[FF] Perfect Together
Name: Perfect Together
Author: MJ / Grave
Beta: All Mistakes are my own. Eat them.
Fandom: Inception
Rating: NC-17
Warning: GENDERBENDER (olala!)
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Word Count: 2.931 Words
Disclaimer: You get my first born, ay?
Deidacted to: Noah and to my fucking self, because it's just my weird kink I guess XD
A/N: IT'S OVER, FINALLY, THANKYOUVERYMUCH
»We look absolutely perfect together, my love, don’t we?«
In the mirror behind the bar Arthur saw a handsome, tall man, devastatingly impeccable in his Italian, tailored dark grey three piece suit. At his side a sandy blonde woman curled naturally against him as if she belonged nowhere else. Sinful in her black dress, her obscene red lips formed into a soft smirk.
They looked like the perfect couple, everyone wished to be, breathtakingly perfect and ought to be captured on every glossy cover of every expensive lifestyle magazine.
It almost pained Arthur to admit, that maybe she was in some way right.
The worst part was, she just knew she was right. Her laugh was slightly edgy, the curse of too many cigarettes and too many brandies, and let her slender hip shake underneath his fingers. He really didn’t know how his hand got there.
She knew she was driving Arthur mad for quite some time. Teasing and flirting and folding her red lips around the thin end of her long cigarette holder with a chic erotic fitting to the lazy jazz beat in the background.
»Eames.« Arthur sighed heavily and put his whisky on the rocks down with a soft clink of the ice cubes.
»Arthur!« Her tone was deep, a soft rough alto voice, and her grey eyes sparkled in the dim light of the bar.
-
Their mark was an old man, with two many billions on his bank account all his lovely five children wanted to earn eventually. They went back in time with him. In a bar without a name and it could be Chicago or it could be Manhattan. In the end it’s not important, because all their architect had to do was recreate the feeling of the Golden Twenties mixed shockingly with some Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Arthur disapproved of the incorrectness of music and surroundings, but this wasn’t his dream. He was just here to watch out.
Eames was the one in charge.
But what did it matter?
-
You could still see Eames in all her features. It was one of the many faces Eames created on his own like an artist, crafted out of nothing and entirely a part of Eames. But Arthur hadn’t seen her very often, only two times to be honest. It is one of Eames early forgeries, when he still needed to use himself as the base of the forgery.
She is not like Eames’ favorite woman, the blond bombshell with the alien face and the long hair, but - as strange as it may sound - just a female version of Eames himself.
Hair cut into a sandy blonde Elton crop, on her nose and cheeks a slight trace of freckles and the lips almost unnaturally plump. Her shoulders a little bit too broad for her hips. She had the British accent and the perky attitude. No doubt she was still attractive, though you wouldn’t say that she’s the picture you have in mind when you think of classic beauty. She fitted perfectly in the time, with the hair band and the black Coco Chanel dress and the right to have a slightly manly air around her.
Arthur disliked her. It was just too much Eames in her and that made it difficult to concentrate on keeping an eye out.
-
»You have all the information?« Arthur didn’t know why he asked. His eyes were kept by the trace of red lipstick, smeared in the corner of her mouth. As if she noticed, she brushed it away with a swift flick of her thumb.
»Yes, it was easier than I thought and disappointingly simple.« From her neckline she pulled a folded napkin, showed him the name written on it with watery ink and put it away again.
Their timer had still over an hour left. Arthur grabbed for his gun, hidden in the back of his pants under the jacket.
»Oh no, no, no!« A delicious pout formed on her lips and she grabbed for his hand and laid it on the bar before him. Every little gesture so perfectly feminine, that the same old fear prickled in Arthur’s neck - what if one day he will go too far? What if one day he cannot stop to play his role?
»I’m sick of being shot. Why not sit this one out? The projections are friendly and I quite like this dream. Why not enjoy it?«, she sighed softly and leaned her head against his shoulder, stealing his whiskey glass and taking a sip.
