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Please come over so you can fuck me is about as far from a typical Arthur text message as one can be. Eames reads it, reads it again, then double-checks the sender. Still Arthur.

Eames is on a treadmill at the time. He narrowly escapes skidding off and mashing himself into a pulp against the wall behind him.

Which, when he thinks about it, is Arthur's fault in more ways than one.

Conducting a fair amount of business while sleeping makes it tempting to neglect one's body. Meticulous, orderly Arthur had wordlessly passed him a membership card after stumbling across him doing push-ups one too many times on the warehouse floor. Making noise about common decency and rendering their architect comatose—Ariadne had hastily scurried off babbling about asking Cobb whether Gotham City was fair game for a dream world—and honestly Eames, it's the floor. Arthur can always be counted on to state the obvious in the most aghast manner possible.

"Excuse me?" he demands, once he's collected himself enough totter out and call him.

"You heard me," says Arthur, and hangs up.

He's at Arthur's apartment in record time.

"You're sweaty," Arthur tells him.

"Fuck off," Eames answers brightly, and catches him up against the door the instant it closes.

On his own territory, Arthur can come dangerously close to looking relaxed. Jeans, bare feet, hair unstyled and damp like he's just taken a shower, and he tastes marvelous, though Eames finds that last one is generally the norm.

"Happy anniversary."

"We have anniversaries?" Eames asks, and flutters his lashes just to see Arthur sigh.

"God, you're hopeless," he says, and he hands Eames a set of envelopes.

A bloom of heat starts between his shoulder blades and swiftly spreads.

When the two of them started their arrangement, the standard STD panel had come back clean for both of them, but there was still an HIV retest after the three-month mark. Arthur flatly refused to settle for anything less, citing precise instances of having been bled on by strangers while on the job, and at the time Eames had wondered if he kept a record book somewhere.

Apparently it's been over three months.

"Oh my," Eames murmurs.

Arthur practically glows, very close to grinning, but tucking his face against the side of Eames's neck before it's fully evident. This must be like Christmas to him, Eames thinks, with everything neatly printed and confirmed and in its place. Then again, it feels a lot like Christmas to him as well.

"I thought you might want to know." Arthur's breath is hot against his skin, his hands working their way up Eames's back, and Eames kisses him, tongues and teeth and his fingers in blessedly gel-free hair. He can feel the firm press of Arthur's erection trapped against his thigh.
The best answer Eames has involves grinding against him like an oversexed teenager. He's never been one to deny himself. Hands on those thin hips, fingers through belt loops and tugging rough cloth low enough to trace the bony swoop of one with his finger. Slipping his tongue into his mouth until Arthur's making harsh, needful, magnificently un-Arthurish sounds, and Eames never thought that would become such an all-consuming hobby of his but he's not complaining about it either.

They desecrate the front door a second time. Arthur's long legs wind around his waist and Eames lifts him without conscious thought, rocking lightly, both hands on his ass. He can feel Arthur shuddering, breathing harsh and wet against his cheek, hands clutching at his shoulders, erection straining against his own through too many layers of clothes. He shoves.

"I'll fall." His voice is steady and matter-of-fact, but Eames can feel how desperately tense his thighs are on either side of him. Eames kisses the corner of his mouth and trusts gravity to be on his side just long enough for him to free a hand and squeeze once between Arthur's legs. Arthur makes a small, choked-off sound against his ear.

"Fall for me, darling. I've got you."

Arthur knots his hands in his hair and curses him and it's beautiful.

"This really isn't as comfortable as—fuck—as it could be." There's the hint of a smirk on Arthur's lips. "Bed would be good right about now," he adds wryly, and if he still has the presence of mind to be wry then Eames is just going to have to work a little harder.

He bites into that lovely mouth, grabbing him still closer the instant he's back on the ground. Arthur, not the type to lose sight of an objective, sighs and drags him down the hall.

Arthur's bed is large and soft and high-end—he's told Eames more than once that professional dreamers should settle for nothing less—and it always manages to smell as if it's just been laundered and Eames can't get enough of it. Especially when Arthur twists his shirt over his head and straddles him, sharp knees sinking into the comforter.

"I thought of getting myself ready, but I decided you might want to have the honor." His voice is low and his fingers pluck at the hem of Eames's shirt. Almost shyly, though Arthur is anything but. Somehow, that makes it even better. Eames has clambered around him in a heartbeat, rocking his erection up against the curve of Arthur's ass, palming up the taut-drawn planes of his stomach.

"Oh, I'll take care of you, love, don't you worry." Drawing him in, teeth in that readily bared neck, and Arthur is strong and slim and a landscape of tense-releasing muscle and sinew and hot-to-the-touch skin. "Come in your tight little ass and then do it all over again, till you can't stop begging for it. Fuck you any way you like just so long as you have my cock in you."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his face is flushed and he likes hearing Eames talk though he won't ever admit it, Eames knows. It's Eames's opinion that having an ego isn't nearly the same thing as recognizing the truth.

