The Properties of Ginger, 1/1
Title: The Properties of Ginger
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2500
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, figging
Summary: Arthur is the meanest boyfriend ever.
Author's Note: Why did I even write this? These are none of my kinks. xD SOMEONE HAD TO.
“What do you know about ginger?” Arthur asks nonchalantly.
Later Eames will forever see this as the day his innocence was robbed from him.
He'll remember this moment so clearly: himself, sipping tea at the kitchen table, happy and naive; Arthur, peeling something over the sink with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking domestic and funnily unlike the sociopath it turns out he actually is.
“Nothing,” says Eames. What he should have said is, Nothing, you lunatic, and you can keep your sodding ginger the hell away from me. “You eat it sometimes,” he amends.
Arthur chuckles lightly. “Not today.”
His innocence. He doesn't even have time to mourn its passing.
+
“Let's run through this again, one more time,” says Eames, sprawled on the bed now. “'Cause I'm not sure I've got this right. That--”
He nods at the vegetable-like root Arthur's got in his hand. It's been peeled so that it's fleshy and light brown, and lovingly carved to a rounded plug that halves in diameter towards the base before flaring out wide.
“--goes in my arse.”
“For twenty minutes,” says Arthur.
“For twenty minutes,” Eames repeats. “Then I just sit tight--”
“Tied up. You'll be tied up.”
“I sit, tied up on the bed. For twenty minutes.”
“Yes,” says Arthur.
“I don't understand.”
“What's not to understand?”
“The part where either of us gets something out of this,” says Eames.
Arthur smiles. It's a small, you-poor-bastard smile that Eames doesn't quite identify at the time.
“Well,” he says, “if you can last the entire twenty minutes, I'll make you a deal. You can do anything you want to me afterward. All night. Anything,” he enunciates slowly.
“Sounds good,” says Eames, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What's the catch? Do I have to stay quiet?”
“No, you can be as noisy as you want.”
“Will I be completely tied up?” he asks.
“Nope. Just your hands.”
“Again,” says Eames, “I fail to see what you stand to gain from this.”
Arthur smiles again, sweet and dark, and this time, it makes Eames shiver.
“Roll onto your stomach, Mr. Eames,” he says.
+
The ginger is really bloody cold thanks to the water Arthur's been running it under. Eames grunts as it goes in. Arthur hasn't bothered with any lube, but it seems to slide in well enough. It bottoms out and he shifts around, curiously, feeling the slide and stretch of it inside him. It doesn't even seem to hurt.
Arthur's hand runs through his hair. He grips a handful and tips Eames' head back to kiss him messily, and Eames arches up toward him eagerly. Arthur pats his cheek and slides away.
“Enjoy.”
Eames sinks back down to put his head on his arms. He's totally naked, lying flat on his stomach in his own bed, with both hands bound to the headboard. Arthur takes a seat on the chair in the corner of his room, casually props up his feet on the bedside table, and watches.
Eames still doesn't get it. The ginger is cold, yes. Uncomfortable, yes. But intolerable? Not anywhere close.
“Is it my boredom?” he asks, trying to figure all this out. “Is that what gets you off? Because you could have just read to me your latest plan for the Allan job. It wouldn't have taken twenty minutes, I guarantee you.”
Arthur just raises his eyebrows knowingly.
Eames huffs a sigh and closes his eyes. The ginger has adjusted to his body temperature by now, so it's warm. Pleasantly warm, actually. He wriggles his hips, liking the feel of it, and hums.
“Twenty minutes?” he says, just to be sure.
“Twenty minutes,” Arthur affirms, opening a notebook in his lap.
He estimates that it's been about two when the ginger starts to edge past body temperature. He frowns. That's a little more unusual.
It's getting even warmer.
“Before I forget,” says Arthur, pen poised thoughtfully over his notebook. “I told Cobb I'd talk to you about the Allan job tonight. What were your thoughts?”
“Well,” says Eames, relieved that he's broken the silence, “I've been tailing him for a week now, and I don't think the business partner is the right route. Unless I and my camera phone are very much mistaken, Allan's quite close to his secreta-ahhhh ...”
The ginger roars to life inside him, leaping from “warm” to “holy shit burning” in one steep climb. It hits him like an electric shock. Eames' back snaps straight with alarm and he jolts off the bed with a choked wheeze.
Slowly, the fire simmers back down.
“Sorry, what was that?” Arthur asks boredly, scribbling notes. “Didn't quite catch it.”