Arthur stared at the red lipstick print on the rim. He didn’t know what to say to that.
»So.« She trailed of while looking casually over her shoulder, the shimmering turquoise feather clipped to her hair band brushed his cheek. »Are you gonna be a monologist all night long or are you gonna be my kippy goof?«
Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed her a few centimeters away from him. The American flapper’s accent sounded horrible and wanton from Eames’ mouth. »Don’t even start. We can stay, but you don’t have to indulge in your silly role playing games.«
»Oh, pet, why are you always so boring?« She didn’t let her fingers glide away from him and now she was tracing the brim of the ridiculous fedora he was wearing. »And remember - we have to blend in and play the perfect couple. It would be really unlikely that such a fine man like you won’t ask his sweetheart to dance with him.«
Arthur didn’t know why he gave in, when she took his hand and pried him away from the bar with a smile that said nothing and everything. Maybe it was the red sole of her Laboutins clicking on the ground he could not resist.
-
They work in a synchronized rhythm. Not only in while they dance and Eames flew over the floor and rolled back into his arms, but also in everything else. They fight, they steal, they argue, they love and everything in their own rhythm. So it wasn’t a surprise that Eames was the best dancing partner he has ever had and that it’s so easy to dance a proper Charleston with him. And it was not their first time. (Why Arthur can dance? Well, a good point man has to have a wide repertoire of things he can do. Dancing is basic.)
Her body melted easily against his and she let him guide her without any protest, something that was so rare for Eames. To just let Arthur take over completely and the smile on her face - genuine and adoring - made Arthur grin in return, all dimples and lowered gaze.
But even though Eames made a point of gliding her slender fingers through his hands and wetting her lips just so, he noticed how her eyes flicked over his shoulder now and then, on the qui vive for their mark.
“He liked the thought of me being a taken woman, who likes a forbidden adventure.”, Eames hummed in his ear, hear lips brushing his temple, while they glided into an easier, slower rhythm with the next song, almost solely saxophone with the languid voice of the female jazz singer. Her ample breast pressed against his torso and she was impossibly warm and fragile, strong in his hands.
“So you told him what? I’m your husband?”
“Maybe I did.”, she answered with a low chuckle and brushed her nose against his temple. The feather of her hair band brushed again against his cheek and the spicy smell of her perfume hit his nose with intoxicating intensity. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Eames knew to play his game so well. His hand glided lower on her hips and to her back. Just then he noticed the ring on his right finger catching in the fabric of her dress.
-
Later they left the barroom for a quieter, lonesome spot on the balcony, from which they could see everything that happens inside but nobody could see them save for someone really looking.
As soon as the fresh air hit them, Eames pulled out a silver case with long Virginia Cigarettes - sweet and heavy in their smell.
“We should fly to Tokyo after this job.” She puffed out the smoke in languid circles, directly in his face while she found her place on the stone balustrade, crossing her endless long legs, wrapped in nylon stockings. If he looked - oh and he did look, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that much - he could see her garters.
He would ask why exactly, when some sane person would now have the longing to see Chicago or maybe New Orleans, inspired by this dream, but Eames was not a sane person and Eames rarely said the things Arthur expected from him. “And after the dream I would really like to fuck you.”
Arthur couldn’t help himself but laugh. It sounded quite ridiculous coming from a woman in such a petit dress. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” The retort came fluently and he mimicked Eames’ coquettish tone from earlier.
“Yeah, I would really like that.” She answered easily with a warm smile and pulled him closer by his tie. A long drag form her cigarette followed and she dragged him down and pressed her lipstick sticky lips against his, blowing the smoke into his mouth and down his lungs.
The first time Eames did that, Arthur had to back away, coughing. But by now he was used to it and didn’t even flinch, just inhaled and exhaled.
“Sometimes I think you have a rather questionable fetish for your female forgeries.”
“Maybe the estrogen in this body makes me hot for such a fine male specimen.”
“We still have a job to do.”
