“I really don’t see how I’m supposed to be any use,” Arthur says for the third time. He uncrosses his arms only to fold them over his chest again when he shifts and resettles in the chair. Hotel furniture is never comfortable, but Arthur can admit to himself that this isn’t exactly why he’s squirming.
“I told you,” comes Eames’ voice from the other side of the bathroom door, “the mark has your tastes, exactly. Christ, you took the surveillance photos yourself; he’s practically your clone, all those tailored trousers and narrow ties.”
Arthur sighs and checks his watch. Eames is taking a very long time to get changed into whatever he brought over in that alarmingly pink bag. “Except,” he says, clearing his throat to convey his impatience, “except he’s straight.”
“Which is precisely why I’m trying these things on up here in my hotel room, on my own body, rather than down in the dream on the lady I’m forging,” Eames says, sounding incredibly sensible for a person making absolutely no sense. “Right, are you ready?”
“Just because you’ve got a cock doesn’t mean I want to see you in some floor-length satin rhinestone monstr”— Arthur starts to gripe, but the doorknob is finally turning. The door swings ajar and Arthur stops, mid-rant, because Eames — well. He probably didn’t need to take ten minutes to get into that.
Arthur shifts his gaze helplessly down the landscape of Eames’ back — of course Eames is exiting ass-first — getting stuck for a bit on the various tattoos he’s only ever seen as vague shadows through light-colored shirts. But there’s no stopping once he’s started, not with those broad delicious shoulders, that muscle-sprung back plunging down to Eames’ narrow waist and hips. And that’s where it gets really interesting, actually, that little string of red lace like a frame clinging to the top curves of each of Eames’ ass cheeks, joining up in the middle to form the slightest of V-shapes before disappearing into the cleft of Eames’ ass.
“Hmm?” says Eames, possibly prompting Arthur to respond to a question he asked a moment earlier. Arthur hardly knows. It seems to him that the room filled up with white noise the moment Eames backed his red g-stringed butt cheeks into Arthur’s line of sight.
“Why the fuck do you wear such baggy pants?” Arthur asks, hearing his own voice sounding reproachful almost to the point of personal injury. And yeah, okay, maybe he does feel like Eames has done him wrong, hiding this spectacular anatomical wonder under vintage pleated trousers and the hems of screamingly loud polyester shirts. All this time, Arthur could have been looking at this. He can’t help but feel that their working relationship would have been much less acrimonious if Arthur’d only had regular opportunity to admire Eames from this particular perspective.
“So, is that a ‘yes’ on this one?” Eames asks, straightening up a little, and only then does Arthur realize that Eames was actually — fuck — presenting his ass for Arthur’s consideration. Like a baboon. Or, Arthur is forced to append, like an adult film star.
Eames turns around, smiling, pleased. It’s when Arthur sees the other side of the g-string that he understands two things with abrupt, head-pounding clarity:
One: why Eames needed so long in the bathroom to change into a single skimpy undergarment; and
Two: why Eames prefers pants with a little give in the front.
Eames, quite plainly, really does fit the adult film star body type. It’s a miracle the g-string hasn’t exploded off him, the amount of stress it’s under, straining to contain (some of) Eames’ cock. And forget flat-front dress pants, christ. He’d be a walking obscenity — though nothing, of course, like he is right now.
“Oh, that,” says Eames, because Arthur is probably gaping. He’s almost sure his mouth is hanging open, and it may even be watering a little. Eames looks down ruefully and does his best to readjust matters. “Don’t worry,” he says, “in the dream level I’ll be smooth as a peach here, all woman and so on.”
Arthur closes his mouth, not without difficulty. Eames, he reminds himself, already has a massive ego (and there’s realization number three, thank you, yes, Arthur can suddenly pinpoint the exact source of Eames’ healthy sense of self-importance) — Eames does not need Arthur to tell him that he’s got a massive cock. Eames knows he’s got a massive cock. It’s his massive cock, for fuck’s sake. It’s attached to him.
