title: men prefer schoolgirls
title: men prefer schoolgirls
pairing: eames/arthur
rating: R
disclaimer: don't own them, just borrowing.
word count: 3079
summary: eames learned all his useful skills about being a woman back when he was young and could still pass for a drag queen in the bars of london. and that's where arthur first meets sammy.
notes: thanks to my wonderful beta, old_blueeyes! Also, this is dedicated to smilingskull because a talk about eames & this picture is half-why this fic exists.
At nineteen, Arthur is convinced to go to London with his friends - persons that are few and far between for him. Most people have just begun their college experience, but Arthur is not most people. He’s about to finish and two friends - Rory and Andrew - insist that they should go over the pond and enjoy the relaxed drinking age, the biting dampness of the weather, and the way the world walks on the other side.
Arthur agrees and is intent on learning the country’s history and its story through his vacation there. How he’s ended up at a bar is the fault of the other two, he would insist upon torture.
They’ve ended up in a bar near Leicester Square named Henry the VIII. This had not been on his neat and careful list of ‘things to be done in London’. Andrew’s already found himself a little blonde and they’re snugly tucked away in the corner exchanging ‘life stories’ (though from where Arthur sits, it looks more like saliva). Rory bought Arthur a shot and then disappeared in the vague direction of the bathroom (probably for a drug deal, as far as Arthur’s concerned).
This leaves Arthur alone.
He’s never minded being alone. If he’s fair, he prefers it. No need to dumb himself down to match the common denominator, no need to go along with what others like to do. He sniffs at the shot - jager and vodka - and sets it aside to ask for a glass of red wine from the bartender. Even at nineteen, he dresses like a thirty year old accountant, or so his friends say. He’s wearing a skinny tie, black slacks, and a good suit jacket.
This only matters because of what happens next.
“This isn’t the stock exchange,” a voice whispers in his ear, smoky and low, rough with possibilities. Arthur has to adjust his trousers slightly when the combination of that voice and the proximity of a person makes him exhale shakily and turn to see who’s speaking to him. There’s a woman there, no more than two feet away in a pleated skirt and sweatervest, black heels seemingly impossible in their height. “What are you doing in a suit like that?” she asks, delight ringing out in her words.
She’s a local, that much Arthur can tell by her accent. He breathes deeply again as he thinks once more of that voice. It’s feminine, the laugh certainly is - a man has just bought her a drink, she laughs and refuses, eyes on Arthur saying she already has prospects - but there’s a growl to it that gives it timbre and a unique quality.
Arthur takes his time studying her while she leans over the counter for her drink. The heels are still obscene, but the outfit is just borderline school-girl, just enough to give Arthur the seedlings of a new fantasy. He can see buttons undone of her shirt before the sweatervest comes into play. She’s not very well-endowed, but she’s amended her posture to create the illusion that she is. And the skirt, god, the skirt. It’s incredibly short and there are long legs on display that lead up to that tucked-in tiny waist. Arthur sucks in a breath before he realizes he’s doing it, finally turning his attention to her face once more. It shimmers with gold and green makeup around blue-gray eyes and the way she wears her black hair - two braids meeting at the back, tucking it away from her face.
It’s not any of that he really lingers on.
That would be the fullest pair of lips he’s ever seen in his life, painted with shimmering pink lipstick.
“What’s your name?” Arthur chokes out after paying the bartender for her drink as he seems to have been expected to do.
“Sammy,” she replies with a brilliant grin, hooking her fingers - nails painted orange - in his beltloops and tugging Arthur closer until their hips are brushing. “What’s with the suit?”
“I like to be well-dressed.”
Sammy grins at him and sips her drink, almost playing with him as to whether or not she’s going to lean in and do something like kiss him. Arthur checks around the bar to see if Rory or Andrew are watching this. He’s never been the type to ever pull a girl, but he’s never met a girl like this before either. “I think I like that in a man,” says Sammy before she starts to make pink marks on his neck, wielding those full lips like a weapon.
He finds them a quiet booth where they talk and she pries off her shoes and rests her feet in his lap. She’s from the area, has a flat nearby, she likes to draw - she sketches him a profile picture of his face on a napkin and it really is very good - and, she confesses with a bright grin, she has quick fingers.
“Arthur!” Andrew shouts over the bar two hours later. “Arthur, we have to go!”
