Fill: Come When You're Called - Inception - NC-17
Title: Come When You're Called
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 4,313 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for this prompt at inception_kink: Arthur can't come unless Eames tells him to. It started out with Eames just talking incessantly through sex, telling Arthur every detail about how he feels, how he looks, what he loves, just endless talking and coaxing and guiding. If ARthur was annoyed at first or thought it was silly, he didn't mention it because Eames was too good at it. Then Eames would urge him to come, and after a few times, Arthur started to need to hear it.
A/N: Um. gratuitous sex. Lots and lots of gratuitous sex. :Dv Hand-holding, beta, and title supplied by coffeeandice, with my extreme gratitude. Any mistakes still present are definitely my fault.
Eames talks all the fucking time. Not on jobs or anything like that. There Eames only opens his mouth for pertinent points or brilliant suggestions or to be absolutely infuriating. No, Eames talks all the fucking time during sex. It's mindless stuff, mostly. "Just, just--fuck--like that," and "Please," and "More," and "Yes!" This endless commentary on how Arthur feels and how Arthur looks and what Eames wants, and Arthur hadn't thought much about it honestly, the first few times. He's never been big into dirty talk, can take it or leave it, and as long as Eames fucks him, Arthur doesn't really care either way if Eames feels the need to tell him how gorgeous he looks stretched out round my cock like that. Do you know how I look sliding into you? Makes me want to fuck you harder, just keep fucking into you forever, keep it up till you're screaming and hoarse with how good it is, how good I feel inside you. Do you know how good you look, how fucking hot it is to take you apart, Arthur?
Eames likes to talk, and Arthur doesn't hate it, and the sex feels fucking amazing, so Arthur just lets him go. And if Eames picks up his tells after a few times, if Eames tells him, hand on his dick and cock up his ass, "Come for me, Arthur," just when he's on the cusp, when he's about to come anyway, well, Arthur's not going to hold back just to be contrary.
And if Eames's litany becomes more ridiculous the more they do this, if he says things like, want to make you come just like this, just from the feel of my cock in you. You love it, can tell from your voice, the way it goes all shaky, well, Arthur does love it, loves the stretch and the burn and the feeling of being so full he can hardly breathe with it, so he's not going to argue. So when Eames trails a slippery finger down past his dick and behind his balls and presses it slick and insistent against where they're joined, presses until he slides just a knuckle in alongside his cock as he thrusts and says, "Come on," directly into Arthur's ear, Arthur comes with a gasping shudder.
*
It's about as unprofessional as Arthur's ever been, because they're in the middle of a job and they're not even on their own time. They are, specifically, waiting for the mark to finish with his regularly scheduled anger management class, having just gone in, and- Actually, no. Arthur is waiting for the mark to finish with his regularly scheduled anger management class. They're court mandated because Arthur played a little fast and loose with electronic case files so they'd have an easy way to get to the mark. Eames is there because he'd finished tailing the mark's ex-wife and the daughter around town, if you could call it 'finished. He'd had to cut his planned research short when the ex-wife had decided that the best way to celebrate the weekend was with an impromptu trip to visit the grandparents in the middle-of-nowhere upstate New York. Eames had then decided the best way to apprise Arthur of this change in plan was by showing up in person and sitting down at his table with a flurry of 'So sorry I'm late, I got held up in the office's and a 'I know I should have called, but I just couldn't get away; you know how it is some days' and so Arthur had been forced to play along.
"It's fine. I know how it is," he says, and half-stands to drop a kiss on Eames's cheek over the snowy white tablecloth. Eames turns his head at the last minute and catches him on the mouth instead. Since he's hovering over Eames's mouth already, Arthur licks quickly over Eames's lips--and then sits back down, to get his own back.
Arthur is pretty sure he is being punished, that Eames is making a spectacle of them out of spite. To be fair, Arthur had ignored Eames's incoming call at least 3 times while making sure that the mark had actually gone in to his appointment and settling down to wait. It's possible that Eames would have told him over the phone.
And then, Eames gets a straight, black coffee and lets him get on with his stake-out. Which, somehow, inexplicably, has led to Arthur purposefully knocking the coffee straight into Eames's lap, and dragging him into the bathroom on that pretext to give him an illicit, working-hours semi-public hand job in one of the stalls. Arthur had, very briefly considered making it an illicit, working-hours semi-public blow job, but there was no way he was getting on his knees in a public restroom. The mark wouldn't be leaving his appointment for at least an hour. More importantly, public sex is a turn-on for Arthur. It's one he doesn't indulge in very often because being arrested for public indecency is still arrested, but the rush of adrenaline, the thrill that comes with the possibility of getting caught plays into nearly every kink Arthur has. It also, typically, gets him off fast and dirty, which is also, in Arthur's mind, ideal for public sex.
Eames doesn't seem to mind this unexpected change in activity, but mindful of the fact that they're in an upscale cafe's bathroom, he does manage to keep himself quiet. Arthur appreciates the effort, because they've done this enough times for him to know how Eames would be running his mouth in any other situation and the coffee he'd been enjoying was excellent, but that didn't make the walls any less thin.
