Yvi (recrudescence) wrote,

Lap It Up

Totally using this for my vehicular square on kink_bingo. Still not sure how a fic about lap dances ended up also containing carsex, but I'm just going with the flow here.

Title: Lap It Up
Fandom: Inception
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 7,130
Summary: In the midst of a very dull summer, Arthur wheedles his way into a bar and into Eames's pants. Cobb despairs.

Notes: Once upon a time, there was this Twitter conversation about lap dances and how vital it was for Eames to get one. The end. Contains jailbait!Arthur, public sex, and four stolen lines of dialogue from Death Proof (but none of the death).

It’s common knowledge in their neighborhood that Dom Cobb loves being the smooth operator who doles out favors and shows the ropes, always has been. Arthur’s sure that Dom sometimes revels in being the ringleader he is, but he’s so good at it that Arthur can’t fault him for anything. Nothing fazes Dom, whether it’s lending Arthur a hand with his homework or demonstrating how to roll a joint.

And fine, so maybe Arthur had a kind of a crush on him when he was younger, in a hero-worshipful sort of way, because Dom always seemed so capable and collected and never minded making time for Arthur in spite of the years between them. The two of them grew up across the street from each other and their parents were friends, so it was just a matter of time and proximity before they sought out one another’s company. They still keep in touch, even though Dom’s away for college and only comes home occasionally.

Arthur’s bored out of his skull this summer. He feels no remorse at all about throwing himself on Dom’s mercy the next time he comes by for a quick visit and to pick up some of his things. “You’d be helping me get the college experience,” he insists. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Dom finishes shouldering a laundry bag into the backseat of his car. “There is no college experience this time of year, dumbass.” Which isn’t entirely true, since Arthur knows the reason Dom’s isn’t home until fall is because he’s taking a couple summer classes, overachiever that he is.

Arthur stands tall in his flip-flops and gives Dom his most serious face. “Yeah, but you’re such a great role model. I’m sure I’ll absorb some cultural and academic development just by being in your presence.”

That has Dom halfway to a smile. “Okay, that’s good. Tell me more.”

So Arthur lays out the barren wasteland that is his summer, pleading for Dom to give him a change of scene just for a bit because he’s going nuts and his friends aren’t around and nowhere seems to be hiring in their tiny town. All he’s got is the possibility of being taken on at the Bath and Body Works since he knows Yusuf’s thinking of quitting because he wants to be a chemist and claims the place is washing out his sense of smell. “That,” Arthur finishes glumly, “is the most exciting prospect I have. Trading one of my senses for a few bucks an hour.”

“Can’t argue with that,” says Dom.

And he does what he does best, putting his most charismatic foot forward and getting the rest of the world to follow his lead. Dom very politely informs Arthur’s parents he can stay at his apartment for the weekend and he’ll bring him back Monday. He actually tells Arthur’s father “it’ll give him something to do and get him out from underfoot,” making it sound like Arthur’s a puppy who can’t be housebroken. It’s unfair since Dom isn’t that much older than him, five years isn’t that big a difference, but Dom emanates trustworthiness somehow and Arthur just seems like a pouty little boy.

Then again, maybe the pouting works his in favor, since his parents go along with Dom’s suggestion without a hitch. Dom even lets him pick the music on the drive up.

“This is ostensibly about letting you explore campus but really about letting you get trashed without consequences,” Dom tells him, which is probably the best thing anyone could say to Arthur at this point. “I’ve got work tonight. Wanna come?”

Arthur has learned, thanks to Facebook, that Dom bartends a few nights a week while he’s in school, and that he’s picking up extra hours now that he’s got more free time over the summer. “Um, why are you even asking?”

“Because work’s pretty dead since most students are away until fall,” Dom admits.

Arthur also knows that this includes Dom’s girlfriend, who also happens to be the reason Dom wants to move to France once he graduates. It’s weird to think of Dom being so far away, but he can’t blame him for wanting to see more of the world. Some days, Arthur wants to bike to the Greyhound station and take the first bus to anywhere. “Can’t be any deader than home.”


The bar where Dom works is dim and low-ceilinged, with a grittiness to it that kind of reminds Arthur of a saloon out of a western only without any actual cowboys. There’s pool and darts and Arthur half-expects to see antlers on the dark-paneled walls, which are actually slathered with posters from local events. The place is crammed full of straightbacked booths, with a tiny space for dancing or brawling or whatever else happens in bars carved out somewhere near the center of it all.

