Thing Goes Here
Pairings: Eames/Arthur
Original prompt: Eames convinces Arthur that it would be really hot if Arthur had a vibrator in him all day, and Arthur reluctantly agrees. Only to realize he's more sensitive than he thought.
Summary: During eight hours in the warehouse on an ill-advised bet, Arthur discovers that Eames is a man with no scruples.
9AM.
They're on a series of jobs that are more jokes than missions, quick and easy requests that Cobb takes on pro bono. "For teamwork building," he says. The targets are like sheep and the team is getting good practice. Once, they go four layers deep just for the hell of it, and Saito buys everyone a drink when they wake up. "Not that I don't buy you everything already," he says.
Eames is like a spoilt cat. He's well fed, he's having fun, and so naturally his thoughts turn to the only thing that's left.
"You want me to what?" asks Arthur, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.
"It's for research," says Eames.
"How is my sticking a vibrator up there going to help me with work?" asks Arthur.
"Makes perfect sense to me," says Eames. "Our target, down-low mistress to a major political figure. Think about it. You've got to get inside her head. What is it like to be her? All that dissembling, all that humiliation, all that-- keeping inside... of things."
"That is so tenuous," says Arthur.
"If you can keep it in the whole day long, I'll get us a hotel suite," says Eames. "Fresh sheets, Arthur. Voluminous pillows. Gold brocade everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Room service when you're too shagged out to move. A real life honest-to-god jacuzzi. Not like this dump we have here."
"I'm holding you to that," says Arthur, immediately. "This is going to be too easy."
"Oh, pet," says Eames.
+
10AM.
Arthur's face is carefully blank as he walks into the warehouse. But Eames is an actor. He observes things. He has the eye of a hawk and the libido of a rabbit. He notices the deliberate edge in Arthur's step -- like he's feeling his way, like he's learning how to move all over again -- and it gives him a private thrill to know what no one else does.
Yusuf is testing a new compound, fine-tuning the inner ear balance retention problem. He calls them over to the desk where he's arranged a rack full of liquids that look exactly the same. Eames falls back, into step with Arthur.
"Piece of cake," Arthur whispers to him.
And the smile on Arthur's face is cocky like it is on his best days, fearless and confident and completely, transparently fake. Eames chuckles, places a hand on the small of Arthur's back, sliding his hand in under the waistcoat. Arthur's skin is hot through his shirt.
"Really," says Eames.
"Really," says Arthur.
Slowly Eames rubs the swell of Arthur's ass, his touch light and fleeting, and Arthur's back snaps up straight like there's lightning down his spine. He freezes in place, feet rooted to the ground, perfectly still.
"Not as easy as you thought," says Eames.
+
11AM.
There is not much for Eames to do outside of dreamspace. He is already the best at what he does. He decides to rest on his laurels. Today, that means lounging on a lawn chair with his feet up on a box, watching Arthur from behind as he discusses the benefits of landscape tiling with Ariadne.
"You could try inverting the axes," says Arthur. "For example, say that the entire visual field is occupied by skyscrapers, and you loop the vertical space back on itself."
"But that would cause enormous problems with egress," says Ariadne. "You'd get on an elevator and never be able to get out."
In the entire world, only Arthur and Ariadne would find any of this remotely interesting. Eames lets their voices wash over him, concentrating instead on the stretch of Arthur's pants across his ass. He's wearing charcoal today, a dark grey-brown that verges on black and clings to his hips like sin. He shifts, the fabric shifts with him, and Eames' mouth goes dry.
Arthur gestures at something in the far corner of Ariadne's blueprints, and he bends over the desk, much further and much more languidly than is necessary. Oh, Christ, thinks Eames, he has got to be doing this on purpose. He can't tear his eyes away from the sight of Arthur's ass on display like that, held out in the air, and the thought of the vibrator plugging that perfect ass is almost too much to handle.
Two can play at that game. Eames sneaks a hand into his pocket and finds the remote control, switching the setting to "on" with a flick of his finger. It's only a brief moment before he turns it off again, but the damage is done. Arthur's knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the desk, and even through layers of fabric, Eames is pretty sure he sees Arthur's ass quiver and tighten around the vibrator.
"Are you all right, Arthur?" asks Ariadne. "You're all red."