Arthur turns to look at Sammy - who has migrated almost completely into his lap and by accident, Arthur’s fingers had brushed at the waistband of lace underwear when she’d shifted to grasp a new napkin, scribbling down her number on it. “Will you be here tomorrow?” Arthur asks, suddenly, desperately hoping.
“I’m here every night,” Sammy promises and leans in to brush a kiss to Arthur’s neck. Arthur gets the briefest of glimpses at the collar of her shirt rubbing against a hickey he’d given her earlier in the evening.
*
The next night, she’s wearing a tie under the sweatervest and her skirt is maroon.
Arthur bypasses all the other people in the bar and goes straight to her, ordering her a neat scotch - taking just a moment to marvel at how refreshing it is to see a woman who appreciates a good drink. She plays with his neck with her long fingers while he orders, dragging her index finger down the scratch and bite marks littered amongst the hickeys. “You look good a little marked up,” she purrs, accepting the drink with a quiet ‘thanks’ as Arthur navigates them through the bar to sit in their booth.
They talk again for hours and tonight Arthur learns about Sammy’s parents - they both love her, they’re both local, and she’s an only child. When the bar gets noisier and people begin to flood to a dance floor, they kiss. Arthur slides his hand under her shirt, but gets stopped with a firm hand on his wrist.
“No,” is all she says.
Arthur’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but he moves his hand up to her cheek instead and settles for kissing until she pushes a hand into his pants, thumb daring to descend past his briefs and rub against his cock. He inhales sharply, breath catching in his throat as he tries to get away, but she’s faster than him and has an arm there that simply draws him back.
“People will see,” he gets out snippily - the return of Arthur the Priss, as Andrew and Rory always called him.
Sammy simply cuts him down with one look. “People are too busy to give a shit, darling,” she says right back, sharp as new knives. She bites down on her lower lip with focus and concentration as she shifts closer and kisses him, distraction while she slides her full palm down into his trousers with aplomb, bringing him off as she sweetly kisses him - such a diametric opposite to what’s going on below the waist.
She at least knows enough to ease off when he’s close - too close - and shares a knowing and chastising look with him. “Do you think I would really notice those suits of yours and not know you wouldn’t ever want to ruin them?” She hooks her thumb in the direction of the washroom. “Over there. Don’t be more than five minutes, a girl gets lonely.”
Arthur bites back the comment that a girl who looks like she does would never be lonely.
He’s back in three minutes, sweat on his brow, a glazed look in his eyes. She welcomes him back to the booth and crawls right back into his lap. They spend the night with her arms around his neck exchanging lazy kisses until the lights come up and she tells him she had the time of her life.
*
The last time he sees her, she’s outside of the bar smoking a cigarette and is wearing a pair of jeans and a thick jacket to ward off the cold London weather. Her boots have four-inch heels and her hair is in loose and ragged waves. Her makeup is demure, but her lips are sinful as ever. It’s appropriate for the hour of the day and Arthur is just glad that she came when he called.
“I’m leaving,” is all he says.
He’s not sure what he expected, but all Sammy does is smile at him, lean in, and kiss him on his cheek. “Don’t put that degree of yours to waste,” she murmurs, fondly stroking his cheek with her other hand. “And use that brilliant mind of yours for something fun.” Arthur gets one last kiss before she vanishes into tourist-crowded London streets and Arthur leaves to make it to Heathrow in time for his flight.
He tries to dismiss the notion of falling in love with someone he only knew for a week and whom he had only ever kissed and gotten one incredible handjob from.
He eventually rationalizes that no one has to know he did and he can love as he pleases.
*
The first time Arthur and Eames work together, it’s such a gong show that they barely have time to even speak to each other if it’s not, “would you shoot him in the head a little faster?” and “go, go, go, get out, go!” before the dream is collapsing and they have to split apart in different directions to opposed corners of the world to avoid being caught.
The second time Arthur and Eames work together, Arthur finds out why this is the best and worst possible thing to ever happen in his entire life.
*
The thing is, how was Arthur to know?
“Arthur,” Eames announces with great pleasure, crooking his fingers in the vague direction of himself. “Come here, give us a kiss.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies curtly.
The thing is, Eames is bulky. He’s a forger who can take care of himself. His neck is thick, his shoulders broad, and his legs have got real strength to them. There are tattoos littered all over his chest, as if a warning that Eames is not to be messed with. That’s the thing and that’s what Arthur is sticking to when people ask him how he couldn’t know. Eames seems to drop the issue when Cobb comes into the room and starts discussing the plan.