A quick fumble in his pocket for his totem, can’t roll it now without Eames seeing, but the weight feels right, and Arthur remembers exactly how he got here, and where he was before that, so — okay. This isn’t Eames’ version of a practical joke. This is real.
That is real.
“What else,” Arthur starts to say, then has to stop, cough, and start again. “Did you have another — option? In that bag?”
“Yeah, course,” says Eames, all easy and relaxed and matter-of-fact like he’s not standing there with his massive cock squeezed into a strip of red lace. “Did you want to see?” he asks, hitching a thumb back over his shoulder towards the bathroom, where the bag is still presumably waiting.
“Ah, sure,” Arthur says, and scrambles for a rationale that isn’t I don’t want you to put that away, just yet. “I mean — red. It’s not really — if he’s like me, he might find it a bit — obvious.”
“Right,” says Eames, nodding, smiling — and perhaps there’s something a little knowing around the corners of his mouth, like maybe Arthur’s not playing it as cool as he hopes he is — but Eames turns back towards the bathroom anyway.
“You could,” Arthur says, much as he’s enjoying the return of Eames’ round pert ass to his field of view, “I mean — it’s not like there’s much I haven’t already seen, just now?”
“Right,” Eames says, and turns around again, hitches his thumbs into the strings on his hips. “Point taken,” he says, and tugs the fabric out and away, safely freeing his cock before wriggling his hips to get the g-string out of the cleft of his ass. Eames doesn’t have feminine curves, of course; once the g-string clears the curve of his behind and the substantial bulk of his cock, it falls straight down his muscled hairy thighs and puddles around his ankles. Eames steps out of one side and hooks the g-string on the toes of his other foot, bends down to retrieve it with a slightly showy and unnecessary waggle of his ass.
He straightens up with the g-string dangling from his big fist and beams at Arthur, clearly proud of his maneuvering. “Worked on that a long time, I don’t mind saying,” he tells Arthur. “Now, I’ve got a — I think blue? It’s a bikini, more like. And there’s a thong but it has a little bow on the arse and — I don’t know, you tell me.”
Arthur hesitates, like he’s considering the options, but really he’s trying to work out if there’s any possible way he can have sex with Eames right now without seeming like a vapid shallow size queen. It’s not that Eames hasn’t offered, before; but Arthur — well. It was different, when Arthur thought Eames was all bad clothing choices and brylcreem hair and British teeth and chewing pen caps — Arthur’s pen caps, usually. He and Eames have a certain spark, fair enough — but Arthur has standards, for christ’s sake.
He did have standards, Arthur revises now. Eames’ cock is like the Total Perspective Vortex of genitalia: his objections to Eames seem petty and ridiculous now that Arthur’s seen just how much Eames has to offer in other areas.
Arthur opens his mouth to speak.
He comes back out minus the red lace, but still naked and — free. Freely — swinging. Arthur averts his eyes, briefly, just to make sure he can still do it. When he looks back he’s sure to meet Eames’ gaze, which he doesn’t think he’s done since Eames first emerged wearing the g-string. “Harder to put them on than take ‘em off,” Eames confesses, smiling just enough to show those same crooked front teeth — but it’s not his usual sneer or smirk, it’s something softer, almost sweet.
Arthur breaks his stare instinctively, redirects it back at the safe — if still mind-boggling — vista presented by Eames’ cock.
“Just a minute,” says Eames, and bends over, gets one foot through a leg hole and then another. He might not have practiced this part but he does well enough, working the panties up his legs with a gentle series of little squirms that only emphasize the sheer heft of what he’s got between his legs. “This is the tricky part,” he says, wincing preemptively, holding the elastic out in front with one hand and trying to contain balls and cock (impossible) with the other.