Eames loses his shirt at some point and Arthur doesn't so much as blink when he tosses it onto the floor, mostly because he's already intent on losing the rest of his clothes. Eames is faster with his own and he doesn't wait another instant before getting comfortable between Arthur's legs, breathing out against the hard bulge of his erection. There's an obvious wet patch staining the front of his overpriced boxers and Eames doesn't help at all, pursing his mouth over the head of his dick and sucking hard through the cloth, making Arthur's hips jolt forward as if he can fuck his mouth without even undressing. Fuck, but that's good.

Arthur doesn't often talk during sex, but he lets the most delicious little noises escape him and Eames never points it out because he's almost positive Arthur would try to stop them if he did. It does, however, make teasing words out of him immensely fun. Even when they're the demeaning sort. Or his name. That's best.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more shameless—ohfuck, Eames."

Oh, yes.

He tastes incredible, salt-bitter and clean, like the lemon soap he favors. Eames takes all the time in the world lowering the waistband just enough to lick the beads of precome from the head of Arthur's dick, then drawing the elastic up and down the underside of it just to rile him up that much more. Sucking lightly and occasionally letting the waistband graze against his balls when he pulls it low enough, prodding more tiny half-smothered whines out of him, and eventually Arthur growls at him for being insufferable and wriggles the underwear off his hips and down to his ankles and now he has a naked, aroused Arthur and all is even more right with the world.

"You realize reacting like this is not doing anything to dissuade me," Eames tells him winningly, and Arthur shuts him up by essentially tackling him.

There's more substance to him than one might think, beyond the narrow shoulders and limber limbs; he isn't just skin and bones under his well-cut clothes. Eames keeps that information close like it's a secret never to be shared, like Arthur's sensitive collarbones and the way he can't stand being kissed there because it makes him laugh. Eames does it as often as possible.

His lips fall open and Arthur's mouth consumes him. Arthur, who fists his cock and ducks to taste it. Arthur, who goes about teasing his nipples into points with those dexterous fingers of his and Eames hisses, grits at him to get to the good part, and so Arthur does. He drops down, takes him into that hot mouth all over again, insides of cheeks molding to the shape of him as Eames's head gets well-acquainted with one of Arthur's deliriously soft pillows. And it's something, it really is, to have prim, precise Arthur naked between his legs, brow furrowed and wantonly hot sucking sounds escaping him . Tongue curling, one hand stroke-squeezing at the base of Eames's dick, kneading at his scrotum, thumb pressing just behind it.

Eames touches his jaw without too much difficulty. "St-stopwait—don't want...let me finish when I'm in you, pet, let me do that for you."

Arthur looks at him with eyes that are all pupil, his cock reddened and spit-wet and jutting up obscenely against his belly, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and says, "C'mon then," in a voice gone raspy from impatience. Like Eames is the one who's been holding them up.

"Gladly." And he has a finger slicked and easing into him, all at once, bearing down on him properly this time.

"Hurry up." Arthur's teeth are clenched tight, along with the rest of him.

"Shush. All in good time. Fuck, you're wet." Thumb trailing through the mess leaking all over his cock, making obscenely slick noises as he finger-fucks him, opening him wide. Arthur is a portrait of lost inhibitions with his legs bent up to his chest and Eames's fingers pushing inside him. He's deliberately slow about drawing them out positioning himself, watching the way his cock looks against his entrance, pushing in just enough to feel Arthur's body contract around him helplessly and a gasp push out of his throat. Trying to take him in, and Eames soothes him as coherently as he can. "Shh, want it, I know, just slow down for me. We'll get there, darling, I promise. We'll get there."

Arthur is panting and sweat-slippery and almost beyond words, and those slim legs lock behind his neck and pull him still closer and then he's in him. Bloody fucking hell, that's something else. Eames truly is shameless, but he thinks he's earned the right to be. "Like the feel of me fucking you open, hm?" Another lazy roll of his hips, breath tangling with a low groan. Arthur's face is red and his fingers are gouging into the blanket, mouth parted and eyes lidded, the epitome of fucked-out bliss already.

He still finds the time to push Eames back with a foot flat to his chest so he can turn over, breath releasing in a huff when it causes Eames to slide out of him. "Enough with the fucking commentary. I want you to do it hard," and Eames's hand goes dancing up that tight-tensed middle and takes hold of him, jerks him off as he slides his cock into him all over again until Arthur's too busy writhing to give orders anymore. And fuck, but he likes that, when Arthur's up on hands and knees and shoving back to meet him each time he thrusts into him. Fucking all the fight out of him that way, right up until he convulses and comes over his own stomach and Eames's hand.