“We’re going to need to distract him in reality while we do some research,” Cobb is saying as they meet the midpoint of the meeting. “Eames?”
“I can…” he starts, but soon enough is drifting off as if he’s trying to search through his mind to figure out what he can do.
“What about that drag act of yours?” Cobb offers when Eames seems to be fumbling for another idea. The mark needs to be distracted for a good hour and the little bump-and-thieve move that Eames is so good at only lasts fifteen minutes at best. “Think you could keep his attention that way?”
“Dominic Cobb,” Eames laments. “That was forty pounds and six tattoos ago. No one would believe me anymore.”
And then he turns and blows a kiss to Arthur with full-lips and Arthur falls out of his improperly-balance chair.
He tries not to think about Eames hovering over him and asking if he’s okay. He ignores Cobb’s flash of worry. He’s more than grateful that Mal is off starting to assemble the pieces of their plan and hadn’t been present for Arthur’s sudden epiphany.
--full lips, never let him touch under the shirt, ‘I don’t really do boyfriends,’ says Sammy as she pouts at him, the fucking inception of his schoolgirl fantasy, the mischievous look in her eyes, how something had always been off and Arthur had just taken it as her being different--
“You asshole,” Arthur growls out, grabbing hold of Eames’ extended hand to get him to his feet. Once he’s stable, he doesn’t hesitate in swinging for the fences. In this case, he lands a punch with Eames’ jaw, much to Cobb’s dismay.
“Hey!” Cobb shouts. “Petty quarrels on your own time.”
Arthur’s still trying to figure out how to phrase ‘I fell in love with Eames twelve years ago’ and not make it sound whiny and…well, petty. He at least takes a degree of satisfaction in the fact that Eames’ face looks like it might bruise. He sets his jaw and turns back to the research as he decides that the higher road is the best path.
*
Eames is waiting for him with the PASIV when Arthur gets back to his hotel room. Arthur shouldn’t be surprised. He takes his time taking off his coat, shaking it out for lint or dust particles, and grasps a hanger, all in the time before he even acknowledges Eames is there. He’s loosening his tie before he asks ‘what are you doing here?’
“Come, Arthur,” Eames coaxes, holding up one of the lines. “It’s been twelve years. You might as well unwrap the present.”
It’s possibly sick fascination driving him forward or maybe twelve-years of repressed emotions that makes him take up the line, lets Eames disinfect both their wrists for them, and slips under. They’re back at Henry the VIII in this dream, though it’s filled with faces that belong to Arthur’s subconscious - his second cousin in the back is currently sliding his fingers all over Arthur’s high school sweetheart, a suspicion he’s long harboured about the two of them getting together manifesting in projection form.
Through the crowd, he searches for Eames, not sure if he’s here to unwrap his gift, so to speak, or whether he just wants to shoot Eames.
He finds Eames at their booth, looking thin and beautiful with red lipstick on his lips, making him look brazen.
“Sammy?”
“Mm,” Eames murmurs, voice slightly lower-pitched then he used to use, but it’s got just a hint of femininity to it, so the illusion can be complete. “Anagram. Men love to assume it means Samantha. Blokes love Samanthas,” he murmurs, crossing his legs smoothly.
Arthur catalogues all the aspects, taking his time to notice things he didn’t when he was young and foolish. “You shaved for this. Impeccably.”
“Love, I sometimes waxed,” Eames agrees with a grin. “Being a thief and a con artist is easy. I’m the best at forging in dreams because I can do men and women both. And that,” he says, pert and simple, hands in his lap, “is because I used to be a damn good drag queen.” He crooks his fingers closer. “Come take off the vest, Arthur. I know you wanted to back then. I practically had to restrain your wrists trying to stop you.”
It’s not entirely a lie, either. Arthur had started to wonder at times whether or not he was being passively rejected by being denied access under the clothes.
“This is all too surreal,” he announces aloud because a thought like that doesn’t deserve to waste away in his mind alone. Still, he goes, and ends up in Eames’ lap, prying off the sweatervest and the skinny tie, unbuttoning the white shirt to reveal a bra with small gel pads inside. “Were these here every time?”
“Every time,” Eames agrees.