Arthur gets both their flies open and their pants pushed down low on their hips, just enough to get their dicks out into the open air. He licks a stripe up the palm of his hand and wraps it around their dicks. Then Eames swats his hand away and does it himself because, as he's said on many occasions, he likes the way Arthur gasps when he does because Arthur can't anticipate where someone else's hand is going as exactly as he can his own.
Eames presses him back against the stall, the shaky one that isn't really supported by anything, but at least they don't have to worry about it coming unlatched and swinging open on them. Arthur lifts one leg and wraps it around Eames's hips and ruts into his hand. Arthur is gasping into Eames's ear, and Eames has his lips clamped tightly shut, like he's trying to keep all the words in, and he's so hard, so close, so fucking close. Anyone could walk in at any time and he needs to come. He thinks he might die from it, how good it feels, how turned on he is, and he's, he's-
He's still hard and still so turned on he can hardly breathe with it and he's not coming even though he's right on the edge, has been for a small eternity, and Eames is sucking a mark onto his neck like that will sufficiently muffle the sounds Eames can't quite keep in any more.
And then, in what is simultaneously Arthur's best and worst case scenario, the door to the restroom swings open with a squeak and someone walks in. Normally, this would set Arthur off all by itself. This time, all of Arthur's muscles wind impossibly tighter, and- and- and-
And absolutely nothing. Eames's hand around them stills, but he keeps his grip. Arthur can feel the way Eames has frozen, the tremours in his frame that should be shudders if there weren't someone pissing obliviously into the urinal two feet and a thin stall door away.
It doesn't make sense, and Arthur shoves Eames away from him as soon as the bathroom door has swung closed. He yanks his pants angrily back up his hips and storms out of the bathroom stall. Arthur washes his hands and sets about straightening his collar as best he can. It doesn't quite hide the mark Eames has left on his throat, but it's the best he can do for the moment. Arthur leaves Eames looking flabbergasted behind him in the bathroom without a word.
He returns to his table and his long-cold cup of coffee and seethes because what the fuck. Eames still looks confused (and horny) when he finally emerges, horrendous coffee stain down one pant leg, and Arthur sort of resents him for breathing because just seeing him reminds him of what they'd been doing and makes his dick jump in his pants. Which reminds him that he couldn't get off, which makes him angry and Eames is an easy target. "Sorry about the coffee," Arthur lies through his teeth. "You'd better run home and change before heading back to the office."
"Quite right," replies Eames easily, in a tone of voice that means he's pissed off but he's not blowing a cover, and Arthur resents Eames all the more when the sound of his voice sends a fresh curl of want through him, has him right on the edge all over again. Forty-nine minutes later, the mark exits the little brown building across the street (not looking particularly less angry than when he'd walked in) and walks down a block and a half to his car. The mark's been very punctilious about attending these appointments, and Arthur knows they end with a fifteen minute meditation session in which the mark falls asleep every time, which is why Arthur had gone to so much trouble making the mark think it was his best choice.
Arthur is pissed and horny all day, and the rest of the team avoids him like he's the carrier of a particularly cranky plague. Everyone does such an excellent job at avoiding him, in fact, that it takes Arthur by surprise when Eames grabs him by the arm as everyone's packing up for the night and says, "Arthur, a word?" in a low voice that sends a twist of pure lust curling up the base of his spine. Arthur shakes Eames's hand off and stalks after him to a quieter corner. Once there, Arthur turns to face Eames, deliberately not crossing his arms because that would make him look defensive, and whatever Eames wants to say to him, he's planning to come out swinging to face it.
"What the hell is up with you?" Eames asks, taking a step closer, hemming Arthur in against the cheap countertop. He's keeping his voice low, tone caught somewhere between annoyed and conciliatory, and Arthur's had about enough of this.
He smacks Eames's hand away from him, steps right up into his space, gets up in his face, and snarls something angry and meaningless like, "Fuck off" or "Fuck you" and Eames snarls right back. This is something Arthur knows what to do with, not like before, and Arthur lets Eames back him up until his ass hits the edge of the counter. Arthur uses the counter for leverage, pushing up off it and fisting his hands in the front of Eames's shirt in one smooth movement. Eames grabs one of his wrists, starts working to break his hold, and uses his other hand to get a hold in Arthur's own shirt front, and then Arthur kisses him hard and ravenous and brutal.
Eames bites him, which probably he deserves, but then Eames is licking over the spot on Arthur's lower lip, and Arthur shifts his hips against Eames's, arches into him, and then they're at it in earnest. Arthur ruts into Eames, tearing haphazardly at his clothes. Eames tries to pull back, tries to get Arthur out of his pants, but Arthur doesn't let him, pulls him closer instead, and he gives up. Eames shifts one hand to Arthur's ass instead, using it for leverage, and the other to the back of Arthur's head, holding it steady as he whispers filth into Arthur's ear.
It takes what should be embarrassingly little time, but Arthur's been keyed up all day and he just doesn't care at this point. He rocks into Eames harder, faster, doesn't give a shit that they're fully clothed, that he hasn't even gotten Eames's fly down, just rubs against him harder for it, and when Eames tells him to come and bites the lobe of his ear, Arthur comes and comes and comes.
He regrets it about five minutes later, after Eames has come too, jerking against him, and they've both had a chance to catch their breath, and his boxer briefs are a tacky wet mess against his skin. Well, mostly regrets it.
