Prompt Post No. 15
Welcome to Round 15 of the Inception Kink Meme.
Prompting System
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“One of these days,” Eames announces, “I’m doing this with nothing but my mouth.”
Above him, Arthur’s rhythm stutters. Eames smiles, smoothing both hands over the sweaty curve of his back to rest on his hips.
“I won’t have a condom on,” he murmurs, pausing to kiss the taste of himself from Arthur’s swollen lips, loving the way Arthur’s mouth automatically comes open for him, the broken little sound he utters when Eames draws back, “and I’ll come in you like that and then eat you out so slowly, sweetheart, so fucking slowly you won’t know what to do with yourself. You’ll be sensitive from getting fucked so hard, but you’ll let me do it anyway, let me just hold you open and lick up into you until you’re trembling for it. And you’ll try to tell yourself you shouldn’t like it but you will, I know it, since you love having me in you and you just can’t help yourself. Isn’t that right?”
Eames has always been a talker. He knows Arthur is used to him saying things in the heat of the moment, but this time there’s a tremor in Arthur’s muscles and an alarmed look in his eyes indicating he’s acutely aware Eames is deadly serious about every last word.
“And I’d keep at it for such a long time,” Eames tells him, voice gone rough, both his hands still stroking over Arthur’s narrow hips. “Until you’re crying to get fucked all over again, until you can’t even imagine telling me to stop. I’d have you on your hands and knees so you couldn’t rub one out against the mattress because I know you’d be good for me and not touch yourself if I told you not to. I’d spread you nice and wide, have you ride that pretty arse back and fuck yourself on my tongue, get you all wet and dripping for it.”
“Fucker.” Arthur’s voice is strained as he rides down onto him, pulling Eames’s hands from his hips and bearing forward to pin them to the bed on either side of his head. “H-harder, dammit-let me-Eamesplease, come the fuck on.”
“Just like that, yeah,” Eames breathes, losing half the words when he curves up to take Arthur’s mouth all over again, tongue pressing deep. “You know I love having you beg for something inside you, anything, just to fill you up and make you come. And then,” he licks a bead of sweat from Arthur’s temple, “if you’re a very, very nice little boy for me, maybe I’d even let you have what you want.”
Arthur’s face goes beautifully slack. “Fuck, you can’t just--ah,” and Eames fucking loves the way Arthur’s tight little arse contracts around the width of his cock, taking every centimeter of him like he’ll never get the chance again. “Can’t-Jesusfuck, please--can’t keep…”
He’s close, Eames can tell, his erection wet and throbbing against his stomach, body a sinful arch of flesh and muscle as he leans in, fingers twining together. “Can’t keep talking like that,” Arthur gasps against his jaw, crimson-cheeked.
Since he’s a contrary son of a bitch, Eames just slows his pace, indolently pumping his hips until Arthur’s thighs are shaking from holding himself up and sinking down to meet each thrust Eames gives him.
Eames bites just below his collarbone, nips up his throat, nudges Arthur’s head back so he can kiss the underside of his chin and suck there just short of hard enough to mark him. “Why not?” Arthur lets him go with one hand, pretty fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, slippery from precome and Eames’s mouth. “It feels wonderful,” Eames says, low and full of promise. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”
“That’s very gallant, but still.” Arthur isn’t prissy, but he does have his preferences. Eames fucks him bare on occasion, but Arthur keeps putting off rimming since he’s never done it before. Eames finds this deeply tragic, but Arthur’s been very frank about being a little unsure on that front.
To Eames, that just makes it even more tragic. Arthur is generally very amenable to new things, but this is one line he’s drawn and been reluctant to budge.
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“It’s your mouth,” Arthur hisses, never one to back down from an argument no matter how ill-timed. “Completely d-” And Eames jars up into him, hard and frantic, wriggling that finger up into Arthur’s slick, stretched arse.
It’s all he needs to have Arthur coming with a shocked little groan, spattering Eames’s chest and clamping tight and silken and perfect around him as he collapses, milking him dry when Eames lets himself follow a minute later. Eames is fairly sure Arthur calls him a cheater and definitely sure he doesn’t give a damn.
There isn’t much that has Arthur hesitating and faltering like a virgin. Eames privately finds it charming that someone who’s led a life as vicious as Arthur’s can still be so sweetly squeamish about certain things. And all the same, he’d writhed and spread his legs and demanded more the first time Eames fucked him without a condom, a reaction Eames plans to take and run with for all he’s worth.
It’s not something they do often, out of practicality, and not something they’ve been doing for long, since they both took their sweet time before deciding to admit they’d somehow fallen into a monogamous, cohabiting sort of relationship and might as well cop to it and reap all the benefits. Getting there had been a journey all on it own.
That first time had been worth every second of hell they’d put each other through. Eames had nearly gone crosseyed watching the thin trickle of come dripping out of him, holding Arthur’s thighs up and apart so he couldn’t draw himself closed or cover himself, letting him whine and writhe in embarrassment. panting and pink as Eames hummed soothing nothings at him. Telling him how amazing he looked that way, how much he loved seeing Arthur lose control. He’d kissed him everywhere, then: his mouth, his ankle, up his thigh, aching to dip his head between his legs for a taste. That had ended badly, with Arthur yelping and rolling over once he realized what was on Eames’s mind, catching him in the jaw with one of his heels in his haste.