"It's just-- a little hot in here," says Arthur. There's definitely a tremor in his voice, something barely noticeable, but it hints at slipping control. Eames grins.
"Wait, I've got it," exclaims Ariadne. "I could link the inside of the building to the outside and hide the seam with a penthouse! It's Belvedere! Of course!"
"Outstanding, Ari," says Eames, and claps.
+
NOON.
Cobb thinks they all need some fresh air, so they decide to find a nice quiet cafe instead of ordering Chinese. Saito won't go anywhere with auto traffic running right outside the door. Ariadne won't settle for weak coffee. Yusuf prefers a large dessert selection.
"Something light," says Arthur. "Go on ahead. I need to talk to Eames about our target's work relationships."
Now he's the one that falls back, into step with Eames.
"Hello, darling," says Eames. "How are you on this fine day?"
"That wasn't part of our deal," hisses Arthur. "You just said I had to keep it in. There was no agreement about turning it on."
"It's a vibrator," says Eames. "Turning it on is kind of the point."
"I was talking to Ariadne," says Arthur.
"I know," says Eames. "I was watching. Disappointed I couldn't see your face, though."
"What if she notices?" demands Arthur. "Eames, what if any one of them notices? How do I even begin to explain this?"
"Lighten up," says Eames-- and on a whim, he pulls back his hand and gives Arthur's ass a solid smack.
He has excellent whims. Arthur's eyes widen, a small gasp slips from parted lips, and he stops in place again with his hands clenched into fists. The rest of the team turns quizzically to look.
"Was that a slapping sound?" asks Yusuf.
"Where?" asks Arthur, and adds under his breath, "Eames, you morally bankrupt piece of shit."
+
1PM.
The strain is taking its toll on Arthur. It doesn't show to the casual observer, and everyone else is busy with their own plans and experiments, but Eames can tell that Arthur's entire body is being pushed to its absolute limit. Case in point; Arthur is minimizing all movement, curled up on a sofa and flipping through a stack of papers. He keeps returning to pages he's read before, and whenever he tries to change his posture, he hesitates, then gives up.
Oh, Arthur. So stubborn and so beautiful. Eames doesn't know why Arthur had taken him up on his offer at all, when it's obvious how responsive that pale body is, how weak to pleasure. Going a whole day must be close to torture, and every inch of Arthur's skin must be begging to be touched. Eames thinks of hardened nipples visible through thin dress shirts, and laments Arthur's fondness for three-piece suits.
The team gathers around the table, Cobb with his back turned, hovering over Ariadne's model of Washington as a labyrinth. Arthur has a faraway look in his eyes. Eames feels wicked, and when Arthur reaches out to examine a twisting paper building, he grabs him around the wrist, running a quick thumb over his racing pulse.
"Careful with that," says Eames.
"Don't touch me," snaps Arthur, snatching his hand back hastily.
"Hey," says Eames, and holds his hands up, palms outward in innocence. "Look, love, you need to relax. Who put the stick up your ass?"
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and turns brilliantly, fantastically red.
"I mean, I know I'm an ass," continues Eames, trying very hard to conceal his glee. "That's just the way I am. I'm an asshole. But you-- well, you can be such a tight-ass sometimes--"
"Eames," groans Arthur. It's supposed to be a reprimand but undeniable arousal creeps into the word, into the way he says his name, trailing off into sibilant seduction like honey to his ears. Eames feels his cock twitch. But he can't resist a final jab.
"Is that my phone ringing?" he says, cupping his ear. "Hard to tell. It's on vibrate."
+
2PM.
"My phone, it's on vibrate," says Arthur, quiet in an otherwise deserted corner of the warehouse. "Honestly."
"In my defense, there aren't a whole lot of ways you can use that word," says Eames. "How are you holding up, anyway? Still think it's doable?"
"That hotel suite is mine," says Arthur. His eyes are bright. Never likes to lose, thinks Eames. That's always Arthur's problem.
"Only a couple more hours left to go," says Eames.
"But seriously, you can't touch me," says Arthur. "That's cheating. It was a bet, but you didn't say you'd be trying to sabotage me the whole way through."
