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Happy Feet

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Arthur hissed, jerking in place and fighting every instinct he had not to drive his tormentor’s nose up into his skull with the unforgiving ball of his foot.

Eames tutted at him, adjusting his grip once more, one large hand cupped around the back of his ankle, his heel just resting in the warm curve of the Englishman's palm, the other hand wrapped over and under the aching arch as the two men glared at one another, deadlocked momentarily.

"Arthur," Eames said in a deceptively level tone, eyes oddly dark in the warehouse's mid-afternoon light, "Giacomo was very specific - if I don't take the exact measurements then you will not get the - how did you put it, Darling? - most exquisite shoes you've ever seen."

Arthur ground his teeth together, fingers digging into the arm rest of his chair RIDICULOUSLY hard now; breath coming in tiny bursts through his nose till he could trust himself to speak.

"I know," he bit out, "I'm sorry. Please go on."

Eames cocked a brow; carefully unwrapping his fingers from Arthur's foot to gingerly lift a narrow tape measure back up against the firm, white skin.

"Y'know," he said gently, his gaze shifting back and forth between his measurements to Arthur's clenched, pained face and the jacket he'd insistently draped across his lap, "It's a pity you're so ticklish dear heart - Giacomo has a particular fondness for good feet and yours are unsurprisingly elegant - perhaps I should snap a quick picture for him?"

Arthur took a measured breath, attempting to block out Eames' voice and the sensation of his fingers brushing against his skin.

EXQUISITE BUTTERSOFT LEATHER, EXQUISITE BUTTERSOFT LEATHER, EXQUISITE BUTTERSOFT LEATHER, EXQUISITE BUTTERSOFT LEATHER... he whispered to himself, strangling the sobbing sound rising in his throat as Eames leaned in, warm breath gusting over the fine hairs on his ankle as he checked the tiny numbers on the narrow tape.

"Just one more," he muttered and Arthur cracked an eye open, relief pouring through him in torrents, watching Eames adjust the tape one last time before sitting back on his heels, hands still cupping Arthurs. "There we go darling," he smiled, "That wasn't so bad was it?"

Arthur opened his mouth (bitten lips and clenched jaw aching pitifully) to thank Eames for his help, breath guttering in his chest as Eames abruptly lifted his foot to tenderly press those obscene lips against the sole of his foot before dropping it back to his own lap, smiling lopsidedly up into his frozen face.

"Really Arthur....Ticklish?" He mocked gently and Arthur launched himself out of his chair, jacket falling away as he knocked them both to the floor, grinding his hips into Eames' as he pinned him to the floor.

"Oh, Mr Eames-" he snarled as he lipped and bit at his mouth, "You really have NO IDEA..." and by the time he'd twisted his hips hard enough into Eames to set them both spilling into their underwear, it occurred to them both that perhaps they could have more together than just a joint passion for footwear.