Eames really did go crosseyed for a bit then. Fortunately, Arthur had been too discomfited to hold it over him.
“We could dream it beforehand,” he suggests, walking his fingers down Arthur’s ribs until they’re skimming along the trail of hair below his navel. The two of them are splayed side by side, Eames on his belly, Arthur on his back, exchanging idle little touches as the ceiling fan twirls overhead. “That might be better, even, if you’re more comfortable with it. And I could even make my tongue a little longer, lick all the way up until I reach right there,” he lowers his voice, crooking two fingers up inside Arthur’s come-slick hole and stroking his prostate, “and make you come for me just from that.”
Arthur’s face tenses, but his knees bend obligingly, letting Eames press and touch. His body tightens even more to keep Eames inside him when he turns and faces him, a hand moving between his legs to stay him, and Eames knows he’s staring at Arthur with the most stupidly adoring look on his face but he just can’t make himself mind it.
“Maybe,” Arthur murmurs, short of breath, tongue slipping into his mouth to curl and lick and taste. “Maybe some other time.”
With sex, Arthur likes to try new things in reality before dreams. Once, Eames would have chalked it up to Arthur being a bit of a bore, but now he knows better and might even be inclined to believe there’s a bit of a romantic in him instead. They haven’t mentioned it, but Eames is willing to bet Arthur thinks doing unspeakably obscene things to each other while awake is more visceral, more significant, which Eames supposes is true. Quaint, but true. He doubts Arthur will ever admit to it, which makes it even better.
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“Fine.” The word rushes out of Arthur like a gust of wind, so unexpected it makes Eames’s skin tingle. Then he gives a little tug at Eames’s hair to bring him back up to eye level. “But not now. Not until I’m clean.”
Eames knits his brows. “We both saw the test results last month. I know you are.”
Arthur flushes and fidgets, but his voice is steady. “Not that kind of clean, Eames.”
“Oh.” Even now, Eames still has to remind himself not to underestimate Arthur’s boundless capacity to surprise him. “Well.”
Arthur kisses him on the nose. “I need to get straightened up,” he says brightly, and slides off the bed, cheerful as can be about rendering Eames speechless. Bastard.
Just to have the last word, however belatedly, Eames gives him a slap on the arse. “Good luck with that.”
Arthur mutters something impolite about Eames’s mother and manages to walk out of the room with dignity anyway. Eames is half tempted to chase him down and make him come undone all over again.
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This is peculiar in and of itself. When Eames gathers up details of a person’s life, it’s normally so he can use them to bring about that person’s destruction, definitely not because he cares.
Arthur, Eames knows now, has half a dozen pairs of his favorite boots in case they end up getting ruined or lost or somehow become impossible to replace. He can’t stand the smell of cabbage, garlic, or patchouli. He’s an American to his fingertips and still bitches incessantly about Brits and their backwards driving as if he expects everything to warp itself to his own expectations if he just frets about it enough. Too much time spent dreaming will do that to a man.
Eames, God have mercy on his soul, is hopelessly infatuated with him.
Arthur’s request comes up again when Eames is preparing to sit in on a chemical engineering seminar and monitor the keynote speaker, since he’s been recruited to help expose his dodgy past. Or at least fabricate enough evidence to make it look as if he’s had one.
When Eames stops him to ask about dinner, Arthur’s on his way out the door to drop off the dry cleaning. Eames still isn’t used to how fascinating it is seeing Arthur doing something so commonplace, even though their dry cleaner of choice is a woman Eames met after getting recommendations for businesses that would be discreet about removing blood and repairing other unconventional damages. “I can make a proper grocery run over the weekend,” he says, “but if you’ll just pick up a few things that strike your fancy while you’re out, I’ll throw something together for this evening.”
“Is there anything you’re dying to eat?” says Arthur, distractedly tugging a shirt back onto its hanger.
It’s too easy. Eames can’t resist giving him a leer.
Arthur gets a bit flustered from there, glaring and tensing with such delectable indignation that Eames can’t help but feel a little bad for him.
“You know that isn’t always a necessary procedure, right?”
“Yeah. I did some reading.” Of course he did. Eames feels a surge of affection. “It just…I think I’d feel better about letting you…” Arthur gives an ambiguous waggle of his fingers.
“Letting me what?” Eames presses merrily.
“You know what.”
“Put my tongue up your pretty arse? Is that what you mean?” He leans in, kissing him on the cheek, maneuvering Arthur’s back to the wall so he can wedge a thigh between his legs and enjoy the way he squirms. It shouldn’t turn Eames’s crank as much as it does, the way Arthur still manages to find things to be embarrassed about after everything else they’ve done together. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
The dry cleaning ends up in a heap on the floor so Arthur can grip a double handful of Eames’s jacket. “Just shut up.” And the next thing Eames knows, Arthur’s wrenching him in to slide a kiss against his mouth and both arms around his neck. Eames rhythmically rides his thigh into Arthur’s groin all the while, feeling how diligently he tries not to give in and rut against it.