"I want you to win, Arthur," says Eames. "I also would love the opportunity to fuck in an extremely posh environment. But you have to understand--"
Eames moves in closer, putting his mouth to the edge of Arthur's ear, and murmurs,
"--it is very, very hard for me to keep my hands off of you."
The stacks of boxes all around them provide some cover. Eames takes the opportunity to steal a kiss, running the tip of his tongue along the top of Arthur's mouth, tasting the sigh that floats from Arthur's throat. It's Arthur that breaks the kiss first, his hands fisted in Eames' shirt, panting shallowly. His eyes flutter closed, a pretty flush staining his cheeks. He leans his head against the wall.
"God, I'm dizzy," says Arthur. "Can I-- am I allowed to go jerk off in the bathroom?"
"Of course not," says Eames. "But that's a great idea. Excuse me."
+
3PM.
It's getting to be almost as difficult for Eames as it is for Arthur. Eames sits on his lawn chair and ponders his next course of action. He's already gone and rubbed one out, thoughts of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur running through his mind, Arthur bent over every available surface, Arthur in the privacy of a stall sliding the slick vibrator into himself, Arthur undone and sprawled across a hotel bed.
But when he washes his hands and walks out, Arthur is there in real life, meticulously dressed and professional as always but everything about him is screaming fuck me out of my mind, Eames, tear this suit off me and fuck me straight into next Tuesday. The slight tremble in his long, graceful fingers. The indolent sway of his walk, so unlike his usual brisk business gait. The way he pauses in the middle of talking (to Cobb, to Saito, to Yusuf, to Ariadne, because he can't talk to Eames or he'd lose it altogether) to bite down on his bottom lip, the skin there momentarily paling, as he fights to keep down the noises that threaten to bubble out of him.
That mouth, thinks Eames. The blood rushes back to his lip when he lets go, and like in slow motion Eames watches him lick it wet, pink tongue darting out, and if it goes on like this Eames is going to have to take another trip to the bathroom.
As if on cue, Arthur says, "Excuse me, restroom break," and starts heading out.
"You better not be doing what I think you might be doing," says Eames.
"I don't know what you're talking about," says Arthur. "I'm just going to splash some water on my face. It's hot in here."
Just when Arthur is passing in front of him, Eames switches the vibrator on. Caught off guard, Arthur's knees buckle at the sudden stimulation, and he falls into Eames' arms, crumpling like paper. With one hand on Arthur's ass Eames can feel the movement of the vibrator inside him, and Arthur moans, broken and sweet, arching his back into the touch unconsciously.
"Arthur," shouts Ariadne. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You've been acting pretty strange."
"He'll be okay," Eames shouts back. "Just overworked."
"I'm fine," says Arthur, stumbling upright. He is a rather bad actor, especially when he is too flustered to think straight. Eames thinks that probably no one is fooled.
+
4PM.
Arthur gets the rest of the day off, though there's only an hour left. He spends it lying on his stomach on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing uneven. Eames watches him intently. From time to time he catches a shudder running through Arthur's body that makes Arthur knit his brows and bite his lip, hips tilting into the cushions.
One by one the team begins to leave. They glance in Arthur's direction worriedly as they say goodbye. Saito is the last to go, and as he checks for any stray belongings, he looks at Eames and mimes flipping a switch.
"Don't overdo it," he says, and walks out the door.
Saito is such an adult, thinks Eames, impressed.
The warehouse is empty now, only one dim light casting shadows across the floor. Eames sits down on the couch at Arthur's feet.
"By the way," says Arthur, "I hate you."
Instead of an answer Eames leans over and places a hand on Arthur's waist, slowly trailing lower, over the curve of his ass, down the inside of his thigh, coming to rest just above the back of his knee. Arthur jerks almost violently, moaning into the couch, fingers digging into the leather.
"How about that hotel?" asks Eames.
"Yes, that hotel, we're going," gasps Arthur. "Not today-- right now, just-- fuck me, fuck me now."
+
5PM.
Arthur lifts his hips as Eames undoes his belt for him, his fly, tugging his pants and boxers down to bare his ass.
"Congratulations," says Eames.
Arthur mutters something inaudible and hurriedly reaches behind him, and as Eames watches, he pushes two slender fingers into himself, and god, his moaning, it's all going straight to Eames' cock. Arthur somehow manages to guide the vibrator out, slippery and warm, and the excess lubricant drips down onto his thigh, leaving rivulets of liquid across skin.
