Wild & wooly times, my friends. I've decided to take advantage of all the free time lockdown has produced and funnel it towards various writing projects.

-Gangstermoll
-Zombie Arthur
-Feature adaptation screenplay
-Other shorts?

It occurred to me today that I could use this platform as a journal and write things in it (as opposed to just scanning through my Reading Page or whatever they call it).

I don't have anything particularly witty to say at the moment. I've been tremendously busy the past 2 years, having plunged into the wild world of independent filmmaking. It's a huge timesuck and money pit with zero commercial viability, but I'm pleased to have embarked on this new adventure regardless. Taking my writing and storytelling art into a new medium is interesting, and I have learned a great deal, which I always enjoy for its own sake.

It's only in the past month that I've been able to take a moment to step back and resume some of my other hobbies (which had to be sidelined to free up time for the many aspects of filmmaking). I've gotten back into sewing, baking, paper arts, and flower arranging. Not to mention working on my other writing. It's nice to be able to toggle back into more solitary forms of creative expression where fewer people are involved and the stakes (financial and emotional) feel less high.

And hey, I finally have time to watch media again. Various shows people have been berating me about watching (the list is long, but these are the only ones that have actively caught my interest):
Marvelous Mrs Maisel (Amazon Prime)
A Very English Scandal (Amazon Prime)
Handmaid's Tale (Hulu)
Killing Even (? not sure)

Sign ups for the second round of Inception Remix are open! Click to sign up as a participant.

Story drafts must be emailed to ireversebang @ gmail.com by end of day Sunday, January 28. If you are ready, you may email your drafts earlier.

The subject line should be this exact phrase: Story Draft Submission

This draft does not need to have been beta-read yet but it should be at least 3000 words OR at least 75% complete. You may paste your story into the body of the email or include it as an attachment.

Please copy the text below and paste it into the body of your email. Fill out all the fields as best you can.

Art Prompt Title:
Art Piece Number:
Artist:
Fic Title:
Author:
Pairing(s):
Rating:
Word Count:
Warnings:
Summary:

Reminders: On February 4 the posting schedule will go up. During that week I will put up this year's Master Post template. If you would like to see a previous round's template, you can look here.

Sunday, January 28: Stories due
Sunday, February 4: Posting Schedule goes up

Sunday, February 11: Posting begins

On February 11, posting will begin at the rate of 1-2 stories a day.

If you have any questions, please leave a comment to this entry.

My first fic of the year and it's a weird one. A birthday fic for darling Sibilant, who likes it despite (or perhaps because of?) its oddness and the 'choose not warn' label.

On Ao3 here: Comme des Garçons

The title means 'like boys' in French, and is a reference to both the subject of the story and the fashion line by Rei Kawakubo.

Writing year in review: I wrote approximately 200,000 words this year.
Compared to: 2016 - 160,000
2015 - 180,000
2014 - 170,000 words
2013 - 210,000
2012 - 150,000
2011 - 190,000
2010 - 166,000

My fiction posted in 2017:
A Flower in the Sun (Captive Prince WIP) - 20000
This Thing of Ours (Chapter 8 and onwards) 18000

SHORTS:
Amuse Bouche coda: The Wedding: Part I: Invitations 4300
Amuse Bouche coda: The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony 4000
Amuse Bouche coda: On Fatherhood 3100
Amuse Bouche coda: A Noble Heart 2800

Last night on earth (the unanswered question remix) 9800
Mercurial Moggy 4300
Through a Mirror - the dark universe - 3500

Ficlets written for AE Last Drabble Writer Standing 3700

= approximately 76,000 words posted The rest is in various drafts or unposted

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted?

A bit more than expected, though I posted less than I thought I would. I have quite a few original fiction projects that I've been working on, though, including a short story that I've finished (and add to my word count) but won't be posting online.

What's your favourite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest?

I'm very pleased with how my remix of Last night on earth turned out. It's not a light piece, but I think it is one of my most meaningful.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

Captive Prince fic (A Flower in the Sun) continues to be challenging with plot, and world building, and developing a lot of OCs/subplots. Good practice developing writing areas I'm still somewhat weak in.

I've written about death before (arguably, all Supernatural fanfiction is about death) but Last night on earth (the unanswered question remix) was a new take on it. Forced me to confront my own questions and fears about mortality before I could convincingly write Arthur's, which was a great experience in the long run, if somewhat harrowing in the short.

My Best Story of the Year

Last night on earth (the unanswered question remix) in terms of concept, depth, and execution. Am just all around pleased with it.

Story Most Under appreciated by the Universe in My Opinion

Mercurial Moggy & Last night on earth probably tie for that honor, due mostly to their respective subject matters. I'm happy with them.

Most Fun Story

Probably one of the Amuse-Bouche codas.

Most Sexy Story

Probably Gangstermoll, or Mercurial Moggy, if you like darker sex.

Hardest Story to Write

Last night on earth.

Biggest Surprise

Through a Mirror - the dark universe. It's just a fun series of shorts that emerged as a result of AELDWS. A nice to play around in when I need a break from working on my other work.

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year?
Finish Gangstermoll (this goal remains evergreen). But I have finished the Amuse Bouche codas I've been meaning to, and made good progress in This Thing of Ours (in both posting and writing). The last 10% of the story is in sight, and I'm working on developing a plan to structure it all.

It'd be nice to finish A Flower in the sun, but that is not my priority.

For original fiction, I'd like to finish a couple more short stories and possibly a play and a screenplay. We shall see.

Also, reposting my Dragon Age goal from last year: write my first Dragon Age: Inquisition story starring Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, a canon gay couple and 2 very new character types I've never written before. I also haven't written in a fantasy genre canon before, so that'll be new. I'm going to attempt to do this as part of the annual Big Bang challenge.

damp, aromatic, gamy, roar, oily, musky, hairy, zesty, frigid, fizz, chirp, crunch, tart, tangy, sticky, velvety

Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I've written, and comment with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, etc.

The next round of Inception Reverse Bang is now live and has officially moved to Dreamwidth. Sign up as an artist or author at i_reversebang.

Also, I have reluctantly moved to posting on Ao3 in light of all the Russia related shenanigans going on with LJ. You can check out my new work here, including updates to Gangstermoll, and a new coda to Amuse-Bouche in progress called Digestif.

I'm also working on a Captive Prince WIP called A Flower in the Sun.

I'll slowly be transferring my LJ stories to Ao3 at the rate of one a week or so. Everything has also been backed up on Dreamwidth, but I do have to update a bunch of links and whatnot.

Also, have signed up for Inception Bingo and here are my squares:
Intercrural sex
Multiple orgasms
Restraints
Aristocracy AU
Sex outdoors - beach sex is terrible idea
Unrequited love
Vulnerability
Reversal of roles or fortune
Fish out of water
Undercover
Knifeplay
Loss of control
Face fucking/face sitting
Public displays of affection - holding hands awkward idea
Pirates - roleplay
Voyeurism

Inceptimals is now live! You can check out all the works here (12 currently, more to be added by the end of the day most likely) and my story, Mercurial Moggy, which is my first foray into the world of knotting, heat, a/b/o. Since it is my take, expect the unexpected and all that.

I've settled on a posting schedule for Ao3.

On Sunday/Mondays, I will post a chapter of my Captive Prince AR WIP, A Flower in the Sun.

On Wednesdays, I will post a new chapter of my Inception AU WIP, Gangstermoll, AKA This Thing of Ours.

On Fridays, I will post a mirror of one of my extensive Inception fic backlog. I haven't decided to delete my LJ account yet, but in case I do, I want to have my Inception fics still available somewhere. Last week, I posted I can change your life, and this upcoming Friday, I'll be posting the sequel The Foundation.

Due to my concerns about TOS changes in LJ, I decided to post my fic over at Ao3.

There is an update for Gangstermoll/This Thing of Ours here.

Also, I wrote a new fic titled Last Night on Earth (the unanswered question remix) for the i_remix challege.

With all these alarming LJ TOS changes, I, like many, have mirrored my content over at Dreamwidth and will be posting a few of my longer running WIPs like Gangstermoll (This Thing of Ours) over at Ao3.

I don't plan to delete my LJ at the moment, but that may change in the future. We'll see.

Also, am currently looking for a beta for my i_remix story. It's going to be less than 10,000 words long and deals with death and other heavy topics. I'd need edits back by Tuesday next week, as I plan to post on Thursday in advance of some travel that weekend. If all that hasn't scared you away yet, please comment to this entry with your email address. I'd be quite grateful for the assistance.

The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony

Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4000



The setup is flawless.

The castle is abuzz, the hum of pleased guests milling about the usually empty halls, a beautiful string quartet adding to the ambiance. The food and drink is plentiful, the décor understated yet dazzling. Even the dressing room Eames is currently pacing is perfectly appointed: all his favorite food and drink on hand, an adjoining washroom set up with his preferred brand of soap--no detail out of place.

Everything is running on schedule, with all minor mishaps handled in an exceedingly professional manner. They call Abigail Hayworth unparalleled in the art of event-planning and rightly so, for she has truly outdone herself.

Unfortunately, Eames is too busy panicking to appreciate any of her hard work.

He's half-dressed, bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting Abigail had imported and put down. All his attendants and groomsmen have left to take their places in the ceremony, save Mal. No one suspected anything was wrong except for her, naturally.

Despite his agitation, Mal sits serenely on the loveseat, waiting for him to speak.

"What if this is a terrible mistake?" Eames asks. It's been a horrid week of awkward interactions with Arthur's mother and worse meetings with Eames' own parents, which culminated in a tense rehearsal dinner involving both their families. Not everything that could go wrong at that dinner went wrong, but it was a close thing. "What if this is Amy Stevens all over again? What if we break up in a week? A month? A year?"

Mal shrugs philosophically. "It could happen."

He ceases pacing and rounds on her. "That's not what you're supposed to tell me to soothe my worries!"

"Oh, what, should I feed you some dreck about the power of love?"

"He doesn't listen to my music!" Eames shouts. "Or, well, he does now, but it's only because he cares about me. Which is preposterous! Everyone listens to my music. People weep because they are so moved by my music."

"That's true," she says. "People do often weep."

"He doesn't love my music," Eames continues. "I'm a musician and he doesn't—this is my life we're talking about here! My raison d'être!"

"I did tell you years ago he likely doesn’t have a soul. It's why he photographs so well."

"He could—" Eames inhales deeply, shakily. "He could leave me. Like so many others have. He could decide that the constant circus of my life, the invasions of privacy, the paradoxical isolation, aren't worth it. He could stop loving me one day."

"Yes," Mal says, gently. "He could. No love is unconditional, which is why we must never take it for granted, and must strive to be kind and good to the ones we care for every single day. Will we be perfect? No. Will we always succeed? No. But we must try, nevertheless, and be thankful for every day they choose to spend with us."

"That is not comforting," Eames says. "Moderately inspirational, but I hope you realize the extent to which that is profoundly not comforting."

"I am not here to tell you comforting lies," she replies. "This is the truth: Arthur loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you."

Eames puts his head in his hands.

"I thought this might happen." Mal stands. "Wait here. I'm going to fetch someone who can help."

Before he can stop her, she disappears, leaving Eames to alternate between fidgeting, pacing, and fretting. He eventually throws himself onto the loveseat and tries to do some deep breathing exercises. The door to the room opens again, and a familiar figure enters the room.

"Hey, baby," Arthur says, open and easy.

As Arthur approaches, Eames tips his head back for a kiss automatically, unthinkingly. In spite of everything else, Eames finds a part of himself put at ease simply from Arthur's warmth, the touch of his hand.

"Why must you be so bloody reassuring?" Eames grumbles half-heartedly. "I'm trying to have a proper anxiety attack here."

"How to be reassuring was the first thing they taught us in Bodyguard 101." Arthur replies, as good-humored as ever. "Next time we see each other, I'll aim for menacing. I can do a mean loom."

Eames manages a wan smile, but as Arthur steps away, Eames feels the smile slip.

"Eames?" Arthur says, brow furrowing in concern. "Is everything okay?"

"Mal didn't tell you why I needed to see you, did she?" At Arthur's headshake, Eames exhales sharply and feels the rising tide of hysteria tightening up his chest again. "Oh god."

"She told me it's an old French tradition that grooms have to talk immediately before a wedding," Arthur says, kneeling down beside the loveseat. "I kind of figured that wasn't entirely true."

Eames chuckles. "I can't believe she's still using that French tradition line. The number of times she's told me to do something in the name of a land to which I don't belong."

"But you are French at heart, where it matters," Arthur says in a shockingly good impression of Mal, tapping at Eames' chest with two fingers. Then Arthur's expression grows serious again. "What's wrong?"

"I've been married before," Eames says, sucking in a deep breath. "Or at least, I would've been, if I hadn't mucked up the paperwork."

"I know." Arthur's eyes are kind and understanding and so lovely Eames has to look away.

"It was a terrible decision and I am bloody lucky everything turned out the way it did." Eames pauses. "This time, I'm fairly certain the barristers dotted every i and crossed every t. This should be permanent. At least--as long as you wish it to be."

"Let me tell you a story," Arthur says. "A couple of weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to piss. You were dead to the world, asleep, snoring like a freight train with a line of drool dripping down--"

Eames frowns. "This story is not going the way I expected."

Arthur chuckles. "I watched you for a minute and you know what I thought? I thought: I can't wait to go back to sleep and wake up next to you again."

Eames toys with the boutonnière pinned to Arthur's lapel, rearranging the delicate petals as carefully as he can. "Drool and all?"

"Drool and all." Arthur's voice drops conspiratorially. "Do you wanna get out of here?"

"Get out of here?" Eames blinks. "And go--where?"

"Anywhere. Back to London, or we can get started on our honeymoon early."

"What about our guests?"

"They can drink the booze we bought, eat the food, and watch your million musician friends perform," Arthur says with a completely straight face. "I can text Abigail to make the arrangements while we leave through the back way. We could be out of the country within hours."

Eames can't help but smile slightly at the idea of escaping and leaving behind his bewildered, outraged relatives. "And no one will notice that we've not only not married, but also have disappeared in the night?"

"Who cares? It's our wedding, and they'll get over it." Arthur squeezes Eames' hand. "We can postpone, we can elope, we can get married next year in a cardboard box. Whatever you want, baby. I'm game."

Eames shakes his head. "Why do you insist on being so bloody wonderful when I'm trying to have a proper meltdown?"

"Sorry. I can storm out of the room and slam a door if you want. Maybe make some angry pointing gestures."

Eames snorts and folds his hand over Arthur's. "Put that pointer finger away, you'll put out one of the groomsmen's eyes. And you know Peter only has the one."

Arthur laughs. "I'll holster this weapon of mass destruction if you come out with me. I think it's time we walk down some aisle."

Arthur stands, revealing a suit Eames has never seen before: crisp ivory, impeccably cut from waistcoat to jacket to trousers. He's breathtakingly beautiful.

"Oh, darling," Eames whispers. "You look incredible."

The corners of Arthur's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "And you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, Eames."

"Arthur." Eames screws up all of his courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you scared?"

Without missing a beat, Arthur replies, "Of course I am. I don't want to let you down."

