[personal profile] counterfeiture
Title: And you're killing me
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Rating/Warning(s): NC-17? there's graphic sex in it
Author Notes: Originally posted here (first fill) for [livejournal.com profile] inception_kink; Arthur wakes up from a pre-mission dream impossibly turned on.

And you're killing me.

It was a dream filled with tall buildings, of wide cityscapes and endless blue skies, and somewhere in the middle of the dream the temperature rose in the dream world; Arthur's mission reconnaissance set in the dream world got a little screwed when that kicked in. He knew the change of temperature probably meant the air-conditioning went out again in the real world, as there's little you can expect to work in a hotel that was practically just a hole carved into the walls of the city. It didn't take long for the weather in the dreamscape further go to shit - extreme heat coming down in sleeting rain, the water hot to the skin as weaves of cold light broke through the rain in intervals. Arthur could feel a niggling need in the back of his head, something like a kick but not a kick, and then he was lurching forward, gasping into the rain as every nerve in his body seized and burned, finally pooling in its entirety somewhere between his legs.

That was when he woke up, gasping like a man breaking through the surface of the waters in which he was drowning.

He came out of sleep to find himself face-down on the mattress, naked as the day he was born, feeling feverish, like the strength in his bones had been sapped right out of him and into the sheets. His fingers scratched at the mattress, scrabbling in a sort of panic as he attempted to pull the needle and wire from off his wrist. It didn't take long before he noticed Eames' soft laughter pressed against his ear.

Arthur was hard. Painfully so, and while his mind was still reeling from the impact of the dream he'd had his body was practically burning itself inside out, from the base of his belly spreading like brushfire out throughout his system. It didn't take long before the point man was turning his head and burying himself into the sheets, the wire still attached his wrist as he made a sound low in his throat, hips rolling in tight circles as he sought for any sort of purchase with the bed.

"You couldn't wait?" Arthur moaned, the words muffled by the sheets as he arched up, only to find Eames' solid form bracing him, covering him on all sides as he held Arthur down, kept him still long enough for him to peel the wire off his wrist. He kissed the point man's nape as soon as the needle withdrew from Arthur's skin, his tongue leaving a wet streak over the curve of the vertebrae. "Mmh, what..."

What, indeed - fingers, three of them, all Eames' own, and he was pumping them in and out of him in slow measured strokes, the digits thoroughly lubricated by his own come. Arthur could feel the telltale wetness slowly trickling down the insides of his thighs, could feel the dull stretched feeling of having been fucked, only it's not just fucked but fucked hard if the stiff ache low on his back was anything to go by. Arthur's knees dug into the bed, as he tried to arch up further to those fingers. He should not be this turned on.

But he was, and his hands were wandering things, fisting the sheets one moment as Eames drew his fingers out, balling up into fists when the forger puts them back in, splaying wide on the mattress as his elbows come up to push back when Eames - Eames, you fuck - rubbed his prostate raw for seconds on end without reprieve.

"Let me move," he all but whimpered, refusing to plead. "Goddamnit, Eames, let me move."

"In a bit," Eames said quietly, a sharp bite on the shoulder accompanying the reply, then Eames was sitting back, and Arthur could feel the skin on his back cool down in the absence of Eames' body heat against it, and he sighed a breath of relief before those fingers, those goddamned fingers with that sticky wetness that rolled in clear lines down his skin thrust in up to the last knuckle and stayed there, and Arthur moved with it, met every nudge and twist. He could feel Eames' come inside him, could almost taste it in the back of his tongue and feel it coating him inside with opalescent white that stuck and begged him to wipe it all off but he can't, Arthur can't, and he was forgetting why he wanted to in the first place because Eames was fingerfucking his ass and he liked it. Arthur's knees pressed harder against the mattress, his thighs tense and his shoulders pressed against the bed, his face half-buried into the sheets. He felt dizzy, like the world bottomed out from beneath him as his insides wound up tighter and tighter the more Eames moved, jolting him with every gentle bite, every little kiss on his shoulders, and he could hear himself getting louder and more urgent and right then he didn't even care.

And just like that, Eames pulled away.

"Do you think you're ready, so soon?" Eames mouthed against his ear, and Arthur swore, swore with convincing fervor to kill him if he didn't let up, almost turning around to try and hit Eames squarely on the jaw for that taunt. But it served its purpose, it gave Arthur a moment to breath, until Eames brushed wet fingers, come-covered fingers on Arthur's hip and nudged him to move. "Up, Arthur. Come along."

Up. Up meant a hand on the headboard, the knuckles drawn white from exertion, legs spread apart as his other hand held on to Eames' forearm. Up meant, in this case, Eames pushing into him slowly, Arthur feeling every inch go in until the forger was so deeply seated Arthur felt like it's in his mouth. It meant Arthur with his forehead against the headboard, breathing through his nose as he bit his lip because he wasn't going to cry out, not like this, but he will anyway.

"I hope you're ready," was all the warning Arthur got before Eames began to rock him up, fucking him in slow movements, fucking him deep as his arm wound tighter around Arthur's waist, and he was grateful for the fact that Eames wasn't giving him a reach-around because he's not sure he'd last, not when Eames is this deep in, when he's keyed up and aware that every move, every shift he makes rubs the head of his dick against Arthur's prostate and it's not like he hasn't been primed for this since he went under the dream. It's not like Eames hadn't fucked him while he was unconscious, but for fuck's sake would it kill him to ask--

But Arthur couldn't give a shit right now if he tried, because it feels good, this feels too good and it's like an anchor to reality because sex in dreams never feels this real, this visceral, this hot and heavy and hard, like a kick without the nausea, slower and less stable and infinitely more preferred. He couldn't even think, not like this, not when Eames is fucking him a little faster, a little deeper, a little harder, and Arthur could hear him murmur dirty little things into his ear that he understands for a second before a particular thrust makes him forget how the words made sense and sends him toppling right back to just taking it.

"Oh, Jesus Christ--" Was all Arthur could say, right before everything shuttered down to white static and a soft ringing noise, his orgasm wrenched out from him, and now, now Eames was reaching around, milking the last of it out of him with a gentle kindness, kissing him along the jaw, down his neck, over the teeth marks on his shoulders. And when he's done, Eames goes right back to the rhythm he's set up and Arthur wants to kill him again because it feels good in a way that hurts--

When Eames comes inside him Arthur feels like crying from relief. And moments later, when Eames has pulled out of him, had turned him round to let him lie on the bed, when Eames is half-covering him and kissing him on the mouth and Arthur has both hands in Eames' hair, pulling at the strands in half-hearted vengeance--

"What was that about?" Arthur asks, still feeling the muscles in his thighs trembling slightly, his breaths shallow in his throat. "It's like you ran me over with a truck."

"I've never done that before, Arthur," Eames breathed into his cheek. "But I'm sure that's a compliment."

"It's not," the point man said, Eames' chuckle the last thing he remembers hearing before he falls back into sleep.
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