The turnover rate at the facility is ridiculous and they don't have any problem getting someone (Eames, because Cobb can convince a canary to sit in a cat's mouth, and a cat to defy instinct and not eat the canary while it does, but he's not very good at pretending to be anyone other than who he is) in as a 'replacement' counseling expert. Then they have an hour and fifteen minutes of uninterrupted real time with their target, which is about fifteen more minutes than they actually need. The job is quick and easy, and they end up not needing Eames to forge at all. Eames grumbles a bit about that, but Arthur distracts him with celebratory sex.
Arthur and Cobb fly back to LA, different flights and different airlines, and Eames goes wherever it is he goes to lie low, Mombasa, or Venezuela, or Prague. Arthur never asks because he never asks where any of the other people they pull in for jobs go--he just looks them up later, the next time he needs them. It's not like people in their business tend to stick around one location long anyway. Keeping constant tabs on everyone would be a waste of effort.
*
Arthur doesn't see or hear from Eames for several weeks. He works two jobs in that time, one with Cobb, and one with Ariadne. Both are remarkably legal and Arthur thinks Ariadne is getting bored with crafting such normal dream architecture when anything she can imagine is possible. During one job, he and Cobb get into an actual fist fight, which Arthur doesn't think has happened ever, and during the other Ariadne calls him a tool and collapses a building on top of him, and then throws half the contents of the top of her desk at him once she's topside again. Both cite Arthur being a pissy bastard as reasons for their behavior, which is probably fair because Arthur has been in an exceptionally foul mood since about a week after the anger management job. The irony isn't completely lost on him.
When the phone rings, Arthur assumes it's a business call-early in the evening, but that could be reasonable in any number of places around the world so it doesn't tell him much. The caller ID is blank, but it's one of his cells, not the land line, so at least it's probably not a family emergency. Arthur flips open the phone and says, "Hello?"
"Arthur," answers Eames. There's noise in the background, the sounds of other people, and what's probably an announcement of some kind. Eames sound tired, voice low and gravelly, and Arthur goes from pissed and surprised to pissed and surprised and wanting to fuck Eames until he can't see straight. That would serve him right. In lieu of finishing that thought, Arthur asks:
"Something you want, Mr. Eames?"
"Actually, yes. I am unexpectedly in town for the night, and I was rather hoping I could crash at yours," Eames says.
Arthur is saved from having to answer (which would include deciding whether or not he really wants to see Eames) when there's a knock on his door. A knock he can hear through the phone as well.
"You know, most people ask before they show up," Arthur says into the phone as he walks over to let Eames in.
"I'll find some way to make it up to you," Eames smirks as the door swings open. He’s already put is phone into his pocket, hands free as he lounges against Arthur’s doorframe.
Arthur fixes him with a look. It’s a very harsh sort of look, and means, roughly, I cannot believe you just said that, that’s vile. "You did not just offer to pay me with sex to stay here," Arthur says. He closes the phone in his hand, ending the call.
Eames very nearly rolls his eyes at him. "Arthur, love, I was kidding. You know me better than that. Now let me in; I want a shower so badly I'd almost forgo all chance of sex with you to get it.
Arthur sighs, and steps to the side so Eames can get through the doorway. Inexplicably, Arthur is feeling kind of better already, a little less tense and cranky. That doesn't stop him from pulling out the futon while Eames is in the shower just to be contrary. Unsurprisingly, no one ends up using it.
*
"Please, please, please, please." Arthur doesn't care that he's begging, doesn't care what he's saying, is hardly conscious of it at all. He's just- Eames's mouth, and Arthur's going out of his skin with it, can't think with it. Eames sucks him down again, and Arthur thinks he chokes on air for a moment.
Eames, for his part, hums to himself in satisfaction, and Arthur's toes curl. It's ridiculous, all two brain cells he has left know it is, but the only thing the rest of him knows is that this is the best god damned blow job of his life. Eames gives head like he was born for it, like his many other talents just weren't enough and God is compensating him by also making him the world's best cocksucker. On his better days, Arthur's only a little jealous.
Eames presses his tongue up against the underside of Arthur's dick, pulling back slowly, and Arthur's hips come off the wall. He's supposed to keep them back, but he can't, he can't, not when Eames is doing that, not when Eames has been teasing him all night. Eames swallows him again anyway, pressing forward until--shit, until Arthur can feel the stubble on his upper lip scraping against the soft skin at the base of his belly. It's not enough, though, it's too much, it's too much, but Arthur can't, it's not right. Something's missing and Arthur can't come like this, literally can't get off, something holding him back, and in one of those flashes of clarity, of instinct, of just knowing what you need, Arthur gets it.
He grabs Eames, hauls him up by his hair and his shoulders, pulls him up the whole length of him and gasps broken, desperate, "Need to hear you," into the side of Eames's face. Eames, bless him, catches on right away. He wraps one hand around Arthur's ass, fingers digging in as he pulls them flush together, and he wraps the other hand, very gentle around the back of Arthur's head. Then he orders Arthur to come, and Arthur does, hard and fast, head slamming back into the hand Eames had ready to catch him.
*
"It's 5 in the morning where you are," Arthur says when Eames calls.