But before Arthur can jump up and offer a helping hand, Eames snaps the elastic up and then skims his thumbs around the waistband towards the back, bringing the bikini panties fully around his hips and over his ass. He turns to show Arthur, craning his head back as though he could see too. “It’s the back I’m more concerned about, really,” Eames says, fiddling with the elastic at the leg holes, centering the panties precisely. They’re taut cotton with a slight sheen, and maybe a bit small because when Eames shifts his weight onto one foot and then the other, they start to ride up his ass.
It’s probably uncomfortable, Arthur realizes, but it looks nothing short of amazing, like an invitation for Arthur’s fingers to trace that cleft through the fabric. “Better than the red?” Eames asks, tugging the panties out of his ass, matter-of-fact. “Again, there would be a better fit, all over.”
“Yeah, better,” Arthur says, wetting his lips.
“Not too on the nose, cloak of the Virgin and all that?” Eames pursues, like he’s still capable of thought. Show-off.
“No, no,” Arthur says, and blinks his way up Eames’ back, focuses on his shoulder blade, a curling bit of ink there. It works, for now; Arthur’s brain starts firing again, albeit slowly. “He’s Catholic, he’ll — they love that sort of shit, fucking the innocence out of someone.”
“Mm,” agrees Eames. “Did you still want to see the other, or is this your pick?” He turns around, absently plucking at the waistband again, and little wonder: it’s got to be riding painfully against the tip of his uncut cock. Eames is sort of stuffed into the panties at an angle, his cock outlined obscenely, fat and tucked all the way over, almost to Eames’ hip. How many inches, Arthur wonders, dazed — and how many more, if Arthur were to —
“Here,” Arthur says, “hang on,” and he takes advantage of Eames’ momentary distraction to bound up from the armchair and adjust his own half-erection inconspicuously as he goes. “That — if we just — may I?” And Arthur freezes with his hand already most of the way to Eames’ belly, to the soft frothy line of the tight-stretched waistband. He didn’t mean to hesitate, to ask permission, but he has. Now he has to wait for an answer.
“May you?” Eames echoes. Impossible to tell what that is, that tone in Eames’ voice: maybe amusement, but just as likely disgust or offense or mockery. “May you what?” he asks, his mood still indecipherable.
“May I,” Arthur says, “may I — I think I could fix it so it fits better in the back, it’ll help me, ah — judge better.”
“Oh, well,” says Eames, dryly, his face neutral, “in that case, be my guest.”
Arthur doesn’t wait, though, doesn’t bother puzzling out Eames’ motivations. He just turns his hand so the palm is towards Eames’ belly and slips his fingertips down past the waistband of the panties.
Eames is hairy, warm to the touch. Arthur can feel how Eames’ breath catches ever so slightly as Arthur first makes contact with his cock. Silky-soft skin, dry and hot, but thrumming already, alive to Arthur’s hesitant maneuvering as he trails his fingers up its length — up, up, up, fuck — finally capturing the flare of the head between thumb and fingers, stroking just a little to feel the glide of loose foreskin. Arthur’s cut, himself, but he’s got a mechanic’s appreciation for nature’s engineering feat, here: a toroidal linear bearing, to be precise, a self-lubricating sleeve that turns back on itself, rolls easy and sweet under his fingers, easier still when suddenly Eames starts to harden.
“That,” Eames says, breathless and quiet, “that is not likely to help matters, darling.” His hand clamps down very gently around Arthur’s wrist, stilling Arthur’s minute strokes.
“I know,” Arthur says, unrepentant, because Eames feels amazing, hot and thick and perfect all along the hollow of Arthur’s palm and the tender inside of his wrist. “Just — getting oriented.”
“That’s the knob-end part of the knob,” Eames says, guiding Arthur’s hand back down the shaft. “And these would be the bollocks. I think — if we shifted them?”