Now, while he has his palms on the seat of Arthur’s jeans and his lips on his ear, is as good a time as any to hash out the details. “Would you want a hand with it or am I better off leaving you to your own devices?”
“Have you done it before?” Arthur asks after a moment’s hesitation. He dips his lashes, averting Eames’s gaze with genuine reserve, not the false coyness it would look like on most people.
Eames cups his chin. “Done what?”
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“If you can’t even say the word, maybe you shouldn’t be doing it at all.”
Arthur shakes free of him and starts pulling garments off the floor. “Given an enema. Have you ever?” He sounds casual, but Eames can’t see his face as he bends to gather up the clothes again.
“No,” he admits. “But you’re not the only one who can read up on things.”
Arthur rises. “I want you there.” He’s plain-spoken and serious, standing there with his arms full of the gloriously mundane portion of their commingled lives-suits and dress shirts and the silk pajama bottoms Eames adores and Arthur is baffled by because he’s a déclassé twat who can’t understand the point of sleepwear that has to be dry cleaned.
“Is that…okay?” asks Arthur.
“Whatever you want,” Eames tells him, “is more than okay.”
Arthur graces him with a slight smile. Sometimes Eames thinks he would promise him anything.
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I’ll be ready then. If you are.
Eames knows he must reply to that but he isn’t sure it’s in any language known to homo sapiens. It doesn’t occur to him until later that Arthur might be referring to something like wallpapering the dining room or alphabetizing Eames’s cufflink collection by designer. All he knows is that by the time he gets home Arthur’s waiting by the door and trying, very staunchly, to look like he hasn’t been waiting by the door.
“Hello there.” He sheds his jacket, taking his time with it just to watch Arthur practically crackle with barely suppressed energy. “You were saying?”
Arthur is looking a little nervous and a little defensive, standing there in an undershirt and navy blue boxer briefs, but he still shows no second thoughts whatsoever about coming right up to Eames and kissing him. Slow and deep, letting Eames grope him through the butter-soft fabric of his underwear. “I was, yeah.” His fingers are already picking apart the knot of Eames’s tie. “Upstairs.”
In the bathroom, there’s no trace of imminent wallpapering to be found. True to form, Arthur’s set up everything himself. Eames’s gaze immediately goes to the bag hanging over the doorknob, face just as immediately settling into a neutral expression so Arthur doesn’t catch him frowning. It seems very sterile and staid and Eames tries not to be apprehensive about it all. Arthur likes neatness, he likes order, he likes making plans he can rely on. Eames shouldn’t have any reservations about letting him carry them out.
“I can manage it on my own if you’d rather not.” Arthur sounds too casual, as if he’s plucked the doubt whole from Eames’s mind. Hair in disarray, small rueful smile on his face. Eames can hardly believe he’s thirty sometimes.
Suddenly, it all seems so stupid. This is Arthur asking for something and Eames giving it to him. They’ve leveled cities at each other’s sides, or at least gone down trying. This is nothing. “If it involves your bum,” Eames says firmly, “then I’m onboard. When are you going to learn this?”
He hauls Arthur in for another kiss, slipping a hand down the front of his underwear to cup him this time, fingers closing around a handful of warm, smooth flesh that has Arthur humming his gratitude and dragging his shirt over his head. His hips are already pressing forward, short little thrusts into Eames’s hand, and Eames isn’t so unkind as to make him keep his clothes on at a time like this. But when he draws the pants off Arthur’s hips, there’s not a trace of hair around his cock, balls, nowhere. Just the usual path of it leading to his prick, then nothing.
Eames swallows. “You-”
“I told you, I’m ready,” Arthur says simply.
“We’re not filming porn here, darling.” But he keeps touching, rubbing the flat of his finger down the smooth trail between his cheeks, circling against his arsehole. He’s starting to wonder how far Arthur’s ideas of cleanliness go and whether they’re all this intriguing.
Arthur sighs, spreading his legs enough for Eames to press the very tip inward, just slightly. “Maybe next time then.”
Eames can't help but steal another glance at the door. The bag looks absurdly big and Arthur, still pressed full-length against him, seems is only human. “So. The whole thing, then?” He doubts Arthur could take it, slim as he is. It doesn’t help that Eames came across some fairly horrific anecdotes when doing some research of his own.
“Fuck, no. Four liters the first time?” Arthur grimaces. “Not likely. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“Sorted. But just…right here?” It seems awfully ill-mannered, having him lie on a few folded towels right there on the floor.
Arthur looks amused, then rubs the pad of his thumb along Eames’s jaw and kisses him. “Some other time, we can have all the candles and rose petals you want.” He’s using that tone of his that’s somewhere between sardonic and sincere. “This can before or after we make porn.”
“I’m not picky,” Eames says. “All three together is also a possibility.”
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