Eames huffs what might be a laugh, if there were a little more voice in it. "And how do you know where I am?"
"Shanghai," Arthur says instead, not really answering the question.
"I'd say I couldn't sleep, but we both know there are drugs for that. So I'll go with no rest for the wicked instead."
"Did you call for the sole purpose of quoting clichés at me, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks drily. He's smiling though, involuntarily, like the canned soup in front of him makes him happy and he's helpless to stop it.
"No," Eames says at last, something shifting in his voice that Arthur can't put a name to. "No, I did not."
"Arthur," Eames says, and that tone Arthur knows very well.
"I'm going to need fifteen minutes to get home. Don't hang up," Arthur says, feeling the sudden tension in the strain around his eyes.
Eames doesn't hang up. The wait makes Arthur crazy, makes him reckless. He bangs his elbow painful against the door frame as he's trying to shut the door, juggle the phone and pull his shoes off in the doorway at the same time, and yelps "Shit," directly into Eames's ear.
"Sorry, sorry," Arthur mutters at the same time as Eames says, "Ow, fuck, what are you doing?" But there's a laugh in it, underneath, so Arthur concentrates on locking the door instead.
"Home," he says. "Ran into the door." He thumbs the phone on speaker so he can get his shirt off, unbuttons it halfway and just pulls it over his head to save time. He drapes it over the back of a chair, and after he's shimmied out of his pants, they follow.
"Here," he tells Eames at last, "Ready." Eames doesn't call him out on it, how eager he is, he just sounds strained himself; he's been waiting too. "God, I want to kiss you," Arthur breathes, climbing into bed and pulling the phone back to him. He takes it off speaker so he can curl up around it, so that at least Eames's voice is pressed close against him. "Want your mouth on me."
The noise Eames makes at that is supremely gratifying, and then he's talking, saying, "Fuck yes," and, "Arthur," and, "God."
It's perfect, and he wants this, and Arthur says, "Tell me what you want," into the phone.
"You, want you," Eames says, and his voice is ragged and it's doing things to Arthur, twisting him up, "Want to fuck you, wish I could fuck you. Arthur, please," and it sounds like Eames is the one begging instead of the other way around. Like Arthur is ever anything but begging for more when it comes to Eames. Like Arthur could ever get enough when it comes to Eames.
Arthur swallows, and it feels like his Adam's apple scrapes all the way down and back up again, and says, "Yeah, yeah. Ok," as he digs the lube out of the drawer by the bed. He slicks his fingers and circles slow and teasing, hissing at the cold. Eames hears it, hears him, and he groans, voice catching, and that makes Arthur groan too.
"Tell me," Arthur says, "Tell me I can."
"Yes," Eames hisses, "push it in, I can see it in my head, those slim fingers of yours sliding into you," and this is exactly what Arthur needs. He does, and he can't help the sound he makes, from the feeling, but also from Eames's voice, from the things he says.
"Not like mine, are they, Arthur?" but Arthur knows Eames doesn't expect an answer. "Thinner. You need two, don't you? You're not full enough," and Arthur nods his head frantically for a moment before he remembers Eames can't see him and croaks yes instead.
"God, your voice," Eames says, and he breathes it like he's in awe, like he's found something beautiful. "God, your voice. You sound wrecked already, Arthur. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want."
"T's not enough," and Arthur's panting now, harsh--he can hear the echo through his speaker--as he fucks himself with two fingers, pushes down onto them with his hips, tries to get them deeper. The angle's not good, but he can't, doesn't want to take them out long enough to shift around, and he thinks he tells Eames this. Thinks it comes out, because Eames growls at him, and yes, that, fucking that right there.
"More, more, more, more," chants Arthur, breathless, riding his own hand, and Eames babbles nonsense back at him. The only part that really registers is the part where Eames says he can give himself another, and he's not even quiet now, louder than before when he hit the door frame, but Eames doesn't care. He cries out, sharp, jagged, to the timing of the movement of his hips, the tempo of his heartbeat and Eames's voice in his ear.
"Yes, fuck, yes, like that, just like that Arthur. God, you're gorgeous. You sound amazing." Eames sounds like he's breaking when he comes, and he never stops talking through it, even when he loses control of his voice. Even when he says, "Fuck, Arthur," and it sounds like his voice is shredding itself on Arthur's name. Arthur's done, he can't, he's going to-
"I'm gonna, I'm gonna-" Arthur pants into the line, and fuck, please, but he can't even collect his scattered thoughts enough to ask for it.
"Come on, don't hold back. I want to hear you," Eames whispers into the phone, and it's like Arthur can feel his breath curling against his cheek, hot and damp and there, nevermind the distance, and he comes like he's shaking apart.
"God," Arthur says some time later, "Our phone bill is going to be ridiculous."
"Don't worry about that, love." Eames still sounds shaky, out of breath, and Arthur can't help but feel incredibly smug about that. "The phone bill is being paid by one Jonas T. Murphy. Quite unfortunately for him, he died several months ago in a car crash, which is something this particular phone company does not yet realize."
Arthur barks a laugh into the phone, curled up around it, and suddenly feels inexplicably lonely. "Come back soon, yeah?" he says, before he can think better of it.
"Of course," Eames replies. Arthur’s lips quirk up into the hint of a smile, smiling with Eames a world away.