Dom was right, there’s not much of a turnout. Arthur notices some girls throwing darts and a few other people squeezed into the booths and mismatched tables, but that’s it. “Go mingle and make good choices,” Dom says smoothly, steering him onto a stool and slipping behind the bar. “If you get your ass kicked, it’s not my fault.”

Arthur’s never really been in a bar, aside from wandering into one for a peek when he and Yusuf had nothing better to do and decided it was worth a try. “And if you get bored,” Dom adds, an all-too-adult warning tone in his voice, “I’ll give you my keys and you can drive back to my place. But if you end up drinking, that’s not happening. You’ll have to wait till I’m off or figure out something else.” He passes Arthur a glass of something and disappears.

Arthur gamely tries a sip of it, already contemplating the text he’ll send to Yusuf about this. “What the fuck.” Another sip. “What the fuck?”

“Too strong for you?” someone asks.

“It’s Coke,” Arthur grumbles, glaring at it and hoping to be proven wrong.

“I wouldn’t be too choosy. You’re lucky to get anything for free.”

He looks up this time. The man speaking to him is sitting a few seats down, munching sunflower seeds and distractedly watching whatever’s on the flatscreen. Arthur didn’t even notice him before, which is a crying shame. “Some places charge an arm and a leg for water, you know,” he continues, and there’s a very nice British accent wrapped around every word that might actually make Arthur weak in the knees if he were standing and less pissed off. He’d crushed on Jude Law almost as hard as he’d crushed on Dom.

The guy has to have over a decade on him, maybe even two, and Arthur can’t stop staring at him. It’s beyond him how he managed to miss this man sitting just a few feet away the whole time. Arthur takes in the fullness of his mouth, the way the cloth of his shirt draws taut across his shoulders each time he moves, the peek of an undershirt beneath it where the top couple buttons are undone, the tattoos spiraling up his forearms. “All right there?” the stranger asks, and heat blossoms in Arthur’s belly. Jude Law has a lot to answer for.

“I think,” he says with all the dignity he can, “that I’ve been lured here under false pretenses.”

Dom reappears. “Stop bitching because I’m not willing to get fired because of you. You’ll figure something out. Have you been mingling?”

“No,” sniffs Arthur.

“Yes,” the stranger says at the same time, jovial as can be. “We’re great friends already.” Then he’s shifting to a closer seat and extending his hand and Arthur isn’t so irked that he’s about to pass up an opportunity to touch him, however fleetingly. “Eames.”

“I’m Arthur.”

Eames opens his mouth to say something in return and possibly give Arthur an orgasm with his voice and presence alone, but Dom, of course, ruins everything. “Eames is in the area sometimes on business.” He looks at him, lips pressing into a thin line. “Sorry, I don’t remember what you do for a living.”

“I don’t remember ever telling you.” Eames sets down his drink and smiles. Arthur has a sudden urge to throw himself onto his lap. “Another, please.”

“So why do you even come here?” Arthur asks because it’s rude to stare but at least if he makes conversation he’ll have an excuse to stare. “It’s not that exciting.”

“I like reliable places,” Eames answers, and there’s that smile again. “And when you travel as much as I do, reliability isn’t always available.”

“Eames is awesome,” Dom announces, as if Arthur needs his input. “He always tips well and never makes an ass out of himself. And he gave me a ride home a couple times when I was new and didn’t realize drinking on the job is a slippery slope.” He actually looks a little sheepish as he passes Eames his beer, which isn’t the sort of expression Arthur’s used to seeing on Dom.

“I know how that can be,” Eames says kindly, taking a sip. Arthur’s jaw goes a bit slack as he swallows

A few more people file in and situate themselves at the opposite end of the bar. Dom starts heading towards them, but not before throwing a “Let me know if Arthur makes any trouble, okay?” over his shoulder.

“I won’t take my eyes off him,” promises Eames, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

“So,” Arthur says as soon as Dom’s back is turned, determined to make the best of the situation, “can I try some?”


He’s surprised he ends up having a decent time although Dom insists on feeding him Coke even when Arthur wheedles for something stronger. As it turns out, a little sympathy goes a long way. Arthur has no compunctions about lying, telling Eames that he forgot his ID and Dom’s an ass who won’t bend the rules for a friend.

Arthur steals another long swallow of his beer, not caring what it is but loving that Eames lets him get away with it.