"Are you going to fuck me or aren't you," says Arthur, turning his head to glare.
There's really no question about that. Eames undoes his own pants and frees his cock, almost painfully hard, and positions himself. Arthur yields easy beneath him, pliant after hours of being otherwise occupied with the vibrator, and he's hotter inside than he's ever been. It feels like they're melting where they meet. Eames grabs Arthur's hips and pushes himself in, thrusting faster and faster, angling for the right spot, and the sofa is sticky against their skin.
"God, you're amazing," says Eames, dropping kisses along the dip of Arthur's spine. He sits back against the armrest, and lifts Arthur up until he's kneeling in front of Eames, slick with sweat and fully impaled. His own weight pushes Arthur down and Eames' cock must brush against his prostate, because his ass tightens rhythmically, threatening to squeeze all the come from Eames, and his moaning, his moaning, it's shameless and desperate and it echoes around the empty room.
Arthur turns, this time to smile, his hair falling into his face. And he raises himself on his knees and slams back down, gasping, fucking himself on the cock inside him, and Eames is at a loss for words, watching his cock pump in and out of Arthur.
"Fuck," groans Eames. He fumbles with the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat, his shirt, goddammit why does Arthur have so many buttons, and he wraps his other hand around Arthur's cock. Finally Arthur's shirt slides off, and Eames sinks his teeth into the slope of a shoulder, and Arthur goes rigid before he is coming in spurts all over Eames' hand, and his ass closes in around Eames' cock and moves all around him and he's coming too, fuck, oh sweet Jesus.
Lungs burning, Eames catches Arthur just in time as he tips over backward, exhausted.
"Good idea, or best idea?" he asks Arthur.
"No," says Arthur weakly. "Just no."
"Except totally yes," says Eames.
"Except-- except no," says Arthur. "We're getting separate rooms at the hotel."
"Except totally just the one room," says Eames. "With just the one bed."
"Somehow," says Arthur, "you always win these arguments."
"It was good for you too, darling," says Eames. "Don't I know it."
Original prompt: Eames convinces Arthur that it would be really hot if Arthur had a vibrator in him all day, and Arthur reluctantly agrees. Only to realize he's more sensitive than he thought.
Summary: During eight hours in the warehouse on an ill-advised bet, Arthur discovers that Eames is a man with no scruples.
9AM.
They're on a series of jobs that are more jokes than missions, quick and easy requests that Cobb takes on pro bono. "For teamwork building," he says. The targets are like sheep and the team is getting good practice. Once, they go four layers deep just for the hell of it, and Saito buys everyone a drink when they wake up. "Not that I don't buy you everything already," he says.
Eames is like a spoilt cat. He's well fed, he's having fun, and so naturally his thoughts turn to the only thing that's left.
"You want me to what?" asks Arthur, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.
"It's for research," says Eames.
"How is my sticking a vibrator up there going to help me with work?" asks Arthur.
"Makes perfect sense to me," says Eames. "Our target, down-low mistress to a major political figure. Think about it. You've got to get inside her head. What is it like to be her? All that dissembling, all that humiliation, all that-- keeping inside... of things."
"That is so tenuous," says Arthur.
"If you can keep it in the whole day long, I'll get us a hotel suite," says Eames. "Fresh sheets, Arthur. Voluminous pillows. Gold brocade everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Room service when you're too shagged out to move. A real life honest-to-god jacuzzi. Not like this dump we have here."
"I'm holding you to that," says Arthur, immediately. "This is going to be too easy."
"Oh, pet," says Eames.
+
10AM.
Arthur's face is carefully blank as he walks into the warehouse. But Eames is an actor. He observes things. He has the eye of a hawk and the libido of a rabbit. He notices the deliberate edge in Arthur's step -- like he's feeling his way, like he's learning how to move all over again -- and it gives him a private thrill to know what no one else does.
Yusuf is testing a new compound, fine-tuning the inner ear balance retention problem. He calls them over to the desk where he's arranged a rack full of liquids that look exactly the same. Eames falls back, into step with Arthur.
"Piece of cake," Arthur whispers to him.