“I have the information.”
“You know that’s no guarantee for nothing.”
“Our mark is a poor old man, who was never loved. Neither by others nor by himself. He’s longing to get lost in a youth he never had, in a time he never experienced, in a feeling he could never imagine. Look how peaceful and happy his projections are.”
And they really were. The party was nothing but a friendly, lovely, decadent gathering of people. No one looked at them strangely; no one looked at them even twice. Arthur knew that Eames had a lot to do with that, he always constructed the dreams with a calming atmosphere, fitting their mark like a glove, like something his head created by itself. He remembered Eames saying ‘We look absolutely perfect together’ and he wanted to correct him: ‘We are absolutely perfect together.’
Arthur always had a thing for brilliancy.
“I’m just a nice lady and you’re just a nice gentleman. The 20s suit you so well, darling.” Only a few inches separated their faces and her nose from brushing against his nose, while she dropped her voice to a low husky whisper.
“You know what I would really like, too?”
“Hm?”, he hummed softly and inhaled her breath, the smell of Eames now clearly becoming visible under her perfume, the soothing, heavy smell of tea and paint and wood. He thought of her flat in London and how he would like to settle against Eames’ broad shoulders and sleep.
“I would really like-“ She began and her eyelids fluttered down halfway, her hand skating over his tie, to the hem of his shirt. “I would really like you to fuck me now.” With determination she took his hand and pressed it against her hip, forced it up and down until finally he couldn’t help but breath out a rough chuckle. No panties, of course.
“I’m impressed by your complete lack of shame.”
“I’m impressed that you’re still impressed by this.”
Her cocky smirk - so Eames, so damn Eames - just did it for him.
Before Arthur could help himself he was leaning into her and kissing her full on her obscene mouth with her slender arms circling around his neck and throwing of the fedora- thank God! - in the process. Her lips were just like Eames’, full and plush and absolutely addictive, but he missed the burn of stubble. Her long, red fingernails scraping at his neck could only so much make up for that.
But he liked how she fitted so well against him and how his arms could almost circle her twice, how she uncrossed her legs and let him step in between and how sensitive she was, when he only breathed against her long, exposed neck line.
And still it was Eames, so much of Eames. Only Eames could pull of his forgeries like this. Or - only Eames could pull of his forgeries like this for him. For Arthur. Arthur appreciates how Eames is trying to be good for him.
It was so much of the man he worked and lived with, the man - if he dared to say so - he loved in her, in the way she shuddered against his every touch as he stroked her leg, up to her knee, over the cool fabric of her stockings, the laces of her garters.
Her mouth fell open in a soft O shape as his fingers found their way between her thighs and it’s fascinating how she is so unashamed to show her pleasure, how she is already impossibly wet and open for him when he brushes over her cunt.
With fascination Arthur watched, never dared to blink, working with the cold rigor of the suit-clad point man he was - never anything less but effective and precise in the way he worked her undone with her dress up to her broad hips and his index finger dipping in her damp cleft. Her pupils were beautifully blown, her fingers tangled loosely in the strands of his hair but still with that certain trace of a mischievous smile around the corner of her mouth.
»Oh, dear, you are too good at this.« It was just a tiny feminine whimper dropping from her lips and he rubbed over her clit again and again to hear it again and again until Eames’ dirty grey eyes closed, with the kajal smeared around them.
It was lovely how she pressed her thighs together as if she wanted to keep his hand there, with his two fingers roaming in her and his second hand sneaking up to cup hear firm breasts through the dress - no fucking bra, oh, Eames -, her small hard nipples willing to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger.
Arthur’s head was spinning, his blood roaring in his ears and her damn fucking feather always tickled his face and oh he wanted to own her. He wanted to own her like every part of Eames. He wanted to make her scream and cry and be the man she always dreamed of and more. He wanted to own her so badly and he bit down, one hard time, in her soft flesh and he swore silently.