Eames pants for breath. The ginger's tingling, buried in his ass, threatening sweet promises. He decides to play at Arthur's game, faking nonchalance.
“The secretary,” he says, fixing himself a smooth, casual tone. “I think she's the best way to get to Allan. I wager he'll spill anything if she-eee, fuck--”
“Say again?”
Eames is chewing up the pillow like a goddamn goat when the burn rages through him, this time. The ginger roars like a furnace, crawling up his nerves with exquisite agony, before ebbing back down. He manages to unclench his jaw, leaving a patch of drool on the fabric, and has to bite through the next words, because the residual simmer isn't so tolerable this time:
“If she, I mean if I, as the secretary, threaten to go to his wife, blackmail, he'll give us the information we Jesus mother balls--”
“'Mother balls'?” Arthur echoes mildly. Eames barely hears him because he's practically writhing on the bed by this point. It's fire, he's on fucking fire--
“You kinky motherfucker, Arthur--”
The inferno seems to climb higher every second, scorching a path all the way up his gut to the base of his stomach. He's groaning, cursing Arthur mindlessly, when it ebbs a little and lets him open his eyes. Arthur is watching him with the tiniest of smiles.
“You were saying?” he prompts.
Eames totally gives up on that game. “How long's it been?”
Arthur glances at his watch. “Four minutes.”
Oh Christ. Sixteen more minutes of this. Eames isn't even sure he'll survive, let alone last long enough to win this bet.
Arthur must see the look of horror on his face, because his smile widens. “If you'd like to throw in the towel ...”
“Not on your life,” Eames grits out, and he doesn't even know what the hell he's thinking, except that there's just something so unattractive about a smug Arthur. He'll be holding this one over Eames forever.
Arthur shrugs one shoulder and says, “Your choice.” Then he says, “Fifteen minutes to go,” but Eames doesn't hear because he's already gnawing the pillow again and groaning loud enough to wake the apartment building.
+
With twelve minutes to go Eames is soaked in sweat and panting. The ginger is raging gleefully away, searing and scalding and killing him.
“Aren't you hot?” he gasps. “It's boiling in here. Why don't you turn the fan on?”
Arthur's pen ticks and scratches softly on the paper. “I'm quite comfortable, actually.”
The inferno starts to climb again. Eames kicks for purchase against the bedsheets, restraints biting into his wrists, and muffles whimpers into the pillow.
“When I win this bet,” he wheezes, as soon as he can talk, “you're going to be so sorry you ever said I could do anything to you, pet.”
“Uh-huh,” says Arthur.
“I'm going to wring your little neck. I'm going to stuff ginger in your bloody eye sockets. I'm going to-- Shit--!” Flames are lapping at the pit of his stomach and he makes the most embarrassing sound in his throat, involuntary shudders wracking his entire body.
“The toilet's over there,” says Arthur, without batting an eye. “Ask me nicely and I might even take the ginger out first.”
+
Arthur tells him there's seven minutes to go, but Eames is pretty sure he's slipped into limbo because time is standing still. There's no way it's only been thirteen minutes. It's been at least a year. At least.
“I think I've gone colour-blind,” he announces to the room at large.
“If I'd known what a crybaby you are, Mr. Eames, I would have stuck to fluffy handcuffs with you.”
“If I'd known what a sadist you are I'd have wrung your neck yesterday,” Eames counters.
There's a soft little snap as Arthur shuts his notebook and swings his legs off the bedside table. His stride, when he gets up and approaches the bed, is purposeful, all straight lines and a rigid back, and Eames can't help but gulp. It's almost enough to distract from the burn (which, he feverishly swears, he can almost taste now). And yet, it sends a not-unpleasant shiver racing straight down his spine. There's something ridiculously sexy about a dominant Arthur.
Arthur kneels on the bed, reaches over and tips Eames' chin up with two fingers under his jaw.
“On your knees.”
Eames obeys, clumsily. It takes him a few tries because he's trying to move without jostling the plug inside him too much, and every time he does, he freezes up and bites the inside of his cheek. Finally he manages, spine stretched out a little because his hands are still tied to the headboard. Arthur puts a hand on his back and presses him back down a bit, till his arms and thighs are extended and he's stretched out on his knees. Arthur's hand on his bare skin feels deliciously cool.
He removes it. “Still convinced you can last?”
“Yes,” Eames says stubbornly.
Arthur reaches down, humming thoughtfully, to where the knob at the end of the ginger plug is pressed between Eames' cheeks. He traces it with his fingers and flicks it. Eames jerks, the slight motion enough to ignite a renewed blaze in him, and groans between his teeth.