“Right,” Arthur says, like he has any fucking clue what’s going on now, with the base of Eames’ fat huge cock bumping the backs of his knuckles while his fingertips brush against the soft skin of Eames’ balls. “Eames,” he says, well aware that he passed cool and objective about three exits back, “Eames,” and so what if Eames thinks Arthur’s a vapid shallow size queen? So fucking what? Arthur needs to know how much of Eames’ cock he can hold in the tunnel of his hand, how much in his mouth; he’ll bet anything he can take the whole thing in his ass, given enough time and lube.
“Arthur?” Eames says, quizzical, damnably calm.
Meanwhile, Arthur’s having a hard time catching his breath, let alone figuring out what he’s trying to say. He looks down and sees the stretch of blue cotton outlining his hand, live and busy and stroking away at Eames’ balls, his knuckles skimming up and down the base of Eames’ cock as it hardens, slung across Eames’ belly, trapped and huge and perfect. “Fuck,” Arthur says thickly, dazed.
“Blue it is, then?” Eames says, grinning. He uses two fingers to tilt Arthur’s chin back up, to study his face. “Christ, you look lovely when you’re hot and bothered.”
“Eames,” Arthur says one last time, not bothering to pretend that it’s anything but a plea, leaning in and breathing shakily, waiting for some sign that this is okay, this is —
Eames pulls Arthur’s wrist up hard, and Arthur’s so startled that he doesn’t offer any resistance. His hand slips back out of the panties, feeling cool and bereft suddenly, away from the heated closeness of Eames’ skin, his cock. “Is this any way to treat a lady?” Eames says, holding Arthur’s hand hostage, smirking.
“You’re no fucking lady,” Arthur answers sharply before he can check himself — but maybe it was the right thing to say after all, because Eames’ eyes go dark as coals. He pushes Arthur’s palm up against him again, outside the panties this time, grinds Arthur’s hand against himself so Arthur can feel how hard Eames is getting now, how — Arthur’s fingers stretch and curl, reaching, yes — how wet. “Soaking,” Arthur says, “you’re soaking wet, you’re aching for it, doesn’t matter who gives it to you.”
Eames’ eyes close and his mouth opens as he shudders for air, his turn to come unbound. He’s still got Arthur’s hand, holding it tight with both of his own, using it to rub against with taut circles of his hips, fully hard now from the feel of him.
“Are you going to come like this?” Arthur asks, grinding the heel of his hand down harder yet, and Eames’ hands fall away abruptly, like he’s decided he can trust Arthur to keep touching him. “Just from this?”
“No,” Eames says muzzily, “can’t, have to,” and he’s scrabbling at Arthur for support even as he sinks to his knees and then down onto his ass.
Arthur follows him down, eager to keep touching, and then Eames is flat out on the parquet, naked except for the fucking blue panties and barely contained by those anyway. Arthur swings a knee over Eames’ thighs and leans down to watch Eames’ face as Arthur continues to work his cock through the cotton, as Eames rolls his hips up into each stroke until his hips are coming up off the floor and his lower back is arching high with the strain of it, of trying to come like this with only the heel of Arthur’s hand and the occasional curl of fingers dancing over his shaft.
And much as Arthur liked having Eames right in his hand, there’s something undeniably delicious about this, too, about Eames squirming and pushing up into Arthur’s touch under a layer of slippery cotton, the world’s gauziest nod towards some kind of feminine modesty strained almost to the point of failure by the insistent upwards spring of Eames’ cock. Arthur turns his wrist now, feeling a pang of pity for Eames because it’s obvious that it’s not quite enough for him, close as he seems to be. Now Arthur can wrap his fingers around Eames a little better through the cotton — but Arthur’s nice-sized hands are still no match for Eames, god. Eames chokes and ruts up against him and the head of his cock pops out the top of the panties, pinched under elastic, besting the too-small garment at last.
Arthur’s not even aware he’s bowed his head to taste until his tongue touches skin, starting — perhaps cruelly — with the smear of wetness on Eames’ belly. But he chases the little sticky string of precome up to where it originates, and then — then Arthur makes up for the inadequacy of his hand stroking through cotton, sweeping his tongue in a swift efficient circle around Eames’ foreskin, edging it back the rest of the way, and then he opens wide, feeling ambitious and maybe reckless, pulls Eames into his mouth, sucks with the flat of his tongue pulsing hard on Eames’ frenulum.
