ladyvader: (AE - Smirk)
[personal profile] ladyvader
*TEETH GNASH* LJ, thou art FAR TOO TROUBLESOME for a bloody Monday BY FAR.

Title: Pet [Part 5b]
Author: LadyVader
Pairing/s: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Category: Multi chaptered – Completed with postings once a week so to not destroy my poor beta’s brain.
Summary: AU fic - Arthur is in his final year of high school and finds himself entirely too interested in the new English teacher. Entirely inspired by the Police lyrics ‘Sometimes it’s not so easy to be the teacher’s Pet’.
Rating: R rated most parts for language etc, NC17 overall. This part NC17 for sexual references.
Word Count: 100k approx in full, part 5 10877 approx. (both parts included)
Warnings: Shameless gacking of movie verse characters and dialogue, high school angst and an inappropriate relationship between teacher and student (if this is something that bothers you then please don’t read the fic).
Disclaimer: INCEPTION and its lovely molestable characters belong to Mr Nolan who incepted me into borrowing them: You’ve no one to blame but yourself Chris!
Authors Note: Thanks to [ profile] dreambastion, [ profile] arineat & [ profile] takola for the cheerleading, [ profile] whisperedtones for the banner :D <3 and most of all to my evol, EVOL muse (and sadly put upon beta/ sounding board/ drill sargeant) [ profile] dysonrules. This one is ALL YOURS hon - you created the monster, I hope you enjoys it ;)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5a

“No, you don’t.”

Arthur jerked in surprise as a firm hand gripped the back of his collar; his gasp of shock melted into a grin as he realized it was Eames. The older man steered him forcibly in the direction of the parking lot, in opposition to Arthur’s original route toward the track.

“Oh, do I not?” Arthur mimicked Eames accent, purposefully dreadful as he arched an eyebrow at the groaning man.

“We both know I’m driving you home. It’s RIDICULOUSLY cold and they’re talking about yet more bloody snow, so not only are you not running today but I’m certainly not standing around in it waiting for you to run yourself back warm again. Therefore...”

Arthur sighed mock long-sufferingly. “Get in the car, Arthur?”

“Very good, darling.” Eames grinned. “I barely even felt my lips move.”

Arthur flushed as his eyes unwittingly flashed to the aforementioned lips before he rapidly looked away. His brow creased as he noticed Nash sneering at him from across the grass, his mouth moving silently as Arthur saw him form the words fucking fag to Browning before Arthur looked away in disgust.

He pushed the sour aftertaste of the other boys’ hypocritical bigotry to the back of his mind as he fell back into step with Eames, and answered his varied (and frequently nonsensical) conversational parries with slightly forced joviality, and slightly less distance than there had been between them before, because fuck them, that's why, and by the time he slid in next to Eames, radio bursting with sound, both his laughter and enjoyment were genuine once more.

“Oh, God.” He laughed as what sounded like a boy-band started harmonizing about letting someone put their hands on them in their skin-tight jeans. “I know I’m always asking for something a bit more current, but did you have to go Glee?”

Eames cocked an eyebrow as he buckled his belt and a smile twisted his features smugly. “That's a charming glass house you’ve got going there, Arthur, do you mind if I toss rocks at it, or have you been deliciously naive enough to suppose Ariadne hadn’t been showing all and sundry your impromptu ‘Gaga’ skit?”

Arthur closed his eyes and reviewed his options before he spoke very precisely, softly as he cracked open a lid to meet Eames’ amused stare.

“If I promise to not mock so much as a single song choice until, let’s say March, will you pretend Ari never showed you a damn thing?”

Eames narrowed his eyes, lips pursing thoughtfully before he extended a hand, smiling.

“Throw in the odd cheesy duet and you have a deal.”

Arthur grinned, blushing again when he spent a moment too long staring at that perfectly formed, pouting mouth before he dragged his eyes upward to meet Eames’. He shook his hand firmly. “Deal.”

He slouched back in his seat and slanted a smug smirk in Eames’ direction. “You do realize that had you held out you might have got my silence on your choice of station all the way through until Graduation?”

The Englishman’s expression turned angelic. “But, of course, darling. Just as I suppose you realize that no teacher worth his salt would allow such a fine performance to go unnoticed, which is precisely why I had Ariadne send me the video so I could show it to all the rest of the faculty, while naturally retaining a copy of my own for posterity.”