Leaning down, Arthur presses a kiss to the flushed skin of his back, between two ridges of his spine. Then he smacks him. Hard. On the ass.
Eames doesn't quite scream, because he's manly and therefore doesn't scream, ever, damnit. The strangled sound he makes instead could best be called a yowl, and if anything, it's even worse than a scream. The pain is multiplied, his entire abdomen is swallowed up in the blaze, and tears squeeze out of the corners of his clamped-shut eyes. He shakes uncontrollably when it dies down, as though wracked by chills.
“Arthur, Jesus--”
Arthur shushes him, strokes his back soothingly. “Don't clench down. That makes it worse.”
He could stop this, right now. He could tell him to stop, and Arthur would, for him. But this train of thought is abandoned when Eames realizes something: He's hard. Embarrassingly, blindingly hard. His senses are all hyper-attuned and every nerve in his body is thrumming with life. He's never felt so conscious of his sense of touch before.
He knows it's coming and this time manages not to clench when Arthur smacks him again. He forcibly keeps himself relaxed and the result is something strange. Eames isn't much of a masochist and he's really not into spanking (unless he's the one doing it, and even then, it's nothing to write home about), but the sensation Arthur's hand leaves is wild, tingling and, for a second, distracts him completely from the ginger.
Only for a second. Then it's all ginger again, all fire and heat clawing him up inside and singeing all his nerve endings to a hypersensitive crisp.
He can't believe he's about to say this, but he threw modesty to the wind the second he allowed Arthur to stick a butt plug made of ginger in him. So he blurts out: “Do that again.”
Arthur chuckles softly, and obliges. The sharp crack of his hand creates a sweet release of pressure, even if momentary, that makes Eames groan and collapse into the bedsheets, rocking his hips to try and find friction for his aching cock. The sheets are too soft for him to be able to rub one out but he grinds against them anyway, mindlessly, like an animal in heat, until Arthur's hand tightens over his upper thigh and nearly makes him clench down around the ginger again.
“Three minutes,” he says, and slips off the bed, leaving Eames alone with the raging conflagration that has resumed its merry tearing-up of his insides.
+
He practically sobs with relief when Arthur takes the plug out and unties his hands, leaning over him to rub life back into Eames' sore wrists.
“You win,” he says. “Congratulations.”
He still manages to sound smug, and Eames doesn't feel like he's won. He can never win with Arthur. Still, he takes this small victory grudgingly.
He expects the fire to die down as soon as the ginger's gone. But it doesn't. It lingers and swells and he starts to panic.
“Arthur ...”
Arthur sprawls comfortably on the bed at his side. “What do you want me to do now that you've won?” he asks, eyes half-lidded.
Eames just buries a moan in the pillow, arching off the bed. “Fuck, Arthur--”
“Do you want me to take care of you?”
Eames nods frantically. Anything, anything, do anything.
Arthur rolls off the bed and vanishes from his limited range of vision for a minute. He comes back shedding the last of his clothes to the floor and snapping the cap off a bottle of lube.
“Up,” he says, patting Eames' hip.
Eames scrambles to his hands and knees without thinking. In that moment, he'll do anything Arthur says. Arthur settles behind him, one hand gripping his hip possessively, and before Eames can look round, he's there, burying his length in one smooth stroke.
Eames almost comes from that alone. His entire world, his universe as he knows it, shrinks down to that single point of contact: Arthur's cock buried inside him, heavy and full. He's never been this sensitive to anything. It's exquisite. He can barely draw breath.
“Jesus, you're hot,” Arthur breathes at his back, starting to work his hips in a quick, needy rhythm. It almost strikes Eames as funny, because that terrible burn is finally starting to subside, leaving room only for the sensation of Arthur gliding in and out of him and sending sparks shooting up his spine with every thrust; but just then Arthur brings a hand between Eames' legs to grip his cock and every nerve in Eames' body turns electric.
It's an amazing feeling and it's almost too much, Arthur fucking him and stroking his cock in the same rhythm, and all at once Eames feels himself come like he hasn't been laid in a year, so hard he just about passes out. It takes him a long time to come back down to earth and when he does Arthur's there beside him, soothing him, laying kisses on his face.
“Was that good?” Arthur asks when Eames starts stirring again, something wicked dancing in his eyes.
“Wring your neck,” Eames groans into the pillow weakly. “Wring your neck.”