"Let me—" Eames halts. "How could you possibly—"

"I want you to have the wedding you want, that you planned," Arthur says. "I've been practicing our vows and all that ballroom dancing stuff but I'm still not--you know, I'm not as good at that stuff as--"

Abruptly, all the fear seems to melt away. The incredible man standing before Eames is nervous--nervous!--that he won't be able to dance and perform to Eames' standards. As if Eames cared one whit about that nonsense. But then again, Arthur has reason to be concerned--Eames has been focused on a good deal of nonsense in the past few months.

"Mal was right," Eames says quietly. "You are precisely what I needed."

Arthur smiles, a touch hesitant. "Yeah?"

Eames smiles back. "Yes. Let's get married."

Arthur leans over for a kiss so sweet Eames feels his heart flutter. "Okay."


* * * * *

The next hour compresses into a blur of people and music and bright lights.

Eames relinquishes Arthur to Una, who escorts him down the aisle while Eames fidgets and admires how Arthur's arse looks in those trousers.

Then it's Eames' turn. Mal takes his arm and guides him, helpful given that Eames' legs are barely functional at this point.

Eames makes it down the aisle without tripping and she deposits him safely by the officiant. Arthur grins, and everything else drops away. The people with their craning, curious faces, the weight of his parents' disapproval, and the fear that he'll muck it up somehow. With Arthur, Eames is safe and calm and free.

They turn to face the officiant, arms at their sides, standing tall and proper. She seems perfectly lovely, but Eames can hardly hear the words as she delivers her speech. He's conscious of the mischievous nudge of Arthur's foot against his, invisible to the audience.

She prompts them to recite their vows. Eames had a speech planned for this, had written and practiced and studied it beforehand. But what issues forth from his mouth has none of the neat organization, the clever turns of phrase, the brevity he'd hoped for. Perhaps the best that can be said about it is that it's heartfelt, and makes Arthur smile.

Arthur speaks next, simply and plainly, about love and trust and honesty and commitment. Eames can't quite focus on the words, because there are tears sparkling in Arthur's eyes, running down the curves of his darling cheeks. He makes no effort to wipe them away, hands holding on to Eames' firmly.

Eames leans forward, voice pitched low. "And here I thought I'd be the one to be in need of tissues."

Arthur snuffles a bit. "I guess there's still time for you to start."

When they kiss, Eames tastes salt and Arthur's usual winter-mint gum. It doesn't feel any different from other kisses they've shared (he half thought it would), aside from the tears, and Eames leans in to wipe those all away.

There's cheering and clapping throughout the hall, Eames vaguely registers. Una and Mal steer them to where Abigail is waiting with photographers.

After photos, they're shepherded into the banquet hall for more photos. This turns into visits to every table, listening to guests wish them well with hugs, kisses, and the occasional off-color joke. In the case of Eames' relatives, there are many truly regrettable jokes made.

Eventually, Eames and Arthur are allowed to sit and catch their breath. They receive a plate of food that's gone cold but can't set into it, as guests begin calling for toasts. Arthur looks longingly at his steak while Eames' stomach grumbles throughout Dom's toast. But they behave.

After Dom, Una stands despite Arthur's efforts to keep her seated. "I don't have a long speech prepared, although I could tell you all some hilarious stories about my big brother," she says while Arthur tries to hide behind Eames. "Come find me afterwards if you're interested. In the meanwhile, I want to tell my new brother-in-law that I have a strict policy when it comes to giving siblings away: no returns, no refunds, and no exchanges."

A chuckle goes through the room while Arthur shakes his head, smiling.

"Noted," Eames says, squeezing Arthur's hand.

"Now," Una says, lifting her glass in the air. "Let's get blasted!"

There are more speeches, more toasts, and a few impromptu musical performances. There's a brief pause due to a microphone mishap, which Eames and Arthur both take as an opportunity to shovel as much cold food into their mouths as possible.



* * * * *

"Sing, sing!" Eames doesn't know how it gets started, exactly, but one minute he's enjoying a glass of champagne with Arthur, and the next he's being thrust into the middle of the dance floor while inebriated guests shout at him to serenade his not-quite-blushing groom.

Anyone who knows Arthur would realize how misguided an idea this is, which leads Eames to the unfortunate conclusion that it's likely his own familial relations bellowing drunkenly across the reception hall.

Eames tries to say no, backing away from the microphone and refusing in so many different ways the words lose meaning. But the people entreating him will have none of it, badgering until he gives in and meets Arthur's eyes across the room.

Arthur seems amused, and shrugs as if to say, 'give them what they want and they'll leave you alone faster.' Ever the practical one. Eames takes a deep breath, pastes on a smile, and sings.

He settles on something from the first musical they saw together. It's unimaginative, but something that's popular enough for the band to know mostly how to play when he asks. Eames launches into a rendition of a song he's never performed before, inserting plenty of mugging for the crowd in order to distract from the lack of practice and the fact that he and the band never quite match on tempo.

There's applause at the end of the song, but Eames only delivers one brief bow before hurrying back to Arthur's side and taking his solemn kiss as reward. When the band resumes playing and the attention has shifted away again, Arthur leans over to say in a low voice, "Was that from the date where you gave me a handjob?"

Eames smiles. "I gave you a handjob at the opera. The song is from a musical where I blew you in the loo."

"Good show." Arthur winks. "And you sang it better."

"This, my dear, is precisely why I must have you in my life every single day," Eames says, giving Arthur a peck on the cheek. He's tempted to turn it into something more, but great-aunt Camilla is watching rather closely.

The rest of the musical performances begin. Eames knew, abstractly, that a high percentage of his friends are musically inclined, but the exact meaning of that doesn't sink in until ten people in a row have sung or performed on instruments, with another ten patiently awaiting their turns.

The tributes are touching and lovely, if fairly inebriated at this point in the evening. But after the fifteenth soppy song about true love, Eames thinks he might be reaching the limits of his appreciation. There are only so many renditions of Wind Beneath My Wings one can listen to in one evening.

"How much longer am I going to have to keep smiling?" Arthur asks as someone struggles through a tipsy, off-key rendition of the song from Titanic.

"I don't know, but I think my face is going to be permanently frozen into a terrifying mask if this keeps up for much longer," Eames replies.



* * * * *

The evening comes to an end, at long last. Eames says goodnight to Arthur's mother, who deigns to give him a hug. A stiff one, but it'll do. The guests are filing out in various states of intoxication, and Eames takes a look around the hall for Arthur.

What he spots instead of his beloved husband--god, what a strange ring to the word--is a mob of unruly Englishmen arguing with each other. They're red-faced and slurring, arms flailing in what's probably supposed to be a threatening manner.

Then the shouting and chaos begin.

Before Eames can react, he spots Arthur shouldering his way into the middle of the crowd, pushing the men apart. Eames hastens towards them, but is still halfway across the room when one of his uncles loses his balance, colliding headfirst with Arthur as he does.

Eames sighs as security bursts into the hall and begins dispersing the throng. Of course the evening would end in a drunken brawl. It'd been the height of foolish naivete for him to think he could avoid it.



* * * * *

Arthur and Eames make it out of the castle with all their limbs intact, though the side of Arthur's face is puffing up like a grapefruit. Arthur promises it looks worse than it feels, and that he'd much rather return to their honeymoon suite than go to an emergency room.

"I want to make love to my husband on our wedding night," Arthur says, and Eames can hardly deny him that.



* * * * *


"Are you ready?" Eames calls out from behind the bathroom door. He smooths down the hem of his negligee and takes a deep breath, but is careful not to allow it to morph into the yawn it so desperately wants to become. Focus.

"Ready and willing," Arthur calls back, presumably still sitting on the bed.

Eames emerges in a cloud of white chiffon, tiers and tiers of ruffles running across the length of his mostly translucent lingerie. Eames is well aware of how he looks (mostly ridiculous) but couldn't resist: when else is he going to have the opportunity to wear such a profusion of white satin and lace?

"You look like a wedding cake," Arthur says, after a blink.

Eames executes a perfect pirouette. "But a sexy wedding cake, yes?"

"The sexiest." Arthur smiles, beckoning. "Now come here so I can take my first bite."

"Oh my," Eames purrs as he sashays towards the bed. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?"

"I'm going to ravish you," Arthur growls, but the effect is somewhat diminished by the jaw-cracking yawn that bubbles up halfway through. "Sorry, that wasn't--"

"Really, you—" Eames tries to summon up enough faux-indignation to reply, but is interrupted by a yawn of his own instead.

"Come here," Arthur says, trying to hide another yawn as he runs his hands up and down Eames' body, fingers familiar and warm over the silky fabric.

"Yes, we'll--" Eames can't hold back a second yawn as he brings a slipper-clad foot (white satin, kitten heels, ostrich feathers running up the side) onto the bed beside Arthur's hip. "We'll make this a proper wedding night."

Arthur kisses Eames' calf even as his eyes droop tiredly. "Yes. Let's. I'll get you out of that nighty and I'll--I'll take you like an animal. You won't know what hit you."

Eames hitches up his skirt and straddles Arthur's lap, slippers falling loose to the ground. "You know, I practiced a rather intricate striptease involving naughty little surprises and audience participation, but perhaps you'd prefer the short version?"

"Maybe I can catch a longer encore tomorrow," Arthur agrees, and kisses Eames, more fatigue than passion in it.

"That could be arranged." Eames grins against Arthur's lips, cock beginning to stir as the kiss deepens. He sits up and guides one of Arthur's hands underneath his negligee to where an adorable floral thong resides.

In one swift move, Arthur tosses Eames on his back and has said thong down about his ankles. It is, frankly, rather impressive. "How do you wanna play this?" Arthur asks, eyes warm and affectionate. "Am I plundering the virtue of an innocent bride? Should I unwrap you like a present to myself?"

"All of the above sound marvelous," Eames replies. Unfortunately, in the minute or so since he's sank back into bed, the exhaustion from the long day—which began with waking up in a panic over whether he'd had his shoes shined (yes)—has finally manifested across his body as resistance to the very idea of moving. Even for a goal as enticing as making love to Arthur.

"Hm." Arthur plucks at one of the various straps running across Eames' shoulders. "I'm not sure I know how to get you out of this. Is there a zipper somewhere?"

"I think there's—" Eames sits up a bit to puzzle over the silky fabric with Arthur; nothing they try pulling seems to open the garment. "Perhaps—"

Arthur chuckles wryly as his fingers, usually nimble under normal circumstances, fumble with a ribbon. "I think I might be too tired for this."

Eames flops backwards onto the bed, officially defeated. "Are you as exhausted as I am? Because I'm starting to suspect that the rumors that Aunt Matilda is a vampire may have some basis in reality."

"I tried to rescue you. She had you cornered but good, though." Arthur collapses half on the bed and half on Eames.

"I know you did," Eames murmurs as he strokes Arthur's hair. "I felt my soul leaving my body as soon as she started discussing her most recent bowel surgeries."

Arthur laughs and scoots up to rest his head sensibly against the pillows. "I still think the highlight of the evening was those two uncles of yours getting into a fistfight over an argument they had twenty years ago."

"Oh don't remind me of that," Eames groans as he crawls up as well. "Uncle Edward hit your beautiful face."

"I think it might be more accurate to say he fell into my beautiful face," Arthur says, seeming amused as he thumbs his bruised jaw. "I'm surprised he managed to stay upright as long as he did."

"I had such plans for tonight." Eames sighs, tucking his cheek against Arthur's chest. "We were going to sneak out of the reception early, I was going to drive you mad with a striptease I've been working on for ages, and we were going to fuck so passionately and for so long the bed was going to fall apart. Instead, I was waylaid by aggressive relatives during my every attempt at escape. Then you were dragged into an absurd brawl featuring fat and disorderly old men."

"I know, baby." Arthur's voice is a comforting rumble as he kisses the top of Eames' head. "But we're married now, which means we have the honeymoon and the rest of our lives to try to break a bed with our fucking, right?"

"Arthur, really." Eames lifts his head to meet Arthur's eyes. "I am attempting to wallow and pout. What I want is for you to mindlessly agree with my sour mood, not improve it with humor and optimism."

"Oh, okay." Arthur puts on a somber expression. "This is a catastrophe. I will never see you take off your clothes in a sexy manner again. The rest of our lives will be filled with rote, passionless fucking that'll never come close to breaking a bed. Everything is ruined."

"There, you see?" Eames says, unable to tamp down the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Allow the spirit of my absurdity to move you."

"Hey, you wanna know a secret?" Eames can feel the smile on Arthur's lips as he whispers in Eames' ear. "I'm in bed with a married man."

"How scandalous," Eames replies, lifting their hands to admire first his own ring, then Arthur's. "Do you suppose his spouse is the jealous type?"

"Maybe. I hear he's in love."

"A man in love with his own husband?" Eames turns his head to brush his lips against Arthur's. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"

Fin

The Wedding, Part I: Invitations

Coda in the Amuse-Bouche universe.
Wordcount: 4300


Arthur doesn't know why he expected getting married to be easy. An unrealistic example set by Beth and Lou Ann, maybe. They put on a tux and a dress, went down to the courthouse, and got drinks at the bar next door. But he's not Beth, and Eames is definitely not Lou Ann.

It all begins innocuously enough, with Eames calling his parents and putting them on speakerphone.

"Mother, Father," Eames says in that strange, stiff voice he uses around them. "I've exciting news. I'm engaged."

There's a silence on the other end of the phone. Then Eames' mother, Harriet, says, "Is someone pregnant?"

Eames starts. "What? No. No. This is entirely voluntary."

"I see," she sounds skeptical. "To whom?"

Arthur glances over at Eames; this is not promising, considering he's been introduced to Eames' parents on four separate occasions. "Arthur," Eames says, then clears his throat. "You remember Arthur."

Eames' father, Charles, crackles over the line. "You're marrying the help?"

Eames immediately turns off speakerphone and brings the receiver to his ear. "Arthur is not the—yes, remember what I said? And that is not the—"

Arthur sighs as the conversation descends into a full-blown argument. Nothing about this is going to be easy.

* * * * *


They look at venues. So very many venues: resorts, beaches, picturesque fields, restaurants, grand old hotels, trendy boutique hotels, recently renovated dungeons (this is some kind of European hipster thing now), zoos, and aquariums. Most are deemed too small by Eames, who mentions breezily that they need room for a forty-piece orchestra, a Cirque du Soleil troupe, some fire breathers, and a drum line. Arthur still isn't sure whether he's joking or not. He hopes it's the former, but he suspects it's not, since the only place Eames rules out as too large is a football field.

"Why did we come here? Neither of us watches American football," Arthur says, bewildered, as they exit the stadium. "Or any sports, for that matter."

"Darling, you know I am a great supporter of Manchester United."

"What you support is watching hot men run down a field in shorts," Arthur replies, dryly. "And the only reason you know that team name is because your father hates them."

"Be that as it may," Eames says, not denying either assertion, "I fail to see how any of this is relevant to a wedding venue."

"Because the wedding should maybe have something to do with who we are as people?"

"What an adorably American notion," Eames says. "No, an English wedding reminds everyone in attendance through the weight of centuries of tradition that there is no escaping the bleakness of existence or the miserable bastards you're surrounded by."

Arthur frowns. "That sounds kind of dark--"

"It's also an opportunity to create the event of the season amongst your social set!" Eames exclaims. "We are going to plan a fete so dazzling, so stupendous, that all will look upon it and despair."

"I don't know if despair is exactly--" Arthur stops when a manic gleam appears Eames' eyes. "Okay, okay, whatever you want. But just so you know, I'd be happy to go to the courthouse right now and get married."

