Prompt Post No. 19
Welcome to Round 19 of the Inception Kink Meme.
Prompting System
Prompting System
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Eames bumps into Arthur accidentally-on-purpose and Arthur's hip slams into the desk. That's gonna leave a mark. Quick and menacing, Arthur has him by the throat, which, if you ask Eames, is a bit of an overreaction.
"Never do that again," Arthur says.
Eames is all set to rankle Arthur some more, see how far he can get, but Cobb beats him to it.
"Jesus," Cobb says, "just go beat the shit out of each other in a dream or something because this ends now."
Eames knows Cobb means business because there’s a lot of finger pointing involved and that, that is not an overreaction. Athur and Eames have been at it all day, and the day has been long, full of tight quarters and thinly veiled antagonism, the depth of which has managed to surprise even Eames, dredging up old, only semi-dormant resentment.
Arthur smiles, all teeth, and squeezes where his fingers are still at Eames' throat.
And there's his answer.
-
They have the decency to wait until the work room has emptied out. It only takes about fifteen minutes, but Eames is still impressed with his ability to steer clear of Arthur and let him stew.
Arthur's already pulling out the lines of the pasiv when Eames walks up behind him and says, "You know, I always did prefer reality."
"Oh yeah?" Arthur says. He sets the lines in a neat coil, turns, and punches Eames in the face.
It's his left cheek, and it doesn't even hurt yet, but Eames can tell that it will. Arthur shakes his hand out and asks, "That kind of reality?"
Eames rubs at his cheek and says, "The very same.” He follows it up by shoving Arthur back with two hands to the chest. He crashes into the table and sends the pasiv skidding backwards, only to stop just before it topples onto the floor. Arthur stumbles a little, but he shakes it off quickly to come at Eames again, heedless of the tens of thousands of dollars of damage they only narrowly avoided wreaking.
Eames is ready this time, he catches Arthur and flips him around, holds him tight enough against his chest that he can feel him breathing.
"Don't hit me where anyone will see it and take off your tie for fucks sake."
Arthur is still for a minute, tightly wound and full of tension, but still. "Fine," he says, breaking Eames hold. "Shoes too. And don't break anything." It's pointed and Arthur carefully pulls the pasiv to the center of the table.
Eames laughs and it sounds mean. "Sure," he says. "Whatever you say."
Arthur shrugs out of his jacket and pulls at his tie. He keeps his eyes on Eames.
Eames unlaces his shoes and pulls off his shirt. He knows how he looks; he looks big, hard, menacing, exactly like he could take a guy like Arthur.
Arthur rolls up his sleeves and looks like he doesn't give a shit.
--
They pull the chairs away and there's a big open space where they can go at each other with no obstacles. There's a patchy throw rug that won't do much in the way of padding the concrete if things get rough, but it's there.
It works for Eames, he's got big plans for getting rough.
There's virtually no wait time between Arthur's "come on" and the fight. No circling, no feeling each other out, nothing but Arthur on Eames like it's his job.
They pummel each other from up close, scrabbling and pushing, and it fucking hurts. It feels fantastic. Arthur goes for Eames' face again and connects with his jaw. "Sorry, sorry," he says just after, but Eames waves him off.
Eames gets him on the floor by curling a leg around Arthur's and using his weight to barrel him down. It seems to take Arthur by surprise, which is only a testament to the way he's narrowed his substantial focus to the all consuming task of fucking up Eames' shit.
Eames is so close he can smell Arthur's sweat. He can see it, the way it collects at the bridge of his nose.
Arthur uses his palm to push up at Eames chin, but Eames swats at his hand and pins him down by the arms. "Fuck," Arthur swears, and Eames is just quick enough to avoid a headbutt.
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Arthur uses Eames' distraction to wrap his legs around Eames and flip him over, reversing their roles.
With Arthur hovering over him flushed and wild eyed, the whole thing feels less like fighting and a lot more like something else.
Arthur looks down at Eames. He flips his hair out of his face and asks, "How do we know who wins?"
Eames grins. "Oh, Arthur, you'll know."
He muscles his way out from underneath Arthur and pushes him away. They both scramble to their feet.
Arthur gets a few good hits in before Eames manages to take Arthur down again, on his stomach this time.
Eames pushes Arthur's head down into the rug and Arthur doesn't struggle, just lies there a while and sucks in noisy breaths. Eames has his leg slung over Arthur's thighs and his crotch lined up with Arthur's hips, and he's not fighting fair, so he presses in to let Arthur feel where he's getting hard.
And because it's been a day just chock full of surprises, Arthur pushes back. He pushes back again, and this time he makes a noise in his throat.
Eames grabs the back of Arthur's hair and hauls him up enough to speak in his ear. "We could fuck it out instead."
He can see Arthur swallow before he says yes.
Eames gets a hand under Arthur's shirt and squeezes. "Get on your knees."