Arthur laughs at him. Eames lets him. He's got all night to come up with revenge.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2500
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, figging
Summary: Arthur is the meanest boyfriend ever.
Author's Note: Why did I even write this? These are none of my kinks. xD SOMEONE HAD TO.
“What do you know about ginger?” Arthur asks nonchalantly.
Later Eames will forever see this as the day his innocence was robbed from him.
He'll remember this moment so clearly: himself, sipping tea at the kitchen table, happy and naive; Arthur, peeling something over the sink with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking domestic and funnily unlike the sociopath it turns out he actually is.
“Nothing,” says Eames. What he should have said is, Nothing, you lunatic, and you can keep your sodding ginger the hell away from me. “You eat it sometimes,” he amends.
Arthur chuckles lightly. “Not today.”
His innocence. He doesn't even have time to mourn its passing.
+
“Let's run through this again, one more time,” says Eames, sprawled on the bed now. “'Cause I'm not sure I've got this right. That--”
He nods at the vegetable-like root Arthur's got in his hand. It's been peeled so that it's fleshy and light brown, and lovingly carved to a rounded plug that halves in diameter towards the base before flaring out wide.
“--goes in my arse.”
“For twenty minutes,” says Arthur.
“For twenty minutes,” Eames repeats. “Then I just sit tight--”
“Tied up. You'll be tied up.”
“I sit, tied up on the bed. For twenty minutes.”
“Yes,” says Arthur.
“I don't understand.”
“What's not to understand?”
“The part where either of us gets something out of this,” says Eames.
Arthur smiles. It's a small, you-poor-bastard smile that Eames doesn't quite identify at the time.
“Well,” he says, “if you can last the entire twenty minutes, I'll make you a deal. You can do anything you want to me afterward. All night. Anything,” he enunciates slowly.
“Sounds good,” says Eames, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “What's the catch? Do I have to stay quiet?”
“No, you can be as noisy as you want.”
“Will I be completely tied up?” he asks.
“Nope. Just your hands.”
“Again,” says Eames, “I fail to see what you stand to gain from this.”
Arthur smiles again, sweet and dark, and this time, it makes Eames shiver.
“Roll onto your stomach, Mr. Eames,” he says.
+
The ginger is really bloody cold thanks to the water Arthur's been running it under. Eames grunts as it goes in. Arthur hasn't bothered with any lube, but it seems to slide in well enough. It bottoms out and he shifts around, curiously, feeling the slide and stretch of it inside him. It doesn't even seem to hurt.
Arthur's hand runs through his hair. He grips a handful and tips Eames' head back to kiss him messily, and Eames arches up toward him eagerly. Arthur pats his cheek and slides away.
“Enjoy.”
Eames sinks back down to put his head on his arms. He's totally naked, lying flat on his stomach in his own bed, with both hands bound to the headboard. Arthur takes a seat on the chair in the corner of his room, casually props up his feet on the bedside table, and watches.
Eames still doesn't get it. The ginger is cold, yes. Uncomfortable, yes. But intolerable? Not anywhere close.
“Is it my boredom?” he asks, trying to figure all this out. “Is that what gets you off? Because you could have just read to me your latest plan for the Allan job. It wouldn't have taken twenty minutes, I guarantee you.”
Arthur just raises his eyebrows knowingly.
Eames huffs a sigh and closes his eyes. The ginger has adjusted to his body temperature by now, so it's warm. Pleasantly warm, actually. He wriggles his hips, liking the feel of it, and hums.
“Twenty minutes?” he says, just to be sure.
“Twenty minutes,” Arthur affirms, opening a notebook in his lap.
He estimates that it's been about two when the ginger starts to edge past body temperature. He frowns. That's a little more unusual.
It's getting even warmer.
“Before I forget,” says Arthur, pen poised thoughtfully over his notebook. “I told Cobb I'd talk to you about the Allan job tonight. What were your thoughts?”
“Well,” says Eames, relieved that he's broken the silence, “I've been tailing him for a week now, and I don't think the business partner is the right route. Unless I and my camera phone are very much mistaken, Allan's quite close to his secreta-ahhhh ...”
The ginger roars to life inside him, leaping from “warm” to “holy shit burning” in one steep climb. It hits him like an electric shock. Eames' back snaps straight with alarm and he jolts off the bed with a choked wheeze.
Slowly, the fire simmers back down.
“Sorry, what was that?” Arthur asks boredly, scribbling notes. “Didn't quite catch it.”