If Eames has better things to do than strike up a conversation with some random kid, he never lets on. Arthur does everything he can to make sure Eames keeps talking, since he can’t get enough of the way his voice caresses every syllable he utters. Add on Eames’s hand brushing his and the undivided attention Eames gives him even when he’s blathering about something ridiculous and he’s half-hard just from that. Arthur might not know much about flirting, but he thinks that might be what he’s doing. He thinks Eames might even be letting him. Unless Eames is just accustomed to strangers sidling up to him, staring worshipfully at his mouth, and walking their fingers over the tattoos on his arms. Later, he’s sure Dom is going to laugh and laugh.

He abandons the rest of his soda since Eames doesn’t mind looking away and letting Arthur share his drinks instead, acting shocked when Dom calls him out on feeding most of them to Arthur. “No wonder they’re disappearing so fast. He’s doing me a favor, really. I do need to be fit to drive eventually.”

“You’re a true gentleman,” Dom tells him dryly. “What can I get you next?”

“He wants to try a Rusty Nail,” Arthur answers. He doesn’t have a clue what’s in one, but it’s advertised on the menu and sounds promising. “I’ll buy it for him.”

He lays a bill on the bar and beams at Dom, who takes it with a roll of his eyes. “Are you sure he doesn’t want to try a Piece of Ass instead?”

“Fuck you,” Arthur returns, but Dom is a master of getting in a parting shot and then turning away too fast to catch any retorts.

When he looks at Eames again, there’s a meditative cast to his face. “What year are you, Arthur?”

“I’ll be a senior this fall,” Arthur says, and neglects to mention that he means high school, not college. He points to a bottle at Eames’s elbow. “Did I finish this one?”

Eames passes it to him and then has the temerity to ruffle his hair. “Easy there, little boy.”

Arthur wishes he could explain why he doesn’t find either the words or the ruffling remotely insulting.

A few stolen beers in, plus one Rusty Nail, and he’s brave enough to press his luck and actually lean against Eames. He fully intends to pass it off as an accident, but the next thing Arthur knows he’s nosing at his shoulder and breathing him in, playing up his tipsiness even more because Eames’s hand feels so good when he settles on his back. “Oh, Arthur.” And this time Arthur can feel the rumble of his voice in addition to hearing it, which doesn’t have him feeling especially inclined to peel himself off Eames’s chest. “Maybe you should slow it down. Let’s step away for a tick, hm?”

It is getting a little crowded at the bar. He stands, slipping an arm around Eames and letting himself be led. Eames picks a table in the quieter area by the pool tables no one’s using and sinks into a chair, gesturing for Arthur to do the same. Arthur knows how he’s supposed to behave now: sit down, say something about feeling fine, play everything off as best he’s able.

What he ends up doing is standing in front of Eames and saying, “That shirt looks really good on you.” If he hadn’t outed himself before, he definitely has now.

Eames is in jeans and a short-sleeved button-up, and Arthur can tell the undershirt beneath is hugging each muscle so perfectly it’s a crime to hide it away. He reaches and undoes another one of the buttons and Eames actually gives a chuckle, which emboldens him enough to slip another one free. “You should take it off. You’ll get hot.”

“Go on, have a seat.” Eames jerks his head towards the empty chair on the other side of the table. “I’ll be right here, trying not to suffocate.”

“Someone spilled something on that one,” Arthur lies, much more interested in the prospect of climbing onto Eames instead. He clasps Eames’s hands in his own and gives a little pull, trying to haul him back up. “Dance with me.” He’s buzzing, he’s begging, and he doesn’t care. “Please?”

Eames breaks free of him easily, both hands going to Arthur’s waist to try and guide him towards a seat. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

There are only a few people halfheartedly swaying on the floor, drinks in hand, and Eames isn’t budging. Maybe it’s better to stay out of sight anyway. Arthur thinks he can work with that.

“You told Dom you wouldn’t take your eyes off me,” Arthur reminds him, flying high on alcohol and Eames’s big hands on his body, trying to keep him still, but the music and alcohol are only making him wilder and so is Eames’s attention. He gives the table a shove to pivot it away from them a bit and allow himself more space to squirm in between Eames’s legs. “I could get into all kinds of trouble without you around.”

When Eames runs a hand down the length of his spine, every inch of Arthur’s body tenses and releases, undulating into the contact. “And we certainly,” Eames says, barely above a hum, “certainly can’t have that.”