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 4,313 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Written for this prompt at inception_kink: Arthur can't come unless Eames tells him to. It started out with Eames just talking incessantly through sex, telling Arthur every detail about how he feels, how he looks, what he loves, just endless talking and coaxing and guiding. If ARthur was annoyed at first or thought it was silly, he didn't mention it because Eames was too good at it. Then Eames would urge him to come, and after a few times, Arthur started to need to hear it.
A/N: Um. gratuitous sex. Lots and lots of gratuitous sex. :Dv Hand-holding, beta, and title supplied by coffeeandice, with my extreme gratitude. Any mistakes still present are definitely my fault.
Eames talks all the fucking time. Not on jobs or anything like that. There Eames only opens his mouth for pertinent points or brilliant suggestions or to be absolutely infuriating. No, Eames talks all the fucking time during sex. It's mindless stuff, mostly. "Just, just--fuck--like that," and "Please," and "More," and "Yes!" This endless commentary on how Arthur feels and how Arthur looks and what Eames wants, and Arthur hadn't thought much about it honestly, the first few times. He's never been big into dirty talk, can take it or leave it, and as long as Eames fucks him, Arthur doesn't really care either way if Eames feels the need to tell him how gorgeous he looks stretched out round my cock like that. Do you know how I look sliding into you? Makes me want to fuck you harder, just keep fucking into you forever, keep it up till you're screaming and hoarse with how good it is, how good I feel inside you. Do you know how good you look, how fucking hot it is to take you apart, Arthur?
Eames likes to talk, and Arthur doesn't hate it, and the sex feels fucking amazing, so Arthur just lets him go. And if Eames picks up his tells after a few times, if Eames tells him, hand on his dick and cock up his ass, "Come for me, Arthur," just when he's on the cusp, when he's about to come anyway, well, Arthur's not going to hold back just to be contrary.
And if Eames's litany becomes more ridiculous the more they do this, if he says things like, want to make you come just like this, just from the feel of my cock in you. You love it, can tell from your voice, the way it goes all shaky, well, Arthur does love it, loves the stretch and the burn and the feeling of being so full he can hardly breathe with it, so he's not going to argue. So when Eames trails a slippery finger down past his dick and behind his balls and presses it slick and insistent against where they're joined, presses until he slides just a knuckle in alongside his cock as he thrusts and says, "Come on," directly into Arthur's ear, Arthur comes with a gasping shudder.
*
It's about as unprofessional as Arthur's ever been, because they're in the middle of a job and they're not even on their own time. They are, specifically, waiting for the mark to finish with his regularly scheduled anger management class, having just gone in, and- Actually, no. Arthur is waiting for the mark to finish with his regularly scheduled anger management class. They're court mandated because Arthur played a little fast and loose with electronic case files so they'd have an easy way to get to the mark. Eames is there because he'd finished tailing the mark's ex-wife and the daughter around town, if you could call it 'finished. He'd had to cut his planned research short when the ex-wife had decided that the best way to celebrate the weekend was with an impromptu trip to visit the grandparents in the middle-of-nowhere upstate New York. Eames had then decided the best way to apprise Arthur of this change in plan was by showing up in person and sitting down at his table with a flurry of 'So sorry I'm late, I got held up in the office's and a 'I know I should have called, but I just couldn't get away; you know how it is some days' and so Arthur had been forced to play along.
"It's fine. I know how it is," he says, and half-stands to drop a kiss on Eames's cheek over the snowy white tablecloth. Eames turns his head at the last minute and catches him on the mouth instead. Since he's hovering over Eames's mouth already, Arthur licks quickly over Eames's lips--and then sits back down, to get his own back.
Arthur is pretty sure he is being punished, that Eames is making a spectacle of them out of spite. To be fair, Arthur had ignored Eames's incoming call at least 3 times while making sure that the mark had actually gone in to his appointment and settling down to wait. It's possible that Eames would have told him over the phone.
And then, Eames gets a straight, black coffee and lets him get on with his stake-out. Which, somehow, inexplicably, has led to Arthur purposefully knocking the coffee straight into Eames's lap, and dragging him into the bathroom on that pretext to give him an illicit, working-hours semi-public hand job in one of the stalls. Arthur had, very briefly considered making it an illicit, working-hours semi-public blow job, but there was no way he was getting on his knees in a public restroom. The mark wouldn't be leaving his appointment for at least an hour. More importantly, public sex is a turn-on for Arthur. It's one he doesn't indulge in very often because being arrested for public indecency is still arrested, but the rush of adrenaline, the thrill that comes with the possibility of getting caught plays into nearly every kink Arthur has. It also, typically, gets him off fast and dirty, which is also, in Arthur's mind, ideal for public sex.
Eames doesn't seem to mind this unexpected change in activity, but mindful of the fact that they're in an upscale cafe's bathroom, he does manage to keep himself quiet. Arthur appreciates the effort, because they've done this enough times for him to know how Eames would be running his mouth in any other situation and the coffee he'd been enjoying was excellent, but that didn't make the walls any less thin.
Arthur gets both their flies open and their pants pushed down low on their hips, just enough to get their dicks out into the open air. He licks a stripe up the palm of his hand and wraps it around their dicks. Then Eames swats his hand away and does it himself because, as he's said on many occasions, he likes the way Arthur gasps when he does because Arthur can't anticipate where someone else's hand is going as exactly as he can his own.
