fic: the wanting comes in waves [inception]
title: The Wanting Comes In Waves
fandom: Inception
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: NC-17
warnings: None
summary: The rule is that they only fuck in dreams.
notes: Mostly porn. Huge thanks to trouvemoi for being a ridiculously awesome beta. Title from the song by The Decemberists.
The rule is that they only fuck in dreams.
It's a fucking stupid rule if you ask Eames, but apparently it's non-negotiable, because in reality Arthur won't let Eames get within a foot of him without raising his eyebrows and giving him a clear what the fuck do you think you're doing look.
He honestly has no idea why. His first theory was that Arthur's need to control everything extends to his sex life - because it's always in Arthur's dreams, never his own - but when it comes to the sex itself, Arthur isn't exactly inhibited, not if all the oh God, oh God, fuck me right now is anything to go by. So perhaps it's that Arthur only allows himself to let go when he's in the safe space of his dreams, out of some bizarre logic. Arthur clearly isn't stupid enough to think that actions in dreams have no consequences.
It pisses Eames off, though. There's always a difference between dream sex and the real thing, no matter how mind-blowing it is, and so he gets to mark Arthur, gets to spread him open and lose himself in the feel of Arthur against him, but when he wakes up, there are no bite marks on Arthur's neck, no finger-shaped bruises on his hips.
---
The first time, it goes like this:
They're training with Cobb and the others, more practise at navigating Ariadne's set-ups while avoiding getting killed. Ariadne's playing the role of Fischer, but her projections are complete bastards, vicious and cunning, and Eames makes a mental note to suggest some anger-management classes when they wake up, because clearly there's a whole load of internalised shit waiting to hit the fan. He and Arthur are hiding out in an attic, the others already dead, when Eames asks how long before the kick.
"Five minutes," Arthur tells him, looking at his watch.
Eames raises a significant eyebrow and says, "Well, however shall we pass the time?"
He isn't expecting Arthur to reply, because Arthur never replies, just gives him withering looks and rolls his eyes. If he were a different man, he'd be hurt, so it's a surprise when he says, "Five minutes? Seriously?"
"What," Eames says, "you don't think I can make you come in five minutes?"
And, OK, that is obviously the part where Arthur is meant to act as if Eames has offended his delicate sensibilities and say something like please shut up, Mr. Eames, and then Eames will give him a lascivious look, and the status quo will be resumed. (Eames could write a book on Arthur's pointed rejections to his flirting.)
"No," Arthur says, folding his arms. "I don't."
Oh, this is interesting. Eames takes a step towards Arthur - cautiously, in case he's misjudged it - and pitches his voice low when he says, "Darling, I could do it in three."
Arthur meets his eyes. His look is as unreadable as ever, but there's two spots of colour high in his cheeks. And then he leans back against the wall and says, evenly, "Prove it."
Eames is on his knees before he's finished the sentence, one hand deftly opening the fastenings of Arthur's trousers, reaching in to pull out his cock. He isn't about to give Arthur a chance to change his mind, so he wastes no time in swallowing it down, feeling the head hit the back of his throat. He's pretty sure that thump is Arthur's head hitting the wall. He sucks, hard, and then pulls back to suck lightly on the head, fitting his mouth around it and revelling in the taste of it, of Arthur.
Somewhere above him, Arthur is saying, Eames, oh my God, and fisting Eames' hair in one hand. Eames moans in reply and goes back down to swallow around Arthur's cock, wrapping an arm around Arthur's thighs just in time to support him as his knees buckle.
Eames is good at this. Eames knows he's good at this, but he also loves it, loves the weight of a cock on his tongue and the ache in his jaw, the way his voice will be hoarse and scratchy for hours afterwards (or at least it would be, if they weren't dreaming). And the number of times he's thought about doing this to Arthur doesn't bear mentioning - he knows full well that this may be his only opportunity. He's determined to make the most of it.
Arthur is incoherent now, stringing together broken syllables, and Eames has no idea how much time is left, but he isn't about to stop and check. He pulls off again, this time to tongue the slit, lapping up the liquid that's gathered there, and he closes his eyes as the taste hits his tongue. He's hard beyond belief, aching in his pants, and when he shifts to provide some relief, he finds himself rubbing up against Arthur's shoe, and, fuck. Arthur is still fully dressed, of course, in his neatly starched shirt and tailored trousers, the very image of decorum, except for the way his belt is hanging loosely by his side, and the zipper is catching on Eames' mouth every time he goes right down on his hard cock, and, God, Eames is getting distracted but he's too turned on to concentrate properly. He has to make this work. He has to prove Arthur wrong.
He pulls out every last trick, doing things with his tongue that he knows from experience can make men do anything, promise anything, but this is Arthur, and there's nothing else Eames wants from him than this, what he's already given.