Her cattish mewl licked its way into his ear and he didn’t even really realized how damn hard he was until she forced him into a sloppy, hungry kiss. Teeth clicking and her right hand stroking over his crotch, over his willing dick straining against his too expensive dream pants.
»Oh c’mon, darling, I know you want it.« She was purring against his mouth and fucked herself on his fingers, began to lift and lower her hips and just moaned, moaned his name so deliciously against his cheek. With a shrug the strap of her shoulder was gone and his hand touching her naked, soft breast. Her heart beating a steady, frantic rhythm against his fingertips.
His pants were shoved down with the self-confidence of a professional thief.
Hot waves ran up and down his back as the head of his cock touched her slippery wet cunt, eager to take him in and swallow him whole, much too easy compared to the hard rough push in reality when he was pressing Eames down into the mattress.
»Fuck, Eames.« The rush of adrenaline and lust hits him with the force of a seven-point-five-tonner. Her laughter was light and wanton.
Arthur was long past caring. Eames took him on crazy adventures. Eames showed him places and things and sensations, he never imagined. Eames had the power to make him so reckless, so powerful, so dangerous and so impossibly young again.
As if together they could just do anything. As if together they were the most powerful beings in the world. They were on top of the world together, burning money, burning bridges, crushing and rebuilding cities.
With other people - with Cobb - he could never be the one foolishly, insanely fucking during a job under the night sky of Chicago with projections in their neck, ready to pull the trigger or break their neck.
Arthur didn’t know what message Eames was sending him in this fragile form, with small arms circling his neck, long legs curling around his hips and with a mouth sucking his fingers clean until she had no choice but pant as if there was not enough air. Panted Arthur and Arthur and Arthur and Arthur and maybe a darling, oh, darling in between. And he just sucked on her skin, bit in her nipple and fucked her until he could hear the far distant ring of Non Je ne regrette rien.
They were perfect together.
(And Arthur loved the strong arms, the taste of cigarettes, the pattern of tattoos and the boyish broad smile.
He loves this man. Every part of him.)
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Author: MJ / Grave
Beta: All Mistakes are my own. Eat them.
Fandom: Inception
Rating: NC-17
Warning: GENDERBENDER (olala!)
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Word Count: 2.931 Words
Disclaimer: You get my first born, ay?
Deidacted to: Noah and to my fucking self, because it's just my weird kink I guess XD
A/N: IT'S OVER, FINALLY, THANKYOUVERYMUCH
»We look absolutely perfect together, my love, don’t we?«
In the mirror behind the bar Arthur saw a handsome, tall man, devastatingly impeccable in his Italian, tailored dark grey three piece suit. At his side a sandy blonde woman curled naturally against him as if she belonged nowhere else. Sinful in her black dress, her obscene red lips formed into a soft smirk.
They looked like the perfect couple, everyone wished to be, breathtakingly perfect and ought to be captured on every glossy cover of every expensive lifestyle magazine.
It almost pained Arthur to admit, that maybe she was in some way right.
The worst part was, she just knew she was right. Her laugh was slightly edgy, the curse of too many cigarettes and too many brandies, and let her slender hip shake underneath his fingers. He really didn’t know how his hand got there.
She knew she was driving Arthur mad for quite some time. Teasing and flirting and folding her red lips around the thin end of her long cigarette holder with a chic erotic fitting to the lazy jazz beat in the background.
»Eames.« Arthur sighed heavily and put his whisky on the rocks down with a soft clink of the ice cubes.
»Arthur!« Her tone was deep, a soft rough alto voice, and her grey eyes sparkled in the dim light of the bar.
-
Their mark was an old man, with two many billions on his bank account all his lovely five children wanted to earn eventually. They went back in time with him. In a bar without a name and it could be Chicago or it could be Manhattan. In the end it’s not important, because all their architect had to do was recreate the feeling of the Golden Twenties mixed shockingly with some Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald. Arthur disapproved of the incorrectness of music and surroundings, but this wasn’t his dream. He was just here to watch out.