Arthur slides the shirt off, unhooks the bra once he sets the gels on the table, and turns to unzipping the pleated plaid skirt - green and grey, one that Sammy had worn the third night. He can’t quite stop the guttural moan that’s elicited when he realizes that Eames is wearing a lace-ridged, silk thong and nothing else under the skirt.
“Oh, fuck,” is all Arthur gets out.
Eames reclines back against the booth’s seats, arms spanning the space like wings. He smirks, languid and content, and Arthur can’t stop staring at the red lipstick on his lips, the wig, the eyes, his cock straining against a slip of underwear. “Did you fall in love with my darling female counterpart, Arthur?” This moment is so obscene that Arthur is worried that his projections may be moments away from realizing this is essentially the beginning of a porn film.
“She drank scotch neat, wore amazing suit jackets, and turned me on like I never realized was possible,” Arthur confesses, as he slowly vanishes under the table, nudging the thong to the side with two fingers and taking Eames deep in his mouth, lips a firm pressure against the head of Eames’ cock before he eases away and looks up the remaining distance as his knees begin to get sticky from beer and wine spilled on the floor. “You’re responsible for my schoolgirl kink.”
“Mm,” is all Eames has to say to that, pleased as anything. He tips his head back and the trailing hairs of the wig fall down his bare back, brushing against his spine. His lips are parted and Arthur takes Eames in his mouth again and wonders what he’d have done if he knew this back then.
When Eames comes, Arthur swallows and resurfaces, perches between Eames’ thighs and tries to reconcile the woman he knew with the man he knows now.
When they awaken from the dream, Arthur looks Eames over with his added weight, his stubble, and his ungodly mismatched menswear.
“Do you still have the thong and the heels somewhere?” Arthur gets out, slightly breathless.
“Back in my flat in London.”
Arthur nods, sliding away the lines into the PASIV and begins to make plans. He’s good at plans. “I’ll make sure and get us tickets for when the job is over.”
The resulting smile on those full lips is worth any lingering irritation. The ensuing pleasure at imagining those lips on his cock does the trick of silencing that irritation for good. He’s on the phone making arrangements within seconds, pushing thoughts of silk and skirts out of his mind.
At least, for now.
pairing: eames/arthur
rating: R
disclaimer: don't own them, just borrowing.
word count: 3079
summary: eames learned all his useful skills about being a woman back when he was young and could still pass for a drag queen in the bars of london. and that's where arthur first meets sammy.
notes: thanks to my wonderful beta, old_blueeyes! Also, this is dedicated to smilingskull because a talk about eames & this picture is half-why this fic exists.
At nineteen, Arthur is convinced to go to London with his friends - persons that are few and far between for him. Most people have just begun their college experience, but Arthur is not most people. He’s about to finish and two friends - Rory and Andrew - insist that they should go over the pond and enjoy the relaxed drinking age, the biting dampness of the weather, and the way the world walks on the other side.
Arthur agrees and is intent on learning the country’s history and its story through his vacation there. How he’s ended up at a bar is the fault of the other two, he would insist upon torture.
They’ve ended up in a bar near Leicester Square named Henry the VIII. This had not been on his neat and careful list of ‘things to be done in London’. Andrew’s already found himself a little blonde and they’re snugly tucked away in the corner exchanging ‘life stories’ (though from where Arthur sits, it looks more like saliva). Rory bought Arthur a shot and then disappeared in the vague direction of the bathroom (probably for a drug deal, as far as Arthur’s concerned).
This leaves Arthur alone.
He’s never minded being alone. If he’s fair, he prefers it. No need to dumb himself down to match the common denominator, no need to go along with what others like to do. He sniffs at the shot - jager and vodka - and sets it aside to ask for a glass of red wine from the bartender. Even at nineteen, he dresses like a thirty year old accountant, or so his friends say. He’s wearing a skinny tie, black slacks, and a good suit jacket.
This only matters because of what happens next.
“This isn’t the stock exchange,” a voice whispers in his ear, smoky and low, rough with possibilities. Arthur has to adjust his trousers slightly when the combination of that voice and the proximity of a person makes him exhale shakily and turn to see who’s speaking to him. There’s a woman there, no more than two feet away in a pleated skirt and sweatervest, black heels seemingly impossible in their height. “What are you doing in a suit like that?” she asks, delight ringing out in her words.