And the smile on Arthur's face is cocky like it is on his best days, fearless and confident and completely, transparently fake. Eames chuckles, places a hand on the small of Arthur's back, sliding his hand in under the waistcoat. Arthur's skin is hot through his shirt.
"Really," says Eames.
"Really," says Arthur.
Slowly Eames rubs the swell of Arthur's ass, his touch light and fleeting, and Arthur's back snaps up straight like there's lightning down his spine. He freezes in place, feet rooted to the ground, perfectly still.
"Not as easy as you thought," says Eames.
+
11AM.
There is not much for Eames to do outside of dreamspace. He is already the best at what he does. He decides to rest on his laurels. Today, that means lounging on a lawn chair with his feet up on a box, watching Arthur from behind as he discusses the benefits of landscape tiling with Ariadne.
"You could try inverting the axes," says Arthur. "For example, say that the entire visual field is occupied by skyscrapers, and you loop the vertical space back on itself."
"But that would cause enormous problems with egress," says Ariadne. "You'd get on an elevator and never be able to get out."
In the entire world, only Arthur and Ariadne would find any of this remotely interesting. Eames lets their voices wash over him, concentrating instead on the stretch of Arthur's pants across his ass. He's wearing charcoal today, a dark grey-brown that verges on black and clings to his hips like sin. He shifts, the fabric shifts with him, and Eames' mouth goes dry.
Arthur gestures at something in the far corner of Ariadne's blueprints, and he bends over the desk, much further and much more languidly than is necessary. Oh, Christ, thinks Eames, he has got to be doing this on purpose. He can't tear his eyes away from the sight of Arthur's ass on display like that, held out in the air, and the thought of the vibrator plugging that perfect ass is almost too much to handle.
Two can play at that game. Eames sneaks a hand into his pocket and finds the remote control, switching the setting to "on" with a flick of his finger. It's only a brief moment before he turns it off again, but the damage is done. Arthur's knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the desk, and even through layers of fabric, Eames is pretty sure he sees Arthur's ass quiver and tighten around the vibrator.
"Are you all right, Arthur?" asks Ariadne. "You're all red."
"It's just-- a little hot in here," says Arthur. There's definitely a tremor in his voice, something barely noticeable, but it hints at slipping control. Eames grins.
"Wait, I've got it," exclaims Ariadne. "I could link the inside of the building to the outside and hide the seam with a penthouse! It's Belvedere! Of course!"
"Outstanding, Ari," says Eames, and claps.
+
NOON.
Cobb thinks they all need some fresh air, so they decide to find a nice quiet cafe instead of ordering Chinese. Saito won't go anywhere with auto traffic running right outside the door. Ariadne won't settle for weak coffee. Yusuf prefers a large dessert selection.
"Something light," says Arthur. "Go on ahead. I need to talk to Eames about our target's work relationships."
Now he's the one that falls back, into step with Eames.
"Hello, darling," says Eames. "How are you on this fine day?"
"That wasn't part of our deal," hisses Arthur. "You just said I had to keep it in. There was no agreement about turning it on."
"It's a vibrator," says Eames. "Turning it on is kind of the point."
"I was talking to Ariadne," says Arthur.
"I know," says Eames. "I was watching. Disappointed I couldn't see your face, though."
"What if she notices?" demands Arthur. "Eames, what if any one of them notices? How do I even begin to explain this?"
"Lighten up," says Eames-- and on a whim, he pulls back his hand and gives Arthur's ass a solid smack.
He has excellent whims. Arthur's eyes widen, a small gasp slips from parted lips, and he stops in place again with his hands clenched into fists. The rest of the team turns quizzically to look.
"Was that a slapping sound?" asks Yusuf.
"Where?" asks Arthur, and adds under his breath, "Eames, you morally bankrupt piece of shit."
+
1PM.
The strain is taking its toll on Arthur. It doesn't show to the casual observer, and everyone else is busy with their own plans and experiments, but Eames can tell that Arthur's entire body is being pushed to its absolute limit. Case in point; Arthur is minimizing all movement, curled up on a sofa and flipping through a stack of papers. He keeps returning to pages he's read before, and whenever he tries to change his posture, he hesitates, then gives up.