Arthur threads a hand in Eames hair and pulls. His mouth is close enough to feel every puff of breath. "Get off me first."
Arthur kisses like he fights, with sharp edges and lots of teeth. It hurts. It feels fantastic.
Eames pulls away when Arthur's teeth catch just right and Eames tastes blood. Arthur licks his lips and says, "Top drawer."
"What?" Eames can't parse anything but Arthur next to him, under him, his body hard and lithe and just about his.
"Top. Drawer," Arthur says slowly, like Eames is an idiot. "You're not fucking me dry, I don't care how much you hate me."
Eames stares. He doesn't correct Arthur, but it doesn't mean he's right. Eames pushes Arthur away. "Get your trousers down."
It doesn't occur to Eames that he should wonder why Arthur keeps lube and condoms in his very temporary, very public work desk until he's well into rummaging for them. When it does occur to him, he glances up and sees Arthur on his knees, looking down to undo his belt. Eames swallows down the words and doesn't ask.
Arthur sits on his rear end to take them all the way off, and Eames saunters over and drops the stuff on Arthur's lap. He undoes his zipper and Arthur reaches up to carelessly pull everything down at once.
"Hands and knees," Eames says.
"Right," Arthur says, "you mentioned." His face doesn't give anything away, but he turns around and assumes Eames' chosen position.
Eames gets behind him and grabs a handful of cheek, leaving tiny half moon nail marks. "Feeling a bit sensitive, Arthur?"
Arthur spreads his legs when Eames slaps his thigh. "No," he says, flat, "you just don't have to tell me twice."
Eames kneads his arse with both hands, the furthest thing from gentle, and rubs a thumb over his hole. He does it until he gets Arthur to twitch. It's small, barely there, but Arthur's shoulders contract beneath his shirt and it's exactly what Eames was waiting for.
Arthur tilts his head back to glare. "You just gonna admire me from afar, or you gonna fuck me Eames?"
"You want me to rough you up, Arthur?"
Eames doesn't wait for an answer, which saves time, as there doesn't seem to be one coming. But he slicks up his fingers and Arthur pushes back to take his fingers in. Two at once, they aren't fucking around.
Eames searches for his prostate and hits it, he wants Arthur shaking. He wants Arthur to want it so much that he can't meet Eames' eyes tomorrow.
"That's enough, come on," Arthur says, and it's not. It's not nearly enough. Eames smacks him with his free hand and Arthur's breath hitches, so Eames does it again.
"Like that, you impatient little wanker? You like it when I hit you?"
Eames does it again and Arthur chokes out a pretty little sob. "Fuck. Yeah, I like it."
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He pushes a third finger in and twists on his way out. "Like that," Arthur says as Eames pushes them back in hard and fast. "When you fuck me, fuck me just like that." Arthur breathes out. "When you get around to it, I mean. By all means, take your sweet fucking time about it."
It earns him another spanking, effectively shutting him up. Eames only wishes his new found knowledge was applicable to everyday occurrences of Arthur's smart mouth.
As it's not, Eames pulls his fingers free and gets a condom.
He pushes in hard and fast, just like Arthur wants. Arthur's head drops and he shudders.
Eames grips at Arthur's hips, at the place where his skin is soft and tender and untouched by bruises, and he tightens his fingers enough to leave marks. He runs a hand up Arthur's back and pushes him down. He's not going to last, Arthur is too responsive and he feels so tight and hot inside, and Eames is going to come like it's nothing.
Every time his hips slap against Arthur, Eames wants more. Then he takes more and it's still not enough. The red on Arthur's arse is fading fast, going blotchy in an insanely attractive way and it's all Eames can do to get it all red again, slapping and kneading. It gives him something to concentrate on, something that's not the hot flow of blood in his veins and arousal in his stomach.
"Oh god," Arthur says, "I can't. Like this I can't. Can you?" Arthur pauses to cry out. "Touch me you fucking asshole." He's breathless when he says it, but hard and demanding, too. And even if Eames has never seen him quite like this, the tone is familiar. Then soft and low Arthur says, "Please."
It's the please that does it. Eames pulls out of Arthur instead of slamming back in. He holds the base of his cock and focuses on breathing.
Arthur rolls his shoulders and rubs at his face. He mutters, "Dick."
Eames, now with a modicum of control, says, "Get on your back."
Arthur stays still, like he's running through the pros and cons of following instructions, but when Eames nudges at his hip, Arthur complies.
For a moment, Eames takes him in, the way his stomach expands under his shirt with every breath. The way he tries to spread his thighs further. The way his dick is hard and inviting and smearing precome over the stripes on his shirt.
Arthur glares up at him when Eames gets close, but he stays quiet. When he pushes at Arthur's thigh and lines himself up, Arthur sighs and says, "that's it," more to himself that anything. Eames pushes in slow so Arthur can feel every inch of him.
Arthur shifts under him, adjusting, and Eames puts a hand under his back and pushes in slow again.
