[personal profile] counterfeiture
Title: Open Invitation
Characters/Pairings: Arthur, Eames
Rating/Warning(s): Kissing
Author Notes: Originally posted here for [livejournal.com profile] inception_kink; Just straight up kissing, "How hot can you make it?"

You look cold, darling.

It was an open invitation, that open door. It wasn't even a private room; it was a library Arthur had been been visiting for building references, a request of Cobb's to have a certain set of blueprints looked up for a dream world rebuild. The building had twelve floors, a million rooms, a thousand angles that Arthur was tasked to study. He gets to teach the new architect what to build, too.

Lucky me, he'd thought, when Eames compounded on his frustrations by dropping by, walking into the library's map vault with swagger to his step.

"You look cold, darling," Eames noted, twitching his mouth into a sort of smile. "Shall I get you a hot mug of something?"

"How hot can you make it?" Arthur asked, then stopped and looked up. As expected, Eames was smirking that smirk of his, realizing all too well that he'd talked himself into a corner with a statement that careless. Arthur could only sigh. "It's cold in here."

"Of course it is," the forger replied, crossing the rest of the distance left between him and Arthur in quiet steps. Arthur began to protest - token protests, as Eames never listened to anything he said unless it suited him - but he never got a word out; Eames' hands were on his shoulders, kneading the stiff muscles with skill. "This chair can't be good for you."

"It does fine," Arthur murmured, tipping his head back as Eames worked through the kinks that built up in his frame. Eames rarely did this, mainly because Arthur vehemently refuses for many reasons, but when he did - when Arthur is too tired to bother saying no - it was a guilty pleasure. More so because Arthur knew that seven times out of nine it had ended up with things more intimate than a massage (and of the two that it didn't, Arthur fell asleep on both accounts).

"Don't fall asleep," Eames piped up behind him, as if somehow reading his mind. "Not for anything else, I have no plans of getting locked into this building."

"You aren't scared of books, are you?" Arthur could only smile as he said it, what with his eyes closed. He tipped his seat back, lifting it to its hind legs, and he could feel Eames' sturdy build supporting his entire weight. He could fall asleep, right now, he felt good, like all the tension in his body was flowing out through Eames' hands. He let out a small sound, maybe a sigh, unknowingly curling his toes inside his shoes and arching into those strong, able hands. He could fall into this, right now.

Except Eames pushed him forward, landing the chair with a distinct thump on the carpet, and Arthur jolts awake. "Eames, what the hell?"

Eames answered in movements, sat against the table end and pulled Arthur up to stand, and soon hands were cupping his cheeks, callused fingers scraping the skin line of Arthur's jaw as he leaned in to kiss on the mouth.

Arthur sighed. To be exact, he kind of moaned; both a sound of relief and a sound of comfort, because this was familiar, never mind real.

"You could have just asked," he breathed against Eames' mouth, enjoying the way Eames nipped at his lips, and the way he lapped his tongue over the swell of his lower lip. Eames had a way of kissing that felt like he was having slow sex with his mouth; it had its own rhythm, its own pulse, and the way Eames paid attention to every corner of Arthur's mouth made him, unfailingly, attentive to certain needs.

Fingers drifted from his cheeks to his shirt, popping open the top three buttons with uncommon care - a courtesy Arthur often enjoys without noticing - and slipping beneath the shirt. Eames cradled his neck at the nape, his hand a warmth on his chilled skin, and Arthur pressed forward, their tongues rubbing against each other as Eames' other hand carded through his hair, threading through the perfectly combed strands of black.

Someone made a pleading sound. Arthur thinks it came from himself, because the chuckle that followed was Eames' own.

"In time, darling," Eames responded, both hands now at the base of Arthur's skull, fingers rubbing circles at where the skull met the spine. It was a lead, Arthur knew, and he took it anyway, tipping back into those fingers and gasping so quietly you wouldn't hear it unless you were kissing your way down his neck.

And Eames did with aplomb, leaving little bites along the path of the pulse, scraping his teeth over the jut of the clavicle before sucking at the hollow of his throat - and still those fingers moved, moving with insistent pressure, until Arthur reached out, hands coming together at Eames' nape. It took a moment before Arthur realized that he was holding his breath. "You're restrained tonight."

"You sound surprised."

"I am."

And that was all Arthur got to say for the rest of the night.

• ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ •

Title: Untitled
Characters/Pairings: Arthur, Eames
Rating/Warning(s): PG
Author Notes: Originally posted here for [livejournal.com profile] inception_kink; errant comment fill.

Please, if there is a God.

"Please, if there is a God," Arthur began, gritting his teeth as his hands gripped the edge of the table harder than he's ever had in any version of a life, "Eames-"

"Getting there," Eames returned, the words rolling out of his mouth like he'd properly molested each syllable with his European inflection, his fingers skittering along Arthur's left anklebone, his expression managing to be serious and yet so smug. "If you'll be patient-"

"Oh no, take your time, I insist-"

"If you'll be patient, Arthur darling, I shall in due time provide your relief," Eames repeated, a beat more mirthful than before. He stopped for a beat, eyes lighting up. "Ah, I found the bugger."

Arthur made a sound of annoyed relief, as Eames plopped the gnarled remnant of a ricocheted bullet into his empty teacup, bloodied cotton balls and two half-empty bottles of drinking water surrounding the island of the saucer.

"You get shot next time," Arthur murmured over a hard stare directed at Eames. "I'm not letting you treat my wounds again."

Eames could only chuckle. "Your confidence in my skills is absolutely charming."



July 2015


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