Eames was the one in charge.
But what did it matter?
-
You could still see Eames in all her features. It was one of the many faces Eames created on his own like an artist, crafted out of nothing and entirely a part of Eames. But Arthur hadn’t seen her very often, only two times to be honest. It is one of Eames early forgeries, when he still needed to use himself as the base of the forgery.
She is not like Eames’ favorite woman, the blond bombshell with the alien face and the long hair, but - as strange as it may sound - just a female version of Eames himself.
Hair cut into a sandy blonde Elton crop, on her nose and cheeks a slight trace of freckles and the lips almost unnaturally plump. Her shoulders a little bit too broad for her hips. She had the British accent and the perky attitude. No doubt she was still attractive, though you wouldn’t say that she’s the picture you have in mind when you think of classic beauty. She fitted perfectly in the time, with the hair band and the black Coco Chanel dress and the right to have a slightly manly air around her.
Arthur disliked her. It was just too much Eames in her and that made it difficult to concentrate on keeping an eye out.
-
»You have all the information?« Arthur didn’t know why he asked. His eyes were kept by the trace of red lipstick, smeared in the corner of her mouth. As if she noticed, she brushed it away with a swift flick of her thumb.
»Yes, it was easier than I thought and disappointingly simple.« From her neckline she pulled a folded napkin, showed him the name written on it with watery ink and put it away again.
Their timer had still over an hour left. Arthur grabbed for his gun, hidden in the back of his pants under the jacket.
»Oh no, no, no!« A delicious pout formed on her lips and she grabbed for his hand and laid it on the bar before him. Every little gesture so perfectly feminine, that the same old fear prickled in Arthur’s neck - what if one day he will go too far? What if one day he cannot stop to play his role?
»I’m sick of being shot. Why not sit this one out? The projections are friendly and I quite like this dream. Why not enjoy it?«, she sighed softly and leaned her head against his shoulder, stealing his whiskey glass and taking a sip.
Arthur stared at the red lipstick print on the rim. He didn’t know what to say to that.
»So.« She trailed of while looking casually over her shoulder, the shimmering turquoise feather clipped to her hair band brushed his cheek. »Are you gonna be a monologist all night long or are you gonna be my kippy goof?«
Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed her a few centimeters away from him. The American flapper’s accent sounded horrible and wanton from Eames’ mouth. »Don’t even start. We can stay, but you don’t have to indulge in your silly role playing games.«
»Oh, pet, why are you always so boring?« She didn’t let her fingers glide away from him and now she was tracing the brim of the ridiculous fedora he was wearing. »And remember - we have to blend in and play the perfect couple. It would be really unlikely that such a fine man like you won’t ask his sweetheart to dance with him.«
Arthur didn’t know why he gave in, when she took his hand and pried him away from the bar with a smile that said nothing and everything. Maybe it was the red sole of her Laboutins clicking on the ground he could not resist.
-
They work in a synchronized rhythm. Not only in while they dance and Eames flew over the floor and rolled back into his arms, but also in everything else. They fight, they steal, they argue, they love and everything in their own rhythm. So it wasn’t a surprise that Eames was the best dancing partner he has ever had and that it’s so easy to dance a proper Charleston with him. And it was not their first time. (Why Arthur can dance? Well, a good point man has to have a wide repertoire of things he can do. Dancing is basic.)
Her body melted easily against his and she let him guide her without any protest, something that was so rare for Eames. To just let Arthur take over completely and the smile on her face - genuine and adoring - made Arthur grin in return, all dimples and lowered gaze.
But even though Eames made a point of gliding her slender fingers through his hands and wetting her lips just so, he noticed how her eyes flicked over his shoulder now and then, on the qui vive for their mark.
“He liked the thought of me being a taken woman, who likes a forbidden adventure.”, Eames hummed in his ear, hear lips brushing his temple, while they glided into an easier, slower rhythm with the next song, almost solely saxophone with the languid voice of the female jazz singer. Her ample breast pressed against his torso and she was impossibly warm and fragile, strong in his hands.
