gasp. "I'd take that deal."

Bask in my predictability (now with pictures)

2011-04-06T00:43:34Z

I don't know how many people will be interested in this (except like, those of you who have been enabling me on Twitter), but I'll give it a shot:

I would like to talk about sub!Arthur!

I think he is a beautiful creature (AND YOU ARE ALL SHOCKED), and I would like to hear your thoughts on him. What's your favorite take on Arthur as a sub? Have you considered it?

Would you like some incentive?

I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER ASK.

So we know Arthur is badass as fuck, right?

Absolutely.

But even the BAMFiest of BAMFs needs to unwind.

So maybe it's how he releases stress. Some people have hot baths; Arthur has Eames putting a collar on him and making him wait face down on the bed, ass in the air, begging to be fucked until Eames thinks he sounds desperate enough. Maybe it's a struggle for him to let go; he is so used to being in control. Maybe he has to break, every time, before he can let himself beg and sob for it.

And maybe afterwards, when he's fucked out and blissful and completely relaxed, he'll curl up in Eames' lap, and Eames will stroke his hair and they'll watch TV, because when he can finally let go, Arthur loves letting someone else take care of him.

Maybe, when he comes home from a long day of being blisteringly competent, he wants to forget it all, and just be sweet for Eames. Maybe what he really wants is for Eames to hold him down and spank him and tell him exactly when he's allowed to come.

Maybe he smiles when Eames tells him that he's a good boy, or that he's a slut – completely unashamed and completely pliant. Maybe he just loves Eames' strength and his calm, low voice, and melts for him without a second thought, like he knows he was made to be under Eames.

Maybe he really needs someone to control him, but he doesn't know how to admit it. Maybe he gets off on the fight, craves it. Maybe he gets himself in trouble when he goes out looking, trying to find guys who'll rough him up.

Maybe he needs someone like Eames to keep him satisfied but safe, make him hurt and let him fight it, and make him (let him) admit that he loves it when Eames makes him feel helpless, overpowered and dominated. Maybe Eames is the only one who can give him exactly what he needs.

OR MAYBE I'M JUST BABBLING AND YOU ALL THINK I'M CRAZY, WHO KNOWS.

INFINITE THANK-YOUS to cherrybina and eleveninches for SPAMMING US ALL WITH GLORIOUS JGL-FACE so I could find the perfect pictures for my words. ♥

Now, I know you guys wouldn't have friended me if you weren't pervs. You can admit that here, this is a safe space for depravity. So let me hear your thoughts if you have them! All interpretations are welcome. THEY ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL.

Talk dirty to me, bbs ♥

ETA: You guys! Fic and art!

onthecount is writing fic wherein Arthur is bratty but totally lets Eames order him around (go and encourage!)
paperflower86 drew EVERY FLAVOUR OF SUB!ARTHUR ♥
starbolin wrote (is writing?) Arthur fighting every step of the way and Eames being an arrogant bastard about it ♥

Consistently 2+ years behind the times

2011-04-03T16:21:40Z

Objective: Write fic.

Result: Start using twitter.

Hi guys, help me procrastinate? @five_ht

The underlying neural mechanisms of procrastination

2011-03-20T17:19:31Z

I'm still swamped, but I'm getting there. Stuff:

I haven't had the chance to read much fic for the last little while, but I did sacrifice a little sleep to read delires' new fic wherein Arthur and Eames are punk-ass teenagers in the same anger management class, and then they make out. IT'S PERFECT GO LOOK AT IT. Their love is so arrogant. ♥

The help_japan auctions are still open, so I'm pimping my thread again: Check it out, yo. Porn and/or fluff for charity!

I have a list of fics to write that is a MILE LONG and I'm eventually going to need to prioritize them, because otherwise I'll just write the beginning of a bunch of sex scenes, then get overwhelmed and quit before I can give Arthur's ass the attention I owe it.

Tom Hardy likes to waggle his cock around. This is a surprise to no one, and is already old news, but I felt it had a place in my journal, given my preferred subject matter. This has added "something with knives" to the mile long list. Or just naked, crazy Eames getting his naked craziness all over Arthur, that would also be good.