Arthur keens, a high-pitched noise that's going straight to number one on Eames' list of things to jack off to (along with everything else about this encounter), and slumps forwards. He groans, "Eames, fuck, Eames," his fingers so tight in Eames' hair that he's surprised he has any left. Arthur's foot shifts ever so slightly, but it's enough, and Eames shudders and comes in his pants, choking a little around Arthur's cock in an effort to keep going. "Fuck, holy fuck, Eames, did you just - " Arthur says, and Eames doesn't reply, just tightens his mouth and swallows around the head of Arthur's dick. He can feel the tremors build up in Arthur's thighs, and Arthur comes with a wordless noise, hips jerking forward as he empties himself into Eames' mouth.
Eames barely has time to swallow before he feels the familiar falling sensation, and he's coming to in the warehouse, panting and sweaty and still feeling sticky in his now-clean pants. His gaze goes straight to Arthur, who hardly looks any better, all cheeks flushed and blown pupils. Only Yusuf and Cobb are left. Yusuf looks up at them both, confused, but Cobb narrows his eyes and glares pointedly at Eames. As if it were his fault.
"Arthur, may I talk to you for a minute? Alone?" Eames asks, smiling sweetly.
Arthur's head jerks towards him, faintest hint of panic in his eyes. "I actually need to have a word with Ariadne," he says. "There are a few things in the layout that need work." And with that, he gets up and hurries out of the room without a second glance at Eames. Cobb's glare intensifies, and Eames makes his own excuses, before he gets whatever Cobb's version of The Talk is.
---
It becomes a habit, irregular and unpredictable. Arthur will come to him with some bullshit excuse for them both to go under, and a few minutes in he'll turn to Eames wordlessly. Eames is helpless to resist. It doesn't help that in his dreams Arthur is completely shameless, and has an unexpectedly filthy mouth that's probably enough to bring Eames off on its own. He's now incapable of wanking without mentally replaying Arthur moaning his name, and if he occasionally he's louder than usual, jerking off in the bedroom next to Arthur's, well, surely the man deserves to know what effect he has.
Eames tries everything. He comes to work in a suit one day - an honest-to-God suit, tailored and everything - in an attempt to make Arthur realise that he's being completely ridiculous. Ariadne wolf-whistles as he walks in, and even Saito looks impressed, but Arthur just sets his jaw and avoids Eames for the rest of the day. Next time they dream, Arthur fucks Eames over a table, hard and possessive until Eames can't speak, can't think anymore, and afterwards he thinks, point taken.
He's shot down any time he tries to bring it up with Arthur. Even when they're in the dream, Arthur's toes are still curling from orgasm, he manages to shut down Eames with an, "I don't want to talk about it," and Eames closes his mouth every damn time, because apparently somewhere along the line he became incapable of going against Arthur's wishes.
It ought to be a good thing, a way to take his mind off the job, and he thinks maybe that's what Arthur sees it as. He watches as the pressure of the Fischer job takes its toll on Arthur, working increasingly late into the night, and he knows that Arthur worries about Cobb, worries about Ariadne. He doesn't know if Arthur worries about him, and he doesn't like the part of himself that wishes he would.
It ought to be a good thing, but it isn't. It's a fucking distraction, constantly wondering what the hell Arthur is thinking, and he's caught up in this in a way he’s never been before. He gets it, Arthur is a man of mystery, unreadable and unpenetrable, but can’t he let anything slip to the person he's fucking every other day of the week?
---
A month after the Fischer job, Arthur comes to his apartment, PASIV in hand, and says, "Eames, I want you to take a look at something for me."
Eames readily agrees, figures it's another excuse, but when they get into the dream it turns out, no, Arthur does actually want to work.
"I was messing around with architecture," Arthur says, "now that we don't have Ariadne, but I think the loops are too obvious."
Eames isn't really sure why his opinion is the best one to ask for, but it gives him hope that maybe this dream will end well after all, so he walks slowly around the dreamscape, trying to imagine that he's been thrown into the dream as a mark would be. It's nowhere near as good as Ariadne's work, of course, because it's not what Arthur does, but Ariadne's back in Paris to finish her studies, and this is the next-best thing. It's pretty ambitious nonetheless, a tower block of five flats with an underground car-park, which Arthur tells him is the most important part.
It's good work. It has all the signs of Arthur's meticulousness without any of Ariadne's flair, but it's functional. Eames says as much to Arthur, not bothering with any effusive praise, when there's an ominous rumble from somewhere above them.
"What the fuck's that?" Eames asks, alarmed. Arthur's projections are usually pretty ambivalent towards him, so if this is some kind of sabotage, it's come out of nowhere.
And that's when the entire building starts to collapse, the pillars of the car-park folding under the weight above them, and Eames instinctively ducks and runs, grabbing Arthur by the arm and yanking him along. He's aiming for the street, because death by falling debris is not high on his list of ways to die, and he thinks that Arthur is going to kill him - literally, probably - for treating him like some kind of damsel in distress, but right now he couldn't care less.