She’s a local, that much Arthur can tell by her accent. He breathes deeply again as he thinks once more of that voice. It’s feminine, the laugh certainly is - a man has just bought her a drink, she laughs and refuses, eyes on Arthur saying she already has prospects - but there’s a growl to it that gives it timbre and a unique quality.
Arthur takes his time studying her while she leans over the counter for her drink. The heels are still obscene, but the outfit is just borderline school-girl, just enough to give Arthur the seedlings of a new fantasy. He can see buttons undone of her shirt before the sweatervest comes into play. She’s not very well-endowed, but she’s amended her posture to create the illusion that she is. And the skirt, god, the skirt. It’s incredibly short and there are long legs on display that lead up to that tucked-in tiny waist. Arthur sucks in a breath before he realizes he’s doing it, finally turning his attention to her face once more. It shimmers with gold and green makeup around blue-gray eyes and the way she wears her black hair - two braids meeting at the back, tucking it away from her face.
It’s not any of that he really lingers on.
That would be the fullest pair of lips he’s ever seen in his life, painted with shimmering pink lipstick.
“What’s your name?” Arthur chokes out after paying the bartender for her drink as he seems to have been expected to do.
“Sammy,” she replies with a brilliant grin, hooking her fingers - nails painted orange - in his beltloops and tugging Arthur closer until their hips are brushing. “What’s with the suit?”
“I like to be well-dressed.”
Sammy grins at him and sips her drink, almost playing with him as to whether or not she’s going to lean in and do something like kiss him. Arthur checks around the bar to see if Rory or Andrew are watching this. He’s never been the type to ever pull a girl, but he’s never met a girl like this before either. “I think I like that in a man,” says Sammy before she starts to make pink marks on his neck, wielding those full lips like a weapon.
He finds them a quiet booth where they talk and she pries off her shoes and rests her feet in his lap. She’s from the area, has a flat nearby, she likes to draw - she sketches him a profile picture of his face on a napkin and it really is very good - and, she confesses with a bright grin, she has quick fingers.
“Arthur!” Andrew shouts over the bar two hours later. “Arthur, we have to go!”
Arthur turns to look at Sammy - who has migrated almost completely into his lap and by accident, Arthur’s fingers had brushed at the waistband of lace underwear when she’d shifted to grasp a new napkin, scribbling down her number on it. “Will you be here tomorrow?” Arthur asks, suddenly, desperately hoping.
“I’m here every night,” Sammy promises and leans in to brush a kiss to Arthur’s neck. Arthur gets the briefest of glimpses at the collar of her shirt rubbing against a hickey he’d given her earlier in the evening.
*
The next night, she’s wearing a tie under the sweatervest and her skirt is maroon.
Arthur bypasses all the other people in the bar and goes straight to her, ordering her a neat scotch - taking just a moment to marvel at how refreshing it is to see a woman who appreciates a good drink. She plays with his neck with her long fingers while he orders, dragging her index finger down the scratch and bite marks littered amongst the hickeys. “You look good a little marked up,” she purrs, accepting the drink with a quiet ‘thanks’ as Arthur navigates them through the bar to sit in their booth.
They talk again for hours and tonight Arthur learns about Sammy’s parents - they both love her, they’re both local, and she’s an only child. When the bar gets noisier and people begin to flood to a dance floor, they kiss. Arthur slides his hand under her shirt, but gets stopped with a firm hand on his wrist.
“No,” is all she says.
Arthur’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but he moves his hand up to her cheek instead and settles for kissing until she pushes a hand into his pants, thumb daring to descend past his briefs and rub against his cock. He inhales sharply, breath catching in his throat as he tries to get away, but she’s faster than him and has an arm there that simply draws him back.
“People will see,” he gets out snippily - the return of Arthur the Priss, as Andrew and Rory always called him.
Sammy simply cuts him down with one look. “People are too busy to give a shit, darling,” she says right back, sharp as new knives. She bites down on her lower lip with focus and concentration as she shifts closer and kisses him, distraction while she slides her full palm down into his trousers with aplomb, bringing him off as she sweetly kisses him - such a diametric opposite to what’s going on below the waist.
She at least knows enough to ease off when he’s close - too close - and shares a knowing and chastising look with him. “Do you think I would really notice those suits of yours and not know you wouldn’t ever want to ruin them?” She hooks her thumb in the direction of the washroom. “Over there. Don’t be more than five minutes, a girl gets lonely.”