I HAVE TO WRITE 15 PAGES ABOUT FEAR AND THE AMYGDALA IN THE NEXT 12 HOURS.

This doesn't count

2011-03-14T22:23:02Z

This doesn't count as me cheating on my not-supposed-to-be-here, because it's for charity.

My offer is here.

1500 words (though it'll probably be more than that, I'm just being cautious as I have another auction fic pending also), starting at $5.

So hey at least I won't be bored when school finishes!

For science

2011-03-12T01:16:26Z

Would you be interested in reading a D/s-themed fic where Arthur was the sub and which mostly involved he and Eames working through Arthur's control issues through lots of sex and careful experimentation (and maybe a some dream-sharing happens in between the sex scenes)?

Genuine curiousity, not looking for or expecting any particular response. ~~I'm conducting important research here.~~

Fics: Filth, filth, and more filth

2011-03-10T17:36:51Z

Just rounding up a few comment fics that I've written recently. There's nothing in here you haven't seen before if you frequent cherrybina's journal.

Title: Reject the Null Hypothesis
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Buttplug! Originally posted here for cherrybina's Ass Appreciation Fest.
Word count: 950

Eames has never been a fan of props in the bedroom. He's got nothing specifically against ropes and dildos and whips and other such objects, but when it comes down to it, he'd generally prefer to pin his partner with his own strength, to stretch open with his fingers and cock, to give bruises with his hands and teeth. It's an organic sort of approach. Toys are just an intermediary.

He thinks he may make a slight exception for Arthur's buttplug.

"Jesus, you're so fucking hot," Eames whispers into the nape of Arthur's neck, and he means it literally – Arthur's skin is burning.

"That's what six solid hours of mild stimulation does to a man," Arthur says hoarsely, half muffled in the pillow.

"But you're just…" Eames trails off, running his hand down Arthur's side, curving over his ass. His fingers dip in to trace around the edge of the plug, sitting snugly inside, where it's been since this morning.

"Mmm," Arthur sighs, wiggling his hips, "You can take it out, you know. I mean, that's kind of the point."

Eames takes a breath, "Yeah," he says, pulling Arthur up to his knees. Arthur's thighs tremble in a way that Eames isn't used to seeing, and it's comforting to know Arthur is affected by this too. Eames slowly, carefully removes the plug, watching as the flare stretches Arthur's hole wider before it tapers back down, and Eames is dropping the plug off to the side, absolutely overwhelmed with all of the terribly filthy things he'd like to do and say all at once.

"Fuck," he says, which was not one of the things he had in mind, but he swallows, leaning over Arthur's back and pressing his cock, already leaking, against Arthur's ass. "Fuck, Arthur, I could slide inside you right now."

Arthur moans shakily, pressing back, "Yeah," he says, low and breathy.

"I could have fucked you any time today," he says, just trying to process the thought. He straightens up again to bring his hand between them, one finger just slipping in, like Arthur is trying to draw him inside. "You're all ready for me, look at that," he adds another finger and Arthur still takes it easily, rocking back.

"I'm not gonna last," he warns.

"That's quite alright," Eames says, moving back so he can lean in and lick around Arthur's hole, scissoring him open and darting his tongue inside. Arthur's cry is broken, he's shaking with the stimulation and clutching at the sheets.

Eames gives a sharp thrust with his fingers, pressing and rubbing at Arthur's prostate. "Don't hold back, come on," he murmurs, teasing at the skin stretched around his fingers. He gets about half a second's warning – urgent clenching and a hitch of breath – before Arthur shouts into the pillow, toppling over the edge. Eames pulls his hand free, reaching around to catch Arthur's come before it hits his chest and the comforter, stroking him through his orgasm.

When Arthur finally stops rocking into the contact, Eames' hand is slick and his restraint is fraying. Breathing hard, he lets go of Arthur's cock and slides those same two fingers, now dripping with Arthur's come, back inside. Arthur gives a sob, tensing, but he presses back anyway, always greedy. Adding a third finger is nothing now, and Eames only stops before a fourth because Arthur is breathing words into the pillow, something that sounds like an order.

