Extraction security – and those who take advantage of mental security lapses, natch – have their own set of rules and traditions. Some are more hat tips to the ones who came before than anything, like using Édith Piaf for a wake-up cue, but others are ironclad, and among the first is that anyone in a dream is not to be taken advantage of, in any way. No tickling, no Sharpie mustaches, no removing Arthur’s ties and tying them around his head like a hitai-ite. Pity.
Though there are reasons for this, Eames sorrowfully concedes. Pranks, while generally a staple of other close, tight-knit groups, have a way of backfiring and making things messy. Add in the fact that when you’re under there’s not always a convenient way to wake up, and that stimuli outside the dream can be damned tricky to translate into the dream, and you’ve got a rule that no one ever breaks unless someone needs a kick.
Which is why Eames wants to obliterate it, of course.
He works on Arthur for weeks. Telling Arthur how hot it would be, how absolutely filthy, how Arthur could do anything to him – anything he liked, and Eames wouldn’t be able to do a thing.
“Completely at your mercy,” he murmurs, and licks all of Arthur’s come off his fingers, just for good measure.
He doesn’t push any farther than that. Arthur’s brain is relentless; it doesn’t miss a thing, and if Arthur hasn’t brought it up, it’s only because he’s still mulling it over. Arthur’s more inventive than others would give him credit for, but just as much of a control freak as would be expected. And Eames, as much as he loves to push, knows exactly how to play his cards.
“I don’t like it,” Arthur finally tells him, flat-out, “you know I don’t like anything without an opt-out.”
“Darling,” Eames says, with his most serious face on. Arthur occasionally requires reassurance that Eames has upper brain function and can think things through. “I’ll have a gun, you know, if I don’t like the way things feel. All I’m asking is that you play nice and misbehave yourself for five minutes.”
Eames lets it simmer for another few weeks. They finish a few jobs – some contract work for the Japanese military, thanks to Saito’s connections, and a rather simple heist involving what will no longer be an up-and-coming politician. The whole group has their usual celebratory come-down meal – sushi this time, of which Ariadne is a fiend for – and they’re sitting around after, talking, when Eames notices Arthur isn’t drinking the dai gingo sake with the rest of them. Eames breaks out in goose pimples all over. The only time Arthur doesn’t imbibe is when he’s planning on doing something he wants to be in complete control for.
Eames rolls his poker chip over his fingers and smiles.
They shuffle out of the restaurant at roughly the same time – Saito and Cobb into the sleek, chauffeured car that has been waiting to whisk them away to the airport, Araidne and Yusef into one cab and Arthur and Eames into another. Arthur keeps apartments in the few cities they might call home – New York, Tokyo, Sydney, New Delhi – though London is, of course, Eames’ favorite. They curl up in the back of the cab together, the silver briefcase tucked discreetly behind Arthur’s legs. Arthur puts one hand on the back of Eames’ neck, scratches at the hair there, and tells the driver where to go.
The apartment itself is rather unremarkable, overall – it’s hard to improve on the perfect impossibility of dreamscapes – but there are skylights, and a ridiculously expensive espresso machine in the kitchen, and Eames can push Arthur against the wall and kiss him just inside the door. There’s only so much he allows himself to ask for.
“Clothes on or off?” he asks, thinking about pushing his thumb just under Arthur's tie. Loosening it.
“Your clothes? Truly would look better on the floor.”
“Always happy to please, sweetheart.” Eames strips quickly, efficiently. Doesn’t let himself linger, or even really think about it yet. No sense getting prematurely excited. “Shall I tuck myself in?”
“I’ve got you,” Arthur says, and snaps open the briefcase.
It’s almost impossible to remember how dreams start, but Eames gradually realizes this - Arthur’s put him in a bedroom, simple and tasteful, if one discounts the orgy-sized bed in the center. When Eames checks the nightstand beside the bed he finds lube and a gun – oh Arthur, how romantic. What Arthur might lack in imagination he makes up in single-minded drive.
Eames pulls the poker chip out of his pocket. Palms it once, twice for luck; slips it over his fingers and then tucks it away. He has his clothes on again, for whatever reason. As familiar as one gets with them, dreams can still be ever so strange. He pulls off his jacket, his shirt, slips off his shoes and his pants, anticipation growing in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t feel anything yet, but his minutes are Arthur’s seconds, after all.
He lies down on the bed. Stretches himself out like a starfish, flings his arms and legs around like some sort of demented snow angel; he enjoys messing up the sheets. He feels rather warm, and – and languid, he thinks. Yes, that’s it. Whatever Arthur’s doing, it’s bound to be modified by the dream. Mutated. Amplified. Dreams often incorporate outside stimuli, but on a much bigger level. Flick water on someone’s face and they dream of rainstorms. Turn up the heat and they imagine a desert. And whatever Arthur’s doing, it’s like warmth spreading all over his body, and then all through it, and Eames stretches out a little, arching his back.