"Hey, remember that part where I told you you'd done a good job?" Eames yells as they weave between the pillars, "That was a load of bollocks, by the way."
Out of the corner of one eye, he sees Arthur open his mouth to reply, and then a giant fucking rock lands on him, and Eames falls to the ground.
Blindly, through the pain, he can hear Arthur shouting his name. "I'm all right," he mumbles, and tries to lift his head. "Fuck, OK, no I'm not." He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to catalogue the damage. The rock landed somewhere on top of his lower body - he's pretty sure there's a broken pelvis, and he can't move anything from the waist down, but his torso is still pretty much intact, which means bleeding out is going to take a long fucking time.
"I haven't got a gun on me," Arthur says, his voice higher than usual.
Eames manages to turn his head a little, enough so that he can see Arthur. His face is ashen, lips pressed tightly together, but his presence is still enough of a calming influence for Eames to bite out, "Knife. Trousers, back pocket."
Arthur nods, and kneels down beside him. One of his hands moves briefly to touch Eames' cheek as he says, "Try to hold still."
"Didn't know you cared," Eames says, teeth gritted. His leg is hurting like a bitch. Arthur has one hand on Eames' hip and the other on the rock, and he's biting his lip in a way that's a sure-fire indicator something's wrong.
"I'm going to have to move you to get at it," Arthur says, voice steady, only the faintest hint of an edge to it. Eames hears it, and closes his eyes before nodding.
"On three," Arthur says. "One - two - " and he pushes simultaneously against the rock and against Eames, finding enough leeway to slip a hand between the ground and Eames' body. Eames can't help the agonised noise he makes, try as he does to suppress it, and he sees Arthur's mouth twist in response. "Got it," Arthur says, carefully pulling the knife free.
"You know," Eames gasps, "If you'd wanted to feel me up, Arthur, you could have just asked."
Arthur gives a tight smile, as if he doesn't find it funny at all, but is humouring Eames because his entire lower body is being crushed by a rock. "I'll remember that for future reference."
"See that you do," Eames says. "Now, won't you be a dear and stab me somewhere fatal with that knife?"
There's no hesitation in Arthur's face as he positions the knife at Eames' chest. "See you in a sec," Eames breathes, his eyes falling shut, and he hardly feels the knife penetrate.
---
Eames shudders awake in his chair, eyes flying open and going straight to Arthur, desperate for reassurance. Arthur's standing, ripping the IV out with unusual carelessness, and there's an intense, focused look about him, directed solely at Eames. And then Arthur is over him, sitting in his lap and tugging at his hair to force Eames' mouth against his own. Arthur kisses him like he's never going to get to do it again, all desperate tongue and harsh teeth biting at Eames' lips.
Eames recovers from the shock enough to say, "Arthur, wait - ow, needle," and Arthur doesn't pause from where he's kissing Eames senseless, just reaches down and slides out the needle with a gentleness that's at odds with the way his tongue is dominating Eames' mouth. Eames' hands come up automatically to circle Arthur's waist, holding him in place, and Arthur makes a needy noise and presses even closer. It's only then that Eames realises that Arthur is shaking.
Breaking the kiss, Eames pulls back and lifts a hand, cupping Arthur's jaw. "Hey, hey," he says, trying to be soothing. "It's OK, everything's fine. I'm fine."
"I know that," Arthur says angrily, but Eames is pretty sure that the anger isn't directed at him. "I know that, it's just - " and then quietly, frustrated, "I thought it wouldn't matter - in dreams, I thought we'd be fine, that it wouldn't mean anything."
Eames is confused at first, but then he gets it. Or he thinks he does. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I know it makes no sense. It made sense at the time," Arthur says, ducking his head but still sounding cross.
"In that case," Eames says, as he lowers his head to mouth at Arthur's jaw, "I'm very glad you've seen the error of your ways."
He's still being gentle, hands stroking along Arthur's ribs, but apparently Arthur has had enough of Eames' attempts at soothing. Shaking free, he loosens his tie - which should not be so damn erotic, but somehow is - leans over, and bites down on Eames' neck, making him shudder and swear. Arthur sucks on the skin he's just marked as his fingers scrabble at the buttons on Eames' shirt, and growls when they don’t give. There's the sound of fabric tearing, and then his hands are all over Eames' chest, wandering fingers pausing to circle and tug at a nipple, and Eames is already completely hard. Arthur shifts his hips, which just so happens to bring his ass into contact with Eames' erection, and Eames can't help jerking upwards against the friction. Arthur bites him again in reply.
If Eames had any worries that doing this in reality wouldn't match the dreams, they've completely disappeared. Arthur's grinding down on him now, and goes back to kissing him, his tongue fucking Eames' mouth in a completely filthy way. There's a very real chance that Eames is going to come any second now, and it doesn't seem right that their first time outside the dream should end with Eames coming in his pants like a teenager.