"The courthouse," Eames scoffs. "Might as well climb into a hole in the ground at that point. Although--maybe the Grand Canyon, or a cemetery, or--"

Arthur sighs as the distinct possibility of getting married surrounded by corpses now enters his life.


* * * * *


Venues are not the only thing they look at. The wedding planner Eames hires, Abigail Hayworth (who has apparently planned the weddings of minor royalty and British celebrities), also sets up appointments for flowers, party favors (Arthur had no idea people got those outside of first grade parties), and, more enjoyably, food tastings.

They settle on the food and cake relatively quickly. Eames wavers between a traditional English multi-tiered fruitcake monstrosity versus red velvet cupcakes (what he actually wants) until Arthur intercedes on behalf of the red velvet. Eames looks relieved, afterwards, and murmurs something about serving the fruitcake at the 'wedding breakfast' which Arthur decides not to ask about.

The rest of the appointments are nowhere near as fun. Every day after work, they see millions of: floral trellises, bouquets, enormous centerpieces, garlands, and god knows what other ways you stick a bunch of flowers together. Arthur nearly falls asleep listening to discussions about tea roses more times than he can count.

There's more than flowers, of course: there's stationery, furniture rentals, place settings, and on and on. After an afternoon spent staring at paper in the supposedly different colors of cream, ivory, and bone, Arthur finally cries uncle.

"Baby," Arthur says while Eames compares the effects of indigo ink on thirty-two pound, ninety pound, and two-hundred papers, "Would you be okay with going to meet the videographers alone?"

"Alone? Are you not feeling well?" Eames immediately drops the paper in order to touch Arthur's forehead. "You don't feel warm. If you've a spot of indigestion, I know a cleanse that--"

"No, it's not that." Arthur sighs. "You said you wanted input on all the magical little wedding details, which is great. I get not wanting to leave everything up to Abigail. But it's been months of this stuff and I think after the twenty-sixth type of white tablecloth I hit my limit."

Eames stares blankly at Arthur, uncomprehending.

"What I mean is, there are some aspects and details that I don't care that much about," Arthur says, trying to gentle his voice. "Like the shape of the light sockets. Or the flowers. Or the color of the officiant's robes. I love you, I want to marry you, and I trust your decisions."

"You don't--" Eames continues staring at Arthur in bafflement. "But flowers are the soul of a wedding."

"That's--true, I'm sure," Arthur says. "But what do I know about flowers? Nothing, except you shouldn't eat most of them. Not that I'd know that from personal experience--I'm just assuming, you know, that they're mostly not edible."

"You're sure you don't mind? You don't want to be involved in the final decisions?"

"On the venue, sure," Arthur says. "The food we've already decided. I'll pick out what I want to wear. The other stuff--the music, the party favors, the ice sculptures--that's all you, babe. If you're having trouble deciding on something, I'm happy to help, but the only thing I really care about is the guy I'm walking down the aisle with."

"Oh darling." Eames' smile reminds Arthur why he's bothering with all this nonsense to begin with. "You are simply too wonderful for words."


* * * * *


The venue they ultimately settle on is a castle in the Scottish Highlands, owned by one of Eames' distant relatives. It is a stately old building, complete with turrets and a dazzling view of several small lakes. Eames is infatuated, Una shrieks when Arthur gives her a brief tour via Facetime, and even Arthur can see why some would describe the location as 'magical.'

And then comes the less magical matter of logistics.

Being a castle, it's not exactly outfitted with all the modern bells and whistles like electricity, toilets, and central heating. It's also cavernous, drafty, and filled with an alarming amount of rodent wildlife despite the best efforts of a caretaker that drives in once a month from three towns over.

The reason it's someone from three towns over and not, say, someone from the town closest to the castle, is because of several gruesome murders that took place on the premises centuries ago. In short, all the locals believe the castle is haunted and refuse to step foot inside.

"Your cousin could have given us a heads up when she was pitching the place," Arthur says as they drive down the single lane, mostly dirt road to the hotel they're staying in. Half of it is already washing away in the persistent rainfall.

"It's no matter. I'm not about to allow superstition ruin what is going to be the best wedding this country has ever seen."

"I'm excited, too, but isn't that setting the bar a little high? I mean, it's a big event that'll be taking place at least partially outdoors, which means there's a lot of stuff we can't control--"

"That is precisely the kind of talk I do not want to hear," Eames says, the manic look in his eyes reappearing. "I am not about to concede my future to the wild winds of fate like some--some conceding quitter. Quitters never prosper. We are not quitters! We shall prosper!"

"Uh," Arthur says. "I'm not saying we quit, I'm saying maybe it's not realistic to have such high expectations for--"

"It will be perfect," Eames says, the set of his jaw brooking no further argument. "Everything about this wedding will be perfect, if I have to fight a hundred ghosts and light all six thousand candles in the castle myself."


* * * * *


"Yo, Artie," Una says as her face fills the cellphone screen. "How goes planning the fairytale princess wedding of every little girl's dream?"

"Weird," Arthur says, and pauses to consider. "Yeah, weird."

"That was a less romantic an answer than I'd hoped."

"Planning a wedding isn't romantic, it's exhausting," Arthur replies. "We're making up the guest list and it's a series of increasingly stressful conversations about which relatives we don't love enough to invite. It doesn't help that Eames is related to every aristocrat in Europe."

"Uh huh, yeah that sounds rough," Una says dismissively. "Is everyone getting a plus one?"

"Yes, but you have to promise you won't bring some rando again."

"Some--" She huffs. "Who do you think I am? I would never bring--"

"Do you still talk to that girl you brought to cousin Jenny's wedding? How about the guy from Mom and Nasir's wedding?"

"Well, obviously I had to bring some rando to Mom's wedding--how else would I bring shame to the family name?" Una does her impression of Mom's disappointed and disapproving expression, which Arthur can't help but chuckle at. "Besides, the plus one you really need to worry about is Dad's. He broke up with his girlfriend."

"Again?"

"Again. You know mom is going to flip her shit if his new girlfriend or whoever he brings is younger and blonder than Gloria was."

"But what about the baby? I guess, technically our half-sister."

"Dad says he'll still be involved in raising her."

"How--you know what, never mind. Not my business," Arthur says. "Mom and Dad are sitting at different tables, I guess. Eames is going to love that."

"Unless you want your wedding interrupted by a fistfight."

"I've got enough fistfights to worry about with Eames' side of the family," Arthur replies. "They're like the definition of crazy repressed drama."

"Seriously? But Eames seems so--" Una halts. "Okay, yeah, I can see it."

"Yeah, it's all very hush hush." Arthur sighs. "I mean, whatever, every family's got secrets and it's not his fault. The only thing I care about is how stressed out it makes him--I told you about his second family in Paris, right?"

"You mean Eames' adult half-sister and her mother living in Paris?"

"That's the one. Well, when Eames was sixteen, he ran away to find them in Paris and ended up staying with them until he went to college. It's a crazy story, but he considers his dad's--I dunno, ex-mistress--like his second mom. And his half-sister like his real sister. He wants them at the wedding."

"Woo boy," Una says. "Does the rest of his family know about them?"

"If they do, they certainly aren't going to acknowledge it," Arthur says. "Eames hasn't even talked about it directly with his parents."

"Have you met them? His second family, I mean."

"Yeah, Carlotta and Jacquenette are great. The best part is: they don't treat me like hired help."

Una makes a face. "I can't believe you've been together for three years and Eames' parents still act like this. It's such bullshit."

"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "It's not Eames' fault, I keep reminding myself."

There's the sound of something ripping and then Una winces onscreen. "Ow."

"What is that--Una, are you waxing your legs again?"

"Oh no, I'm not waxing my legs." She waggles her eyebrows. "I got a date with a very promising young lady. I think there might be a chance we might swing by Boom Boom Town this weekend if you know what I mean."

"First of all, who says Boom Boom Town, that is not a thing and second, no, you cannot be waxing your genitals while we Facetime." At her innocent expression, Arthur groans. "Inappropriate. Way inappropriate."

"Whatever, I've listened to you poop on the phone before," she replies. "Besides, I need you to check my work since I can't see everything."

"Don't you dare point that camera at your crotch or I will hang up. Aren't there professionals that can do this for you?"

"Yeah, about that. Money's a little tight right now."

"Tight? You live rent-free with Dad and have a job that pays--" Arthur narrows his eyes. "What happened to your job?"

"I quit last week. It totally sucked and I'm over it."

"Jesus, again?"

"I already got lectured by Mom and I don't want to hear it from my best friend, too."

"Oh, so now I'm your best friend again? I thought I was the worst killjoy older brother in the history of killjoy older brothers."

"You can be both." Una winces as another suspicious tearing sound echoes through the speakers. "It's kinda red down here. Is there supposed to be blood?"

"Look, I'll Venmo you the money to hire someone who knows what they're doing."

"I don't want to take your wedding money. I'm sure renting twenty unicorns to pull a gay sleigh across a rainbow can't be cheap."

"Don't worry about it," Arthur says. "Eames has some kind of wedding fund, maybe? I'm not exactly sure. I don't know where the bills are going, so I guess they're not going to me."

"You don't know? What does Mom think about that?"

"Don't tell her. I'm working on it and I don't want her to be mad at me." At Una's eye-roll, Arthur continues, "I've tried to talk to Eames about money but he always distracts me with sex or food. Or food with sex."

"And that works?"

"Of course it works! Do you think I'm dead inside?" Arthur shakes his head. "I've even tried the Budget Board, but somehow that doesn't make finances fun for him either."

"The Budget Board is only fun if your name is Mommy's Baby Artie-Poo," Una says, mimicking their mother's voice. Arthur frowns; it's not a flattering impression. "For normal, sane, non-Artie-Poo people, it's the worst thing ever."

"Whatever," Arthur says, thinking back fondly on afternoons spent filling in the Budget Board. "Anyway, I think the stress is starting to get to Eames. He's been--distant. Distracted by the planning."

"Don't you guys have an event planner?"

"Yeah, but Eames wants to be really involved and apparently there's still a million things to take care of. He's been obsessing over stuff like handmade tartan kilts and the exact shapes for the ice sculptures." Arthur sighs. "He gets like this when he's working on a new show, but it usually lasts for a couple of weeks. This has been going on for months."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"I should, shouldn't I?"

"Probably. Wish you luck, big bro," Una says. "Also, I should probably go now because I'm definitely bleeding."


* * * * *


Arthur finds Eames seated in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sea of stationary. It takes some work to pick through the maze of place cards, sample menus, and programs to reach him.

"Hi, baby," Arthur murmurs as he slides his arms around Eames' waist.

"Hello," Eames replies with an absent-minded kiss, gaze not lifting from the place cards he's comparing.

Arthur nuzzles Eames' neck. "Have a second to talk?"

"I have to make the final decisions on the stationery tonight so we can place our orders with the printers tomorrow. Why, is something wrong?"

"Baby, do you know that it's been two weeks since we did something more than kiss?"

"What?" Eames cranes his head around to look at Arthur. "Two weeks?"

"Two weeks."

Eames sets down the menu. "That is most disturbing news. This situation cannot be permitted to stand."

Arthur suppresses a smile. "What are you planning to do about it?"

"Kiss every inch of your naked body immediately."

"Sounds like a promising start," Arthur murmurs before the rest of his words are swallowed up in kisses.

Later, after thorough bodily investigations, Eames says, "Has it really been two weeks?"

Arthur turns onto his side to face Eames. "Yeah. And we've both been home, not traveling."

"It's because I've been distracted by the wedding planning, isn't it?" Eames sighs. "I'm sorry, darling. You know this is what it's like when I'm choreographing a show. I want to create an unforgettable experience."

"I know you do, and you will. But something about this feels different." Arthur laces his fingers through Eames'. "I've never seen you this stressed out before. What's going on?"

"The timeline is tighter than I'd like. And then there's the guest list which seems to grow with every day that passes."

"Is that why?"

"No," Eames admits. "Not entirely."

"Baby, talk to me. I want to understand. And help, if I can."

"I--" Eames hesitates. "I want it to be perfect."

"You mentioned that before. What exactly does perfect mean to you?" Arthur asks gently. "Does that mean everything goes according to plan, or is there more to it?"

"According to plan, yes. But I also--oh, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I also want your family to see how much I adore you."

"They already know how much you love me. That's why I'm marrying you," Arthur says, faintly puzzled.

"Fine, yes, they are aware--except for your mother. Who wishes you had proposed to that Pulitzer Prize-winning ex of yours instead."

"That's--" Arthur opens his mouth, but can't deny the uncomfortable kernel of truth in what Eames said. "Well, that's not her decision. It's mine."

Eames visibly droops. "She hates me."

"She doesn't--it's not personal. I've dated some, uh, not so great guys in the past, which has made her wary. She'll come around. I mean, Una and Dad and Beth and Nasir all love you."

"Darling, do you think I chased after fame and fortune because my insatiable desire for the approval of strangers is logical or healthy?"

Arthur chuckles. "Fair point, but isn't therapy supposed to be helping with that?"

"Helping to manage, yes. Curing, no." Eames sighs. "I know it's absurd to hope that a single event could change everything in a relationship. But a part of me can't help it."

Arthur reaches out to stroke Eames' cheek. "Is this really about my mother?"

"Perhaps only partially. I suppose she won't be the only person in attendance." Eames' expression shifts into something raw, vulnerable. "There may or may not also be the matter of my family."

"Come here, baby." Arthur pulls Eames close. "Come here."


* * * * *


"Arthur," Mal says, voice cool as she rises from her seat to permit Arthur a kiss on the cheek. Even after all these years, Arthur's pretty sure she doesn't like him. Most of Eames' musician friends view Arthur as an oddity once they find out he doesn't listen to music, but eventually they warm up to him. Not Mal, apparently. "Have you listened to Eames' new album?"

And she's still in the habit of interrogating him about Eames' music. According to Cobb, she does that to everyone, so at least Arthur's not being singled out. Probably. "Yes."

"What do you think of it?"

"I think it's genius," Arthur says, honestly. "It's Eames' best work to date."

She nods once. "What is your favorite song?"

At least he's better prepared for the questions, now. "Saving Me, Saving You."

"Not 'My Favorite Dragon'? It is about your cock."

Arthur feels heat rising in his cheeks but gazes steadily at her. "I like the melody of 'Saving Me, Saving You' better."

She nods again, brusquely. "What can I do for you? I assume this is to do with Eames."

"Skipping the small talk and jumping right into it, okay." Arthur takes a deep breath. "It's about his parents and, to a lesser extent, his family."

"If you want them to love you, forget it. They never will."

"No, I--I've accepted that," Arthur says, swallowing hard. "I guess I--can you tell me why they hate me so much?"

Mal stares at him for a long moment. Her expression softens. "Oh, Arthur. They don't hate you. They think you are inappropriate. Another phase Eames is going through before he settles down with a proper woman."

"We're getting married."

"Eames has been married before," she reminds him. "And what does that mean to these people? Nothing. To them, you are another intruder in their world, a bourgeois American who probably wants Eames for his money or fame."

"We have a prenup! I would never--"

"I know that," Mal says. "I know you love him. And he loves you. You are marrying for the right reasons, because you have a good relationship. But they don't see that. You don't fit into their lives. You don't share their values, their customs."

Arthur stares down at the lunch menu on the table. The words blur in front of him and blinks to focus them. "There's nothing I can do to change their minds?"