Arthur bites back the comment that a girl who looks like she does would never be lonely.
He’s back in three minutes, sweat on his brow, a glazed look in his eyes. She welcomes him back to the booth and crawls right back into his lap. They spend the night with her arms around his neck exchanging lazy kisses until the lights come up and she tells him she had the time of her life.
*
The last time he sees her, she’s outside of the bar smoking a cigarette and is wearing a pair of jeans and a thick jacket to ward off the cold London weather. Her boots have four-inch heels and her hair is in loose and ragged waves. Her makeup is demure, but her lips are sinful as ever. It’s appropriate for the hour of the day and Arthur is just glad that she came when he called.
“I’m leaving,” is all he says.
He’s not sure what he expected, but all Sammy does is smile at him, lean in, and kiss him on his cheek. “Don’t put that degree of yours to waste,” she murmurs, fondly stroking his cheek with her other hand. “And use that brilliant mind of yours for something fun.” Arthur gets one last kiss before she vanishes into tourist-crowded London streets and Arthur leaves to make it to Heathrow in time for his flight.
He tries to dismiss the notion of falling in love with someone he only knew for a week and whom he had only ever kissed and gotten one incredible handjob from.
He eventually rationalizes that no one has to know he did and he can love as he pleases.
*
The first time Arthur and Eames work together, it’s such a gong show that they barely have time to even speak to each other if it’s not, “would you shoot him in the head a little faster?” and “go, go, go, get out, go!” before the dream is collapsing and they have to split apart in different directions to opposed corners of the world to avoid being caught.
The second time Arthur and Eames work together, Arthur finds out why this is the best and worst possible thing to ever happen in his entire life.
*
The thing is, how was Arthur to know?
“Arthur,” Eames announces with great pleasure, crooking his fingers in the vague direction of himself. “Come here, give us a kiss.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies curtly.
The thing is, Eames is bulky. He’s a forger who can take care of himself. His neck is thick, his shoulders broad, and his legs have got real strength to them. There are tattoos littered all over his chest, as if a warning that Eames is not to be messed with. That’s the thing and that’s what Arthur is sticking to when people ask him how he couldn’t know. Eames seems to drop the issue when Cobb comes into the room and starts discussing the plan.
“We’re going to need to distract him in reality while we do some research,” Cobb is saying as they meet the midpoint of the meeting. “Eames?”
“I can…” he starts, but soon enough is drifting off as if he’s trying to search through his mind to figure out what he can do.
“What about that drag act of yours?” Cobb offers when Eames seems to be fumbling for another idea. The mark needs to be distracted for a good hour and the little bump-and-thieve move that Eames is so good at only lasts fifteen minutes at best. “Think you could keep his attention that way?”
“Dominic Cobb,” Eames laments. “That was forty pounds and six tattoos ago. No one would believe me anymore.”
And then he turns and blows a kiss to Arthur with full-lips and Arthur falls out of his improperly-balance chair.
He tries not to think about Eames hovering over him and asking if he’s okay. He ignores Cobb’s flash of worry. He’s more than grateful that Mal is off starting to assemble the pieces of their plan and hadn’t been present for Arthur’s sudden epiphany.
--full lips, never let him touch under the shirt, ‘I don’t really do boyfriends,’ says Sammy as she pouts at him, the fucking inception of his schoolgirl fantasy, the mischievous look in her eyes, how something had always been off and Arthur had just taken it as her being different--
“You asshole,” Arthur growls out, grabbing hold of Eames’ extended hand to get him to his feet. Once he’s stable, he doesn’t hesitate in swinging for the fences. In this case, he lands a punch with Eames’ jaw, much to Cobb’s dismay.
“Hey!” Cobb shouts. “Petty quarrels on your own time.”
Arthur’s still trying to figure out how to phrase ‘I fell in love with Eames twelve years ago’ and not make it sound whiny and…well, petty. He at least takes a degree of satisfaction in the fact that Eames’ face looks like it might bruise. He sets his jaw and turns back to the research as he decides that the higher road is the best path.
*
Eames is waiting for him with the PASIV when Arthur gets back to his hotel room. Arthur shouldn’t be surprised. He takes his time taking off his coat, shaking it out for lint or dust particles, and grasps a hanger, all in the time before he even acknowledges Eames is there. He’s loosening his tie before he asks ‘what are you doing here?’