Eames pants for breath. The ginger's tingling, buried in his ass, threatening sweet promises. He decides to play at Arthur's game, faking nonchalance.
“The secretary,” he says, fixing himself a smooth, casual tone. “I think she's the best way to get to Allan. I wager he'll spill anything if she-eee, fuck--”
“Say again?”
Eames is chewing up the pillow like a goddamn goat when the burn rages through him, this time. The ginger roars like a furnace, crawling up his nerves with exquisite agony, before ebbing back down. He manages to unclench his jaw, leaving a patch of drool on the fabric, and has to bite through the next words, because the residual simmer isn't so tolerable this time:
“If she, I mean if I, as the secretary, threaten to go to his wife, blackmail, he'll give us the information we Jesus mother balls--”
“'Mother balls'?” Arthur echoes mildly. Eames barely hears him because he's practically writhing on the bed by this point. It's fire, he's on fucking fire--
“You kinky motherfucker, Arthur--”
The inferno seems to climb higher every second, scorching a path all the way up his gut to the base of his stomach. He's groaning, cursing Arthur mindlessly, when it ebbs a little and lets him open his eyes. Arthur is watching him with the tiniest of smiles.
“You were saying?” he prompts.
Eames totally gives up on that game. “How long's it been?”
Arthur glances at his watch. “Four minutes.”
Oh Christ. Sixteen more minutes of this. Eames isn't even sure he'll survive, let alone last long enough to win this bet.
Arthur must see the look of horror on his face, because his smile widens. “If you'd like to throw in the towel ...”
“Not on your life,” Eames grits out, and he doesn't even know what the hell he's thinking, except that there's just something so unattractive about a smug Arthur. He'll be holding this one over Eames forever.
Arthur shrugs one shoulder and says, “Your choice.” Then he says, “Fifteen minutes to go,” but Eames doesn't hear because he's already gnawing the pillow again and groaning loud enough to wake the apartment building.
+
With twelve minutes to go Eames is soaked in sweat and panting. The ginger is raging gleefully away, searing and scalding and killing him.
“Aren't you hot?” he gasps. “It's boiling in here. Why don't you turn the fan on?”
Arthur's pen ticks and scratches softly on the paper. “I'm quite comfortable, actually.”
The inferno starts to climb again. Eames kicks for purchase against the bedsheets, restraints biting into his wrists, and muffles whimpers into the pillow.
“When I win this bet,” he wheezes, as soon as he can talk, “you're going to be so sorry you ever said I could do anything to you, pet.”
“Uh-huh,” says Arthur.
“I'm going to wring your little neck. I'm going to stuff ginger in your bloody eye sockets. I'm going to-- Shit--!” Flames are lapping at the pit of his stomach and he makes the most embarrassing sound in his throat, involuntary shudders wracking his entire body.
“The toilet's over there,” says Arthur, without batting an eye. “Ask me nicely and I might even take the ginger out first.”
+
Arthur tells him there's seven minutes to go, but Eames is pretty sure he's slipped into limbo because time is standing still. There's no way it's only been thirteen minutes. It's been at least a year. At least.
“I think I've gone colour-blind,” he announces to the room at large.
“If I'd known what a crybaby you are, Mr. Eames, I would have stuck to fluffy handcuffs with you.”
“If I'd known what a sadist you are I'd have wrung your neck yesterday,” Eames counters.
There's a soft little snap as Arthur shuts his notebook and swings his legs off the bedside table. His stride, when he gets up and approaches the bed, is purposeful, all straight lines and a rigid back, and Eames can't help but gulp. It's almost enough to distract from the burn (which, he feverishly swears, he can almost taste now). And yet, it sends a not-unpleasant shiver racing straight down his spine. There's something ridiculously sexy about a dominant Arthur.
Arthur kneels on the bed, reaches over and tips Eames' chin up with two fingers under his jaw.
“On your knees.”
Eames obeys, clumsily. It takes him a few tries because he's trying to move without jostling the plug inside him too much, and every time he does, he freezes up and bites the inside of his cheek. Finally he manages, spine stretched out a little because his hands are still tied to the headboard. Arthur puts a hand on his back and presses him back down a bit, till his arms and thighs are extended and he's stretched out on his knees. Arthur's hand on his bare skin feels deliciously cool.
He removes it. “Still convinced you can last?”
“Yes,” Eames says stubbornly.
Arthur reaches down, humming thoughtfully, to where the knob at the end of the ginger plug is pressed between Eames' cheeks. He traces it with his fingers and flicks it. Eames jerks, the slight motion enough to ignite a renewed blaze in him, and groans between his teeth.