Arthur wants nothing more to rub himself all over him. He’s practically vibrating with a million different urges, each one dirtier than the next, and his cock is straining inside his underwear like just being around this man is enough to turn him into some kind of human sex toy. Eames is more than just solid, he’s strong thighs and broad shoulders and strength down to his bones, like he could scoop Arthur up without any effort at all. But all that power stays at bay as Arthur grinds down onto him, Eames’s hands gentle on his back when they could easily crush bruises into his skin.

They’re hidden from sight by the booth and the poster-smothered pillar behind them since it seems no one’s up for playing pool tonight, no one to see when Arthur’s fingers twine in Eames’s hair and his lips trace the grit of his stubble. “This song probably came out long before you were born,” Eames murmurs against his mouth when Arthur leans in even closer.

“So? I like a lot of things from long before I was born. Older stuff has more character,” Arthur’s not sure how much sense he’s making or how brazen he’s being, but not really caring either.

Eames’s thumb brushes across his lips, blunt and delicate. Arthur only barely resists the impulse to lick it. “Do you really? Show me.”

Arthur smiles and twists up the hem of his t-shirt.


Only a few inches, hardly even halfway up his stomach before he lets it drop, but Eames’s eyes follow each movement. Somehow, that alone is more potent than anything Arthur’s had to drink tonight. He places his hands on Eames’s shoulders, curling under the parted halves of his shirt, and he moves.

Nothing but small circles of his hips at first, not quite pressing down onto Eames’s knee even though he could. So many things he could do, like let Eames throw him down and fuck him on the floor if he could get away with it.

What he actually does is take Eames’s larger hands in his own and bring them up to rest on his hips. They aren’t placed much lower than they’d been when Eames was trying to get him seated but somehow it makes all the difference since the next thing he hears is Eames muttering, “Bloody tease,” just before one of them works around to grip his ass.

It could be the drinks or the euphoria or just that he’s never had anyone willing to touch him this way before, but Arthur tips back his head and groans. Then he gets a knee to the small triangle of seat visible between Eames’s spread legs and goes curving in for a kiss. And Eames has his tongue in Arthur’s mouth and his palm sliding up his back and it doesn’t fucking matter then that he’s writhing on Eames’s lap like he’s waiting for him to start stuffing dollar bills into his waistband. None of that matters, just music and alcohol and the heat of Eames’s body under him.

“Want me to take it off?” he asks, only half teasing. Eames’s palm is wide and warm between his shoulder blades and Arthur’s flimsy t-shirt is feeling far too superfluous.

But Eames only chuckles. “Maybe not just yet.”

Giving a sigh, Arthur slides his knee off the chair. “Wrong answer.” When he shifts back and gives a tiny lick to the curve of Eames’s bottom lip, Eames makes a low sound and crushes their mouths together again, forcing his tongue in deep. Not just allowing Arthur to do these things, but actually wanting him to. Arthur beams as he goes sinking down, sucking at his throat, mouth brushing the tightness of a nipple thorough the thin cloth of his shirt.

“Arthur, Arthur.” Eames sounds like he’s scolding him and encouraging him at the same time—and, though this could just be Arthur’s imagination, he also sounds a little overwrought. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Arthur’s never gotten on his knees for anyone, much less on the floor of a public bar, but the stunned look on Eames’s face is worth it. “No.” He slides his hands up Eames’s thighs to urge them open a bit more, rubbing his face along the inside of one before he pushes himself back up. “Never.”

He thinks nothing of wiggling until he’s practically sitting on Eames’s lap, back to front, holding Eames’s hands on him once again. This time, he’s bold enough to maneuver one up under his shirt, arching back until his head is on Eames’s shoulder. Obediently, Eames goes stroking up his middle, almost chaste, lips parted behind the flushed rim of Arthur’s ear. Arthur can feel his body convulse with delight anyway, both his hands splayed above Eames’s knees, fingers digging into denim as he’s writhing himself around like a whore.

Because Eames isn’t just indulging him. Eames is as hard as a rock and Arthur can’t get enough of that, can’t stop giving smooth little rolls of his hips back against Eames’s cock.

It’s warm and sticky, but he gets goose bumps when Eames palms down his stomach all the same. Just having a hand on him is intoxicating. Arthur’s not sure what he’s doing anymore, just keeping himself in motion and loving that Eames isn’t at all reluctant to touch him now, like it doesn’t make a difference how slight and gangly Arthur is compared to him. He’s all knobby knees and bony hips and Eames’s arms are fucking huge when they guide him up and turn him until they’re face to face once again. “C’mere, you.”