At first it’s about staving off orgasm. It’s about making Arthur show him something, anything>/i>. But then Eames can see it when Arthur shuts his eyes and lets his mouth fall open. He’s not shy about it at all. He’s vulnerable and open and obvious.
It's. That's what Eames wants. Eames wants to fuck him exactly this way. He wants Arthur to feel exactly this way.
Arthur has his legs wrapped around Eames, but he doesn't push him to go faster or harder, just moves with him, like he knows they'll get there when they get there.
"Unbutton your shirt, Arthur," Eames asks, and Eames takes his hand out from underneath Arthur's back to touch Arthur's stomach as more and more of it becomes exposed. Arthur's hands shake, but Eames is feeling a bit on the shaky side himself, so he keeps his mouth shut. He helps in the end and pushes each side away.
He brushes his thumb over one tight, perfect nipple, then bends to suck the other one into his mouth. He throws some teeth in towards the end just to take the edge off how sweet it feels.
He kisses the hollow at the base of Arthur's throat, tastes salt and sweat, and listens to Arthur breathe in time with his steady, slick slide in and out.
Arthur's hands hold on at Eames' waist and curl in at his neck, pulling him close and up.
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"I fucking. God damn, I despise you," Arthur says. "Come here."
"Me too," Eames says, "more than anyone." But he does as he's bid. Arthur kisses his cheek, and Eames doesn't think it's an accident that it's the very place where his first punch landed. He's not about to mention it. Arthur kisses his closed eyelid, the scar on his eyebrow.
"Loathe you," Arthur whispers, and Eames can't agree because Arthur's found his mouth.
Eames moans into it, kisses Arthur deep enough to keep the taste. He feels the places Arthur touches, the flat of his palm moving over his shoulder and down his arm, his fingers cradling the base of his skull, and knows it won't last.
It's easy, then, to kiss Arthur the way he wants, to touch him where he wants, to do whatever he wants exactly the way he wants. This is it.
"Touch me," Arthur asks for the second time, and it's crazy, the way the things Eames wants seem to shift and line up with the things Arthur wants.
Eames holds on at the top of his cock, thumbs at the tip, feels where Arthur's gotten wet with precome.
He knows it's not enough; his grip is loose and he's more feeling Arthur out than getting him off. He makes the change slowly, times it so the pull matches the push.
"Eames, oh fuck, Eames, you feel-"
"Good, I feel good, Arthur. Do you feel good?"
And it might be a nod he gets back, but Arthur says, "More," and Eames obliges. He switches the angle and hits Arthur just right. He must because Arthur says, "Yeah, yes, right there. Oh god, Eames, fuck that's gonna make me come. Come on, make me come."
"Show me," Eames says, "I want to see."
Arthur makes a sound and lets go, comes all over himself. And Eames seriously believes every single fight that got them here was worth it. It's possible that Eames is a sentimental bastard, but no one has to know.
Eames rubs him through it until Arthur hisses through his teeth, then Eames is kind enough to pull away. He uses the opportunity to get his hand messy with come before tilting Arthur's chin up to kiss him.
Arthur is sloppy post orgasm, and if anything, even more verbal. His kisses are leaning towards fond. They're punctuated with soft sighs and breathy hitches on every inhale, but every time he breaks one, Arthur tells Eames something filthy and obscene, like, "Come in me, you fuck. I wanna feel it."
His legs fall away from Eames' back and he pushes his hips up to match him and he bites at Eames mouth and clenches his around Eames' cock and Eames can't wait any longer. He comes with his eyes closed and Arthur’s hands all over him.
Eames gives up all hope of supporting his own weight and slumps directly onto Arthur. Arthur huffs below him, but doesn't complain. That's maybe a miracle all on it's own, but the way Arthur keeps touching Eames is something Eames hadn't counted on. It's nice. It's fantastic.
Eames is starting to feel it, every hit and kick, the place Arthur elbowed him in the side, and if he's feeling it, Arthur must be too.
Eames gears up to extricate himself from Arthur. He's going to. He's going to steal one last kiss, and then he's going to get up and go on with the rest of his life.
Arthur holds him tight while he takes another taste, and Arthur kisses back like he means it. Eames puts his hands in Arthur's hair because no one's stopping him.
And then it's done. And Eames moves.
And Arthur says wait.
Arthur tucks his face into Eames neck and says, "Okay, don't analyze this or think about it, and for Christ's sake please don't talk about it, but if you move right now, I will kill you."
Eames looks down at Arthur. He starts to speak and Arthur pinches the skin of his waist and twists, hard enough to make Eames gasp. Finally he blurts out, "I certainly would prefer to stay alive."
"That counts as talking about it," Arthur says, blushing harder than he did during both a physical altercation and sex combined. Blushing to his ears.
Eames fights off a grin. "Better shut me up then."
Arthur is nice enough to help him out.
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Yeah, author anon. You're that good!
This was FABULOUS *___________*
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