Leaning down, Arthur presses a kiss to the flushed skin of his back, between two ridges of his spine. Then he smacks him. Hard. On the ass.
Eames doesn't quite scream, because he's manly and therefore doesn't scream, ever, damnit. The strangled sound he makes instead could best be called a yowl, and if anything, it's even worse than a scream. The pain is multiplied, his entire abdomen is swallowed up in the blaze, and tears squeeze out of the corners of his clamped-shut eyes. He shakes uncontrollably when it dies down, as though wracked by chills.
“Arthur, Jesus--”
Arthur shushes him, strokes his back soothingly. “Don't clench down. That makes it worse.”
He could stop this, right now. He could tell him to stop, and Arthur would, for him. But this train of thought is abandoned when Eames realizes something: He's hard. Embarrassingly, blindingly hard. His senses are all hyper-attuned and every nerve in his body is thrumming with life. He's never felt so conscious of his sense of touch before.
He knows it's coming and this time manages not to clench when Arthur smacks him again. He forcibly keeps himself relaxed and the result is something strange. Eames isn't much of a masochist and he's really not into spanking (unless he's the one doing it, and even then, it's nothing to write home about), but the sensation Arthur's hand leaves is wild, tingling and, for a second, distracts him completely from the ginger.
Only for a second. Then it's all ginger again, all fire and heat clawing him up inside and singeing all his nerve endings to a hypersensitive crisp.
He can't believe he's about to say this, but he threw modesty to the wind the second he allowed Arthur to stick a butt plug made of ginger in him. So he blurts out: “Do that again.”
Arthur chuckles softly, and obliges. The sharp crack of his hand creates a sweet release of pressure, even if momentary, that makes Eames groan and collapse into the bedsheets, rocking his hips to try and find friction for his aching cock. The sheets are too soft for him to be able to rub one out but he grinds against them anyway, mindlessly, like an animal in heat, until Arthur's hand tightens over his upper thigh and nearly makes him clench down around the ginger again.
“Three minutes,” he says, and slips off the bed, leaving Eames alone with the raging conflagration that has resumed its merry tearing-up of his insides.
+
He practically sobs with relief when Arthur takes the plug out and unties his hands, leaning over him to rub life back into Eames' sore wrists.
“You win,” he says. “Congratulations.”
He still manages to sound smug, and Eames doesn't feel like he's won. He can never win with Arthur. Still, he takes this small victory grudgingly.
He expects the fire to die down as soon as the ginger's gone. But it doesn't. It lingers and swells and he starts to panic.
“Arthur ...”
Arthur sprawls comfortably on the bed at his side. “What do you want me to do now that you've won?” he asks, eyes half-lidded.
Eames just buries a moan in the pillow, arching off the bed. “Fuck, Arthur--”
“Do you want me to take care of you?”
Eames nods frantically. Anything, anything, do anything.
Arthur rolls off the bed and vanishes from his limited range of vision for a minute. He comes back shedding the last of his clothes to the floor and snapping the cap off a bottle of lube.
“Up,” he says, patting Eames' hip.
Eames scrambles to his hands and knees without thinking. In that moment, he'll do anything Arthur says. Arthur settles behind him, one hand gripping his hip possessively, and before Eames can look round, he's there, burying his length in one smooth stroke.
Eames almost comes from that alone. His entire world, his universe as he knows it, shrinks down to that single point of contact: Arthur's cock buried inside him, heavy and full. He's never been this sensitive to anything. It's exquisite. He can barely draw breath.
“Jesus, you're hot,” Arthur breathes at his back, starting to work his hips in a quick, needy rhythm. It almost strikes Eames as funny, because that terrible burn is finally starting to subside, leaving room only for the sensation of Arthur gliding in and out of him and sending sparks shooting up his spine with every thrust; but just then Arthur brings a hand between Eames' legs to grip his cock and every nerve in Eames' body turns electric.
It's an amazing feeling and it's almost too much, Arthur fucking him and stroking his cock in the same rhythm, and all at once Eames feels himself come like he hasn't been laid in a year, so hard he just about passes out. It takes him a long time to come back down to earth and when he does Arthur's there beside him, soothing him, laying kisses on his face.
“Was that good?” Arthur asks when Eames starts stirring again, something wicked dancing in his eyes.
“Wring your neck,” Eames groans into the pillow weakly. “Wring your neck.”
Arthur laughs at him. Eames lets him. He's got all night to come up with revenge.