His thigh feels so good slotted between Arthur’s legs that he can’t stop riding down onto it, lacking any technique but loving the pressure of all that hard muscle against his cock. He’s nodding stupidly in response to whatever Eames is saying, creeping his fingers under his button-up and tugging it aside to suck kisses into the trail of a tattoo visible under his collarbone. It’s for their own good, really, something to ensure he doesn’t end up moaning loud enough to alert the whole bar when Eames touches him of his own accord—more intimately this time, circling his navel, playing over the button on his shorts.

“Shit, that…Eames…fuck.” He’s a breathless mess.

“Keep moving for me,” Eames urges, and undoes it.

Arthur gasps and pushes in even more, not caring if anything he does is in time to the music anymore, not while Eames is kissing his neck and letting him climb onto his lap entirely. The entire room seems to spin until it blurs and Arthur is fisting his hands in Eames’s shirt for purchase, rutting against him, sweat starting to bead on his skin. He can feel everything, the hardness of muscle, the heat of his face, the way Eames is just as turned on as he is—actually groaning through his teeth when Arthur carefully traces the hardness of his cock through his jeans. “Christ, Arthur—fuck.”

And Arthur still touching him, still rocking down onto him his hot-sharp little thrusts. “Yeah, please, yeah, want it.”

The next thing Arthur knows, Eames is sneaking one hand down the back of his shorts, making him swear and jolt and wish he’d decided to forgo underwear today. He whimpers, pressing out his ass to get more touches. And then someone’s hissing please please please on a loop and there’s the firm rubbing sensation of a finger against his hole through the cotton of his briefs, so unexpected he buries his face in Eames’s shoulder and whines, shaking and spilling over and still rutting against Eames’s thigh.

Oh.” Eames sounds almost surprised. He pets up along Arthur’s back as he rides out his orgasm, kissing his temple when Arthur gives a silent protest at the hand slipping back out of his shorts. “You came, didn’t you? Just like this, right out in the open.”

Both his hands are on Arthur’s ass now, giving a squeeze. When they roam elsewhere, slipping under his shorts and up his thighs, it makes Arthur’s toes curl. “God, the things I’d do to you if I had the chance.”

Arthur goes hot all over. No one’s ever spoken to him like this; fuck, he wasn’t even sure people spoke like this in real life at all, or maybe he just got really lucky by finding someone with a voice like Eames’s.

“You do have a chance.” He’s kissing him again, writhing into his hands as Eames’s fingers move further up. The tips of them brush the elastic of his underwear, smoothing soft little circles into his thighs.

“Do I?”

One fingertip grazes the base of his cock, a hot shock of feeling through the wet fabric. Arthur twists his fingers in Eames’s shirt and tries not to whine. “Yeah, actually. Dom’s got a few hours until his shift ends. I’ll say I’m sleepy and you can drive me back to his place. He’s letting me crash for a couple days.” He smiles up at Eames as beatifically as he can. “Please?”

Eames laughs into his hair.


When Eames offers to take him back to Dom’s apartment, Arthur attempts to look tired instead of giddy. All he has to do is feign an enormous yawn and Dom’s passing over his spare key, none the wiser that he’s really been doing inappropriate things with Eames in the corner all the while.

“Please don’t do anything stupid,” Dom tells him, with a bit of a smirk.

Maybe a little wiser after all, then. Arthur’s chin juts. “I’m not gonna fuck him,” he insists over the bar, but Dom is still smirking.

“I can hear you,” Eames murmurs into his ear, lips soft and wet as he sucks the lobe into his mouth when Dom turns aside to close out the tab. It makes Arthur prickle with heat, cock wetting his briefs all over again, ass wriggling back against the thickness of Eames’s erection. The scuff of Eames’s stubble is rasping along his jaw; when Eames smiles against his cheek, Arthur feels his dick spurt more precome and smear into the already soaked front of his underwear.

“He’s old enough to be my dad,” Arthur asserts when Dom just shakes his head. Even to himself, this isn’t sounding like a deterrent at all.

Eames’s hips ride up against his ass, standing pressed behind him and rubbing himself right where Arthur wants him the most. When those deft fingers go creeping over his fly, under the bar where they can’t be seen, Arthur can’t suppress a shiver, pleased and amazed that he’s making Eames react this way. “I can still hear you.”

“Eames,” Dom says conversationally, “you don’t drive an unmarked white van, do you?