"Whoah, whoah, hold on," he manages to gasp. "Shouldn't we move this to the bedroom?"
"Too far," Arthur says briefly, and grazes his teeth along Eames' collarbone. He loses his train of thought at that - why is everything Arthur does so distracting?
"You should at least lose some clothes," he says, and doesn't wait for Arthur's permission to start unbuttoning his shirt.
Arthur lifts his head to say, "Don't you dare rip my shirt," which is really just horribly hypocritical, what with the torn remnants of Eames' own shirt littering the floor around them, but Eames has a feeling that pointing that out would only lead to Arthur making more nasty comments about his sartorial choices, which wouldn't go any further in getting Arthur naked. So he removes Arthur's shirt with the most care he can muster, and he slides the fabric off Arthur's shoulders, trying to disguise the hitch in his breath as he does so, before mouthing wet kisses down Arthur's chest, sucking and biting until Arthur says, "Eames, God, Eames."
It's the note of wonder in his voice that causes Eames' chest tighten, and that's when he realises how utterly fucked he is, because he's just about ready to do anything it takes to get Arthur to say his name like that again. He does his best to disguise it, bringing his fingers to Arthur's mouth and saying, breathlessly, "Tell me what you want." Arthur doesn't reply, because his lips are parted and he's languidly sucking on Eames' fingers, and Eames has never - he's never -
"Arthur," he chokes, and barely manages to stop himself continuing with how are you even real? Arthur finishes giving his fingers the most thorough exploration ever, letting them slide from his mouth, wet and marked by his teeth. His lips are swollen, his mouth flushed red, and Eames has to kiss him again, possessively this time. Arthur's hands fumble at his belt, carelessly tugging at Eames' zipper, and Eames can't help but groan when Arthur gets a hand on his dick. His touch is light and teasing, nowhere near enough, but it doesn't stop Eames from thrusting up into the touch.
Arthur's legs are still pinning him down, preventing him from getting the leverage he needs to move properly, but he manages to get one hand on the fastenings of Arthur's trousers. "Off," he says - hoarse, because Arthur's still fisting his cock in one hand - and tugs at Arthur's belt. Arthur makes an impatient noise and moves back to unbuckle it, and finally Eames gets a hand inside, wasting no time in curling his fingers around Arthur's dick, stroking firmly, spurred on by the way Arthur throws back his head and gives a shaky moan. Eames aches to feel Arthur, to taste him, but he's reluctant to dislodge him from his lap.
As if to reinforce that reluctance, Arthur grinds down again in time with Eames' strokes. Eames glances up to look at him, and is instantly transfixed - Arthur looks wrecked. His hair is dishevelled, sticking up in every which direction and stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are half-lidded and black.
"Want you to fuck me," Arthur says, still working himself down against Eames, and he has to move fast to press a hand against his own cock, suddenly right on the brink of coming.
"Next time," he promises, and Arthur huffs out a laugh. Eames shifts Arthur's weight, positions them both so he can wrap a hand around both of them. His train of thought is completely derailed by the feel of Arthur's dick pressed against his, and he sits, paralyzed, until Arthur makes an impatient noise.
He jacks them both, slowly at first, just to hear Arthur say his name like it's a curse, but there's really only so much self-restraint he’s capable of. The reward he gets for speeding up is Arthur saying, "Oh, oh," over and over, barely more than an exhalation.
Eames twists his wrist, wrenching a moan out of Arthur. He does it again, and Arthur's hips stutter forwards, and then he's coming, spilling out over Eames' hand. It's almost enough to bring him off and then Arthur, sounding shaky and uneven, says, "Do it, want to see you come for me, want you to - " and Eames' sight goes gray at the edges as he follows.
They're both gasping for breath when the chair gives a loud creak of protest. Arthur looks down, alarmed. "I don't think it's built to stand the weight of two fully-grown men," Eames says. "We're probably lucky it held up for so long."
Arthur gets up, yanking up the trousers that are now completely ruined. Eames realises that this is the part that they haven't done yet - one of the benefits of dream sex is that it doesn't involve the awkward ruining of the afterglow.
"You should get those dry-cleaned," he says, nodding towards Arthur's trousers. It isn't his best line.
"Thanks for the advice," Arthur says, dryly. "Do you have clothes I can borrow?"
"I’ll get you something," Eames says, but he doesn’t move towards the wardrobe. Ignoring the racing of his heart, he says, trying to sound casual, "So, with regard to the conversation we were having before - " Arthur's back stiffens. "Are you saying that this - whole thing - means something now?"
Arthur turns to him, looking exasperated, but there's the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It's enough to get Eames to breathe a sigh of relief; he wasn't about to let Arthur run off in a panic this time.
"All right then," he says, feeling himself start to grin. He turns to the wardrobe and digs a hand in his pocket, fingers curling around the poker chip.
He throws it up, trying to be surreptitious. "What are you doing?" Arthur asks.