“Come, Arthur,” Eames coaxes, holding up one of the lines. “It’s been twelve years. You might as well unwrap the present.”
It’s possibly sick fascination driving him forward or maybe twelve-years of repressed emotions that makes him take up the line, lets Eames disinfect both their wrists for them, and slips under. They’re back at Henry the VIII in this dream, though it’s filled with faces that belong to Arthur’s subconscious - his second cousin in the back is currently sliding his fingers all over Arthur’s high school sweetheart, a suspicion he’s long harboured about the two of them getting together manifesting in projection form.
Through the crowd, he searches for Eames, not sure if he’s here to unwrap his gift, so to speak, or whether he just wants to shoot Eames.
He finds Eames at their booth, looking thin and beautiful with red lipstick on his lips, making him look brazen.
“Sammy?”
“Mm,” Eames murmurs, voice slightly lower-pitched then he used to use, but it’s got just a hint of femininity to it, so the illusion can be complete. “Anagram. Men love to assume it means Samantha. Blokes love Samanthas,” he murmurs, crossing his legs smoothly.
Arthur catalogues all the aspects, taking his time to notice things he didn’t when he was young and foolish. “You shaved for this. Impeccably.”
“Love, I sometimes waxed,” Eames agrees with a grin. “Being a thief and a con artist is easy. I’m the best at forging in dreams because I can do men and women both. And that,” he says, pert and simple, hands in his lap, “is because I used to be a damn good drag queen.” He crooks his fingers closer. “Come take off the vest, Arthur. I know you wanted to back then. I practically had to restrain your wrists trying to stop you.”
It’s not entirely a lie, either. Arthur had started to wonder at times whether or not he was being passively rejected by being denied access under the clothes.
“This is all too surreal,” he announces aloud because a thought like that doesn’t deserve to waste away in his mind alone. Still, he goes, and ends up in Eames’ lap, prying off the sweatervest and the skinny tie, unbuttoning the white shirt to reveal a bra with small gel pads inside. “Were these here every time?”
“Every time,” Eames agrees.
Arthur slides the shirt off, unhooks the bra once he sets the gels on the table, and turns to unzipping the pleated plaid skirt - green and grey, one that Sammy had worn the third night. He can’t quite stop the guttural moan that’s elicited when he realizes that Eames is wearing a lace-ridged, silk thong and nothing else under the skirt.
“Oh, fuck,” is all Arthur gets out.
Eames reclines back against the booth’s seats, arms spanning the space like wings. He smirks, languid and content, and Arthur can’t stop staring at the red lipstick on his lips, the wig, the eyes, his cock straining against a slip of underwear. “Did you fall in love with my darling female counterpart, Arthur?” This moment is so obscene that Arthur is worried that his projections may be moments away from realizing this is essentially the beginning of a porn film.
“She drank scotch neat, wore amazing suit jackets, and turned me on like I never realized was possible,” Arthur confesses, as he slowly vanishes under the table, nudging the thong to the side with two fingers and taking Eames deep in his mouth, lips a firm pressure against the head of Eames’ cock before he eases away and looks up the remaining distance as his knees begin to get sticky from beer and wine spilled on the floor. “You’re responsible for my schoolgirl kink.”
“Mm,” is all Eames has to say to that, pleased as anything. He tips his head back and the trailing hairs of the wig fall down his bare back, brushing against his spine. His lips are parted and Arthur takes Eames in his mouth again and wonders what he’d have done if he knew this back then.
When Eames comes, Arthur swallows and resurfaces, perches between Eames’ thighs and tries to reconcile the woman he knew with the man he knows now.
When they awaken from the dream, Arthur looks Eames over with his added weight, his stubble, and his ungodly mismatched menswear.
“Do you still have the thong and the heels somewhere?” Arthur gets out, slightly breathless.
“Back in my flat in London.”
Arthur nods, sliding away the lines into the PASIV and begins to make plans. He’s good at plans. “I’ll make sure and get us tickets for when the job is over.”
The resulting smile on those full lips is worth any lingering irritation. The ensuing pleasure at imagining those lips on his cock does the trick of silencing that irritation for good. He’s on the phone making arrangements within seconds, pushing thoughts of silk and skirts out of his mind.
At least, for now.