Eames presses him back against the stall, the shaky one that isn't really supported by anything, but at least they don't have to worry about it coming unlatched and swinging open on them. Arthur lifts one leg and wraps it around Eames's hips and ruts into his hand. Arthur is gasping into Eames's ear, and Eames has his lips clamped tightly shut, like he's trying to keep all the words in, and he's so hard, so close, so fucking close. Anyone could walk in at any time and he needs to come. He thinks he might die from it, how good it feels, how turned on he is, and he's, he's-
He's still hard and still so turned on he can hardly breathe with it and he's not coming even though he's right on the edge, has been for a small eternity, and Eames is sucking a mark onto his neck like that will sufficiently muffle the sounds Eames can't quite keep in any more.
And then, in what is simultaneously Arthur's best and worst case scenario, the door to the restroom swings open with a squeak and someone walks in. Normally, this would set Arthur off all by itself. This time, all of Arthur's muscles wind impossibly tighter, and- and- and-
And absolutely nothing. Eames's hand around them stills, but he keeps his grip. Arthur can feel the way Eames has frozen, the tremours in his frame that should be shudders if there weren't someone pissing obliviously into the urinal two feet and a thin stall door away.
It doesn't make sense, and Arthur shoves Eames away from him as soon as the bathroom door has swung closed. He yanks his pants angrily back up his hips and storms out of the bathroom stall. Arthur washes his hands and sets about straightening his collar as best he can. It doesn't quite hide the mark Eames has left on his throat, but it's the best he can do for the moment. Arthur leaves Eames looking flabbergasted behind him in the bathroom without a word.
He returns to his table and his long-cold cup of coffee and seethes because what the fuck. Eames still looks confused (and horny) when he finally emerges, horrendous coffee stain down one pant leg, and Arthur sort of resents him for breathing because just seeing him reminds him of what they'd been doing and makes his dick jump in his pants. Which reminds him that he couldn't get off, which makes him angry and Eames is an easy target. "Sorry about the coffee," Arthur lies through his teeth. "You'd better run home and change before heading back to the office."
"Quite right," replies Eames easily, in a tone of voice that means he's pissed off but he's not blowing a cover, and Arthur resents Eames all the more when the sound of his voice sends a fresh curl of want through him, has him right on the edge all over again. Forty-nine minutes later, the mark exits the little brown building across the street (not looking particularly less angry than when he'd walked in) and walks down a block and a half to his car. The mark's been very punctilious about attending these appointments, and Arthur knows they end with a fifteen minute meditation session in which the mark falls asleep every time, which is why Arthur had gone to so much trouble making the mark think it was his best choice.
Arthur is pissed and horny all day, and the rest of the team avoids him like he's the carrier of a particularly cranky plague. Everyone does such an excellent job at avoiding him, in fact, that it takes Arthur by surprise when Eames grabs him by the arm as everyone's packing up for the night and says, "Arthur, a word?" in a low voice that sends a twist of pure lust curling up the base of his spine. Arthur shakes Eames's hand off and stalks after him to a quieter corner. Once there, Arthur turns to face Eames, deliberately not crossing his arms because that would make him look defensive, and whatever Eames wants to say to him, he's planning to come out swinging to face it.
"What the hell is up with you?" Eames asks, taking a step closer, hemming Arthur in against the cheap countertop. He's keeping his voice low, tone caught somewhere between annoyed and conciliatory, and Arthur's had about enough of this.
He smacks Eames's hand away from him, steps right up into his space, gets up in his face, and snarls something angry and meaningless like, "Fuck off" or "Fuck you" and Eames snarls right back. This is something Arthur knows what to do with, not like before, and Arthur lets Eames back him up until his ass hits the edge of the counter. Arthur uses the counter for leverage, pushing up off it and fisting his hands in the front of Eames's shirt in one smooth movement. Eames grabs one of his wrists, starts working to break his hold, and uses his other hand to get a hold in Arthur's own shirt front, and then Arthur kisses him hard and ravenous and brutal.
Eames bites him, which probably he deserves, but then Eames is licking over the spot on Arthur's lower lip, and Arthur shifts his hips against Eames's, arches into him, and then they're at it in earnest. Arthur ruts into Eames, tearing haphazardly at his clothes. Eames tries to pull back, tries to get Arthur out of his pants, but Arthur doesn't let him, pulls him closer instead, and he gives up. Eames shifts one hand to Arthur's ass instead, using it for leverage, and the other to the back of Arthur's head, holding it steady as he whispers filth into Arthur's ear.
It takes what should be embarrassingly little time, but Arthur's been keyed up all day and he just doesn't care at this point. He rocks into Eames harder, faster, doesn't give a shit that they're fully clothed, that he hasn't even gotten Eames's fly down, just rubs against him harder for it, and when Eames tells him to come and bites the lobe of his ear, Arthur comes and comes and comes.
He regrets it about five minutes later, after Eames has come too, jerking against him, and they've both had a chance to catch their breath, and his boxer briefs are a tacky wet mess against his skin. Well, mostly regrets it.