“So you told him what? I’m your husband?”
“Maybe I did.”, she answered with a low chuckle and brushed her nose against his temple. The feather of her hair band brushed again against his cheek and the spicy smell of her perfume hit his nose with intoxicating intensity. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Eames knew to play his game so well. His hand glided lower on her hips and to her back. Just then he noticed the ring on his right finger catching in the fabric of her dress.
-
Later they left the barroom for a quieter, lonesome spot on the balcony, from which they could see everything that happens inside but nobody could see them save for someone really looking.
As soon as the fresh air hit them, Eames pulled out a silver case with long Virginia Cigarettes - sweet and heavy in their smell.
“We should fly to Tokyo after this job.” She puffed out the smoke in languid circles, directly in his face while she found her place on the stone balustrade, crossing her endless long legs, wrapped in nylon stockings. If he looked - oh and he did look, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that much - he could see her garters.
He would ask why exactly, when some sane person would now have the longing to see Chicago or maybe New Orleans, inspired by this dream, but Eames was not a sane person and Eames rarely said the things Arthur expected from him. “And after the dream I would really like to fuck you.”
Arthur couldn’t help himself but laugh. It sounded quite ridiculous coming from a woman in such a petit dress. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” The retort came fluently and he mimicked Eames’ coquettish tone from earlier.
“Yeah, I would really like that.” She answered easily with a warm smile and pulled him closer by his tie. A long drag form her cigarette followed and she dragged him down and pressed her lipstick sticky lips against his, blowing the smoke into his mouth and down his lungs.
The first time Eames did that, Arthur had to back away, coughing. But by now he was used to it and didn’t even flinch, just inhaled and exhaled.
“Sometimes I think you have a rather questionable fetish for your female forgeries.”
“Maybe the estrogen in this body makes me hot for such a fine male specimen.”
“We still have a job to do.”
“I have the information.”
“You know that’s no guarantee for nothing.”
“Our mark is a poor old man, who was never loved. Neither by others nor by himself. He’s longing to get lost in a youth he never had, in a time he never experienced, in a feeling he could never imagine. Look how peaceful and happy his projections are.”
And they really were. The party was nothing but a friendly, lovely, decadent gathering of people. No one looked at them strangely; no one looked at them even twice. Arthur knew that Eames had a lot to do with that, he always constructed the dreams with a calming atmosphere, fitting their mark like a glove, like something his head created by itself. He remembered Eames saying ‘We look absolutely perfect together’ and he wanted to correct him: ‘We are absolutely perfect together.’
Arthur always had a thing for brilliancy.
“I’m just a nice lady and you’re just a nice gentleman. The 20s suit you so well, darling.” Only a few inches separated their faces and her nose from brushing against his nose, while she dropped her voice to a low husky whisper.
“You know what I would really like, too?”
“Hm?”, he hummed softly and inhaled her breath, the smell of Eames now clearly becoming visible under her perfume, the soothing, heavy smell of tea and paint and wood. He thought of her flat in London and how he would like to settle against Eames’ broad shoulders and sleep.
“I would really like-“ She began and her eyelids fluttered down halfway, her hand skating over his tie, to the hem of his shirt. “I would really like you to fuck me now.” With determination she took his hand and pressed it against her hip, forced it up and down until finally he couldn’t help but breath out a rough chuckle. No panties, of course.
“I’m impressed by your complete lack of shame.”
“I’m impressed that you’re still impressed by this.”
Her cocky smirk - so Eames, so damn Eames - just did it for him.
Before Arthur could help himself he was leaning into her and kissing her full on her obscene mouth with her slender arms circling around his neck and throwing of the fedora- thank God! - in the process. Her lips were just like Eames’, full and plush and absolutely addictive, but he missed the burn of stubble. Her long, red fingernails scraping at his neck could only so much make up for that.