"What was that?" Eames asks, twisting his hand and delighting in the tight clench he gets for the overstimulation, the too-much too-soon press against Arthur's prostate.

"Fuck me," Arthur forces out, using what's left of his coordination to reach behind and fumble blindly for Eames' cock, "Inside me, right the fuck now."

Eames grins despite the dizzying arousal, because only Arthur could sound so fiercely demanding when he's this strung out and desperate. Eames pulls his fingers out, using what's left of Arthur's come to slick himself, then presses his cock into Arthur with as much care as he can manage.

He's panting hard once his hips touch Arthur's ass, because Arthur is slick and open and it's all for Eames, it's his private show, and he wishes he could articulate that thought in a way that wouldn't sound alarmingly possessive. He drapes himself over Arthur's back, just rutting into him as deep as he can go, because he wants to touch Arthur all over and pulling out too far would defeat the purpose.

"Sorry," Arthur gasps, rocking back into the motion, "I'd planned to draw this out a little longer."

Eames presses his lips to Arthur's shoulder, "You say that," he pants, "Like you think I'm done with you after this."

Shuddering, Arthur can't purse his lips against his grin, "Oh?"

Eames growls, because he can't be expected to deliver coherent sentences when he's this desperately turned on. He snaps his hips just to hear Arthur cry out, just to get them closer to the same level of coherence again. He draws a breath, gathering his wits enough to pull together the words, "You'll be all wet after this, we can't waste that. We've got the -- fuck, the whole night ahead of us."

"Think you can fuck me again?"

"Fingers first," Eames says, pushing into him harder, "Till you're dripping with my come, till you're begging for me."

"You're gonna make me beg?" The words are a challenge, but his voice is unsteady, breaking at every thrust.

"Promise," Eames breathes, and then there's no room for words. Everything is just pleasure and tight, clenching heat, and Arthur's moans, and Arthur's skin, and Arthur, and Arthur, and Arthur. Eames gropes for Arthur's hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing way too hard as he comes.

Title: I'm The Man Who Loves You (Inside and Out)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: External/internal prostate massage; credit and blame for the idea go to the very enthusiastic anons over here.
Word count: 1500

Eames lets himself into his dark hotel room, tossing his bag somewhere near the desk and glancing towards the window. Arthur is standing on the balcony, silhouetted against the near-faded light of the sky, smoke curling up and away from him. He doesn't turn when the door opens, but his cheek is dimpled when Eames' chin comes to rest on his shoulder.

"There's something fundamentally wrong with a job where I end up working longer days than you," Eames says, and plucks the cigarette from between Arthur's fingers.

"Just because I can work from here doesn't mean I'm not working, asshole," Arthur says, leaning back as Eames' arm snakes around his waist.

Taking a drag from the cigarette, Eames lays his palm over Arthur's belly, poking his fingers through the gaps between the buttons and touching warm skin.

"Apologies. Your work ethic is unparalleled," Eames says. "In fact, it's catching; I've been doing some research of my own."

Arthur sighs, and Eames can feel him roll his eyes, "What are you looking for? We're less than twenty-four hours out, we can't change this plan again now."

Eames stubs the cigarette out on the railing, and presses a kiss to Arthur's neck, "Not that kind of research. Come on." He steps away, tugging Arthur's arm until he turns and follows Eames back into the room. A nod toward the bed and a grin is all it takes for Arthur to catch up.

Clothing comes off without ceremony, and Arthur is smirking as they tumble onto the sheets, lying side by side.

"So does this research involve your cock in my ass? Because I think we already figured that one out. I actually think we could call ourselves experts on that subject."

"No," Eames says, then considers, "Well, it can. Maybe not tonight, though."

Arthur's eyebrow twitches upward, and he surges forward for a kiss that Eames won't let him pull back from, holding the back of his neck and licking along his teeth until Arthur sighs, a soft, contented sound. When Eames lets him go, he looks marginally less composed than before, which counts as accomplishment.

"Lie back for me," Eames says, nudging at his shoulder. Arthur does, stretching out with his legs open, waiting for Eames to settle between them.

"Are you planning to enlighten me, here?" Arthur asks, as Eames reaches for the lube that the cleaning staff is kind enough to place back on the nightstand every morning.