Oh, Arthur. So stubborn and so beautiful. Eames doesn't know why Arthur had taken him up on his offer at all, when it's obvious how responsive that pale body is, how weak to pleasure. Going a whole day must be close to torture, and every inch of Arthur's skin must be begging to be touched. Eames thinks of hardened nipples visible through thin dress shirts, and laments Arthur's fondness for three-piece suits.
The team gathers around the table, Cobb with his back turned, hovering over Ariadne's model of Washington as a labyrinth. Arthur has a faraway look in his eyes. Eames feels wicked, and when Arthur reaches out to examine a twisting paper building, he grabs him around the wrist, running a quick thumb over his racing pulse.
"Careful with that," says Eames.
"Don't touch me," snaps Arthur, snatching his hand back hastily.
"Hey," says Eames, and holds his hands up, palms outward in innocence. "Look, love, you need to relax. Who put the stick up your ass?"
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and turns brilliantly, fantastically red.
"I mean, I know I'm an ass," continues Eames, trying very hard to conceal his glee. "That's just the way I am. I'm an asshole. But you-- well, you can be such a tight-ass sometimes--"
"Eames," groans Arthur. It's supposed to be a reprimand but undeniable arousal creeps into the word, into the way he says his name, trailing off into sibilant seduction like honey to his ears. Eames feels his cock twitch. But he can't resist a final jab.
"Is that my phone ringing?" he says, cupping his ear. "Hard to tell. It's on vibrate."
+
2PM.
"My phone, it's on vibrate," says Arthur, quiet in an otherwise deserted corner of the warehouse. "Honestly."
"In my defense, there aren't a whole lot of ways you can use that word," says Eames. "How are you holding up, anyway? Still think it's doable?"
"That hotel suite is mine," says Arthur. His eyes are bright. Never likes to lose, thinks Eames. That's always Arthur's problem.
"Only a couple more hours left to go," says Eames.
"But seriously, you can't touch me," says Arthur. "That's cheating. It was a bet, but you didn't say you'd be trying to sabotage me the whole way through."
"I want you to win, Arthur," says Eames. "I also would love the opportunity to fuck in an extremely posh environment. But you have to understand--"
Eames moves in closer, putting his mouth to the edge of Arthur's ear, and murmurs,
"--it is very, very hard for me to keep my hands off of you."
The stacks of boxes all around them provide some cover. Eames takes the opportunity to steal a kiss, running the tip of his tongue along the top of Arthur's mouth, tasting the sigh that floats from Arthur's throat. It's Arthur that breaks the kiss first, his hands fisted in Eames' shirt, panting shallowly. His eyes flutter closed, a pretty flush staining his cheeks. He leans his head against the wall.
"God, I'm dizzy," says Arthur. "Can I-- am I allowed to go jerk off in the bathroom?"
"Of course not," says Eames. "But that's a great idea. Excuse me."
+
3PM.
It's getting to be almost as difficult for Eames as it is for Arthur. Eames sits on his lawn chair and ponders his next course of action. He's already gone and rubbed one out, thoughts of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur running through his mind, Arthur bent over every available surface, Arthur in the privacy of a stall sliding the slick vibrator into himself, Arthur undone and sprawled across a hotel bed.
But when he washes his hands and walks out, Arthur is there in real life, meticulously dressed and professional as always but everything about him is screaming fuck me out of my mind, Eames, tear this suit off me and fuck me straight into next Tuesday. The slight tremble in his long, graceful fingers. The indolent sway of his walk, so unlike his usual brisk business gait. The way he pauses in the middle of talking (to Cobb, to Saito, to Yusuf, to Ariadne, because he can't talk to Eames or he'd lose it altogether) to bite down on his bottom lip, the skin there momentarily paling, as he fights to keep down the noises that threaten to bubble out of him.
That mouth, thinks Eames. The blood rushes back to his lip when he lets go, and like in slow motion Eames watches him lick it wet, pink tongue darting out, and if it goes on like this Eames is going to have to take another trip to the bathroom.
As if on cue, Arthur says, "Excuse me, restroom break," and starts heading out.
"You better not be doing what I think you might be doing," says Eames.
"I don't know what you're talking about," says Arthur. "I'm just going to splash some water on my face. It's hot in here."