Arthur resisted the urge to gnash his teeth and slam his face back into his palms. He chose instead to inquire politely, “Are you looking forward to Friday?”

Eames laughed softly before reigning in both his expression and tone. “Yes, Arthur, I’m very much looking forward to the trip. Thank you for asking.”

“Not at all,” Arthur said primly and restrained a grin as Eames snorted softly and switched the station to something cheesy and late nineties by the sounds of it.

“There. My music, your deal, so you’re safe from my review of your performance, no matter how greatly I’d like to give it. Now quit it with the polite small talk, you’re weirding me out again.”

Arthur beamed before schooling his features into a more conversationally apt scowl, “Seriously, I had been looking forward to Friday, but if I hear one more person tell me how romantic it is to be seeing it the same week as Valentine ’s Day, then I’m going to have to throttle someone.”

They pulled out of the lot to Eames’ warm chuckle. He turned into what appeared to be horrifically backed up traffic as horns around them blared. “What, are you not a fan of our most beloved St. Valentine, Arthur? You astound me, really, you do.”

Arthur offered Eames his middle finger and Eames snorted, abruptly jerking the car around to dart down an apparently free side road. “Buggered if we’re waiting there all day,” he muttered, shooting Arthur a quick grin, “You up for the scenic route today, Wright?”

“Absolutely – sir,” he answered easily and smothered a laugh when Eames muttered touché under his breath.

“So, as a NON fan of all the seething hormones and angst that usually accompanies Valentine’s Day at your age, tell me, how was your plain, ordinary Monday?”

Arthur laughed softly. “Actually, I spent my night in much the same way I think most of the fans, as you call them, did. Ari and I stayed in, ate way too much chocolate and junk food and watched girly movies.”

“What? You mean like Bridget Jones’s Travelling Pants? Or When Harry Met the Time Traveler’s Wife?”

Arthur lightly cuffed Eames and smirked at the faked hiss of pain and put-upon pout.

“Shut up. Not like that; god no! I mean like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or Casablanca, or This Could Be the Night. Y’know, GOOD films.”

“You mean OLD films,” Eames grinned, “Though, as it happens, I do love both Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Casablanca. They’re classics for obvious reasons. Don’t think I know the last one, though.”

Arthur wasn’t quite quick enough to stem the tide of enthusiasm that rolled through him; he twisted in his seat. “Oh, it’s GREAT. It’s not very well known, though. Ariadne and I came across it by chance in the middle of the night once, a few years back, and it was so good that when I saw it was on again a few nights later, I recorded it. And it’s never been on since. Can’t buy it, can’t rent, it so Ari and I tend to leave it awhile then have a ceremonial re-watch. It’s great. If you ever get a chance you should definitely watch it.”

Eames blinked once, slowly. “That,” he said carefully, “may be the most enthused I’ve ever seen you be about anything. I will definitely watch it when the opportunity arises, I promise you, Arthur.”

Arthur swallowed thickly and blushed. “S’good, you should,” he muttered and rolled his eyes when Eames suddenly beamed. “And yes, I’m aware that rhymed. You know, for an authority figure, you’re SUCH a child.”

“Thank you, darling. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

Arthur huffed gently, cheeks aching with the effort of repressing his dimples.

“So, back to the trip, how come we’re seeing Romeo & Juliet if not for the dubious joy of watching teenagers cry, considering you spent the majority of a week telling us all how much you loathe it?”

Eames shrugged loosely. His breath hissed between his teeth as they joined the end of yet another traffic jam. “They were only showing Hamlet or Romeo & Juliet, and there was no way I was taking you guys to see someone else’s Hamlet. It would’ve completely skewed your views on our own performance, not to mention it’s a bit of a bloody busman’s holiday as it is, but it’s all I could get away with as a reward, so there you go.”

He glanced over, apparently misreading Arthur’s small frown (he didn’t like to think of someone else as Hamlet, odd as it seemed) before he reached up to loosely clasp his shoulder with a smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun, though. Just because I’m sick of people fawning over the ‘fish tank scene’,” he sneered gently, “doesn’t mean it’s not worth seeing. The words are wonderful, obviously – I played Mercutio for a summer or so and I loved him, played him irreverent and lewd, deep and dark, light but lost. He’s just one of those fantastic characters, a perfect fit for whatever mood you needed. Loved it.”