Eames turns back to Arthur. "Just checking," he says.
fandom: Inception
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: NC-17
warnings: None
summary: The rule is that they only fuck in dreams.
notes: Mostly porn. Huge thanks to trouvemoi for being a ridiculously awesome beta. Title from the song by The Decemberists.
The rule is that they only fuck in dreams.
It's a fucking stupid rule if you ask Eames, but apparently it's non-negotiable, because in reality Arthur won't let Eames get within a foot of him without raising his eyebrows and giving him a clear what the fuck do you think you're doing look.
He honestly has no idea why. His first theory was that Arthur's need to control everything extends to his sex life - because it's always in Arthur's dreams, never his own - but when it comes to the sex itself, Arthur isn't exactly inhibited, not if all the oh God, oh God, fuck me right now is anything to go by. So perhaps it's that Arthur only allows himself to let go when he's in the safe space of his dreams, out of some bizarre logic. Arthur clearly isn't stupid enough to think that actions in dreams have no consequences.
It pisses Eames off, though. There's always a difference between dream sex and the real thing, no matter how mind-blowing it is, and so he gets to mark Arthur, gets to spread him open and lose himself in the feel of Arthur against him, but when he wakes up, there are no bite marks on Arthur's neck, no finger-shaped bruises on his hips.
---
The first time, it goes like this:
They're training with Cobb and the others, more practise at navigating Ariadne's set-ups while avoiding getting killed. Ariadne's playing the role of Fischer, but her projections are complete bastards, vicious and cunning, and Eames makes a mental note to suggest some anger-management classes when they wake up, because clearly there's a whole load of internalised shit waiting to hit the fan. He and Arthur are hiding out in an attic, the others already dead, when Eames asks how long before the kick.
"Five minutes," Arthur tells him, looking at his watch.
Eames raises a significant eyebrow and says, "Well, however shall we pass the time?"
He isn't expecting Arthur to reply, because Arthur never replies, just gives him withering looks and rolls his eyes. If he were a different man, he'd be hurt, so it's a surprise when he says, "Five minutes? Seriously?"
"What," Eames says, "you don't think I can make you come in five minutes?"
And, OK, that is obviously the part where Arthur is meant to act as if Eames has offended his delicate sensibilities and say something like please shut up, Mr. Eames, and then Eames will give him a lascivious look, and the status quo will be resumed. (Eames could write a book on Arthur's pointed rejections to his flirting.)
"No," Arthur says, folding his arms. "I don't."
Oh, this is interesting. Eames takes a step towards Arthur - cautiously, in case he's misjudged it - and pitches his voice low when he says, "Darling, I could do it in three."
Arthur meets his eyes. His look is as unreadable as ever, but there's two spots of colour high in his cheeks. And then he leans back against the wall and says, evenly, "Prove it."
Eames is on his knees before he's finished the sentence, one hand deftly opening the fastenings of Arthur's trousers, reaching in to pull out his cock. He isn't about to give Arthur a chance to change his mind, so he wastes no time in swallowing it down, feeling the head hit the back of his throat. He's pretty sure that thump is Arthur's head hitting the wall. He sucks, hard, and then pulls back to suck lightly on the head, fitting his mouth around it and revelling in the taste of it, of Arthur.
Somewhere above him, Arthur is saying, Eames, oh my God, and fisting Eames' hair in one hand. Eames moans in reply and goes back down to swallow around Arthur's cock, wrapping an arm around Arthur's thighs just in time to support him as his knees buckle.
Eames is good at this. Eames knows he's good at this, but he also loves it, loves the weight of a cock on his tongue and the ache in his jaw, the way his voice will be hoarse and scratchy for hours afterwards (or at least it would be, if they weren't dreaming). And the number of times he's thought about doing this to Arthur doesn't bear mentioning - he knows full well that this may be his only opportunity. He's determined to make the most of it.
Arthur is incoherent now, stringing together broken syllables, and Eames has no idea how much time is left, but he isn't about to stop and check. He pulls off again, this time to tongue the slit, lapping up the liquid that's gathered there, and he closes his eyes as the taste hits his tongue. He's hard beyond belief, aching in his pants, and when he shifts to provide some relief, he finds himself rubbing up against Arthur's shoe, and, fuck. Arthur is still fully dressed, of course, in his neatly starched shirt and tailored trousers, the very image of decorum, except for the way his belt is hanging loosely by his side, and the zipper is catching on Eames' mouth every time he goes right down on his hard cock, and, God, Eames is getting distracted but he's too turned on to concentrate properly. He has to make this work. He has to prove Arthur wrong.
He pulls out every last trick, doing things with his tongue that he knows from experience can make men do anything, promise anything, but this is Arthur, and there's nothing else Eames wants from him than this, what he's already given.