“At the moment, I drive a very respectable rental vehicle that is none of these things.”

“Fuck my life,” Arthur mutters. “Can I see your phone?”

In approximately five seconds, he’s called Dom from Eames’s phone so they have each other’s numbers. This doesn’t prevent Dom from making Arthur swear to text him once he’s arrived or making Eames swear not to kidnap Arthur instead of driving him there at all, but it does seem to appease him.


Eames’s rental turns out to be a decent car. It’s blue and it smells clean and that’s all Arthur knows because the moment he settles into the passenger seat he grabs Eames and kisses him like he can’t remember how to do anything but kiss him. Eames laughs and guides his hands down, making him control himself as they drive towards Dom’s, but Arthur is squirming in his seat even though he’s trying to hold it together.

He hardly notices when Eames pulls over.

“You aren’t going to be able to wait, aren’t you?” His hands are on him and Arthur’s so shaky it takes three tries to unfasten his seatbelt. Eames is soothing him, touching him, brushing back his hair. “What do you need, darling?”

“You, need you to fuck me, don’t care how, just now. Put—yeah.” Babbling and mouthing at him, messy and wanting so much, and he’s sure he sees Eames sneak a hand down between his legs.

A quick glance around tells him that they’ve pulled into a public park, nothing around but trees and picnic tables and the glow of the headlights until Eames switches them off. There’s not enough room in the car, not even when Eames puts back the seat and Arthur flattens himself on top of him so he doesn’t jostle against the horn, and then Eames is hauling him out, kissing him against the hood.

“Be good for me, yeah? Just a—” Muttering while he goes riffling through his pockets, Arthur grinding into him the instant he finds what he’s looking for, letting Eames yank down his shorts and turn him over with his hands splayed and sweaty over the hood. He yelps when Eames works one thick finger inside him, smearing fingerprints into the warm metal.

He isn’t sure if it’s sexy or sad that Eames actually has condoms and lube packets on him; it leaves Arthur wondering if that’s just responsibility at its finest or if it means he does this a lot, picks people up when he pleases and has his way with them. Arthur’s had the same condom his wallet for about six months, just to have it, and for all he knows it’s disintegrated by now.

Eames fucks him on his back. Arthur’s shorts are around his ankles, bunching at the back of Eames’s neck, and at first he’s completely preoccupied with trying not to slip off the hood and make a fool of himself. When Eames pulls out his fingers and nudges the tip of his cock against him, Arthur nearly does forget to hold himself in place. His muscles mutiny, his flips-flops go sliding off, falling to the grass, and his shorts and underwear follow not long afterward.

Both his legs are draped over Eames’s strong shoulders, his shirt pushed up under his armpits, his palms squeaking against the metal, and when Eames pushes inside it’s all he can do not to shout out and risk alerting a mountain lion or whatever the fuck might be out there. Eames is still clothed, only undressed enough to fuck him—jeans low, shirt bunched partway up his stomach, cock shoving inside him, and it’s too rough and too big and too much and Arthur hears himself sobbing even though he’s trying to relax and take more and not fuck this up.

Eames notices, smoothing back Arthur’s hair and pulling out almost entirely despite his protests. And he talks, telling Arthur he’s taking it so nicely, that he’s perfect all spread out and coming undone like this, but then he goes still and won’t move until Arthur wraps his arms around him and asks for more.

“Move for me again,” Eames murmurs into his ear, holding him steady. “Just like before, that’s it, work for it,” and Arthur obeys every last word and drives himself down on his cock and whines up at the sky like he’s incapable of anything else.

Eames kisses his face, strokes over the tan lines at his hip, telling him not to come yet because he wants to taste him—Arthur swears and very nearly does the opposite—and then kneels to take Arthur’s cock into his mouth. It’s only a matter of seconds before Arthur shivers and spills into his throat.

Beautiful, Eames calls him, and Arthur can see the flex of his arm as he finishes himself off there on his knees, in the grass.

Even though they’ve just desecrated a park, a rental car, and Dominic Cobb’s trust, Eames somehow manages to be a perfect gentleman. He helps Arthur to the ground, gathers up his clothes, and shepherds him back into his seat once he finishes pulling his shorts on. Arthur wrinkles his nose and discreetly leaves his ruined underwear on the floor of the car.

“What happens now?” he asks. This can’t be the end, not yet. He just lost his virginity to an almost-stranger on the hood of a car in the middle of nowhere. It probably says a lot about his self-preservation that he finds that hot instead of horrifying, but Arthur can pencil in some soul-searching for later if he feels the need.