Arthur put a lot of work into not beaming at him like an eight year old girl with pigtails, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep his smile from overtaking his face. “Well, that should be cool, then. Be nice to watch it and see how it might have differed from your Mercutio. How, how did you play him?” The last came out in a breathless rush and Arthur was glad of Eames’ focus on the slow moving line of traffic ahead as he looked longingly at the almost-empty lane alongside them.

“Who, Mercutio? It varied. When you knew there were school kids coming it was fun to make him the lewd, light hearted guy. He’s the first to die, so that always shocked them with the sudden descent into the tragedy aspect, but personally, I always liked to play him as jealous.”

Arthur quirked a brow. “Jealous?” he echoed.

“Yeah, well, as you obviously know, Romeo & Mercutio were best friends, and Romeo was always off chasing random girls, but his relationship with Juliet was different. It impinged on their relationship, it damaged them, and ultimately it got Mercutio killed. I just really enjoyed the bitter-sweetness of playing it that way, it made more sense to me. I mean, the guy curses his best friend with his dying breath, so it doesn’t really lend itself to the more humorous approach and I just-” Eames’ eyes flicked to Arthur’s rapt expression and he laughed, blushing slightly. “Completely waffled then, didn’t I? Sorry, darling.”

Arthur shifted in his seat, trying to look less like he was lightheaded with awe (and a significantly downward flow of blood), and smiled. “No, no, it was great. It’s really great to hear about how you approach your roles, like when you were talking about how you achieve your characters by layers the other day at rehearsal, I felt so inspired, like how you analyzed how you saw him, how others saw him, how he would see him – as a character, a man, a brother, son, lover, father, everything. I – I just thought it was amazing. And daunting.” He laughed, “Ridiculously daunting, actually. I tried it, like you said. and all I did was completely lose my focus-”

“Arthur,” Eames interjected, voice abruptly serious, his eyes intent and unblinking where Arthur found their gazes locked, “I adore your approach to the character. If I’d had any idea you were trying to alter it to emulate mine I’d have had to smack you about the head with your own script. Get me?”

Arthur swallowed. “I – get you,” he said quietly and wished it were literally true.

“So, I hope you didn’t have any plans for this evening, because we’re not getting out of this bloody jam 'til we’re old and grey.” Eames groused and Arthur gratefully accepted the sudden move back into casual conversation.

“Actually,” he grinned, certain of the upcoming reaction he’d receive, “I was just going to watch them finish filling our shiny new, outdoor, heated pool, but that’s okay, it can wait.” He knew he sounded smug (Ariadne had already mock-snarled at him several times about it), but it was worth it to watch Eames’ jaw slowly lower.

“You got a pool?” he asked incredulously and Arthur smiled at him with all the serenity he could muster.

“My mother’s, actually. She used to have access to one at work, but since she got poached to her new firm she’s really missed having one. So for Christmas Rick got her a pool and, tragically, she can only swim before work, which means I basically get it all to myself in the evening.” He attempted a mock pout. “I expect my life will be very hard from this point on.”

“Yes,” Eames said dryly and rolled his eyes, “However will you survive it?”

Arthur sighed and rested the back of a hand against his brow, his expression of overall woe faltering at Eames’ appreciative snort of amusement, each of them lapsing into an easy silence for a moment. The radio muted under the gentle drum of sluggish sleet pattering against the windshield.

“Hm,” Eames said softly after a while. Arthur had been lulled into an almost Zen-like state of contentment between his companion, the soft sounds, and the darkening evening sky.

“Hm?” he echoed drowsily and Eames sat forward, brow furrowing contemplatively as he crossed his arms over the steering wheel.

“What’s the overall sentiment here on pinching stuff from skips, Arthur? I mean from dumpsters? Frowned on? Illegal? Punishable by death?”

Arthur’s brows climbed into his hairline.

“Um – what?”

Arthur, already off-guard through his confusion, bit back a whimper as Eames leaned directly into his body space. The slight ruffle of Eames’ hair brushed Arthur’s ear enough to set a tiny shiver rolling through him. “There,” Eames said and pointed off to the front and side of the car, holding his arm along Arthur’s sight-line, “See that dumpster-skip thing over there?”

“Dumpster, yes,” Arthur corrected distantly and lifted his eyes from the all-too-close slope of Eames’ throat into jaw-line to follow his directions to the aforementioned dumpster. “What about it?”

“See that hanging out over the side?”

Arthur pulled a face. “What, the carpet thing? Sure. I see it.”