Arthur keens, a high-pitched noise that's going straight to number one on Eames' list of things to jack off to (along with everything else about this encounter), and slumps forwards. He groans, "Eames, fuck, Eames," his fingers so tight in Eames' hair that he's surprised he has any left. Arthur's foot shifts ever so slightly, but it's enough, and Eames shudders and comes in his pants, choking a little around Arthur's cock in an effort to keep going. "Fuck, holy fuck, Eames, did you just - " Arthur says, and Eames doesn't reply, just tightens his mouth and swallows around the head of Arthur's dick. He can feel the tremors build up in Arthur's thighs, and Arthur comes with a wordless noise, hips jerking forward as he empties himself into Eames' mouth.
Eames barely has time to swallow before he feels the familiar falling sensation, and he's coming to in the warehouse, panting and sweaty and still feeling sticky in his now-clean pants. His gaze goes straight to Arthur, who hardly looks any better, all cheeks flushed and blown pupils. Only Yusuf and Cobb are left. Yusuf looks up at them both, confused, but Cobb narrows his eyes and glares pointedly at Eames. As if it were his fault.
"Arthur, may I talk to you for a minute? Alone?" Eames asks, smiling sweetly.
Arthur's head jerks towards him, faintest hint of panic in his eyes. "I actually need to have a word with Ariadne," he says. "There are a few things in the layout that need work." And with that, he gets up and hurries out of the room without a second glance at Eames. Cobb's glare intensifies, and Eames makes his own excuses, before he gets whatever Cobb's version of The Talk is.
---
It becomes a habit, irregular and unpredictable. Arthur will come to him with some bullshit excuse for them both to go under, and a few minutes in he'll turn to Eames wordlessly. Eames is helpless to resist. It doesn't help that in his dreams Arthur is completely shameless, and has an unexpectedly filthy mouth that's probably enough to bring Eames off on its own. He's now incapable of wanking without mentally replaying Arthur moaning his name, and if he occasionally he's louder than usual, jerking off in the bedroom next to Arthur's, well, surely the man deserves to know what effect he has.
Eames tries everything. He comes to work in a suit one day - an honest-to-God suit, tailored and everything - in an attempt to make Arthur realise that he's being completely ridiculous. Ariadne wolf-whistles as he walks in, and even Saito looks impressed, but Arthur just sets his jaw and avoids Eames for the rest of the day. Next time they dream, Arthur fucks Eames over a table, hard and possessive until Eames can't speak, can't think anymore, and afterwards he thinks, point taken.
He's shot down any time he tries to bring it up with Arthur. Even when they're in the dream, Arthur's toes are still curling from orgasm, he manages to shut down Eames with an, "I don't want to talk about it," and Eames closes his mouth every damn time, because apparently somewhere along the line he became incapable of going against Arthur's wishes.
It ought to be a good thing, a way to take his mind off the job, and he thinks maybe that's what Arthur sees it as. He watches as the pressure of the Fischer job takes its toll on Arthur, working increasingly late into the night, and he knows that Arthur worries about Cobb, worries about Ariadne. He doesn't know if Arthur worries about him, and he doesn't like the part of himself that wishes he would.
It ought to be a good thing, but it isn't. It's a fucking distraction, constantly wondering what the hell Arthur is thinking, and he's caught up in this in a way he’s never been before. He gets it, Arthur is a man of mystery, unreadable and unpenetrable, but can’t he let anything slip to the person he's fucking every other day of the week?
---
A month after the Fischer job, Arthur comes to his apartment, PASIV in hand, and says, "Eames, I want you to take a look at something for me."
Eames readily agrees, figures it's another excuse, but when they get into the dream it turns out, no, Arthur does actually want to work.
"I was messing around with architecture," Arthur says, "now that we don't have Ariadne, but I think the loops are too obvious."
Eames isn't really sure why his opinion is the best one to ask for, but it gives him hope that maybe this dream will end well after all, so he walks slowly around the dreamscape, trying to imagine that he's been thrown into the dream as a mark would be. It's nowhere near as good as Ariadne's work, of course, because it's not what Arthur does, but Ariadne's back in Paris to finish her studies, and this is the next-best thing. It's pretty ambitious nonetheless, a tower block of five flats with an underground car-park, which Arthur tells him is the most important part.
It's good work. It has all the signs of Arthur's meticulousness without any of Ariadne's flair, but it's functional. Eames says as much to Arthur, not bothering with any effusive praise, when there's an ominous rumble from somewhere above them.
"What the fuck's that?" Eames asks, alarmed. Arthur's projections are usually pretty ambivalent towards him, so if this is some kind of sabotage, it's come out of nowhere.
And that's when the entire building starts to collapse, the pillars of the car-park folding under the weight above them, and Eames instinctively ducks and runs, grabbing Arthur by the arm and yanking him along. He's aiming for the street, because death by falling debris is not high on his list of ways to die, and he thinks that Arthur is going to kill him - literally, probably - for treating him like some kind of damsel in distress, but right now he couldn't care less.