"A few of them, maybe. His cousins. Jacquenette and Carlotta like you, yes?" At his nod, Mal continues, "And you are not the only one struggling with this question of being seen and accepted for who you truly are. Why do you think Eames has been so frantic over the wedding?"


* * * * *


The planning continues to stretch Eames thin, emotionally. He is, by turns, frazzled, exhausted, and irritable, while Arthur does his best to be supportive and understanding.

The inevitable breaking point comes over a bouquet of flowers.

"It's over," Eames says, words muffled by the table his face is currently mashed against. "The electricity won't work. The décor will be hideous. The guests will go hungry in the damp. The wedding will be terrible and everything will be ruined."

"What's going on?" Arthur asks as he strokes Eames' back soothingly. "Why is everything ruined?"

"Just look at the arrangement. Look at it!"

Arthur squints at the offending bouquet. "It's... pretty?"

"The colors are all wrong and and petals are too small." Eames shakes a hydrangea head. "Our guests cannot be expected to sit surrounded by these! We might as well put them in a field with weeds."

"Baby," Arthur plucks the offending hydrangea from Eames' grasp. "What's this really about?"

"I told you, it's about substandard floral arrangements," Eames says, slowly lifting his face.

Arthur rubs a thumb over the flower stem, bruised and bent but not entirely broken. "Is it?"

"Not everything has a deeper meaning, Arthur," Eames says. "Sometimes I am precisely as shallow as I first appear."

Arthur simply smiles, and waits.

Eames is quiet for a minute before he speaks, quietly, "Did I ever tell you what it was like coming out as bisexual to my family?"

"No," Arthur says. "I'm guessing it didn't go great."

"I informed everyone when I was twelve. No one listened. They thought it was a silly phase I'd grow out of, or that I was acting out for attention." Eames pauses. "The first time I introduced round a man as my boyfriend, half my relatives laughed and the other half said absolutely nothing. Neither would acknowledge him."

"I guess it's good to know it's not just me," Arthur says, aiming for a joke that comes out a hair too bitter.

"No, you're wonderful," Eames looks so sad for a moment that Arthur feels his chest clench. "I wish I could make them see that."

"I'm okay, Eames. How they act is on them, not you." Arthur cups Eames' cheek. "I'll be okay. But what about you?"

"You would think I'd have learned long ago not to expect anything from my parents. Besides money, I suppose." Eames closes his eyes. "My therapist is always saying--well, it doesn't matter, does it? I can't seem to find a way to listen when it comes to them."

"It's only a day," Arthur says. "A day that will be magical because it marks the beginning of the rest of my life with you. Still only a day."

"But look at how beautiful they can be." Eames' voice is low, raspy, as he touches the hydrangea in Arthur's hand. "How could anyone see you surrounded by hydrangeas and not--and not--"

Arthur tugs Eames into his arms. If only he could swallow up Eames' pain, change out Eames' broken heart for his own. "I love you. Mal loves you. Your friends love you, and my family--well, most of my family loves you. We'll all be there, too. Appreciating the flowers, even if they're not perfect."

"I know. I do. And I am--grateful."

"But it's your family. It's hard." Arthur holds Eames tightly. "No matter what they say or do, you've got me. You're not alone in this."

"For the rest of our lives?" Eames' voice is soft. "Even when it's no fun?"

"Especially when it's no fun," Arthur says. "Luckily for me, it's pretty fun most of the time. And we've got all that awesome sex and stuff."

Eames huffs a small laugh against Arthur's shoulder, which has gotten damp. Arthur kisses Eames' temple and wishes that he could do more. Hopes that for now, this is enough.

fin


* * * * *


Bonus: Track list from Eames' latest album, Light that will never go out:

1. Loaded Die
2. Alleyway Kiss
3. Saving Me, Saving You
4. Sonya's Song
5. Nouvelle Cuisine
6. Una, Dos, Tres
7. Dearest Moneypenny
8. Lady Slippers
9. My Favorite Dragon
10. Light that will never go out
11. Safe, at last

Onto The Wedding, Part II: Ceremony

i_remix is live and sign ups are open to authors who have written at least 2 complete Arthur/Eames fics over 100 words long.

Sign up and more here!

Writing year in review: I wrote approximately 160,000 words this year.
Compared to:
2015 - 180,000
2014 - 160-170,000 words
2013 - 210,000
2012 - 150,000
2011 - 190,000
2010 - 166,000

My fiction posted in 2016:
A Flower in the Sun (Captive Prince WIP) - 25000

SHORTS:
I can help you change your life 6400
The Foundation (Sequel) 4700

Dread Persephoneia - 3200 - written for i_reversebang
The Adventures of Eames the Satyr, Arthur the Sexy Shepherd, and the Thrust of Destiny - 3200 - written for i_reversebang

Moderately Sparkly - 700 - Amuse Bouche coda
Wet - 2100 - inspired by art, Amuse Bouche coda
My Funny Valentine - 1900 - inspired by art

Jaunty tune - 500 - Inception Bingo
Sweet Talk - 1000 - Inception Bingo
Alone - 4600 - Inception Bingo
Loverboy - 400 - Inception Bingo
Foreplay - 500 - Inception Bingo
Confessions - 500 - Inception Bingo
Mystery Bottom - 500 - Inception Bingo
Temperature - 500 - Inception Bingo
A Glorious Fumble - 300 - Inception Bingo
Taste - 600 - Inception Bingo
Space Hooker - 2000 - Inception Bingo
Fuck. Or not - 900 - Inception Bingo
Dr. Sexy - 900 - Inception Bingo
Long Con - 700 - Inception Bingo
Super - 200 - Inception Bingo
Oddity - 300 - Inception Bingo
Cold Comfort - 300 - Inception Bingo

Ficlets written for AE Last Drabble Writer Standing 2500

SERIES:
NORDA - inspired by Inception Kink Bingo
Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture! 7500
Adventures of NORDA: the one where Arthur goes to a party! 4100
Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames is Clark Kent! 2600
Number One Recreational Dreamshare Agency 2600

= approximately 63,000 words posted
The rest is in various drafts or unposted

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted?

Wrote about what I expected. It's been fairly steady output these past few years in terms of quantity.

What's your favourite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest?
I can help you change your life & the sequel, The Foundation

It's dark, it's weird, it's about corruption and sleazy people. Not uplifting, but I'm very pleased with how it turned out and I enjoyed the process of writing it. I've always enjoyed writing about the darker side of humanity in various grim short stories (others that come to mind are creepy SPN shorts).

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?
In my Captive Prince fic, A Flower in the Sun, I'm writing in a new fandom (with its own distinctive prose style affected by the canon being a series of books), writing a new pairing dynamic, writing with multiple POVs for the first time (this is interesting and challenging in unexpected ways), and also posting on Ao3 for the first time. It's been challenging, and outside my usual wheelhouse, and I'm learning a lot.

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year?
Finish Gangstermoll (this is the year! now that I've finished Sex Bucketlist and a few other WIPS).

Finish A Flower in the sun.

Also, write my first Dragon Age: Inquisition story starring Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, a canon gay couple and 2 very new character types I've never written before. I also haven't written in a fantasy genre canon before, so that'll be new. I'm going to attempt to do this as part of the annual Big Bang challenge.

My Best Story of the Year
I actually wrote a very short fic for ae_ldws that managed to convey a great deal of story and feeling in few words. I don't know if it was my best story, but I think it was one of my most effective: World's End.

Story Most Under appreciated by the Universe in My Opinion
I can help you change your life & the sequel, The Foundation

Most Fun Story
The whole NORDA series was pretty fun. Heightened reality, a lot of silly, goofy, sexual humor and hijinks, with, I hope, a real emotional core as the relationship between Arthur & Eames evolves over time.

Most Sexy Story
I suppose the Inception Bingo fics (though some aren't particularly sexy).

Hardest Story to Write
A Flower in the Sun - my Captive Prince WIP, which started easy and then got harder once it started growing plot. I thought I could keep it short (because I always do) and I could not (because I never can). It's challenging to write in a new fandom, with new characters, a new pairing dynamic I'm still exploring, plus with the technical challenge of multiple POVs. So a lot of challenges on various fronts, but I think I'm back on track in making good progress. I think I can finish it within a few months if I keep up this pace.

Biggest Surprise
I guess the fact that I'm officially a multi-shipper across multiple fandoms. The newest additions are:
Captive Prince (Damen/Laurent, though I enjoy most of the secondary pairings like Lazar/Pallas, longsuffering Nikandros/anybody)
Dragon Age: Inquisition (Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, also option to Cullen/Dorian though I have little interest in writing that)

This is in addition to my longstanding fandoms of Inception (which still holds my heart and interest) and Star Trek (my love for Kirk/Sulu will never die, especially now that Sulu is canon bi or gay).

This assessment examined the Big Five Personality Dimensions, which are (1) extraversion, (2) agreeableness, (3) conscientiousness, (4) neuroticism, and (5) openness. Let's check out your scores.


Extraversion

Agreeableness

Conscientiousness

Neuroticism

Openness

Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture!

Written for Inception Bingo. The prompt: erotic torture.
Wordcount: 7,444


"You spent three weeks obsessing over the carpet in a dream and yet can't be arsed to buy chairs so we don't have to eat dinner on the floor," Eames says.

"In Japan, eating on the floor is the norm," Arthur replies as he flips through the mail. Bills, bills, more bills.

"Yes, on immaculately clean tatami mats, not on dusty hardwood," Eames replies. "You've owned this place, if not lived here, for over six years and it looks like you moved in yesterday."

"Well—" Arthur glances around his living room and kitchen, barren but for the coffee table and a single floor lamp. Maybe Eames has a point. "It's minimalist?"

"Minimalism is a design choice," Eames says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is a serial killer's safehouse."

Arthur barks out a surprised laugh. "Okay, fine, I hear you. Why don't you buy some furniture, then?"

"Are you authorizing me to make interior décor decisions?" Eames' eyebrows almost meet his hairline. It occurs to Arthur that even though Eames has been living in the apartment since Arthur recruited him into NORDA, he hasn't moved much into the place aside from his clothing and minor personal effects.

"Yeah, get whatever you want," Arthur says. "You're what makes it feel like home to me, anyway."

"My sweet darling." Eames walks over to press a kiss to Arthur's cheek. "Of course I won't be purchasing furniture myself. I'm hiring a decorator."

"Of course," Arthur replies dryly; as if Eames would ever pass up the chance to spend money. "You want me to give you Lia's contact info? I thought she did a good job with NORDA's office."

"God no," Eames shudders. "No, no. The last thing I want our home to resemble is the office."

Arthur shrugs. "Okay, wasn't that guy we slept with last month an interior designer? What about him?"

"Simply because his shapely arse is qualified to take my cock doesn't mean I'm about to entrust my home to him." There's a suspicious gleam in Eames' eye. "Actually, I already have someone in mind."

Arthur sighs internally. He should have guessed this was a set up all along.

* * * * *

When Arthur sees the interior designer's invoice, he nearly keels over. "Is our apartment going to be lined with gold and covered in diamonds?"

"We have to purchase furniture, curtains, rugs, and something for the walls besides that sad little pamphlet about recycling you taped next to the light switch," Eames replies, unperturbed.

"What do we need rugs for?" Arthur asks. "They'll cover up the hardwood floors."

"Rugs pull a room together aesthetically," Eames says, a bit primly. "They also help define the color theme and mood for a space."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, squinting at Eames' laptop screen. "And these are…?"

"Photos of possible seating options," Eames replies. "Any preferences?"

They're all enormous chairs, with fussy detailing and heavy upholstery. More importantly: hideous. "Uh," Arthur says, praying that Eames isn't seriously considering them for the apartment. "I don't think these are really my jam."

"No?" Eames looks—maybe—disappointed, but closes out the window. "A lighter wood finish, perhaps?"

"Yeah, maybe," Arthur says, not sure that's the problem.

"Are you sure you don't want to meet with the designer?" Eames asks. "Suki is really quite excellent and would appreciate your input."

"Can't. Landed a new client. Some hedge-fund guy that wants the mock-up for a ten hour dream by the end of the month. I'm going to be practically living at the office until that's done."

"What does he want?"

"That's the thing—he's given me no parameters. Wants the best I can create, a one of a kind experience made for him."

"With no direction whatsoever?" Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur's nod. "What is he expecting?"

"He says he wants something he can't experience in reality."

"There are many things one can experience only in dreams, but that doesn't mean I'd pay for those things," Eames says. "How are you going to deliver when he won't say what he wants?"

"He gave me carte blanche to do whatever I think best. I'm going all out."

"Alright," Eames says. "And you still have no opinions whatsoever that you'd like me to convey to Suki?"

Arthur leans forward to kiss Eames lightly on the lips. "I love your style, baby. I'm sure I'll love what you pick out."

* * * * *

Arthur's routine is this: he wakes up every day at 6AM for a run. The neighborhood they live in is nice, a mix of residential and business space, not too many neighbors to keep tabs on. He has six carefully plotted routes that he alternates taking throughout the week. It helps keeps things fresh and provides an opportunity for him to see if anything seems out of the ordinary, or if any enemies might be in town, past or present.

After he finishes his run, he returns to give Eames a good morning blowjob, fucks him afterwards. If Arthur doesn't have an early meeting, they draw it out, savor it. If they're pressed for time, Arthur fucks Eames quick and efficient, comes in a few short snaps of his hips. Afterwards, they shower together and talk about plans for the day.

Arthur goes to the office almost every morning, though now that the business is doing a little better, Eames has been lobbying for Saturdays off. Arthur's agreed to give it a month-long trial, anxious about being away when logically he knows he has everything he needs to work remotely.

Arthur likes going in, likes the structure it gives his days, but Eames became a criminal partly to avoid feeling trapped in an office. So Eames usually works relentlessly half the week—two days in the office, two days from home—and then gives himself three days to do whatever he wants, whether that's sleep, his various side hustles, or, recently, all this home renovation stuff. Last year, Arthur suggested Eames take up cooking as a hobby (hoping that one day he might come home to a meal that didn't begin its life as a frozen entrée) but that hasn't caught on yet. Sadly.

Arthur tries to make it back for dinner every evening, but only succeeds about half the time. Eames never seems particularly bothered by it, usually sends Arthur a text around 7PM inquiring about whether he should be put Arthur's portion of the takeout in the fridge. Arthur tries not to stay out too late, but sometimes gets lost in work and comes home after Eames has already gone to sleep. Sometimes, if there's a looming deadline and an early meeting the next day, Arthur even opts to stay all night at the office (he has a fold-out couch and several changes of clothing).

Eames doesn't complain, merely welcomes Arthur back whenever he does come off his work bender. In fact, it's Arthur who finds himself missing Eames after a day or two away, invents excuses to call Eames simply to hear his voice. Arthur's the one that can't get enough cuddling when he finally returns, doesn't want to let Eames leave the bed for anything short of a bathroom emergency.

The weirdest thing is, after three and a half years, Arthur is still smitten with Eames. Arthur's never had a relationship that lasted this long before, and never one as happy and easy as this. They argue sometimes, but on the whole, things are smooth. Harmonious, even.

Arthur's waiting for the new car smell to wear off any day now. To react with detached boredom when Eames smiles, to feel familiarity drift into contempt, to find conversation predictable and stale. But Eames is ever changing, always throwing himself into new hobbies, renewing interest in longtime pursuits like painting, currency forgery, and rare book collecting.