Eames turned his head, close enough that Arthur felt he should surely be able to hear the blood pounding immediately beneath his skin, as the ridiculously irresistible urge to nip at the lower curve of Eames’ mouth slammed through his skull. Their eyes met as mischief lit Eames’ face.

“Don’t you think it would just make a perfect place to hide our Polonius, right before you run him through?”

Arthur blinked and reassessed the bedraggled-looking drape of obviously soggy fabric over the edge of the distant dumpster. He pulled a face. “Um?” he attempted diplomatically.

Eames snorted inelegantly and he cast Arthur a decidedly unimpressed glance.

“Really, Arthur, sometimes I think you have no bloody imagination whatsoever. Which, in this case, is thankfully NOT as great a hindrance as all that, for I am the masterly director and what I say goes; therefore I want that rug. Now, what’s the best way of doing this, hm? Track down the owner and make them an offer or - and this, I have to say, would be my preference, impressionable minor present or no - do we just steal the ruddy thing?”

Arthur blinked slowly and stored the memory of Eames’ mischievous expression for later perusal even as he bristled slightly at being referred to as a minor.

“I think you can just take it,” he said and started slightly as Eames whooped joyously.

“Fantastic! We’ll make a hardened criminal out of us each yet, Arthur. Come along!”

Eames popped the door handle, prepared to step out into the steadily increasing flow of icy sludge from the heavens, which prompted Arthur to seize his arm. He blushed at the sensation of firm muscles beneath his clasp. “No, I – I mean you can just have it,” he amended somewhat huskily. “Once it goes into a dumpster it’s sort of up for grabs. It’s no longer the owner’s property, so you can pretty much just stroll up and take it, no muss, no fuss. and a most likely putrid rug for your troubles.”

Eames sagged back into his seat.

“Well – that makes it significantly less fun.” He sighed, eyes still on the distant dumpster. “Still, I’d at least like a look at it.”

His tone had dropped somewhat, resting somewhere between resigned and the breathy hitch of a child whose fears about Santa Claus had just been woefully confirmed.

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes but opted for crushing down the urge to smile as he summoned a concerned but serious expression, eyes focused on their no-doubt moldy target.

“Eames,” he all but growled in his best hardened-criminal voice (he could wince and agonize over it later), “We should walk away from this while we still can.”

He bit down on the rush of words that followed the playful adlib, his swirling gut worth the agony when Eames turned to him with delight and surprise warring for position in his eyes.

His smile blinded Arthur briefly before it was rigorously tamped down into an expression of intense severity to match Arthur’s own.

“If we don’t strike now we may never again have such an opportunity.”

He cocked a brow and Arthur nodded slowly, the urge to laugh repressed by the same steady push downwards that held Arthur in check when Hamlet was needed.

“Then strike we must,” he said solemnly and stoically held his characterization as Eames shot him a look of pure devilry and bounded out of the car into the rain. Arthur allowed himself just the smallest smirk before he followed.

They sprinted over the increasingly muddy ground until they reached the overflowing dumpster that sat somewhat forlornly at the park’s far edge.

The carpet was possibly even more saturated with rainwater and filth than Arthur had expected, but Eames cooed over it as though he’d spent the majority of his life yearning for it.

Arthur wrinkled his nose as they each gripped the poorly-rolled drape of sodden textile and attempted to tug it free of its covering of general detritus.

“What an incredible smell you’ve discovered,” Arthur bit out and resisted the urge to wipe away the rain droplets collecting on the tip of his nose and chin. His hands were already covered in a fine layer of repulsive, dumpster-style sludge and he frowned when he realized that Eames, having ceased tugging, now regarded him with a (damp) mixture of amusement and... possibly awe?

“...and he quotes Han Solo,” Eames muttered, mouth twisting upwards even as he licked the raindrops from his lower lip, “Be still my heart.”

“Shut up and help me pick up your damn rug.” Arthur panted, heaving even as his head spun. Be still MY heart, more like.

DAMN RUG? Arthur, this could pass, or WILL pass, once cleaned, for a classic Aubusson style tapestry and will neatly kick the ARSE of the curtain we’d planned for you to stab good ol’ Maurice through. Trust me; it’ll be worth it!”

Arthur took another nostril-full of Eau du Rotting Rug and basked briefly in the fire-bright enthusiasm that rolled off of Eames in waves.