The turnover rate at the facility is ridiculous and they don't have any problem getting someone (Eames, because Cobb can convince a canary to sit in a cat's mouth, and a cat to defy instinct and not eat the canary while it does, but he's not very good at pretending to be anyone other than who he is) in as a 'replacement' counseling expert. Then they have an hour and fifteen minutes of uninterrupted real time with their target, which is about fifteen more minutes than they actually need. The job is quick and easy, and they end up not needing Eames to forge at all. Eames grumbles a bit about that, but Arthur distracts him with celebratory sex.
Arthur and Cobb fly back to LA, different flights and different airlines, and Eames goes wherever it is he goes to lie low, Mombasa, or Venezuela, or Prague. Arthur never asks because he never asks where any of the other people they pull in for jobs go--he just looks them up later, the next time he needs them. It's not like people in their business tend to stick around one location long anyway. Keeping constant tabs on everyone would be a waste of effort.
*
Arthur doesn't see or hear from Eames for several weeks. He works two jobs in that time, one with Cobb, and one with Ariadne. Both are remarkably legal and Arthur thinks Ariadne is getting bored with crafting such normal dream architecture when anything she can imagine is possible. During one job, he and Cobb get into an actual fist fight, which Arthur doesn't think has happened ever, and during the other Ariadne calls him a tool and collapses a building on top of him, and then throws half the contents of the top of her desk at him once she's topside again. Both cite Arthur being a pissy bastard as reasons for their behavior, which is probably fair because Arthur has been in an exceptionally foul mood since about a week after the anger management job. The irony isn't completely lost on him.
When the phone rings, Arthur assumes it's a business call-early in the evening, but that could be reasonable in any number of places around the world so it doesn't tell him much. The caller ID is blank, but it's one of his cells, not the land line, so at least it's probably not a family emergency. Arthur flips open the phone and says, "Hello?"
"Arthur," answers Eames. There's noise in the background, the sounds of other people, and what's probably an announcement of some kind. Eames sound tired, voice low and gravelly, and Arthur goes from pissed and surprised to pissed and surprised and wanting to fuck Eames until he can't see straight. That would serve him right. In lieu of finishing that thought, Arthur asks:
"Something you want, Mr. Eames?"
"Actually, yes. I am unexpectedly in town for the night, and I was rather hoping I could crash at yours," Eames says.
Arthur is saved from having to answer (which would include deciding whether or not he really wants to see Eames) when there's a knock on his door. A knock he can hear through the phone as well.
"You know, most people ask before they show up," Arthur says into the phone as he walks over to let Eames in.
"I'll find some way to make it up to you," Eames smirks as the door swings open. He’s already put is phone into his pocket, hands free as he lounges against Arthur’s doorframe.
Arthur fixes him with a look. It’s a very harsh sort of look, and means, roughly, I cannot believe you just said that, that’s vile. "You did not just offer to pay me with sex to stay here," Arthur says. He closes the phone in his hand, ending the call.
Eames very nearly rolls his eyes at him. "Arthur, love, I was kidding. You know me better than that. Now let me in; I want a shower so badly I'd almost forgo all chance of sex with you to get it.
Arthur sighs, and steps to the side so Eames can get through the doorway. Inexplicably, Arthur is feeling kind of better already, a little less tense and cranky. That doesn't stop him from pulling out the futon while Eames is in the shower just to be contrary. Unsurprisingly, no one ends up using it.
*
"Please, please, please, please." Arthur doesn't care that he's begging, doesn't care what he's saying, is hardly conscious of it at all. He's just- Eames's mouth, and Arthur's going out of his skin with it, can't think with it. Eames sucks him down again, and Arthur thinks he chokes on air for a moment.
Eames, for his part, hums to himself in satisfaction, and Arthur's toes curl. It's ridiculous, all two brain cells he has left know it is, but the only thing the rest of him knows is that this is the best god damned blow job of his life. Eames gives head like he was born for it, like his many other talents just weren't enough and God is compensating him by also making him the world's best cocksucker. On his better days, Arthur's only a little jealous.
Eames presses his tongue up against the underside of Arthur's dick, pulling back slowly, and Arthur's hips come off the wall. He's supposed to keep them back, but he can't, he can't, not when Eames is doing that, not when Eames has been teasing him all night. Eames swallows him again anyway, pressing forward until--shit, until Arthur can feel the stubble on his upper lip scraping against the soft skin at the base of his belly. It's not enough, though, it's too much, it's too much, but Arthur can't, it's not right. Something's missing and Arthur can't come like this, literally can't get off, something holding him back, and in one of those flashes of clarity, of instinct, of just knowing what you need, Arthur gets it.
He grabs Eames, hauls him up by his hair and his shoulders, pulls him up the whole length of him and gasps broken, desperate, "Need to hear you," into the side of Eames's face. Eames, bless him, catches on right away. He wraps one hand around Arthur's ass, fingers digging in as he pulls them flush together, and he wraps the other hand, very gentle around the back of Arthur's head. Then he orders Arthur to come, and Arthur does, hard and fast, head slamming back into the hand Eames had ready to catch him.
*
"It's 5 in the morning where you are," Arthur says when Eames calls.
Eames huffs what might be a laugh, if there were a little more voice in it. "And how do you know where I am?"