"It's an experiment," Eames says. He kneels between Arthur's spread thighs and leans down to press a kiss to his chest, "I get to touch you in all sorts of places, and we both make note of how much I can make you scream. Does that sound good?"

Arthur snorts, but he winds his hand into Eames' hair softly, "Whatever you say."

"I'm glad you're catching on."

He gets a smack for that, but then he runs tongue and teeth over Arthur's nipple, which earns forgiveness in the form of a whine. He works his way down in no particular hurry, devoting particular attention to sucking little marks into Arthur's lower stomach, before he stops to pour some lube onto his fingers.

Arthur bends one knee as Eames circles his entrance, and Eames asks, "Ready?" purely out of habit, but Arthur nods anyway. Eames pushes two fingers inside without pause, knowing exactly what Arthur can take and how little he has patience for.

"This is feeling pretty standard so far," Arthur observes, rolling his hips lazily.

Eames ignores him, stroking his fingers up the inside of Arthur's thigh, up across his abdomen, then back down. "Do you know," he says conversationally, "That sometimes when I'm doing this, you put your hand," he takes Arthur's hand and lays it flat on his stomach, pressing it down and listening to the hitch in Arthur's breath, "Right here, like this. Did you know you did that?"

Arthur's brow creases, and it's really not a fair question when Eames is sliding two fingers in and out of his ass, but he considers, applying the pressure himself, his eyes fluttering. "I guess. It feels good, I don’t really think about it."

Eames sighs. "Where would our sex life be without my impeccable observational skills and endless creativity?"

"Missionary—" Arthur's breath catches as Eames spreads his fingers apart, "Missionary position with the lights off, I'm sure."

Eames grins, pushing Arthur's hand away from his stomach and pressing a kiss to his navel, letting Arthur shift and squirm into the right angle, crooking his fingers to help it along.

"I'm going to try something, all right?" he says, lifting his head, "I want you to tell me when you feel it, and tell me if it's too much."

Arthur is getting hard, and his hips give a hopeful twitch when Eames' hand sweeps down his torso, but Eames stops just below his navel. He angles the fingers inside Arthur, crooking them and stroking until Arthur whimpers.

Eames presses his other two fingers lightly into Arthur's belly, and starts to slowly work them down, feeling his way along. He keeps stroking at Arthur's prostate from the inside, and Arthur is moaning, low and deep, and Eames knows exactly when he finds the right spot.

"Oh, fuck," Arthur gasps, like Eames knocked the air from his lungs, "That's, it's, there, fuck."

Eames licks his lips, pressing just a little harder on both sides, as careful as he can manage. "Yeah?" he asks, hoarser than he should be. Arthur nods, his body going tight at the stimulation. "Don't tense, love, relax for me, that's it."

Arthur lets out a whine, but the tension drains again, and Eames starts to massage that spot on his belly while his fingers twist and stroke inside. Arthur is squirming, his back curving off the bed, taking short, stuttered breaths that stall every time Eames moves just so.

"Talk to me," Eames whispers, pressing a kiss to his sharp hipbone, "Tell me how it feels."

Arthur groans, shaking his head. "It's just – it's more, feels like it always feels but it's, just, stronger, fuck—ah, ah," he says, hands twisting in the sheets, "It kind of – kind of hurts, but don't stop, fuck, it's good."

Eames has to fight to keep from increasing the pressure, has to battle with his control, just stroking gently, pressing against nerves, pressing at the soft, pliant parts of Arthur that only he gets to touch.

"Eames, oh," Arthur moans, shuddering into the stimulation, fucking himself down onto Eames' hand, "It's like, it feels deep, the pressure, God."

Arthur's cock bumps against Eames' hand as his fingers knead into Arthur's muscles. He's dripping with pre-come, slick across his skin, and he can't last long with this kind of treatment, with Eames working him from the inside and out.

"Christ," Eames says, shaky and rough, and he's so aroused just from the show, but that doesn't stop him from feeling a certain sense of accomplishment: "I have the best ideas."