Eames has stilled, now, back flat to the floor, but it’s not a relaxed pose by any means. Arthur can feel the urgent tension in Eames’ hard thighs under his own, hear the long shaky exhalations alternating with quick knife-blade gasps of pleasure. No, Eames is still the way men go still when their cock is in someone’s mouth, fraught and stunned and panicked on some level that it might stop at any second because it’s simply too good to be true.
Oh, Eames, thinks Arthur, getting his fingertips under the waistband of the panties, working the head of Eames’ cock with tongue and lips, I’m not going anywhere. And he saw the seams straining, a moment earlier; it’s no surprise when Arthur’s quick sharp yank at the panties makes the stitches give in, the front of the panties parting ways forever with the back. It’s another vicious tug to make the waistband elastic come along, and then Eames’ cock is free. It probably looks amazing, curving up from the wreckage of lace and blue cotton, but Arthur is too busy to stop and see for himself, because now he’s got the base of Eames’ cock in his hand and he’s stroking up and down for the sheer pleasure of it, loving how far he has to shift his fist up before he bumps into his own mouth.
“You wrecked my fancy knickers,” says Eames, drifting a stupid hand over Arthur’s hair, fond and altogether too coherent.
Arthur pulls off with an obscene sound and looks up at Eames. “You wrecked them first,” he says. “You stretched them all to hell with your giant fucking cock.”
Eames lifts his head up from the floor, cheeks red and the bridge of his nose glistening with sweat. “Arthur,” he says, smirking unevenly like he can’t quite manage enough control of his facial muscles, “you sound almost impressed.”
Arthur wants to be flip, to play that game they’re always playing where Eames tries to get under Arthur’s skin and Arthur pretends like Eames can’t, but it’s — it’s too difficult, abruptly, kneeling here with Eames under him, Eames’ cock sliding through Arthur’s fist, Arthur’s mouth feeling stretched and sticky and amazing. “I am,” Arthur says, instead. “I’m so fucking impressed, Eames.”
Eames smiles delightedly and rolls his hips up into Arthur’s next stroke. “I was rather impressed myself, a moment ago,” he says, and pushes down on Arthur’s head, which — ugh, Eames — except, except.
There’s really no place Arthur would rather be.
Arthur lets Eames urge his head down, takes Eames’ cockhead into his mouth again, and then Eames’ hand eases up like he thinks that’s as far as Arthur can go. I’ll fucking show you impressed, thinks Arthur a little wildly, taking a deep breath through his nose and letting his throat go soft and relaxed.
Arthur goes down.
Eames’ hand falls away and he makes the most unearthly groaning sound.
Not quite, of course, but far enough to make fingers and lips touch again if he splays his knuckles wide. Arthur can feel his throat wanting to clamp down and push back; his eyes water. But time enough for a showy suck and three or four bobs of his head before he comes up for air. Goes back down. Delights, maybe a little egotistically, in the helpless arch and shudder of Eames’ thighs under his, the broken sounds Eames makes as Arthur does everything short of choking himself on Eames’ cock. It’s possible no one’s ever taken him this deep, thinks Arthur dizzily, and that little notion inspires him to hold his breath even longer the next time.
Eames’ heels thud on the floor and the sound that grates out of his throat now is raw, unfiltered: possibly the first and only honest thing Eames has ever uttered in Arthur’s presence.
It’s also a warning.
Arthur pulls off entirely when he comes back up this time, and not a moment too soon: one encouraging upwards slide of his fist and Eames shoots. Arthur’s balls tighten in sympathy while he watches and strokes and eases Eames through it; it looks like one of those really impossibly good orgasms, judging by the almost-hurting-but-surprised look on Eames’ face. It goes on long enough, certainly, long enough that Arthur has time to push Eames’ cock upwards, watch Eames’ belly go slick and wet with pulse after pulse, tattoos clouded over in patches, filthy and gorgeous — and Arthur cannot for the life of him figure out why he’s denied himself this sight all this time. Fuck.