It quickly gets a bit feverish, the whole thing – hot, and with a certain stickiness that reminds Eames of rainforests, air so thick it feels like water in your lungs. His breath starts coming faster, and harder, and he licks his lips like there’s something there to taste. His dick is terribly hard, unbelievably hard, hitting his belly and leaving sticking smears whenever Eames moves, and the warm feeling turns wet, almost, and it’s all so bloody overwhelming its glorious. He thinks about going for the lube, but he feels – pinned, and Christ, all the walls had melted away at some point. Everything’s hot, and aching, and Eames suddenly can’t stop writhing against the sheets, yes, running his hands all over himself, touching himself everywhere, anywhere, like his whole body is one giant nerve ending.
And then, suddenly, he’s awake.
There’s a difference between the sensations that come from stimuli outside the dream, and waking up to those stimuli. There’s a difference between that general hot, deliciously sensual feeling to the actual sweat on his skin, the silken thread count of Arthur’s ridiculous sheets against his back, and Arthur working in and out of him, slow and shallow, the head of Arthur’s cock slipping in and out with a terribly obscene slick noise – and all this, all this information, all these sensations, they flood through Eames’ brain in a split second, like his whole central nervous system begins and ends in his achingly hard dick.
Arthur moans when Eames tightens around him. Beautiful Arthur – his forehead pressed to Eames’, his hair mussed, barely in proper place, with one hand on the headboard and one bracing Eames’ knee against his chest. And once he sees Eames eyes flutter open, the bastard stops.
“Eames?” he says, and he sounds entirely too in control for how hard Eames needs to be fucked. “Do you want me to stop, you –”
“Darling,” Eames grits out, “I will shoot you, I will shoot you, this is the best fucking idea ever,” and he snarls while Arthur laughs. Moves his hand from Eames’ knee to the curve of his ass.
Eames rips the needle out of his arm, hard enough that he’ll feel it later. “Harder,” he breathes, and tightens his legs around Arthur’s waist. “Darling, harder, go harder, please –” Eames is so hard it hurts; he’s been turned on for an hour, even though its only been five minutes for Arthur. His mind thinks he’s ready but most of his body’s still playing catch-up. “Felt so good, sweetheart, touch me,” he begs, he growls, he scratches his frustration into Arthur’s back, and Arthur just keeps fucking Eames steadily, the same short, shallow strokes – just teasing, still getting there. The look on Arthur’s face is a mixture of concentration, possession, and something that Eames will just have to label heat.
There are people – Eames won’t name names – who might think Eames runs roughshod over Arthur, that Eames is the one who pushes and has his way, that Arthur is the one who folds like a house of cards under Eames’ every request. Those people are idiots. Arthur fucks Eames with the same intensity and integrity he brings to everything, and like usual, he doesn’t back down if he thinks he knows best.
Eames reaches for his own cock and Arthur smacks his hand aside, then pins it up over his head. It’s equally parts unspeakably hot and unspeakably infuriating.
“Arthur,” he says – Arthur, because from Eames that’s shorthand for shit is about to go down or goddamn it, pay attention, I am being serious, and something in Arthur’s eyes flickers when Eames’ voice cracks – “If you don’t get me off within the next thirty seconds, I will use inception on Luigi Borrelli himself to make sure he never sells you another shirt.”
In retrospect, perhaps that was going a bit too far.
Arthur pulls out – Eames whines at this, low in his throat, completely against his will –and flips Eames onto his stomach, spreads Eames’ legs with his knee and pushes three fingers in as far as he can, no hesitation. A tremor runs all through Eames’ body, from the tip of his toes to the top of his head, and when Arthur switches from using his fingers back to fucking him, to pinning Eames to the mattress, Eames’ own reaction blindsides him. The friction between his dick and the sheets is perfect, and he goes white-hot, everywhere. He comes all over the sheets, his stomach; he grays out for a moment and comes back to Arthur’s breath on the side of his face, wet marks on his neck, needy and ridiculous sounds spilling out of his mouth. Arthur’s fucking him harder now, thrusting so deep Eames isn’t sure he’s got room to breathe, or the energy. Brutal, impossible thrusts, and Eames is so out of it, so helpless against it, it’s a nearly unbearable sort of pleasure when Arthur finishes – when Eames tightens around him, because he can’t not, and Arthur moans in his ear, collapses on top of him, and Eames laughs because what else can you do.
“Jesus,” Arthur finally says, once they’re caught their breath. They had a brief tussle about sleeping in the wet spot, which Eames maintains is seventy-five percent lube, and therefore Arthur’s fault; Arthur counters that it was mainly for Eames’ benefit, and this whole endeavor was for him, and he should suck it up.
Arthur actually said “suck it up.” Eames almost caved at the sheer novelty.
“Mm,” Eames hums, about as smugly as he’s ever done anything. “I’ve ever so many more ideas.”
Arthur whimpers a little, like he’s the one who’s been fucked six ways from Sunday. “I don’t know if I can survive them,” he says.
Eames smiles. Nuzzles up next to Arthur and presses the sweetest of kisses to his cheekbone.
“Imagine what five minutes of cocksucking feels like in a dream, darling,” he purrs, and falls asleep to the choked gurgling sound Arthur makes.