Just when Arthur is passing in front of him, Eames switches the vibrator on. Caught off guard, Arthur's knees buckle at the sudden stimulation, and he falls into Eames' arms, crumpling like paper. With one hand on Arthur's ass Eames can feel the movement of the vibrator inside him, and Arthur moans, broken and sweet, arching his back into the touch unconsciously.
"Arthur," shouts Ariadne. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? You've been acting pretty strange."
"He'll be okay," Eames shouts back. "Just overworked."
"I'm fine," says Arthur, stumbling upright. He is a rather bad actor, especially when he is too flustered to think straight. Eames thinks that probably no one is fooled.
+
4PM.
Arthur gets the rest of the day off, though there's only an hour left. He spends it lying on his stomach on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing uneven. Eames watches him intently. From time to time he catches a shudder running through Arthur's body that makes Arthur knit his brows and bite his lip, hips tilting into the cushions.
One by one the team begins to leave. They glance in Arthur's direction worriedly as they say goodbye. Saito is the last to go, and as he checks for any stray belongings, he looks at Eames and mimes flipping a switch.
"Don't overdo it," he says, and walks out the door.
Saito is such an adult, thinks Eames, impressed.
The warehouse is empty now, only one dim light casting shadows across the floor. Eames sits down on the couch at Arthur's feet.
"By the way," says Arthur, "I hate you."
Instead of an answer Eames leans over and places a hand on Arthur's waist, slowly trailing lower, over the curve of his ass, down the inside of his thigh, coming to rest just above the back of his knee. Arthur jerks almost violently, moaning into the couch, fingers digging into the leather.
"How about that hotel?" asks Eames.
"Yes, that hotel, we're going," gasps Arthur. "Not today-- right now, just-- fuck me, fuck me now."
+
5PM.
Arthur lifts his hips as Eames undoes his belt for him, his fly, tugging his pants and boxers down to bare his ass.
"Congratulations," says Eames.
Arthur mutters something inaudible and hurriedly reaches behind him, and as Eames watches, he pushes two slender fingers into himself, and god, his moaning, it's all going straight to Eames' cock. Arthur somehow manages to guide the vibrator out, slippery and warm, and the excess lubricant drips down onto his thigh, leaving rivulets of liquid across skin.
"Are you going to fuck me or aren't you," says Arthur, turning his head to glare.
There's really no question about that. Eames undoes his own pants and frees his cock, almost painfully hard, and positions himself. Arthur yields easy beneath him, pliant after hours of being otherwise occupied with the vibrator, and he's hotter inside than he's ever been. It feels like they're melting where they meet. Eames grabs Arthur's hips and pushes himself in, thrusting faster and faster, angling for the right spot, and the sofa is sticky against their skin.
"God, you're amazing," says Eames, dropping kisses along the dip of Arthur's spine. He sits back against the armrest, and lifts Arthur up until he's kneeling in front of Eames, slick with sweat and fully impaled. His own weight pushes Arthur down and Eames' cock must brush against his prostate, because his ass tightens rhythmically, threatening to squeeze all the come from Eames, and his moaning, his moaning, it's shameless and desperate and it echoes around the empty room.
Arthur turns, this time to smile, his hair falling into his face. And he raises himself on his knees and slams back down, gasping, fucking himself on the cock inside him, and Eames is at a loss for words, watching his cock pump in and out of Arthur.
"Fuck," groans Eames. He fumbles with the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat, his shirt, goddammit why does Arthur have so many buttons, and he wraps his other hand around Arthur's cock. Finally Arthur's shirt slides off, and Eames sinks his teeth into the slope of a shoulder, and Arthur goes rigid before he is coming in spurts all over Eames' hand, and his ass closes in around Eames' cock and moves all around him and he's coming too, fuck, oh sweet Jesus.
Lungs burning, Eames catches Arthur just in time as he tips over backward, exhausted.
"Good idea, or best idea?" he asks Arthur.
"No," says Arthur weakly. "Just no."
"Except totally yes," says Eames.
"Except-- except no," says Arthur. "We're getting separate rooms at the hotel."
"Except totally just the one room," says Eames. "With just the one bed."
"Somehow," says Arthur, "you always win these arguments."
"It was good for you too, darling," says Eames. "Don't I know it."