Eames’s mouth is gentle against his own, surprisingly so. Then he smiles and actually reaches over to fasten Arthur’s seatbelt for him. “Now? You get a good night’s sleep, tell Dom he’s a peach for entrusting you to me, and make sure you don’t forget your ID the next time you go out. You won’t always find someone willing to slip you drinks.”

Arthur isn’t completely happy with that for an answer, but he doesn’t protest as they finish the trip back to Dom’s. Mostly because Eames keeps a hand in Arthur’s lap the whole time, riling him up again while he drives. It makes Arthur fidget and squirm, thinking of Eames calmly steering with one hand and pressing fingers inside him with the other. A big part of him wants to unfasten his shorts again just to find out what might happen.

Of course, that’s when Dom texts him to make sure he’s alive. Arthur fires back a reply, grumbling all the while that it makes much more sense for Eames to take him home with him instead, but Eames refuses. “I promised your boyfriend I’d get you to his place safe and sound and I will.”

Arthur makes a face. “Dom’s not my boyfriend.”

When they park outside Dom’s building, Arthur invites him up, but Eames politely has him get out of the car and explains quite calmly that if he goes in with Arthur he won’t want to leave. “I’d commit terrible acts with you over every piece of furniture in the place.”

To Arthur, this sounds just fine. He knows he’s being childish, fisting Eames’s shirt and whining that he wants him to, but Eames just pets him and pulls him onto his lap right there in the driver’s seat. “God, you’re sweet,” he says softly, letting Arthur wrap his arms around him and worm a hand up his shirt. “You’re so bloody sweet.”

Eames runs his hands through his hair and kisses him until his lips feel raw, but Arthur still doesn’t want to stop. “No matter how much I’d like to fuck you until you wake the neighbors,” Eames tells him, “it’s not smart.”

Arthur only sighs, letting Eames hold him close, letting Eames call him things like sweet and not minding it because he loves that he’s the center of this man’s attention and isn’t ready to let it go. “I just want you to come up for a little while. There’s still time before Dom gets back.”


It’s unbelievable how bold one little word can make him. “Can you get hard again?” Arthur whispers, slipping a hand down Eames’s pants as he kisses him just inside the car. “I think you can. Please?” He smiles, licking at the roughness of Eames’s jaw. “And I want to see you. It was so dark before.”

Eames curses and gets out of the car.


Inside Dom’s apartment, Eames helps him take off his clothes and has him draw up his legs right there on the futon in Dom’s tiny living room, fingering him where he’s still wet and slippery until Arthur sprawls on top of him and asks Eames to please fuck him again.

The stretch of a cock inside him is still so unfamiliar, still painful to a degree, but he wants it too much to stop. Getting to see Eames without a stitch of clothing on is more than worth it. Arthur gives back what he can, hands playing over the tattoos and hair on his chest, tugging at a nipple and then licking at it when Eames gives a little shiver.

Eames lays him down on the futon afterward, throws a blanket over him once he’s done washing up, helping clean Arthur off and dressing him in a pair of pajama pants. It’s the sort of borderline denigration that would normally chafe Arthur’s pride, but this is a night full of firsts. “Are you tucking me in?”

“Are you letting me?” His lips purse against each of Arthur’s nipples, tight in the chill from the air conditioner, leaving soft kisses down his stomach until he’s nuzzling his cock through the sleep pants, mouthing him a little, drawing down the waist to suckle at the tip even though he’s not fully hard. “If we had the time, I’d do such unholy things to you.”

Eames has already made him come three times and Arthur’s sure he could handle a fourth. One of the only perks of being seventeen is having practically no refractory period at all, and even that can be incredibly inconvenient more often than not. He still likes the idea of it quite a bit, that Eames might have gotten him clean just to make him filthy all over again. Arthur kicks off the blanket, stretching his arms over his head and letting Eames watch the way his body arches. “In-fucking-satiable.”

“I wish you could stay.”

“That wouldn’t be wise.” Arthur shimmies his pants lower, palming his cock, and Eames sighs. “You’re such an exquisite little piece of work.”

He doesn’t feel at all shy about touching himself in front of Eames, not anymore. “Tell me what you’d do if we had time.”