The noise Arthur makes probably would be a laugh if he wasn't moaning through it, "You are a – fucking, fuck, piece of work – God, I'm—"

"Yes," Eames says, rubbing little circles on Arthur's belly and pressing up against his prostate from the inside, "Yes, Arthur, come for me."

And Arthur does, his whole body goes taut and he comes with a cry, spilling on Eames' hand and his own stomach. Eames flattens his palm, splaying his fingers out and bracing against Arthur's tensing abs while he fights the clench on his fingers so he can keep stroking, keep dragging it out until Arthur is dripping and spent, sobbing softly at every touch against that oversensitive bundle of nerves.

Eames can hardly control his own breathing, pressing his lips to Arthur's thighs, then his cock, then the tender spot where Eames' fingers had been kneading him. He opens his mouth there, licking and sucking until Arthur's whimpers start to sound a little more like protests.

"Arthur," he says, groping for the lube before he even asks the question, "Can I fuck you right now, please?"

"God, yes," Arthur says, his voice a low rasp, hands grabbing and pulling at Eames with clumsy urgency, "Get up here."

Eames has himself slick in seconds, and he pushes into Arthur with a groan, leaning over him and burying his face in Arthur's neck, damp with sweat.

"Four fingers," he says, panting into Arthur's skin.

"What?" Arthur wraps his legs around Eames' waist.

"Four fingers to make you forget your name, that's all it takes," Eames says, really just stalling until he thinks he can move without coming immediately.

Arthur grunts, another noise that's almost a laugh, "I still remember—"

"Shh, don't lie, love, it's unbecoming."

Arthur rakes blunt fingernails down Eames' back, though his oversensitive body likely can't coordinate much more. "Can you please shut up and fuck me?"

Eames can do that.

Title: Relax, Slip Away
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fisting, originally posted here, for... no reason at all, other than that the world needs more fisting.
Word count: 770

It's not something they do often, for various obvious reasons. It's impractical, it's time consuming. And besides that, doing it sparingly sort of means it's…

"It's special," Eames says one night, grinning like he has Arthur's number, and Arthur rolls his eyes, but fuck it, yeah, it's special. He wouldn't want to get used to it.

It's easier if do it after they've fucked. Arthur is already stretched, slicked with lube and with Eames' come, enough to make three fingers go in easy. Every part of Eames slots inside Arthur like he belongs there, his tongue and his cock and his whole fucking hand.

"Arthur," he says, a little breathless, stroking him inside, "Christ, Arthur, I can feel my come, you're so wet, love."

Arthur arches, nodding. He can feel it, too, the slick slide of Eames' fingers, the come leaking out of him as Eames opens him up again, filthy and perfect. He can't bite back the whine that escapes when the fingers leave, but Eames is just pouring out more lube, always cautious. Arthur feels himself trembling as he watches Eames coat his hand, which is big, and his wrist, which is thick, and Arthur is always aware of these things, but they're never quite as relevant as they are when that hand is about to get shoved up his ass.

"All right?" Eames asks, coming back with four slippery fingers, dipping in with two, teasing.

"'M fine," Arthur says, tensing just a little when all four nudge inside, carefully, slowly. Eames knows when to push and when to wait, and he keeps moving, pressing in, past the second knuckles, where the stretch starts to really burn. He feels a kiss pressed to his stomach.

"That's good, that's perfect," Eames murmurs, and it's only then that Arthur realizes he's breathing in little gasps, his body practically vibrating.

"Don't stop," he forces out, and for once, Eames listens to him, keeping up the slow slide until it's so wide there can't be much more. Arthur can't stop his hips from twitching, and suddenly all four of Eames' fingers are bumping against his prostate.

Arthur cries out, tensing all over, clenching on the fingers despite his best efforts to loosen, fuck, fuck – they probably should have waited a little longer, because he's getting hard again but oh, oh, it hurts, it's too much too soon, but when he opens his mouth, it's not to say no or stop or even slow down; it's just a sob, that sound he can never control when Eames is taking him apart like this.

Words start to cut through the rush, quiet, hoarse words, "—fucking beautiful, darling, you can do it, relax for me, just let me in, you can take it—"

He feels Eames' free hand reach up and loosen his grip on the bedspread, letting Arthur clutch at him, and it feels like an anchor, and the words Eames is still whispering keep him grounded. He takes huge, gasping breaths, and he knows Eames can feel the moment he relaxes, because the stretch gets almost unbearable for just a few seconds, and then he's in.