He narrowed his eyes, jaw set. “Will it be worth jail? Because I’m telling you now, Eames, I won’t go back. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Eames’ eyes sparkled and he heaved the rug free, knocking them both back a step or so, his arms full of now-rank, dripping fabric. “They’ll never take us alive,” he promised. “Let’s GO!”

They would have run back to the car, Arthur thought past his internal hysterics, athletically, possibly with feigned action poses and pointless forward rolls, but with the weight of the damned tapestry between them, it ended up as something more of a vaguely heroic stagger until they finally made it back to where the rest of the traffic jam seemed to have moved on without them.

Eames swung back inside to pop the trunk open, folding down one of the back seats so they could force the thick roll into the car, pushing until one rolled end was hanging over the headrest of the passenger seat. Arthur realized then that he’d need to sit elsewhere; he smiled wickedly as an idea percolated within.

He dove into the driver’s seat, smile broadening as he clasped the still dangling keys. He revved the engine as Eames snapped the trunk shut and narrowed his eyes at Arthur’s new location. He moved around to the still-open doors and each window lowered with a motorized moan as the exciting new stench rolled through the car.

“Get in, boss,” Arthur murmured, his tone thick and guttural a la mobster. “Cops’ll be here any minute.”

Eames pursed his lips briefly, facial muscles quirking as though a smile was working to break through, and his hands pressed into his pockets as he regarded Arthur thoughtfully.

Arthur revved the car once more and Eames held his gaze steadily.

“Security will run us down hard.”

Arthur smirked. “And we shall lead them on a merry chase. Get in, Mr. Eames.”

Eames rolled his eyes before he slid into the seat behind Arthur’s, and his right hand somewhat thrillingly gripped the backrest just behind Arthur’s shoulder.

“Punch it, Chewie,” he growled and Arthur pushed hard on the gas pedal, squealing the tires for a moment before he eased back and pulled onto the now blissfully open road at a more sedate speed. He smirked as he met Eames’ eyes in the mirror, tongue firmly in his cheek as the dark gaze burned into him from the backseat.

“So, what now?” Arthur lifted a brow casually and glanced at Eames’ still-simmering expression behind him. “We’ve embarked on a life of crime and ill-gotten gains. Is this where we find a sleazy motel? Y'know, hole up and wait for the cops to come for us, darting from state to state 'til they hunt us down like dogs, and we go out in a blaze of glory, Butch and Sundance style?”

Eames leaned forward, seatbelt straining as he deliberately caught Arthur’s eye.

“Motels and shootouts? Really, Arthur, you disappoint me. I was thinking more Monte Carlo or bust. Gambling, luxury suites, loaded dice, a pool full of poker chips and champagne… But of course, if you’d rather we can always try it your way?”

Arthur grinned. “More Bond than Butch Cassidy?” Don’t think about champagne, pools, or rickety motel beds, or blowing on dice, or...

Eames squeezed his shoulder as they pulled onto Arthur’s street. “You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

Arthur schooled his features into a smile so sweetly innocent it made his teeth ache.

“Clearly, I still have a lot to learn,” he murmured before he jerked the hand brake and spun the car to a perfect standstill directly before his driveway.

Arthur chanced a glance up to check Eames’ reaction; the older man’s hand had fallen away to brace himself. Arthur met with a steady, if amused, glare and it was abruptly all too much. He rocked forward and laughed breathlessly, face on his forearms where his hands still rested on the wheel; the laughter bubbled out of him until his cheeks hurt and his eyes stung.

“If you’re quite finished?” Eames drawled; humor lessening the bite in his tone as he sat fully forward. Arthur leaned back in silent counterpoint, breath huffing out of him on a final, silent chuckle as their eyes met once more.

“Yeah,” Arthur grinned, “ I’m good.”

Eames’ lips quirked. “You certainly are that, darling. Were I ever likely to be in desperate need of a good Point Man cum Getaway Driver, you’d be the first person I’d call.”

Arthur dropped his gaze and chuckled as he blushed.

“That said,” Eames growled, suddenly only just behind him, leaning in close behind Arthur to press his index and middle finger - mock gun barrel style - against the tender underside of Arthur’s jaw; their eyes met again in the mirror on Arthur’s startled exhale and fingertips pushed in tight against his flesh, just hard enough to leave the tantalizing promise of a bruise were Arthur to move just so, angling himself into the contact, “if you ever steal my car again, or if I catch you driving in such a manner without due cause, then there will be DIRE CONSEQUENCES. Am I understood?”