If anything, Eames is the one more likely to grow bored. After all, Arthur's entire life has narrowed down to NORDA.


* * * * *

Arthur spends three days breathing and eating research about the client. Davos has been in the public eye for over fifteen years, which means there's a ton of press to wade through in addition to normal background checks. Davos is also a controversial figure, having been sued numerous times for varying reasons (including unpaid bills). He's alienated plenty of people on the way to amassing billions of dollars.

The tricky thing with people like Davos is that he can already buy access to anyone or anything he desires. The normal luxuries that might sate most clients—food, incredible landscapes, flawlessly beautiful people—won't suffice for someone who has a private jet on call, a harem of beautiful people in every major city.

So Arthur designs a trip into space, complete with a shuttle launch, a moon walk, and the opportunity to shed the space suit to touch moon dust. It's inspired, if he does say so himself. Visiting another celestial body is something only a handful of astronauts have ever experienced, and something all Davos' money still can't buy yet.

Unfortunately, it requires intense research to achieve verisimilitude: viewing endless videos, a weekend spent touring a NASA base, and a trip on the zero gravity simulator nicknamed the vomit comet—for good reason, as it turns out.

Arthur spends three weeks planning, plotting, and working. Most of it's done in the office, but he also takes several trips around the country to study the interior of space shuttles, to experience weightlessness, to learn more highly technical cosmonautical information. Through it all, he barely has time to eat, sleep, and kiss Eames goodnight.

Davos wants a preliminary model before the end of the month and he's running out of days.

* * * * *

After a second decidedly unpleasant trip on the vomit comet, Arthur returns to an apartment covered in tasseled rugs, carpetbag like curtains, and humongous furniture. There's unfamiliar art on the walls, shelves full of knick knacks, and curios strewn across every surface.

"Welcome home, darling," Eames says, emerging from the kitchen and dispelling Arthur's faint hope that he'd wandered into the wrong apartment. "Are you staying for the evening or heading straight to the office? I can order dinner."

"Hi, baby," Arthur says, dropping his bag to the floor. "Dessert first."

They get off once, quick, and then again, more slowly. Eames smells and tastes like home, even if the rest of the apartment doesn't.

"Suki's completed the furniture order for the bedroom," Eames says, tugging Arthur's arms more comfortably across his chest when they're lying together in bed. "I held off on moving it in since I didn't want you to come back to a state of chaos."

"We're keeping the bed, right?" Arthur says, eyeing the baroque monstrosities Eames calls furniture in the living room.

Eames pauses. "This particular bed?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it."

"It doesn't quite—go with the rest of the décor."

"I like it," Arthur says, flatly, because he does. It was the first piece of furniture he bought for this apartment and he spent a good amount on both the frame—sleek, dark wood—and the mattress.

"Ah," Eames says. "I'd assumed we were redoing the entire apartment as a blank slate, but I'm sure Suki can make a few tweaks to make the bed fit with the rest of the bedroom plans."

"We?" Arthur repeats. "I wasn't aware we were doing anything about the bedroom at all."

"But of course." Eames sounds a little impatient. "It's an empty room with plastic blinds, and a makeshift nightstand made up of a pile of your books with a lamp on it. I've been storing my socks and underwear in a suitcase for over three years because there are no other places for them to be put."

Arthur rolls over onto his back, abruptly feeling too hot and sweaty to want to spoon anymore. "Okay, but it's not going to be like the living room, is it?"

"Do you not care for the living room?" Eames asks, and there's an edge in his voice.

"It's—" Through the open door, Arthur can see the straight back of what looks like the least comfortable chair in existence. "It's not what I expected."

"You told me to do what I wanted. That you trusted my taste."

"Yeah, well. I thought—" Arthur clamps his mouth shut.

"You hate it."

Arthur struggles to find a tactful way to put his feelings. "I think it's—a lot."

"Yes, well, what did you expect?" Eames snaps. "I have a wholly bloody house in Mombasa and now I'm compressed into this absurd shoebox of a flat."

Arthur's throat constricts. "I thought you were going to sell that house."

"I was, but then I'd have to hire people to move my things into storage, not to mention find a buyer, and overall it didn't make financial sense." Eames exhales gustily. "You're the one always harping on about fiscal responsibility, aren't you?"

Arthur rests his palms over his heart, tries to take comfort in the recurring beat. "Do you miss it?"

"What?"

"Mombasa," Arthur clarifies. "Your house. Living—" he can't quite bring himself to say 'alone.'

"I do miss how cheap everything was there." Eames sounds wistful. "And the food."

The doorbell rings and Arthur gets up, thankful for the reprieve. "Must be the delivery."

Arthur pulls cartons out of the bag—beef teriyaki from his favorite place—and stares at the decorated living room. He recognizes some of the pieces, now. A lamp from Mombasa, a bizarre hunting painting from Eames' family estate in Wales. Eames has always had a penchant for the eclectic, but in combination the whole place is strongly reminiscent of a pawn shop. An insanely expensive pawnshop.

Arthur takes a seat at the dining table, which features an elaborate centerpiece and table linens, as well as a statue that resembles a gnarled old man. As nice as it is to finally have a table to eat at, he feels like he's eating inside a stuffy restaurant rather than his own home.

"How's the teriyaki?" Eames asks, squeezing Arthur's shoulder as he sits down beside him.

"Delicious as always. Thanks for ordering it, baby," Arthur says, some of his irritation over the apartment fading. It's replaced by gratitude--he's damn lucky to have Eames in his life—and something less pleasant. Something that makes him feel a little queasy, a faint and unnamable fear.

"The client presentation is tomorrow, isn't it?" Eames asks around a mouthful of shrimp tempura.

"Yeah, I gotta go back in to put in the finishing touches." Arthur says slowly, as an idea comes to him. "If all goes well, I'll be more or less living in the office the rest of this week. I was thinking we could try something since, you know, I won't be around."

"Try...?"

"That thing we talked about last month that you've been wanting."

Eames sits back. "You know I'm always keen on sexual adventures, but are you sure this is the right time? I don't want to distract you."

"That's what makes this the perfect time," Arthur says, suddenly afraid Eames might say no. "I was thinking it's a way we can still be—close—even when I'm at the office."

Eames studies Arthur for a long moment. "Alright."

Arthur smiles, relaxes. "Okay. I was thinking we could do it over a few days."

"Three days. We ramp up, start slow." Eames' voice drops an octave as he puts a possessive hand on the back of Arthur's neck. "I look forward to hearing you come for me."


* * * * *

Arthur wakes up the next morning at six AM, goes for his morning run, and blows Eames. They don't fuck after, though.

Eames instructs Arthur to jerk himself off, slowly. Eames watches, eyes dark as Arthur strokes himself, eager and on edge. He makes Arthur draw it out, though, until Arthur's smearing precome all over himself, balls tense and unused to being made to wait this long.

When Eames finally allows him to come, Arthur shudders and ejaculates all over Eames' spent cock. After being on edge for what feels like the entire past month, release is fucking incredible.

"You were perfect," Eames murmurs as he leads Arthur to the shower, washes him off. "You'll do this again for me later today. After you're done, send me a photo of your come and your cock."

Arthur nods, reveling in Eames' attention. There's a pleasant shiver of anticipation at the idea of finding a free moment to lock himself in the office. In between appointments, maybe, or before he heads home for the day, so he can send a text to whet Eames' appetite.


* * * * *

Then the meeting with Davos happens.

Rather than being inspired by the prospect of space travel, Davos hates it. Hates the idea of going to the moon, of space suits, and being an astronaut. He alternates between boredom and irritation, curtly cutting off Arthur's pitch and declining even a five minute demo. He wants a new idea, has no suggestions for what that might be in (after all, isn't that what he's paying Arthur for?)

Arthur retains his composure until he makes it to his office. He locks the door, sits down, and lets his forehead hit the desk. There goes a month of work. And now he needs to come up a something new by the end of the week or Davos will back out and probably badmouth NORDA to every rich asshole he knows.

"Fuck," Arthur says as he raises his head and drops it down again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

What the hell does he do now? His previous list of ideas included: deep sea exploration, mazes and paradoxes, and meeting the goddamn Easter bunny. But given Davos' apparently hatred of nature and wonder, none sound promising.

A part of Arthur wants to call Eames to hear his voice, his counsel; he would have ideas. But Eames had reservations about taking Davos on as a client from the start, and an equal part of Arthur doesn't want to admit that Eames was right (as always). Petty, but there it is.

Arthur opts for a third option of hiding and feeling sorry for himself. He gives himself an hour to wallow before getting back to work. Administrative business unrelated to Davos which still needs to be handled even if Arthur is having one of the most crushing days of his life.

Around six, he remembers Eames' assignment for him and groans; the last thing he feels like doing is masturbating.

Arthur checks to make sure everyone has left for the day and locks himself in his office. He pulls up some porn to get in the mood: two burly men grunting as they go at it. He clicks aimlessly through the different categories of porn on Gaytube—massage, threesome, gangbang—and eventually plays a clip of a bear deepthroating a twink as background noise.

Arthur had been initially reluctant to put any personally identifying information on his cell, much less photos, even after settling down for NORDA. Years of paranoid habit and all that. But he'd caved shortly after the first time Eames sexted him with a photo attached. Now he has a truly impressive gallery of Eames in various states of undress, not to mention some rather risqué videos of them together.

He brings up photo of Eames' ass first, swipes through to a lovely angle of his balls, and admires one especially nice shot of Eames fingering himself.

Arthur takes a minute to imagine it as he works his own cock: Eames spread over the desk, naked and begging for Arthur to put his cock inside—

Arthur orgasms, fumbling his phone out of the line of fire barely in time.

He snaps a photo of his come streaked hand wrapped loosely around his cock and forwards it to Eames.

The response is gratifyingly rapid, phone lighting up with an incoming call which displays a rare image of Eames smiling—his real one, with crinkled eyes and crooked teeth on full display. Eames hates that photo because he thinks it's terribly unflattering, but hasn't pressed Arthur to delete it. Almost seems pleased that Arthur still has it.

"Hey," Arthur says as he wipes himself down.

"You are utterly gorgeous, do you know that? Will you be home soon?"

"Might as well," Arthur says, despondent. "Davos hated the space idea. I need a new build by the end of the week."

"Darling, I'm sorry," Eames' voice curls around Arthur like a warm blanket. "I know how hard you worked on that dream."

"Yeah," Arthur sighs. "Maybe I can repackage the idea and pitch it to some other client in the future. Get some use out of all the zero-G barfing I did."

"I personally would love to give your trip to the moon a try," Eames sounds sincere. "I can be your first guinea pig."

"Yeah?" Arthur feels his mood beginning to lift. "Really?"

"It sounds incredible," Eames says. "Come home and eat. We can drum up new ideas for Davos together."

So Arthur does. He eats beef teriyaki from his favorite place, takes refuge in Eames' arms. It doesn't erase the shittiness of the day, but it helps.


* * * * *

The next morning, Arthur scrapes himself out of bed, goes for a run, sucks Eames awake, and jerks himself off. Eames ushers Arthur into the shower and even offers to accompany him into the office.

"Suki's going to do the bathroom today, isn't she?" Arthur says. "Don't reschedule. I'm okay, I got this."

"Darling—"

"No, it's cool, I'm serious." Arthur puts a finger over Eames' lips to stop further protests. "Just tell me how many more times you want me to come before I get home."

Eames gives him that long, searching look again. "Three times. And I'd like two of those to be one immediately after another."

Arthur takes a deep breath. "Okay."


* * * * *

The hours fly by in a haze of coffee and file folders. Arthur reviews every piece of research, his notes—all in search of clues for something that would blow Davos' mind. Walking the bottom of the ocean floor? Conversing with long dead philosophers? Entering a maze cerebral enough to make someone's head explode?

Arthur's so absorbed in his work that he jumps when a greasy takeout bag lands on his desk. He looks up at the open door of his office and blinks at Eames, who is standing, improbably, in front of him. "I thought that was locked."

"It was." Eames pulls out a carton of chicken tikka masala. "Now eat. You skipped lunch."

"Shit, I did." Arthur glances at the clock, which reads three o'clock already. "And I still don't know what Davos wants."

They eat (Arthur discovers he is ravenous) and Eames shows him some paint swatches for the bathroom. It's nice, almost relaxing, and they cap off with kisses that lead to wandering hands that lead to Arthur jerking them both off.

Afterwards, Arthur sags back in his seat while Eames kisses his temple and strokes his hair. "You did wonderfully," Eames murmurs. "Are you ready for your second?"

Arthur's not, really, his dick tingling after orgasm. But he dutifully reaches down until Eames stops him.

"Allow me," Eames says, sinking to his knees between Arthur's legs.

Arthur doesn't know how many blowjobs Eames has given him over the years—triple digits by now, surely--but the sight of that gorgeous mouth near cock will never fail to arouse. "Isn't this cheating?" Arthur gasps as Eames begins to lick, gently.

"I'll tell you when you can touch yourself again," Eames says as he mouths at Arthur's balls. "I want you to paint my face."

Arthur exhales shakily, dick rising to smear precome against Eames' cheek. It feels raw, exposed and oversensitive against Eames' stubble; he holds still despite wanting to flinch away. Eames takes him into his mouth and Arthur shudders, his legs falling wider open. His hips twitch, not sure whether to press in or back.

"Eames, I'm gonna—"

Eames pulls off and takes one of Arthur's hands, wraps it around his cock. Arthur strokes himself shakily, stares at Eames' flushed red mouth, his dark eyes—

There's not much ejaculate after coming two times in one day already, but Arthur's dick still twitches in his hand as he orgasms. Semen lands on Eames' cheeks, the corner of his mouth. He waits until Arthur is finished before surging up for a kiss.

"Beautiful," Eames whispers into Arthur's sweaty ear. "Absolutely beautiful."

Arthur releases his cock and leans in to kiss Eames. He tastes like curry and come. It sounds like a horrible combination and it is, sort of, but Arthur makes out with him anyway.

"Feeling better?" Eames asks as he leans back, brushing the hair from Arthur's forehead.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles, and gently wipes Eames' face clean. He's pretty damn lucky. "Definitely."

Eames sticks around a while longer to discuss work. He has surprisingly little to say about Davos, until Arthur asks him point blank.

"He's your client and you should do what you think best," Eames says, carefully.

"But," Arthur prompts.

"But—" Eames pauses. "I'm beginning to wonder if he's the sort of man who will ever be satisfied. He's a serial entrepreneur even though he has all the money he could ever need. He changes wives like batteries. Will any dream you come up with be enough?"

"And maybe caviar tastes like sawdust in his mouth, but regardlesss, he hired me to create a dream that rocks his world," Arthur says, good mood slipping away. "That's the assignment. That's what I have to deliver."

"With no instruction? No hints as to what he might like to see or not?" Eames replies, mouth tightening. "Hardly fair, is it? You can't send someone off into the woods and be upset when they return with something you don't expect."

Arthur wonders if they're still talking about Davos, or if Eames is trying to say something else in his maddeningly indirect British way. "He's paying me to run around a forest and come back with truffles. That's what I have to do, fair or not."

"Do you remember the Abramovic brothers? Absolutely mental, and everyone in dreamshare knew it," Eames says, abruptly. "They must have approached every operative in the bloody world at least once with that mad scheme of theirs. And do you remember what you said to them?"

"Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bastards?" Arthur says, not sure where this is going.

"Precisely. Because you realized that working with such a client would simply drive you round the twist with frustration and expectations which could never be met. Thus, you parted ways with them." Eames gives Arthur a pointed look. "Perhaps it's time you parted ways with a more current client."

"Break up with Davos?" Arthur says, something tightening in his chest. "He's paying a shit ton, plus, he could badmouth me to all his rich fucking friends if I back out."

"Refund the money. And who gives a toss about his friends? You want more clients like him?"

"If they're wealthy and sane—"

Eames gives Arthur an unimpressed look. "What sane person would choose to associate with that sort of man?"

"Wealthy people who don't know any better, I don't know!" Arthur throws his hands up and turns, almost wishing Eames hadn't come in to the office in the first place. "He's got a platform. He could sue me. He could destroy NORDA with an army of lawyers."

"Sue you for what? For not devising an impossible dream?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I know NORDA's a joke and a hobby to you—"

"It's not—"

"But I can't fuck this up." Arthur presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "This is the first time I'm—this isn't Cobb's project. This isn't someone else's company. This is me, mine, and I need to make this work."

"The business won't collapse if you lose one lunatic client—"

"You don't get it." Arthur stares down at the faded scar on the back of his wrist. "I'm not like you. I don't have family estates to go back to. I didn't grow up horseback riding and eating quail."

"Pheasant, actually." Eames sighs when Arthur doesn't crack a smile. "Is that what this is about? You know I'd never allow you to become destitute or live on the streets—"

"I don't need your charity, Eames," Arthur snaps, getting angry though he's not sure why. "This isn't about money. It's about building something of my own. Something to hold on to."

"You have built something. A moderately successful business that's lasted three years with an office and everything." Eames gestures around them. "A business that will survive losing Davos, might I add."

"And what if it doesn't? What if he sues me and—"

"Then we leave and start over. You can build another business anywhere in the world. Darling," Eames takes Arthur's hands in his, "you're the magic behind it all. Everything else is details."

"Ugh," Arthur says. "Why do you have to be so reasonable and supportive?"

"To more effectively torment you." Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I'll leave you to your work. Try not to stay out too late, and do remember to send me a photo after you've had your final wank for today."

Arthur nods, mind already buzzing with everything else he has to do. His dick is oversensitive and tired; the prospect of coming again anytime soon sounds uniquely unappealing.

* * * * *

Hours pass. Arthur fleshes out some proposals for Davos and squints at the computer screen until his eyes cross. His head hurts, his stomach aches, and now he's got to wring another orgasm from his tender dick.

Arthur brings up some porn with a half-hearted hand down his pants. He watches with vague interest as a muscular ginger is spitroasted and finds himself checking his watch more often than he strokes his cock. It's not unpleasantly oversensitive anymore, but it's not exactly enjoyable either.

After about twenty minutes, he stares down at his lap, where he's failed to achieve any sort of erection whatsoever. Jesus.

He skips ahead in the video to the money shot. The redhead comes all over himself with a groan, and he's uncut, like Eames. Normally, this would be the type of thing that would get Arthur off fast. Right now his cock seems mostly indifferent.

He opens up a new video, some gangbang. When that fails to yield results, Arthur skips through several in succession, tries a couple new sites. He brings up a few old favorites, as well, confused and dismayed when even those fail to move the needle.

Desperate, Arthur goes to a deeply buried bookmark for one particular porno. In it, a blond, tattooed man fingers and fucks himself ecstatically with a vibrator. Arthur and Eames watch a fair amount of porn together—critiquing the more absurd moments, using some videos for inspiration (with mixed results). But this is a video Arthur will never share, because the star bears a striking resemblance to Eames and Arthur doesn't think he could ever live down jerking off to porn because it reminds him of someone he's already sleeping with.

But even watching that doesn't work.

After an hour of various videos, fantasizing, and jerking off, Arthur's soft and frustrated. He calls Eames, a last ditch effort to rally at the sound of his voice, maybe. As soon as Eames picks up, Arthur's heart sinks and he knows Eames can't help him.

"Hello, gorgeous," Eames purrs. "Have you come for me yet?"

"Hey." Arthur rubs a hand across his face, roughly. "I've tried. I've been trying for the past hour. I don't think I can—I'm sorry, I—"

Eames' tone changes immediately, "Arthur, there's no need to apologize. Are you still at the office? Are you on your way home?"

Arthur glances at the clock—it's almost eleven PM—and closes his eyes. "I promised you, I said I'd—"

"Nevermind all that, I want you to come home. I would like you here, beside me."

Arthur sags in his chair. "But there's so much to do."

"Nothing that can't keep till tomorrow. How much sleep have you gotten in the past week?"

"Four hours a night? Five?" Arthur scrubs his eyes again, which feel weighted down. "Varies."

"We both know better than anyone the dangers of sleep deprivation," Eames says, voice gentle, kind. "I'm coming round to pick you up in the car. Fifteen minutes."

Arthur stares at his flaccid cock and open pants. A part of him wants to resist, doesn't want to admit defeat, doesn't want to abandon the endless work, doesn't want to return home to a disappointed Eames and an apartment filled with ugly furniture. The rest of him is exhausted. "Okay."


* * * * *

The common areas are as ugly as Arthur remembers.

The bedroom has changed, too, but in a less extreme way. It takes a second for him to pinpoint that the walls have been painted—a light, subtle gray. And there's a carpet on the floor, something plush with a high pile that feels nice against his toes. That's as far as he gets in analysis; Eames pushes him into bed.

"Come here," Arthur says, holding out his arms when Eames steps away.

"One moment." Eames carefully hangs Arthur's suit and disrobes, taking less care with his own clothing. He crawls between the sheets and allows Arthur to ensnare him, thread their arms and legs together. "You did so well for me."

"No," Arthur replies, face buried against Eames' clavicle. "I failed."

"You came for me three times, twice in succession." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I'm pleased."

Arthur closes his eyes, not sure he believes it. "I got barely anything done."

"I'm glad you're here." Eames' voice drops to something quieter, less certain. "Thank you for coming home."

Arthur twists, to look up at Eames' chin, the frozen way he holds his jaw. "Baby?"

"I know how important your work is." Eames' Adam's apple bobs up and down. "But have—have you been avoiding the apartment?"

Arthur breathes in. Tries to think of the right thing to say. Settles, ultimately, on the only thing his exhausted brain can summon: the truth. "Yeah."

"Because you don't like the furniture I've selected?"

"I don't—I don't recognize it, anymore." Arthur can feel Eames tense around him. "But it's your home, too."

"I wanted it to be our home, someplace that we both—" Eames hesitates. "Something which welcomes you after a long day."

"You're—"

"Don't say that I'm all you need when we both know that's patently untrue," Eames says, a spark of humor in his tone.

Arthur huffs. "Fair enough."

"You need to tell me what you want and what you like," Eames says, softly. "I've tried guessing at your taste and failed in a spectacular fashion."

"Will you hate me if I say I don't know what I want?"

"A little," Eames says, and Arthur can't help but laugh. "At this point, I'd settle for a hint. A clue. A muddy footprint in the right direction."

"A wrench in the drawing room with Colonel Mustard," Arthur jokes. It's not particularly funny, but he feels Eames untense, slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm used to building other people's dreams and tastes, not mine. I haven't stopped to think about what I might want in—a long time."

"We can build whatever we'd like," Eames says as Arthur leans up to kiss him. "We can find out together."

* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, rolls out of bed, and starts when Eames mumbles something about joining him. "Are you sure, baby?" Arthur asks while Eames stumbles into running shorts. Eames cracks a tremendous yawn and nods as he puts on his sneakers.

They run together (more of a brisk jog, really) along Arthur's shortest route. When they get back to the apartment, Eames tackles Arthur to the bed, muttering, "I forgot how much I love seeing your tight arse in those ridiculous shorts."

Arthur laughs while they kiss, relaxing into it as Eames pulls said shorts down. They fuck like that, Eames easing inside. He guides their hands on Arthur's cock and it's easy to come, with Eames warm and alive surrounding him.

Afterwards, they shower and Eames announces he's going into the office, too.

"But it's not one of your days," Arthur says as he helps lather the shampoo in Eames' hair.

"I know." Eames kisses one of Arthur's soapy palms.

* * * * *

The work is every bit as grueling and tedious as before. Eames' presence in the building does make it better, though, a calming force in the sea of Arthur's mind.

Arthur slogs until noon and orders pizza (the non-sex-metaphor kind) for the whole office. While he's waiting for it to arrive, he sends a bunch of furniture images he likes to Eames, gathered from googling around interior design websites. Tearing himself away from work, however briefly, is a struggle. But Arthur reminds himself that it's worth it—that Eames is worth it.

Late afternoon, Eames comes by Arthur's office to express his happiness over the links and images, says they've been forwarded to Suki for analysis. She'll come up with a plan for the apartment that incorporates both our tastes, Eames explains. She'll make it feel like home for both of us.

Arthur kisses Eames' nose in acknowledgement, but doesn't get his hopes up. Then he jerks off while Eames fingers him, takes him apart slowly with that luscious mouth on Arthur's balls. It's an enjoyable diversion that gets Arthur out of his head for a brief while, at least.

"Thank you for indulging me," Eames whispers as they cuddle together on the couch. It's a somewhat uncomfortable cuddle, the couch not made for two grown men on their sides, but Arthur hangs on anyway.

"I like it," Arthur says, though he's not sure whether Eames is talking about the copious orgasms, the couch cuddling, or transforming their apartment into a secondhand store.

"No, you don't," Eames replies easily, patiently.

"I like making you happy," Arthur says, which is true, at least.

Eames kisses the scar on the back of Arthur's wrist. "You never told me where this came from. Knife fight? Car crash? Bomb shrapnel?"

"The truth's pretty disappointing in comparison to those scenarios," Arthur says. "I got it when I was a teenager. We used to hang out around this abandoned train yard, lighting bonfires and drinking. Got wasted one night and tripped near a railroad spike. Bled all over the damn place."

"Bonfires and drinking were not my first guesses, no." Arthur can hear the smile in Eames' voice. "Wholesome Americana."

Arthur snorts. "Something like that. My mother used to tell me stories about when the town was booming and trains shipping coal would run day and night. I couldn't really imagine. All that was left were abandoned tracks by the time I got there."

"Your mother—" Eames pauses for a beat. "She passed away when you were young, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Arthur says. He wonders if talking about her should bring up bad memories, emotions. But it's like a wound from so long ago he can't remember what it felt like when it hurt anymore. "After she died, I got passed around to all my relatives in that shitty town. They didn't want me, not when they could barely afford to feed their own kids. None of them would wanted to move, either, pack up for somewhere better, with more jobs. I always thought it was stupid to be so attached to a place."

"Especially when places change, and you can't always rely on what worked before," Eames says quietly, stroking Arthur's wrist.

Arthur squints at Eames, wonders if he's doing that thing where he's saying one thing and talking about something else. "Right."

Eames sits up, gazing with such fondness Arthur can hardly believe it's real. "I'll let you get back to work."


* * * * *

When Arthur gets home that evening, there's less of, well, everything. Fewer tchotchkes, fewer table linens, and fewer pieces of furniture. It's still not to the degree that Arthur would prefer, but it feels like he can breathe again.


* * * * *

Arthur wakes up at 6AM, jogs with Eames, and jerks them both off in the shower. They dress and hurry to the office for a meeting with Davos, which goes as poorly as Arthur has come to expect.

Arthur pitches ten of his most inventive ideas and listens to Davos shoot them all down. Eames pitches his five ideas and receives a similar response. At the end of it all, Davos shouts for ten minutes about how they're incompetent idiots out to swindle him until Arthur stands up, opens the conference room door, and invites him to leave.

Davos storms out with several choice insults for them both.

Arthur instructs his secretary to email Davos a confirmation letter terminating their business relationship and referring him to the Dream Perfumerie, where Xander Cheng might be able to better serve his needs. Arthur then proceeds to walk into his office, sit, and plant his face on the desk.

He's in the midst of panicking over what he's done when Eames lets himself in and says, "I think you did the right thing."

"Or I have doomed my business to bankruptcy and crushing failure," Arthur mumbles, not lifting his head. There's a pen mashed across his cheek.

"We will find other clients." A hand strokes gently down the back of Arthur's neck. "I have it on good authority that we haven't exhausted all the landed gentry of Scotland yet."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "Thank god for your relatives, I guess."

Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head. "I thought you were very brave."

Arthur straightens, slowly, and slides into Eames' arms. "Let's go home."


* * * * *

The apartment changes, slowly. Suki sits Arthur down with binders full of images for him to look over, takes note of all the things he likes. They continue decluttering the apartment, change the curtains, and swap the tasseled rugs for sleeker, more modern ones. Some of the furniture Eames picked out stays, mostly the stuff he had shipped from Mombasa.

"Every piece has history," Eames says, "a story behind it. That's what I love about them."

Arthur's not sure what's so great about history when it comes to furniture; the past is done, after all, and they're dealing with the present. But he can live with the hunting painting, the coffee table made out of a tree stump, and the other weird crap if it makes Eames happy.


* * * * *

"Thank you," Arthur says as he inserts the PASIV cannula into Eames' arm. "For being understanding. And patient. And shit."

Eames chuckles as he leans back on the chaise lounge. "You're about to send me to the moon for my birthday and you're thanking me?"

"Well, yeah, because—"

Eames covers Arthur's mouth with a hand before he can launch into a full explanation. "I know. And I love you, too."

Arthur stares at the ground after Eames pulls his palm away. "I just worry sometimes. If I do enough or—or spend enough time with you."

Eames' mouth softens. "We're both independent people, you and I. The time apart helps us better appreciate the time together, I think."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, heart rising with hope. "And you'd—you'd tell me if you were unhappy? Unhappy enough to leave?"

"I would and I will," Eames says, quiet and serious. "Did you think I'd—"

"I don't know," Arthur says, words running together in a rush. "I've never lived with someone before and I don't really. Uh. Know what I'm doing."

Eames chuckles as Arthur takes a seat on a recliner and hooks himself up to the PASIV. "Neither do I."

"Right." Arthur looks down at the PASIV, at the lines where they're connected. "I guess we're making it up as we go along."

"I'm rather adaptable." Eames smiles at Arthur. "And you're excellent at improvising."

"Yeah." Arthur smiles back. "We've got this."

fin

Foreplay	Hurt/comfort	Reincarnation	Beloved enemies	Bedsharing
Erotic torture	Regency AU	Multiple orgasms	First time/last time	Sex under the influence
Animal transformation	Magical AU	Medical fetishisation	Intoxication and altered states	Time travel
Exposure	Pining	Confessions	Anti-heroes	Discomfort during sex
Exhibitionism	Cybersex	Deathfic	Genderbend	Heroic gestures

Homecoming

Thanks to: sibilantly
Written for i_reversebang and swtalmnd's adorable art.
Wordcount: 3000


Four months, Eames thinks. Four fucking months.

Not that he didn't enjoy his first few weeks alone. Concern for Arthur's well-being aside, Eames does enjoy the freedom of setting his own schedule. He doesn't have to consider Arthur's numerous social engagements, he can sleep in without someone waking him up at some ungodly hour in the morning to go jogging, and isn't constantly tripping over the loose socks Arthur leaves strewn across the floor.

In short, the independence is delightful—for the first two weeks.