It takes every ounce of willpower Arthur has to stop himself from squirming, to keep still and let Eames run the show, but it helps that he trusts Eames to know what feels good, how to keep him on the edge between overwhelmed and broken. Arthur feels every last twitch of Eames' hand, hyper-sensitive and overstimulated.

Eames doesn't have to move much, it's enough for Arthur to just feel this full, to feel Eames deeper than anyone else has ever been – it's enough to have him clutching hard at Eames' fingers, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open on a wail.

All it takes is Eames' lips brushing against his cock for him to break, nearly screaming as his orgasm rips through him. His muscles clench on Eames' hand, and it's painful but it's so, so good, and Eames knows how to hold him down, keep him still and keep him safe, as his head thrashes on the pillow and he spills more come onto the mess that's already on his belly.

He's still shaking when Eames starts to pull his hand out, and he has to bite back the altogether irrational urge to ask him to stay. It's an awful, empty feeling when he's gone. But the bed shifts, a tap runs, and Eames is back with a warm cloth and warmer words. The ache fades away as Eames gathers him up, a kiss to his temple all Arthur needs to drift into sleep.

Words (silliness)

2011-03-10T02:32:03Z

The auctions at help_nz have been extended, SO, my thread is here. It's at $15 right now.

Also fic related: platina and I were discussing word counts earlier (read: I was whining and Lydia was nice enough to humour me), so I started wondering some things about the writers on my flist.

View Poll: Words or lack thereof

Basically, I have a major problem with writing long things. It's a combination of lack of confidence, and tendency to overanalyse my own writing until it falls apart. I have so many abandoned fics. IT'S VERY FRUSTRATING. THIS IS THE WORST ADVERTISEMENT FOR MY AUCTION OFFERING EVER. (I can promise like 2-5k of lovey dovey porn, if that's what you're into?)

Charity and Plato

2011-03-01T00:23:21Z

I'm offering a fic at help_nz - my thread is here.

My offer is Arthur/Eames, at least 2000 words, starting at $5.

In other news, if I hadn't already been sure of my decision to become a science major, studying the classics would have put my mind at ease. Why is my school doing this to me?

I fail on multiple levels

2011-02-27T01:05:52Z

Things I should be doing: Studying for a midterm, writing up my thesis results, going to bed early.

Things I am actually doing: Writing jailbait porn, drinking Jack Daniels, listening to 90s rap music.

Mmmhmm.

-55

2011-02-25T20:11:04Z

I've been debating for weeks about whether or not to make this post. I'm not always strictly comfortable with talking about this. I always feel the need to stress that this is personal, my own journey, and not a reflection on anyone else or what I think anyone else should do. I also don't want to sound like I'm bragging or flaunting, and I'm leery of camwhoring in general.

THAT SAID, as of today, I have officially lost 55 pounds, and I'm going to let myself be proud of that.

So uh, anyone who would like to continue on with the impression that I am actually the Lorax should avoid reading further.

This is me back when I was making even more questionable hair choices than I do now:

This is me in the summer of 2009, in Australia:

This is me now:

SO. The fact that I'm posting this is a pretty big deal, because back when those old pictures were taken, I was in the habit of untagging every photo that went below my neck. Um, I may still freak and lock this at some point tonight, but right now it's public because there is currently no shame in my game.

Two things and a question

2011-02-20T17:42:06Z

First thing: If you buy a box of hair dye that is called "brownish black", it's actually just going to come out black. I like it, but just FYI, and for future reference. Black.

Second thing: Last night, I hit on someone via text message using a line I sort of lifted from a fic. What is my life, seriously. (For the record, it worked.)

And a question: If you had a fic (or a drawing, or any fanwork) that you weren't totally pleased with, but that you knew you weren't going to be able to fix enough to make yourself pleased with it, would you post it anyway? Hypothetically, this fanwork is a total lost cause, so your only options are to share it with the fandom, or let it rot forever on your hard drive.