But he liked how she fitted so well against him and how his arms could almost circle her twice, how she uncrossed her legs and let him step in between and how sensitive she was, when he only breathed against her long, exposed neck line.
And still it was Eames, so much of Eames. Only Eames could pull of his forgeries like this. Or - only Eames could pull of his forgeries like this for him. For Arthur. Arthur appreciates how Eames is trying to be good for him.
It was so much of the man he worked and lived with, the man - if he dared to say so - he loved in her, in the way she shuddered against his every touch as he stroked her leg, up to her knee, over the cool fabric of her stockings, the laces of her garters.
Her mouth fell open in a soft O shape as his fingers found their way between her thighs and it’s fascinating how she is so unashamed to show her pleasure, how she is already impossibly wet and open for him when he brushes over her cunt.
With fascination Arthur watched, never dared to blink, working with the cold rigor of the suit-clad point man he was - never anything less but effective and precise in the way he worked her undone with her dress up to her broad hips and his index finger dipping in her damp cleft. Her pupils were beautifully blown, her fingers tangled loosely in the strands of his hair but still with that certain trace of a mischievous smile around the corner of her mouth.
»Oh, dear, you are too good at this.« It was just a tiny feminine whimper dropping from her lips and he rubbed over her clit again and again to hear it again and again until Eames’ dirty grey eyes closed, with the kajal smeared around them.
It was lovely how she pressed her thighs together as if she wanted to keep his hand there, with his two fingers roaming in her and his second hand sneaking up to cup hear firm breasts through the dress - no fucking bra, oh, Eames -, her small hard nipples willing to be squeezed between his thumb and index finger.
Arthur’s head was spinning, his blood roaring in his ears and her damn fucking feather always tickled his face and oh he wanted to own her. He wanted to own her like every part of Eames. He wanted to make her scream and cry and be the man she always dreamed of and more. He wanted to own her so badly and he bit down, one hard time, in her soft flesh and he swore silently.
Her cattish mewl licked its way into his ear and he didn’t even really realized how damn hard he was until she forced him into a sloppy, hungry kiss. Teeth clicking and her right hand stroking over his crotch, over his willing dick straining against his too expensive dream pants.
»Oh c’mon, darling, I know you want it.« She was purring against his mouth and fucked herself on his fingers, began to lift and lower her hips and just moaned, moaned his name so deliciously against his cheek. With a shrug the strap of her shoulder was gone and his hand touching her naked, soft breast. Her heart beating a steady, frantic rhythm against his fingertips.
His pants were shoved down with the self-confidence of a professional thief.
Hot waves ran up and down his back as the head of his cock touched her slippery wet cunt, eager to take him in and swallow him whole, much too easy compared to the hard rough push in reality when he was pressing Eames down into the mattress.
»Fuck, Eames.« The rush of adrenaline and lust hits him with the force of a seven-point-five-tonner. Her laughter was light and wanton.
Arthur was long past caring. Eames took him on crazy adventures. Eames showed him places and things and sensations, he never imagined. Eames had the power to make him so reckless, so powerful, so dangerous and so impossibly young again.
As if together they could just do anything. As if together they were the most powerful beings in the world. They were on top of the world together, burning money, burning bridges, crushing and rebuilding cities.
With other people - with Cobb - he could never be the one foolishly, insanely fucking during a job under the night sky of Chicago with projections in their neck, ready to pull the trigger or break their neck.
Arthur didn’t know what message Eames was sending him in this fragile form, with small arms circling his neck, long legs curling around his hips and with a mouth sucking his fingers clean until she had no choice but pant as if there was not enough air. Panted Arthur and Arthur and Arthur and Arthur and maybe a darling, oh, darling in between. And he just sucked on her skin, bit in her nipple and fucked her until he could hear the far distant ring of Non Je ne regrette rien.
They were perfect together.
(And Arthur loved the strong arms, the taste of cigarettes, the pattern of tattoos and the boyish broad smile.
He loves this man. Every part of him.)
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