A tiny, unbidden noise escaped from between Arthur’s lips as he wet them and his head fell back hard against the headrest as he let himself tilt into the teasingly threatening touch at his pulse point. His lids lowered over his eyes as he trembled and mangled a quick approximation of a clichéd mob henchman’s voice. “Yes, Boss.”

Eames dropped his eyes and gave a short laugh before he lowered his hand to briefly squeeze Arthur’s shoulder and then exited the car. Arthur stepped out a bare moment later on legs that quivered beneath his weight, his bag clutched strategically before him.

Arthur tossed Eames a quick salute and began to stroll nonchalantly toward the house, biting his lip to hold back his laughter, and only making it two steps before Eames spun him around with one heavy palm, the other outstretched toward him.

“Keys, you cheeky fucker.” He glared, the effect entirely ruined by the twinkle in his eyes and the upward tilt to his still-quirking lips.

Arthur slapped them into his hand with a feigned cluck of annoyance and a roll of his eyes that left him dizzy where Eames’ hand closed around the precious keys and Arthur’s fingers both.

Eames released him on a snort and all but shoved him back in the direction of his house, “Get, you. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

Arthur saluted again and grinned. “Tomorrow,” he confirmed and all but sprinted up to his apartment, only just managing to wait and watch Eames drive away before he fumbled his way inside. He locked the door behind him and ran across to also lock the door that connected him to his mother’s house, then he kicked off his shoes and blindly flung his bag away, almost tripping as he shot across the room to drench his now-disgusting hands in liquid soap. He hissed as he thrust them beneath the cleansing stream of too-hot water and washed rivulets of filth off and down the drain until only pink, scrubbed skin remained.

He grabbed the remote to his stereo and set it swiftly to a deep, pounding song and volume that he could feel throbbing in his veins, reverberating through his body and making his hands shake even more as he jerked his fly wide before rummaging desperately for the lube from his nightstand as he fell face forward across his bed with a moan.

He panted as he pushed his boxers down, not too far, thighs spread as wide as they could against his bed, the comforter rucking about his knees as he trembled and slopped the thick, cold gel over his right hand, facedown as he bore his weight on his forehead. His left hand yanked his underwear and jeans a crucial inch or so further downward as he bared himself to an imaginary, smoldering gaze.

Eames...” he whimpered, cock high and heavy where not even gravity could part it from where it throbbed against his belly. He reached back to push his slippery, shaking fingers against himself, and braced his left forearm against the mattress as he rocked back against his touch. He twisted two fingers together to push hard against his hole and, oh god oh god, he could still feel them at his throat, he turned his face into the crook of his elbow and groaned, slow and satisfied as he sank the two fingers into himself.

“EAMES,” he panted over and over against the damp heat of his skin, and sobbed as he drove his fingers harder inside, finally – FINALLY – allowing himself the luxury of picturing him, recapturing that hot gaze as it bored into him from the back seat in amusement and annoyance both, wanting, NEEDING the bruise at his throat tomorrow to reinforce the desperate, wanton ache that came from Eames’ hands on him. “Oh god, Eames, please – please....” But it wasn’t enough.

He twisted his wrist roughly, crying out softly against the burn as he ruthlessly wrenched his fingers free only to thrust three back where two had already been too much. His hole clenched and throbbed under the onslaught, and Arthur jammed them inside him again and again as he mewled and jerked between his bed and the imaginary figure of Eames hunched over him.

Fuck... fuck... Eames...” he whimpered. His head felt thick and spun with images from both his and Eames’ worlds combined: Arthur, bent double over a cheap motel bed, being pounded into relentlessly - on his knees sucking Eames’ cock in a luxury suite - in the back seat of Eames’ car, writhing helplessly, and too full of Eames’ fingers to do more than wail - spread over a pile of casino chips, wrecked and breathless as Eames comes in stripes over his skin - Eames over him, under him, IN him, fucking him harder and harder and –

Arthur came, screaming Eames’ name, hard enough he somehow knew past the burst of burning pleasure to muffle himself by biting hard into the tender skin of his inner arm. Come striped all across his bed and belly as he bucked and sobbed and finally collapsed against the sheets.

When finally he was able to drag himself back up from his bed and into the shower, he was pleased to note that not only was the residual ache in his backside more than worth the brain-shattering orgasm and fantasy that had caused it, but also that the bite mark he’d left in his own flesh was likely to be there for some time, judging by its deeply purple hue and the throb building beneath it. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but be delighted.

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