Eames brushes him lightly with his lips and Arthur reaches up to hold him in place, pressing his tongue inside before Eames can break the kiss. “I’d get you spread across a proper bed and eat you out like I was being paid for it. I’d let you come on me just to watch you lick it off.” His voice drops to a low rumble as he lets his touch drift up between Arthur’s thighs, back behind his balls. “I’d keep my fingers in you until you fell asleep, then wake you up by fucking you with them all over again.”

There’s more, dirty and detailed. Arthur wraps his hand around his cock and Eames’s voice is just another level of decadence as he touches lightly at his hole and murmurs filthy promises to him all the while.

He needs to give Dom a thank-you card or something in return for giving him the most fun he’s had since school let out. Leaving aside the part where Dom would probably kill him if he ever learned the specifics of it. Somehow, things are never boring when Dom’s involved. Arthur didn’t think he’d have a prayer at getting laid until he got out of town and into college himself, didn’t think in a million years he’d end up with a gorgeous man listing off all the depraved acts he’d like to indulge in with him.

Arthur rolls his head back against his pillow, jerking himself harder. “I want that, too. I want all of it.”

When Eames guides his hand away from his cock and slowly sucks him off, he makes it last. He’s gradual and gentle, mouthing lower, over his balls and his sensitive little hole, kissing marks into Arthur’s thighs until he’s making the most humiliating keening sounds. And finally, finally, Eames is taking him in to the hilt, letting Arthur thrust deep into his throat when he comes.

Eames is a little too good at putting him back together just to dismantle him anyway.

Since it’s the polite thing to do, Arthur walks with him to the door. He doesn’t bother to dress and he has no idea what to say, but he’s ebullient and naked and Eames is looking at him like he can do no wrong. “Um. Thanks. I had a good time. Drive safe?”

Eames flashes him a grin that actually makes Arthur’s legs feel a little shaky. He can’t even be annoyed with himself for it because the next thing he knows Eames is dragging him into a hug, getting in a grab at his ass in the process. “As did I, love. Be good, if you can.” And he kisses him, still tasting of Arthur.

Arthur’s legs still haven’t composed themselves by the time he’s gone.


When Dom gets home, Arthur’s lying on the futon with damp hair and a dreamy expression.

Dom narrows his eyes. “You really did fuck him, didn’t you?”

“I told you,” Arthur says, “he’s old enough to be my dad.” He gives Dom what he thinks is a convincingly innocent expression.

For a second, he thinks Dom might even buy it.

“You did,” Dom shrieks, rather impressively. “Jesus Christ, I can’t take you anywhere. I used to babysit you. I’ve sullied you forever.”

“I don’t mind,” Arthur answers brightly. “Being sullied feels great. And you were the cool babysitter, remember?” Immaturely, the word annoys him. His parents never used it, just working things out so Dom would be there “for supervision” or to “keep Arthur company” when they went out and left the two of them together.

“I can’t believe you,” Dom groans. “When I was your age, I was an angel.”

Arthur doubts this, even though Dom always looks rather angelic.

“C’mon, I had an awesome night. And I’ll tell my mom and dad you were the best host ever and showed me all around campus and stuff.”

“You can’t just do that, pick up any old person and—”

“I wouldn’t pick up any old person,” Arthur protests. “I’m not an idiot. And the first guy I wanted to do anything like that with was you, so don’t tell me I’ve got shitty standards.”

The words fly out of him too fast. It’s the first time he’s said anything like this to Dom. Arthur’s not sure if he’s always known and just been too nice to let on like he noticed or if the news actually comes as a surprise.

But Dom softens then, serious. “Was that the first time for you?”

Arthur stares fixedly at the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you use—?”

“Jesus, Dom, yes, okay? Safe as can be. We both had on Hazmat suits the whole time.”

“It’s not a fucking joke if you end up with warts on your crotch.”

“I should tell Eames just how highly you think of his crotch. Wait,” Arthur pauses, realizing. “You still have his phone number. Maybe I can meet up with him tomorrow while you study or Skype with Mal or whatever. So I’m not underfoot.”

“Hell. No.”

“But I left my underwear in his car,” Arthur says winningly. “He thinks I’m in college, by the way, so please don’t blow my cover. Or call Chris Hansen.”

Dom looks dumbfounded. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

Arthur snuggles back down onto the futon. It could be his imagination, but he’s positive the blanket still smells a little like Eames. “Awesome. I’m looking forward to it.”


While Dom’s in the shower the next morning, Arthur slips into his room and sneaks his phone off the dresser.

Tags: arthur/eames, inception fic

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