"Hey, remember that part where I told you you'd done a good job?" Eames yells as they weave between the pillars, "That was a load of bollocks, by the way."
Out of the corner of one eye, he sees Arthur open his mouth to reply, and then a giant fucking rock lands on him, and Eames falls to the ground.
Blindly, through the pain, he can hear Arthur shouting his name. "I'm all right," he mumbles, and tries to lift his head. "Fuck, OK, no I'm not." He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to catalogue the damage. The rock landed somewhere on top of his lower body - he's pretty sure there's a broken pelvis, and he can't move anything from the waist down, but his torso is still pretty much intact, which means bleeding out is going to take a long fucking time.
"I haven't got a gun on me," Arthur says, his voice higher than usual.
Eames manages to turn his head a little, enough so that he can see Arthur. His face is ashen, lips pressed tightly together, but his presence is still enough of a calming influence for Eames to bite out, "Knife. Trousers, back pocket."
Arthur nods, and kneels down beside him. One of his hands moves briefly to touch Eames' cheek as he says, "Try to hold still."
"Didn't know you cared," Eames says, teeth gritted. His leg is hurting like a bitch. Arthur has one hand on Eames' hip and the other on the rock, and he's biting his lip in a way that's a sure-fire indicator something's wrong.
"I'm going to have to move you to get at it," Arthur says, voice steady, only the faintest hint of an edge to it. Eames hears it, and closes his eyes before nodding.
"On three," Arthur says. "One - two - " and he pushes simultaneously against the rock and against Eames, finding enough leeway to slip a hand between the ground and Eames' body. Eames can't help the agonised noise he makes, try as he does to suppress it, and he sees Arthur's mouth twist in response. "Got it," Arthur says, carefully pulling the knife free.
"You know," Eames gasps, "If you'd wanted to feel me up, Arthur, you could have just asked."
Arthur gives a tight smile, as if he doesn't find it funny at all, but is humouring Eames because his entire lower body is being crushed by a rock. "I'll remember that for future reference."
"See that you do," Eames says. "Now, won't you be a dear and stab me somewhere fatal with that knife?"
There's no hesitation in Arthur's face as he positions the knife at Eames' chest. "See you in a sec," Eames breathes, his eyes falling shut, and he hardly feels the knife penetrate.
---
Eames shudders awake in his chair, eyes flying open and going straight to Arthur, desperate for reassurance. Arthur's standing, ripping the IV out with unusual carelessness, and there's an intense, focused look about him, directed solely at Eames. And then Arthur is over him, sitting in his lap and tugging at his hair to force Eames' mouth against his own. Arthur kisses him like he's never going to get to do it again, all desperate tongue and harsh teeth biting at Eames' lips.
Eames recovers from the shock enough to say, "Arthur, wait - ow, needle," and Arthur doesn't pause from where he's kissing Eames senseless, just reaches down and slides out the needle with a gentleness that's at odds with the way his tongue is dominating Eames' mouth. Eames' hands come up automatically to circle Arthur's waist, holding him in place, and Arthur makes a needy noise and presses even closer. It's only then that Eames realises that Arthur is shaking.
Breaking the kiss, Eames pulls back and lifts a hand, cupping Arthur's jaw. "Hey, hey," he says, trying to be soothing. "It's OK, everything's fine. I'm fine."
"I know that," Arthur says angrily, but Eames is pretty sure that the anger isn't directed at him. "I know that, it's just - " and then quietly, frustrated, "I thought it wouldn't matter - in dreams, I thought we'd be fine, that it wouldn't mean anything."
Eames is confused at first, but then he gets it. Or he thinks he does. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I know it makes no sense. It made sense at the time," Arthur says, ducking his head but still sounding cross.
"In that case," Eames says, as he lowers his head to mouth at Arthur's jaw, "I'm very glad you've seen the error of your ways."
He's still being gentle, hands stroking along Arthur's ribs, but apparently Arthur has had enough of Eames' attempts at soothing. Shaking free, he loosens his tie - which should not be so damn erotic, but somehow is - leans over, and bites down on Eames' neck, making him shudder and swear. Arthur sucks on the skin he's just marked as his fingers scrabble at the buttons on Eames' shirt, and growls when they don’t give. There's the sound of fabric tearing, and then his hands are all over Eames' chest, wandering fingers pausing to circle and tug at a nipple, and Eames is already completely hard. Arthur shifts his hips, which just so happens to bring his ass into contact with Eames' erection, and Eames can't help jerking upwards against the friction. Arthur bites him again in reply.
If Eames had any worries that doing this in reality wouldn't match the dreams, they've completely disappeared. Arthur's grinding down on him now, and goes back to kissing him, his tongue fucking Eames' mouth in a completely filthy way. There's a very real chance that Eames is going to come any second now, and it doesn't seem right that their first time outside the dream should end with Eames coming in his pants like a teenager.
"Whoah, whoah, hold on," he manages to gasp. "Shouldn't we move this to the bedroom?"