He’s been a shallow, vapid idiot; and yet, that very thing seems to also have won him redemption, because here Eames is, shivering and panting and twining his fingers with Arthur’s to help him wring the last aftershocks out. Eames’ grip is almost feeble, but he guides Arthur through it, gasps and grins and flutters his eyelids as the orgasm subsides in ever milder waves.
“What about you,” Eames half-asks, mouth and cheeks a hectic rose-red, eyes half-lidded and dark. “I haven’t got a stitch on and you’re still kitted up like — god help me, you and your buttons, you and your crisp shirts.”
“You’ve got a few stitches on,” Arthur says, grinning, and takes a moment to rip those few stitches away, yank the ruins of the panties loose from under Eames’ ass. He balls the cotton up in his fist and raises it to his face, but Eames wasn’t wearing them long enough, really. There’s a faint scent — but mostly they smell of the lingerie boutique, still, laundry perfume and cardboard. “Hmm,” says Arthur, dissatisfied, and uses the panties to wipe Eames clean, little by little.
Eames sighs under Arthur’s ministrations, watching but not helping, moving his hand out of the way. His cock’s still half-hard, and still — of course — sort of improbably huge. Arthur saves it until last, is gentle with it, uses a fresh bit of the panties to dab the come away. “Are you going to wank into them, now?” Eames asks, folding hands behind his head, resuming his usual annoying leonine persona. “I’m knackered, but if you give me a minute I can lend a hand.”
Arthur flattens the ruined panties out over Eames’ belly and carefully folds them up again, tucking in the frayed edges and loose threads. He’s still hard, of course, but — Arthur finishes the job and pokes the folded garment into the pocket of his vest, just so. If nobody looks too closely they might think it’s just a powder blue pocket square. “Maybe later,” Arthur says, hearing his voice slipping back into his own usual tones, low and brusque and a little cool, like he doesn’t still have Eames spread under him, big and muscled and naked. He could just get up now, leave Eames like this, go down the hall to his own room, do as Eames suggests. It wouldn’t take long, the way Arthur’s feeling, and there would be some petty satisfaction to it, too: walking out with his clothing intact if not his dignity, leaving Eames in a messy postcoital puddle on his parquet floor, making it very clear that Arthur got everything he wanted out of the transaction, thank you very much.
Probably it’s what Eames expects; it’s not like he hadn’t been planning something with his transparent little ploy of making Arthur approve his choice of lingerie for the forgery. Probably Eames thinks Arthur’s done, now, too; and while he might regret not getting to make Arthur come, there’s no way Eames could be less than satisfied with what he’s gotten, himself.
Arthur leans forward a little and braces himself with palms flat on either side of Eames’ chest, hovers for a moment over Eames’ face. “Mr. Eames,” he says, hearing himself sounding calm and normal even as his heart pounds ever faster, “may I kiss you?”
Eames’ gaze flickers over Arthur’s face, quizzical and then almost — almost gentle. “Yes, Arthur,” he says, and tips his chin up just a little. “You may.”
(“I don’t see how that could be a totem,” Ariadne says at some point, some days later. “You said it had to be heavy and small. What’s heavy and small about a lacy handkerchief?”
Arthur doesn’t look at Eames, doesn’t trust his own poker face if Eames is smirking — and of course Eames is smirking. “Trust me,” he says, “it works.”
Up above, the blue cotton has been washed, cut into a square, edged with lace by a tailor who didn’t ask, thank god.
Down here in the dream, though, Arthur knows perfectly well that, unfolded, the pocket square would prove to be a still-ruined and ragged pair of blue panties, wet in patches, smelling of Eames.)