But as more weeks pass, small moments of discontent appear. Thinking of a hilarious joke and realizing Arthur is not available to laugh uproariously in response. Noting some interesting quirk of human psychology and having no one to discuss it with. Waking up at dawn--because Arthur trained Eames' wretched body like Pavlov's dog—and then realizing the bed is still cold, still empty.

Nothing so desperate as melancholy sets in, but something a touch too close to it for comfort. Four months is the longest they've been apart in several years—god, when did all that time pass?—and somewhere along the line, Eames grew accustomed to Arthur's unbearable morning cheerfulness, his grouchiness when hungry, his shameless cuddling.

It isn't until the second month alone that the grasping ache of loneliness begins to set in. Eames does nothing so undignified as pine. Absurd for a man his age. But he is willing to admit to the occasional Arthur-shaped yearning.

When the third month arrives, Eames settles his tab at the casinos he's been frequenting and makes his way to the gym. Listening to a personal trainer shout at him to move faster isn't nearly as pleasant as listening to the rustle of plastic chips, but needs must.

He takes up moderately healthy eating habits when staring in the mirror after each exercise session yields a distressing amount of softness about his middle.

Two days before they're to reunite, Eames trims stray nose hairs, plucks errant ear hairs, mows the tangle between his legs. He even trims his armpit hair—which has grown rather straggly—and has his eyebrows waxed before his haircut. A man must look presentable, after all, and Arthur's standards on that front are higher than most.

On the day they're set to meet, Eames steps into the outfit he'd carefully selected (trousers Arthur bought him two years ago paired with the green shirt Arthur once said brought out his eyes). A button pops off the shirt, leaving an unsightly gap directly over his belly (which is not as flat as he'd hoped). This precipitates a frenzied search for a replacement, resulting in a mountain of clothing hurled haphazardly on the bed as he tries everything on again.

Once a suitable shirt is found (blue, one which highlights Eames' pectoral muscles and always pulls Arthur's gaze decidedly away from his eyes), Eames has to sort and re-hang the mess he'd made on the bed.

By the time he's finished, he realizes he's going to be late to their rendezvous, which is not how Eames wants their reunion to begin. He's contemplated how it will proceed rather more times than he'd care to admit, and this is what he envisions:

Eames will be seated on the bench, appearing to all the world a dashing visitor to Las Vegas, enjoying the view of the Bellagio fountains. He is an uncommonly good-looking tourist, perhaps, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.

Arthur will stroll up to him, hands in his slightly too tight trousers, with a boyish smile and adoring wonder in his eyes. He'll likely start with something artless and American like, "Hey."

Despite himself, Eames will be charmed, but mask it well.

Eames will reply with something witty, delivery spontaneous and completely unrehearsed. Arthur will be far too paranoid for anything so overt as a kiss in public. But he will look at Eames, and Eames will feel his warm regard like a warm caress of the cheek.

Eames will leave the area first. Arthur trails after by ten minutes, and they'll meet up again at their flat, a surprisingly decent place in a grubby part of town.

Eames will be making a pot of tea nonchalantly when Arthur bursts in and demands to ravish him immediately. Eames will reply that first he has to finish the tea, because he's not a savage, and Arthur will growl something like, "Fuck the tea."

The sex will be furious and fantastic, of course, Arthur a meticulously groomed vision of gorgeous manhood. Afterwards, Arthur will insist on snuggling and Eames will graciously allow it. Arthur will smile dreamily while Eames regales him with delightful anecdotes from their time apart.

At the end of it all, Arthur will kiss Eames in that indescribably tender way that he has and whisper, "Baby, I missed you."

"But of course you did," Eames will say. And then, "I love you, too."

* * * * *

What actually happens is this: the bench Eames was planning to sit on is occupied by a family of four, including two squalling children. Eames relocates to a different bench, which has a far less impressive view of the fountains and no shade whatsoever, which means his face slowly bakes in the Nevada sun for two hours while his arse grows numb on the cold marble.

People pass the bench in a steady stream. Seven men attempt to cruise him and three women invent thin excuses to talk to him. He declines their advances, but is pleased to know his painstaking grooming is having its intended effect on the general populace.

A man in a baggy beige trench coat over a Hawaiian print shirt sidles closer to Eames, possibly trying to make eye contact behind dollar store sunglasses. The truly regrettable ensemble is topped with a baseball cap; the whole thing reeks of self-loathing closet case. Eames pointedly averts his gaze.

The man comes closer and Eames sighs, adjusts his earbuds and hunches over his mobile. Unfortunately, the man fails entirely to read his signals and plops himself down next to Eames. He's sitting far too close.

"Hey," the man says in a familiar voice.

"Bloody hell, Arthur," Eames says, after being momentarily stunned into speechlessness. After four and a half months, he's finally here. In such grotesque attire.

Arthur adjusts his deeply unflattering sunglasses. "I'm keeping a low profile."

"It's—certainly not what I was expecting," Eames says, after a moment. He tries think of something witty to say, but no clever repartee seems to be forthcoming. "Er. Welcome back."

"Yeah." Arthur grimaces, seeming decidedly unenthused. "Let's get out of here."

Eames stands. "I'll meet you at the flat. Ten minutes." At Arthur's nod, Eames sets off, relief warring with distinct disappointment. It is, of course, wonderful that he is alive and appears to be mostly intact. Perhaps once they're in private, Arthur will whip off that bloody trench coat and ravish Eames. Yes. Then the reunion that Eames has been waiting four months for will continue apace.


* * * * *

The first thing Arthur does when he enters the flat is not tackle Eames onto the nearest horizontal surface. Nor does he unleash a soliloquy dedicated to Eames' finer qualities and astounding beauty. Instead, he asks if the apartment has been swept for bugs recently, and, upon receiving confirmation that it has, makes a beeline for the fridge. He pulls everything edible out and proceeds to devour it.

In between shoveling food into his gaping maw, Arthur glances around and says, "Did you move the furniture?"

As far as homecomings go, it's not the stuff of Shakespearean romance. Well, one of the farces, maybe. Eames removes himself to the couch and does not pout.

"I thought we'd go out for dinner," Eames remarks as Arthur cracks open a beer (one of the dubious brands Arthur likes most, with which Eames stocked the fridge in advance of his arrival). "I made reservations."

"Not tonight," Arthur says after with a jaw-cracking yawn.

After guzzling food and beer, he disappears into the bathroom without a glance back. Minutes pass, with no sign that he's returning, sans clothing, for Eames' appointed ravishing.

Eames decides enough is enough when the shower starts running.

He follows Arthur into the loo, noting an open tube of toothpaste on the sink. Pausing to re-cap the tube, Eames says. "Did you use my toothbrush?"

"What?" Arthur shouts, muffled by the sound of water and the glass shower stall.

Eames picks his way over Arthur's clothing on the floor, disrobes (leaving a neatly folded pile of clothing on the closed toilet), and slips into the shower behind him.

"Hey," Arthur says, sounding surprised.

"It's not hygienic." At Arthur's blank expression, Eames elaborates. "You using my toothbrush."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Arthur says. "I just—I really needed to wash the taste of stale airplane food out of my mouth."

"And you couldn't use—" Eames stops. "Where's your luggage?"

Arthur sighs. "They lost it on my connecting flight. Probably in Jakarta at this point."

Without sunglasses, Arthur's dark under-eye circles and sallow complexion are thrown into sharp relief. "And you flew here from Indonesia? I thought the plan was for you to be stateside by last month."

"Lerman botched the paperwork and I got held up in Malaysia."

Eames resists the urge to ask why Arthur would ever rely on someone as incompetent as Lerman. The answer is fairly obvious: necessity. "Have you been on the run the whole time?"

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and Eames can see now, how exhausted he looks, how thin. "Things went sideways pretty much from the get go and only got worse."

"How long have you been—" Eames allows his gaze to track down the rest of Arthur's body, noting new injuries, and one enormous dark bruise across his sternum—ugly and red and black. "You didn't," Eames says, horrified. "You faked your death via shooting?"

"Local drug lord, actually." Arthur rolls his shoulders and winces. "Long story. I had to ditch the Kevlar at the airport and buy a new shirt that didn't have a hole in it."

"Is that why you were wearing that awful coat?"

"Only thing that fit over the over the vest." Arthur sighs. "One day someone will make armor that doesn't make me look like an asshole."

Eames reaches out to inspect the edge of a gash he doesn't recognize. Arthur sucks in a breath; the wound is scabbed over, but appears to be healing, isn't infected. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I'm so tired I can barely remember my own name." He pauses, and Eames notices now that Arthur is favoring his right leg heavily, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "Besides, I thought you would figure it out because you're good at that."

"I'm perceptive, Arthur, not a bloody mind-reader." Eames isn't sure whether he's exasperated more with his own uncharacteristic obliviousness—apparently he'd allowed his expectations to distract him from observing Arthur's condition—or Arthur's flattering overestimation of his abilities. "Does it hurt a great deal, still?"

"Well, it feel like someone took a baseball bat and wailed on my chest for an hour," Arthur says dryly. "So, kinda."

Eames snorts a small laugh. "Only an hour? Lucky. The last time I was shot, it was in the stomach and I couldn't eat for two days."

Arthur manages a laugh that fades into a grimace. "Right."

They lapse into silence, the water continuing to fall heavily around them.

"I should allow you to—" Eames starts at the same time Arthur says, "Will you—"

They both stop, and Eames gestures for Arthur to go on.

"Can you help me do my back?" Arthur asks, holding out a bar of soap. It doesn't sound flirtatious or teasing but almost—tentative. As if he's unsure if Eames would say yes.

"Of course," Eames says, something warming at Arthur's shy smile as he turns.

"You look great, by the way," Arthur says after a moment of silence, while Eames runs the soap down the curve of his thankfully unharmed spine. "I don't know if I said, before."

"Thank you," Eames says, slipping over Arthur's shapely buttocks, down his thighs. "Your hair has grown longer."

"Yeah." Arthur reaches a self-conscious hand up to comb through it and it occurs to Eames for the first time that Arthur might be embarrassed at his somewhat overgrown state. Arthur's beard is coming in patchy, his chest hasn't been waxed, and bruises mar the surface of his entire body.

Eames lifts Arthur's fingers—still slightly swollen, knuckles raw from a recent fistfight—to his lips and murmurs, "Let's go to bed. I could use a nap."

* * * * *

Eames wakes, curled up in Arthur's arms. There's a crick in Eames' neck, his left arm is numb, and there's a damp spot on his forehead that he suspects is due to Arthur's drool.

Eames feels his heart expand in dizzying, sickening happiness.

After spending a few minutes listening to Arthur breathe—darling, handsome, slightly bloodied—Eames carefully untangles himself and slips from the bed. It's a testament to how fatigued Arthur truly is when he doesn't wake despite the disturbance.

Eames orders takeaway for dinner, picks up the clothing in the bathroom (binning the trench coat and Hawaiian shirt), and settles onto the sofa to watch a local Spanish news station.

"Hey," Arthur says, from the bedroom doorway, some hours later.

"Hey yourself, sleeping beauty," Eames says, noting Arthur's freshly shaven countenance; he's wearing a thin tank top that rides up over rather short shorts when he yawns. "I ordered pizza. There are anchovies on your half in the kitchen."

"Thanks," Arthur says as he drifts over to stand behind the sofa. "Prepping for a job?"

"Yeah. Militarization for some billionaire in Mexico City." Eames glances up at Arthur. "You could accompany me, if you're free. She's covering my expenses and I've booked myself a rather nice hotel."

"Mexico City, huh?" Arthur takes a seat beside Eames, one leg pressing against Eames', nothing more. "Easy to stay anonymous in a place like that. Might be good, since I am technically supposed to be dead—or at least one of my major aliases is."

"Couple of weeks together in the country where we first met. One might call that romantic."

"You mean the country where I picked you up in a bar while we were both pretending to be different people?" Arthur slants a crooked smile at Eames. "You got a funny idea of romance."

"Says the man who said we should meet in front of the Bellagio fountains because they evoked the incredible amounts of come I'd have to look forward to upon your return," Eames says, dryly.

"That wasn't romantic, that was hilarious," Arthur says. "I'm hilarious."

Eames laughs. "God help me, but I do agree."

Arthur grins, and reaches out to run two fingers along Eames' right bicep. "You've bulked up."

Eames glances down, casually, as if he hasn't been sweating at the gym for the past thirty days. "Have I?"

Arthur shifts closer. "Yep."

"I take it you approve?"

"I think you know the answer to that." Arthur catches Eames' jaw in his palm. "I'd almost forgotten how gorgeous you are."

"Almost?"

"No photos, no videos." Arthur's smile is a little sad. "I couldn't risk someone finding them in my stuff."

Eames drags Arthur in for a rough kiss. "I bloody missed you, you ridiculous man."

Arthur kisses back, eager and insistent, as he slides between Eames' legs. When he takes Eames' cock into his mouth it's warm, wet, wonderful. Eames brushes Arthur's hair back from his eyes and shivers as he comes.

Eames hums contentedly. "Allow me, darling." He buries himself in the task of sucking Arthur's dick, savoring the taste and smell and feel of it against his tongue. He tries, as best he can, to convey how much he's missed this. Missed Arthur.

Arthur comes with a sigh, gaze sleepy and fond.

Afterwards, he takes Eames' hand, leans forward to press his forehead to Eames'. "I thought about you every single day," Arthur says, softly. "And not just when I was jerking off."

Eames arches an eyebrow. "Did you fantasize about me watching the telly? Gambling in a casino? Driving my car?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

Eames chuckles. "I may have spared the occasional thought for you, as well."

"Oh yeah? Did you think about me blowing shit up? Raising hell?"

Eames laughs. "Walking in slow motion away from an explosion."

Arthur nods approvingly. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

Eames feels his mood turn serious again when he catches sight of the bruise on Arthur's chest. "You didn't have to fly here directly from Indonesia. Over thirty hours when you've just been shot? We could have postponed."

"I know we could have," Arthur says, softly. "But I—I didn't want to. I wanted to get home. To you."

Eames feels his heart swell again, a warmth coursing through his veins that no fantasy could ever conjure. "I would have understood. I would have waited."

Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't want to wait, baby."

Eames presses another kiss to Arthur's lips. "I'm glad."

fin

Dread Persephoneia

Thanks to: sibilantly
Written for i_reversebang and evisionarts' wonderful art.
Wordcount: 3200




Arthur opens his eyes. He's flat on his back in sand, too weak to move. Waves wash over him and the sun beats down as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

He's roused by the sound of voices. He can't make out the words, and he doesn't resist when they drag him away from the pounding surf.

The strangers—a masked man and a woman, Arthur can make out now—carry him an indeterminate distance. They're dressed like security guards and don't speak further.

He's brought through the front gates of imposing building resembling a medieval Scottish castle. Overall, the impression is correct, but the details are wrong.

The interior is nothing like a true castle aside from having stone walls. The floor is carpeted in deep reds and blues, the walls hung with richly patterned tapestries, purple drapes across the windows. There are more masked guards at the front entrance and all along the corridor.

Arthur wonders who they're trying to keep out. Or who they're meant to keep in.

He's brought into a Grand Hall, filled with masked courtiers in revealing, baroque costumes and intricate black masks which cover half their faces. They're all staring up at the raised dais at the end of the room.