"Too far," Arthur says briefly, and grazes his teeth along Eames' collarbone. He loses his train of thought at that - why is everything Arthur does so distracting?
"You should at least lose some clothes," he says, and doesn't wait for Arthur's permission to start unbuttoning his shirt.
Arthur lifts his head to say, "Don't you dare rip my shirt," which is really just horribly hypocritical, what with the torn remnants of Eames' own shirt littering the floor around them, but Eames has a feeling that pointing that out would only lead to Arthur making more nasty comments about his sartorial choices, which wouldn't go any further in getting Arthur naked. So he removes Arthur's shirt with the most care he can muster, and he slides the fabric off Arthur's shoulders, trying to disguise the hitch in his breath as he does so, before mouthing wet kisses down Arthur's chest, sucking and biting until Arthur says, "Eames, God, Eames."
It's the note of wonder in his voice that causes Eames' chest tighten, and that's when he realises how utterly fucked he is, because he's just about ready to do anything it takes to get Arthur to say his name like that again. He does his best to disguise it, bringing his fingers to Arthur's mouth and saying, breathlessly, "Tell me what you want." Arthur doesn't reply, because his lips are parted and he's languidly sucking on Eames' fingers, and Eames has never - he's never -
"Arthur," he chokes, and barely manages to stop himself continuing with how are you even real? Arthur finishes giving his fingers the most thorough exploration ever, letting them slide from his mouth, wet and marked by his teeth. His lips are swollen, his mouth flushed red, and Eames has to kiss him again, possessively this time. Arthur's hands fumble at his belt, carelessly tugging at Eames' zipper, and Eames can't help but groan when Arthur gets a hand on his dick. His touch is light and teasing, nowhere near enough, but it doesn't stop Eames from thrusting up into the touch.
Arthur's legs are still pinning him down, preventing him from getting the leverage he needs to move properly, but he manages to get one hand on the fastenings of Arthur's trousers. "Off," he says - hoarse, because Arthur's still fisting his cock in one hand - and tugs at Arthur's belt. Arthur makes an impatient noise and moves back to unbuckle it, and finally Eames gets a hand inside, wasting no time in curling his fingers around Arthur's dick, stroking firmly, spurred on by the way Arthur throws back his head and gives a shaky moan. Eames aches to feel Arthur, to taste him, but he's reluctant to dislodge him from his lap.
As if to reinforce that reluctance, Arthur grinds down again in time with Eames' strokes. Eames glances up to look at him, and is instantly transfixed - Arthur looks wrecked. His hair is dishevelled, sticking up in every which direction and stuck to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are half-lidded and black.
"Want you to fuck me," Arthur says, still working himself down against Eames, and he has to move fast to press a hand against his own cock, suddenly right on the brink of coming.
"Next time," he promises, and Arthur huffs out a laugh. Eames shifts Arthur's weight, positions them both so he can wrap a hand around both of them. His train of thought is completely derailed by the feel of Arthur's dick pressed against his, and he sits, paralyzed, until Arthur makes an impatient noise.
He jacks them both, slowly at first, just to hear Arthur say his name like it's a curse, but there's really only so much self-restraint he’s capable of. The reward he gets for speeding up is Arthur saying, "Oh, oh," over and over, barely more than an exhalation.
Eames twists his wrist, wrenching a moan out of Arthur. He does it again, and Arthur's hips stutter forwards, and then he's coming, spilling out over Eames' hand. It's almost enough to bring him off and then Arthur, sounding shaky and uneven, says, "Do it, want to see you come for me, want you to - " and Eames' sight goes gray at the edges as he follows.
They're both gasping for breath when the chair gives a loud creak of protest. Arthur looks down, alarmed. "I don't think it's built to stand the weight of two fully-grown men," Eames says. "We're probably lucky it held up for so long."
Arthur gets up, yanking up the trousers that are now completely ruined. Eames realises that this is the part that they haven't done yet - one of the benefits of dream sex is that it doesn't involve the awkward ruining of the afterglow.
"You should get those dry-cleaned," he says, nodding towards Arthur's trousers. It isn't his best line.
"Thanks for the advice," Arthur says, dryly. "Do you have clothes I can borrow?"
"I’ll get you something," Eames says, but he doesn’t move towards the wardrobe. Ignoring the racing of his heart, he says, trying to sound casual, "So, with regard to the conversation we were having before - " Arthur's back stiffens. "Are you saying that this - whole thing - means something now?"
Arthur turns to him, looking exasperated, but there's the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It's enough to get Eames to breathe a sigh of relief; he wasn't about to let Arthur run off in a panic this time.
"All right then," he says, feeling himself start to grin. He turns to the wardrobe and digs a hand in his pocket, fingers curling around the poker chip.
He throws it up, trying to be surreptitious. "What are you doing?" Arthur asks.
Eames turns back to Arthur. "Just checking," he says.