It isn't long before he's shuddering himself, riding out his orgasm, and Arthur is tight and responsive and it's so much better being able to feel him without anything marring the sensation. Eames half-collapses on top of him, breathing hard. His hand finds Arthur's forearm and squeezes. "My God, you're lovely like this."

Arthur groans, body clenching reflexively, and Eames's cock pulses, impossibly, all over again. "You..." and that's a far as Arthur gets before Eames is cupping his chin, tonguing into his mouth when Arthur turns to bring them together. When he pulls out, there's no condom to to discard, nothing to do but slip curious fingertips up between Arthur's thighs and touch him again. He can feel where he's just come in him and it's filthy and fascinating at the same time and Arthur almost-whimpers so damn nicely when Eames slides a finger back into him.

"Would it be forward of me to lick you, right there?" he murmurs, muted against Arthur's ear, and at first Arthur just goes red and stares at him like he's gone mad. Eames is expecting a negative reply right up until Arthur whispers for him to stop being polite and do it.

He's cautious with his tongue, running the very tip up the cleft of his ass, using his thumbs to push him apart. Just watching when Arthur squirms like he's embarrassed or overeager and Jesus, he gasps so perfectly when a trickle of Eames's come slips out of him and Eames's tongue laps right into him. Letting the scrape of facial hair rub against soft skin, slow sweeps of tongue over the little pink clutch of muscle, and he feels it tighten, try to open up. Eames humming between long, flat laps of his tongue, "That's it, sweetheart, let me in..."

Tracing the rim and dipping inside, Arthur's knees under himself and his ass shoved back, cheek to the covers, face dashed with color and an oh leaping from his throat now and again. And if Eames wasn't well on his way to getting hard again already, he most definitely would be now. "Ohhh, I see." Low, a laugh in his voice. "You like it, don't you, you dirty little thing? Like me eating my come out of your ass. Christ, darling, you really shouldn't have mentioned this because I'll be forced to take advantage of you for hours. Fuck you with my tongue until you're humping the mattress like a bitch in heat, eat you out till you moan like a whore and come and come and then go at it again. Really, pet, you don't have any idea..." And then he's licking into him all over again, because the way Arthur trembles and swears is all the answer he needs.

When Eames pushes a finger into him as well, it's enough to have Arthur crying out hoarsely and writhing back against his mouth. Whipcord-strong body shaking like he's coming a second time, and Eames is fucking well moaning into him and Arthur is saying something, something almost too quiet to hear.

Asking. Please, will you do it again, need more, need it, know you're still hard, know you want to, and Eames practically goes cross-eyed and pushes that finger in just a touch deeper, then another, and Arthur moves for him.

"Do it so I can see you this time," Arthur demands, even though he's only half erect and still has his hips sharply dropping down onto Eames's fingers and he has to be oversensitive. He reaches out to wrap his hand around Eames's dick and jerks, squeezing until Eames is bucking into his grip.

He obeys, pulling his hand back just to reinsert himself when they're face to face, and Eames groans.

It's slow and hard and their skin slides with sweat and Arthur is so goddamn tight, all that silky, searing heat enclosing him. It's not long before he's lost again, filling him, streaking those parted thighs when he pulls out, making a holy mess that Arthur doesn't even seem to notice. Arthur, who hauls him into his arms and guides Eames's hand around his cock and is spilling all over his stomach in a matter of minutes, writhing and gripping at his hair when Eames draws his tongue through it—same tongue that's been in him—pushing his legs open still further, murmuring darkly, "Let me see you."

When Arthur actually does try to form a full sentence, which ends up mostly being various repetitions of God and fuck and Eames, Eames can't even be bothered to make a joke about it.

And he really is so, so lovely this way, covered in come and sweat and fucked open and lying splayed out. Eames half-wants to have another go, but he's exhausted and it's only a matter of time before Arthur regains his wits and decides he needs a shower or he'll die. If he's not too tired, maybe Eames will join him and pay due attention to Arthur's ever-diligent cleaning regimen.

For now, Eames breathes him in, breathes him out, almost tasting him that way. He traces the shadow of a shoulder blade and Arthur pliantly drapes an arm around him.

"I wanted to..." Arthur begins. His hand opens and closes vaguely over Eames's chest.

"Next time," Eames assures, patting it, "you can do whatever you like to me. You can even make one of your lists. Maybe a spreadsheet. That should be immensely fun for you."

Arthur beans him with the first object he can blindly snatch off the night table, which happens to be the bottle of lube. Eames surveys it, then chucks it aside. "That's such a blatantly phallic symbol."

"Yeah? Stick your phallic symbol up your ass."

It's a testament to how dazed he is that Arthur doesn't even seem to realize how ridiculous he sounds. Eames closes his eyes and congratulates himself on a job well done. "Put it on your list, darling."