"Shanghai," Arthur says instead, not really answering the question.
"I'd say I couldn't sleep, but we both know there are drugs for that. So I'll go with no rest for the wicked instead."
"Did you call for the sole purpose of quoting clichés at me, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks drily. He's smiling though, involuntarily, like the canned soup in front of him makes him happy and he's helpless to stop it.
"No," Eames says at last, something shifting in his voice that Arthur can't put a name to. "No, I did not."
"Arthur," Eames says, and that tone Arthur knows very well.
"I'm going to need fifteen minutes to get home. Don't hang up," Arthur says, feeling the sudden tension in the strain around his eyes.
Eames doesn't hang up. The wait makes Arthur crazy, makes him reckless. He bangs his elbow painful against the door frame as he's trying to shut the door, juggle the phone and pull his shoes off in the doorway at the same time, and yelps "Shit," directly into Eames's ear.
"Sorry, sorry," Arthur mutters at the same time as Eames says, "Ow, fuck, what are you doing?" But there's a laugh in it, underneath, so Arthur concentrates on locking the door instead.
"Home," he says. "Ran into the door." He thumbs the phone on speaker so he can get his shirt off, unbuttons it halfway and just pulls it over his head to save time. He drapes it over the back of a chair, and after he's shimmied out of his pants, they follow.
"Here," he tells Eames at last, "Ready." Eames doesn't call him out on it, how eager he is, he just sounds strained himself; he's been waiting too. "God, I want to kiss you," Arthur breathes, climbing into bed and pulling the phone back to him. He takes it off speaker so he can curl up around it, so that at least Eames's voice is pressed close against him. "Want your mouth on me."
The noise Eames makes at that is supremely gratifying, and then he's talking, saying, "Fuck yes," and, "Arthur," and, "God."
It's perfect, and he wants this, and Arthur says, "Tell me what you want," into the phone.
"You, want you," Eames says, and his voice is ragged and it's doing things to Arthur, twisting him up, "Want to fuck you, wish I could fuck you. Arthur, please," and it sounds like Eames is the one begging instead of the other way around. Like Arthur is ever anything but begging for more when it comes to Eames. Like Arthur could ever get enough when it comes to Eames.
Arthur swallows, and it feels like his Adam's apple scrapes all the way down and back up again, and says, "Yeah, yeah. Ok," as he digs the lube out of the drawer by the bed. He slicks his fingers and circles slow and teasing, hissing at the cold. Eames hears it, hears him, and he groans, voice catching, and that makes Arthur groan too.
"Tell me," Arthur says, "Tell me I can."
"Yes," Eames hisses, "push it in, I can see it in my head, those slim fingers of yours sliding into you," and this is exactly what Arthur needs. He does, and he can't help the sound he makes, from the feeling, but also from Eames's voice, from the things he says.
"Not like mine, are they, Arthur?" but Arthur knows Eames doesn't expect an answer. "Thinner. You need two, don't you? You're not full enough," and Arthur nods his head frantically for a moment before he remembers Eames can't see him and croaks yes instead.
"God, your voice," Eames says, and he breathes it like he's in awe, like he's found something beautiful. "God, your voice. You sound wrecked already, Arthur. Tell me how it feels. Tell me what you want."
"T's not enough," and Arthur's panting now, harsh--he can hear the echo through his speaker--as he fucks himself with two fingers, pushes down onto them with his hips, tries to get them deeper. The angle's not good, but he can't, doesn't want to take them out long enough to shift around, and he thinks he tells Eames this. Thinks it comes out, because Eames growls at him, and yes, that, fucking that right there.
"More, more, more, more," chants Arthur, breathless, riding his own hand, and Eames babbles nonsense back at him. The only part that really registers is the part where Eames says he can give himself another, and he's not even quiet now, louder than before when he hit the door frame, but Eames doesn't care. He cries out, sharp, jagged, to the timing of the movement of his hips, the tempo of his heartbeat and Eames's voice in his ear.
"Yes, fuck, yes, like that, just like that Arthur. God, you're gorgeous. You sound amazing." Eames sounds like he's breaking when he comes, and he never stops talking through it, even when he loses control of his voice. Even when he says, "Fuck, Arthur," and it sounds like his voice is shredding itself on Arthur's name. Arthur's done, he can't, he's going to-
"I'm gonna, I'm gonna-" Arthur pants into the line, and fuck, please, but he can't even collect his scattered thoughts enough to ask for it.
"Come on, don't hold back. I want to hear you," Eames whispers into the phone, and it's like Arthur can feel his breath curling against his cheek, hot and damp and there, nevermind the distance, and he comes like he's shaking apart.
"God," Arthur says some time later, "Our phone bill is going to be ridiculous."
"Don't worry about that, love." Eames still sounds shaky, out of breath, and Arthur can't help but feel incredibly smug about that. "The phone bill is being paid by one Jonas T. Murphy. Quite unfortunately for him, he died several months ago in a car crash, which is something this particular phone company does not yet realize."
Arthur barks a laugh into the phone, curled up around it, and suddenly feels inexplicably lonely. "Come back soon, yeah?" he says, before he can think better of it.
"Of course," Eames replies. Arthur’s lips quirk up into the hint of a smile, smiling with Eames a world away.