The guards dump him unceremoniously in front of the dais, clothing still wet and sandy. His face feels raw from baking in the sun, lips cracked. He pushes himself upright and stares up at the throne, where a familiar man sits.

"Eames," Arthur says, voice a parched croak.

Decked in dark royal regalia and a golden crown, Eames frowns. "You dare speak to a king that way?"

Eames has lost track of reality, Arthur thinks as he forces himself up on unsteady legs. He knew there was a possibility. Eames has been down here for months, maybe years. There's a dusting of gray throughout his hair and beard, wrinkles Arthur doesn't recognize. Salt and pepper isn't a bad look on him. "You're in Limbo," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

The blonde woman standing beside Eames bends down to whisper in his ear. Despite her dark feathery mask, Arthur recognizes her as one of Eames' forgeries. Emilia, Eames called her—his idea of a joke, Arthur supposes.

"That is quite a claim. What proof do you have that what you say is true?" Eames asks, and Arthur realizes that they're the only two people in the room not wearing masks.

"How long have you been down here?" Arthur asks, voice gaining strength with use. "Do you remember?"

A flicker of confusion crosses Eames' face as the courtiers murmur amongst themselves.

"Our Lord Eames has always been king," Emilia declares, staring down at Arthur coolly.

"Yes," Eames agrees, confusion smoothing away. "Yes, I have always been king."

"How did you become king?" Arthur presses. "Were you born a prince? Were you crowned as an adult?"

The mutters of the crowd grow louder, more displeased.

"Who are you to challenge the rule of our majesty?" Emilia demands, taking a step forward.

"Eames, we need to leave," Arthur says. "It's time for you to go back to the real world."

"Usurper," Emilia cries, pointing an accusatory finger. "You've come to kidnap our liege and seize the crown for yourself."

Guards move towards Arthur as the crowd echoes her, "Usurper, usurper!"

"Eames, listen to me," Arthur still too exhausted and dehydrated to do much besides stand, much less fight off guards. "We've known each other for years, we achieved inception, and you still call me the biggest stick in the mud—"

"Throw him in the dungeon," Emilia commands, eyes triumphant.

"Listen—"

"No," Eames' voice rings out, silencing the entire hall. "Attend to this man's needs. Feed, clothe him. I will question him personally."

"Eames," Arthur starts, but Eames says no more and dismisses him.

All the courtiers are quiet as Arthur is hauled—firmly, but more courteously, now—away to a private bathing chamber. He's left alone to strip and sink into the bathtub, relieved to brush away the sand that's crusted to his body. The water is blissfully hot, the heavy fragrance of roses filling the air.

He steps out of the tub to discover that his ruined suit has disappeared. It's been replaced by a gauzy piece of fabric that might generously be termed a loincloth. Arthur rolls his eyes as he wraps a towel around his waist over it. He tries to summon a shirt and jacket, but fails to materialize even a pair of real underwear. Maybe it's because he's in Eames' territory, now.

He's escorted to the dining room by guards that ignore his requests for more substantial clothing. Once he gets there, he's distracted from the issue by the enormous table piled high with freshly prepared food and drink.

Dangerous, a part of Arthur's mind warns. The more you engage with a dream, the further enmeshed in it you become. But the prospect of no longer being thirsty or hungry is so thrilling Arthur can't quite restrain himself from filling up his plate.

Everything is delicious, bursting with juiciness and flavor. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin of exquisite dark lace. Beneath his bare legs, he can feel the delicate silk of the cushion, the smooth wood of the chair, the luxurious damask backing. He eats until he can't anymore, drinks his fill of refreshing cold water.

He settles in front of the fireplace with a glass of beautifully aged wine—only one glass, no more—and can't remember the last time he felt this level of bodily contentment. He thinks he can even hear the faint strains of violin music through the walls.

The door opens and Eames appears. Wordlessly, he crosses the room, takes Arthur's face in his hands, and kisses him.

Arthur freezes. Eames' lips feel as plush as they look. Arthur's fantasized about those lips before—who hasn't—but these aren't the circumstances under which he thought something would finally happen between them.

Eames pulls back a few inches, gaze moving over Arthur's face avidly. "My god, I can see your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose. They're beautiful." Eames punctuates his remarks with three delicately placed kisses over said features.

"Eames," Arthur says, still uncertain how to handle this sudden onslaught. Topside, they've flirted aimlessly but never taken it further than that. This feels like decidedly more than flirting. "Do you remember me?"

"Of course I do. What sort of question is that?" Eames has moved on to threading his fingers through Arthur's hair, nuzzling his jaw. "You smell incredible."

"I'm not sure we should be doing this right now," Arthur says, voice not as steady as it could be with Eames kissing down his throat. "We should get back—"

Eames pauses in his trail downward to lick at Arthur's nipples. "You removed them?" Eames asks, and Arthur can't begin to guess at what he might be talking about.

"Don't you want to—"

"What I want," Eames says as he eases Arthur's towel open, pushes gauzy fabric away from half-hard cock, "is to feel you come down my throat."

Arthur's mind goes blank as Eames kneels between his legs, wraps that unearthly mouth around his dick. Arthur should probably protest more, put a stop do this. He should.

Eames begins to lick and suck, head bobbing with all the practiced skill Arthur could have ever hoped for. He looks amazing, feels better, and Arthur melts into a boneless slump against the back of his chair.

The last thing he should be doing is lazing in front of a fire, allowing Eames to suck him off in Limbo—god knows what's happened to Eames' mind in the time he's been down here. Dangerous to linger, to allow him to keep them down here for any longer. But Eames is sucking at Arthur's cock ardently, one hand between his own legs as he does. How much could another ten minutes down here hurt, really?

"Gonna come," Arthur mutters before he does, shuddering at the way Eames ducks down to swallow, eyes trained on Arthur's face the whole while.

Eames crawls up Arthur's body as he continues to stroke himself. Arthur kisses him appreciatively, joins his hand with Eames'. Arthur's tasted his own come before but it's a little different here, possesses a nearly alcoholic edge. Unsettling, but Arthur doesn't have much time to consider it before Eames is ejaculating across their stomachs, moaning as he does.

Eames continues to kiss Arthur, deep and thorough and intoxicating. Arthur loses himself in it, allows himself to finally indulge his fantasies by helping Eames strip, drags greedy fingers over his muscular body.

"We need to wake up," Arthur mumbles as he palms Eames' beautiful, round ass. "We—"

"No, no." Eames twines his arms around Arthur's neck. "When I wake up, you're always gone."

"I—" Arthur struggles to find a response, but it's difficult when he feels so sated and warm with a lapful of Eames. "I'll be right there next to you."

Eames sighs as he traces the bridge of Arthur's nose with the tip of his own. "There's daylight and we're not in my bed chambers. How is this possible? How are you here?"

Arthur doesn't know how to interpret what he sees in Eames' expression. "What?"

"You always leave." Eames kisses him again, hard enough to leave Arthur gasping for breath. "Not tonight, though. Now that you're here."

Arthur blinks, feeling strangely sluggish and distant as something metal snaps round his left wrist. The haziness he'd attributed to a fantastic orgasm sharpens into the realization that he's been drugged. Alarm pierces through the fog that's settling through his mind, but briefly. "Why--"

"You are my subject now," Eames says as Arthur's vision fades to black. "I am your king."

* * * * *



Arthur awakens to the sound of rhythmic creaking.

His eyelids feel immensely heavy as his other senses slowly come back to him. The smell of roses is thick in the air; it's almost difficult to breathe. His wrists are chained above him, his ankles to the floor. He's wearing nothing aside from that diaphanous loincloth.

As he slowly forces his eyes open, there's confirmation that he's in a bedroom, chained in front of an enormous four poster bed Eames is currently having sex on.

The room is dark, lit mostly by a large fireplace and a few scattered candles. It takes Arthur a minute to resolve the shapes before him. Eames--on all fours, being fucked by a dark-haired man--staring at Arthur with possessive hunger. It's as unsettling as it is undeniably arousing, watching Eames take a cock and so obviously enjoy it. Not a good situation for that kind of interest, Arthur tries to tell his dick, but it ignores him.

The man fucking Eames is masked, like everyone else, but there's something familiar about his hair, the shape of his face. Arthur squints as his eyes attempt to adjust to the low light--

"You're still here," Eames says, words punctuated with a sigh of pleasure. "Now you're both mine."

No. It's not possible. He wouldn't—

"You taste different than him. You smell different," Eames says. "Will you fuck me the same way?"

It's a projection of Arthur.

Eames is being fucked by a masked projection of Arthur: hair slicked back, a series of earrings down the shell of his ear, bangles around his wrists jangling with every thrust into Eames' ass. The projection leans back to readjust his grip on Eames' hips, and Arthur can seeing the nipple piercings now, the trail of a necklace down to his bellybutton.

Impossible. Shocking. Bizarre.

Yet Arthur can't help the way his cock twitches when Eames comes with a groan, can't help drinking in Eames' dazed, pleasure-drunk expression. The projection fucks through it, hips stuttering to a halt with an open mouthed expression Arthur hopes he doesn't make in real life.

"You spoke," Eames murmurs, crawling towards the edge of the mattress, towards Arthur. "I should have known when you spoke."

Arthur stares in horror at the projection. "It doesn't talk at all?"

"Never." Eames sits up to stroke the line of the projection's jaw with something that resembles sadness. "No matter how many times I asked."

The projection leans into Eames' touch, sinuous and wordless. Arthur can't read its expression behind the mask.

"Jesus, Eames," Arthur says, not sure what part of this whole situation to be most disturbed by. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Years," Eames' tone is distant. "I said no at first, even though you kept appearing in my bed. Then two years passed, and I couldn't—I couldn't say no anymore. Five years of this, then eight."

"Ten years?" Eames nods, slightly.

A decade is a long time for a man to be lost in his own mind.

"But now you're here." Eames climbs off the bed, and Arthur can't help but notice the obscene trickle of come down inner thighs. Can't help but want to lick, to taste. "You won't disappear in the morning. You're mine."

"I'm not one of your projections," Arthur says. "I'm here to wake you up."

Eames caresses Arthur's cheek. "Yes, I can wake up to you now."

"No, Eames, listen to me: this is all a dream. Do you remember the job we were prepping for, the new blend of Somnacin we were testing?"

"A job…" Eames' expression goes unfocused. "But I've always been king here."

"You had a bad reaction on the second level." Arthur twists in his chains to grab Eames' forearm, feels the muscle jump under his palm. "The dream started to come apart and you fell deeper into it instead of waking up."

"No." Eames takes a step back into the arms of his projection, which curl around him protectively. "You're not real. Nothing is real except me, because I am king."

"I'm not a projection. Like you said, I came here during the day and surprised you. I'm here to get you out."

Eames either doesn't believe Arthur or he doesn't care, because he turns back to the projection and speaks no more.


* * * * *

Eames and the projection fuck again. Arthur makes himself hoarse, asking, yelling, demanding Eames listen to him. Neither of them acknowledges him.

Eames and the projection finish eventually, go to sleep untroubled by Arthur's shouts. Arthur dozes off occasionally as well, arms aching from being held in chains, body still feeling the effects of what he was dosed with.

* * * * *

In the morning, the projection is gone.

Arthur stretches, tries to work the soreness out of his muscles and joints. He's tired, but reminds himself that this is all a dream, that he doesn't actually need sleep down here. It helps, a little.

Eames opens his eyes amidst rumpled sheets and a slow smile breaks across his face when he sees Arthur. It's a beautiful smile: sweet and pure and happy. It's open in a way Arthur never suspected Eames—guarded, careful, smirking Eames—could be.

For a moment, Arthur feels a pang of—something. All these years they've been working together and never once has he seen Eames smile like this.

"I can see you in the sun," Eames whispers as he slides out of bed. "I never thought I would."

"Let me show you the real sun again," Arthur says, sensing his opportunity. "Unchain me."

Eames bites his lower lip, worries at it. "But what if you leave?"

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere without you."

"It isn't his fault that he left." It's a declaration, but Eames sounds uncertain when he glances at the empty bed. "He wanted to stay."

"That's right," Arthur says, beginning to understand. "I didn't want to mean to leave you behind, Eames. I thought the kick would wake you up, too."

Eames puts a palm flat on Arthur's sternum. He doesn't meet Arthur's eyes. "We were never like this up there, were we?"

Arthur doesn't move, save for the rise of his breath. "No. We weren't."

"Down here, I was king," Eames says, and removes his hand. "I controlled everything. But I couldn't make you speak."

"I can now," Arthur says. "Unchain me."

"Will you stay here with me?" Eames asks, voice quiet. "I can give you anything you want."

"Don't you want to wake up?" Arthur counters. "Don't you want something real?"

"What's real?" Eames glances out the stained glass window, a wash of reds and pinks and oranges lighting across his face. "You're real down here, too. I'm real."

"I can't stay down here," Arthur says. "You know you can't keep me. I'll find a way to get out. Before I do, I want to take you with me."

"That's why you came back?"

"I came back for you," Arthur says as he feels the manacle around his left wrist tense and release. He reaches out to catch Eames by the hip, draw him closer. "I didn't want to leave you down here."

"I'll be different." Eames sways closer as the other manacles fall open.

"We'll both be different," Arthur says.

He snaps Eames' neck: a quick, clean death. After easing Eames' body to the ground, Arthur follows him up.


* * * * *

Arthur opens his eyes on the second level, more than a little concerned that Eames might have panicked and run off. He needn't have worried; Eames is seated on the bed, staring at the hotel room uncomprehendingly. In comparison to the castle in Limbo, it looks hopelessly sleek and modern, all hard reflective surfaces.

"It truly was a dream," Eames says, barely a whisper. "Ten years—in a dream."

"Now it's over," Arthur says. "You're almost free."

"Free," Eames echoes. He stands, tugs at the sleeves of the linen sport coat he's wearing. "Yes, I suppose that's partly what I wanted."

Arthur opens the balcony door, cool wind rushing through the room. He's relieved to be clad in a suit once more. "Are you ready?"

Eames peers over the railing; the drop down to the ground below is fatal. "You'll be there?"

"I will," Arthur says, helping Eames climb up. They fall together.


* * * * *

The first level is a simple one: a grassy field on the side of a mountain overlooking a placid lake. There are birds chirping when Arthur opens his eyes.

"I remember this sky," Eames says, staring up at the sun. "The way the air tastes. We've been here before."

"Shouldn't base dreams off memories, but this was supposed to be a test run, in and out." Arthur removes the cannula from his arm. "Didn't feel like coming up with something from scratch."

"You don't remember?"

Arthur glances at Eames quizzically. "Remember…?"

"The first time we met," Eames says. "I was wearing Emilia."

"That's right. We were on separate teams working the same mark." Arthur huffs a laugh as he recalls how pissed he'd been. "You got the jump on us. Shot me out of the dream."

"You used this build then, too."

Arthur shakes his head. "That was back before I knew better."

"Now you're simply lazy." There's a hint of Eames' familiar smirk.

Arthur snorts. "Guess I walked into that."

Eames walks to the edge of the cliff, the faintest smile curling his lips. The memory of those lips stained with come drifts back—already fading the way dreams do.

"Hey," Arthur says. "At the end of the Lindbergh job, I thought we were—I don't know. Moving in a certain direction. But you turned me down when I asked you out for a drink."

Eames pauses, doesn't turn to face Arthur. "You weren't wrong. I found you most—intriguing, as you well know by now. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but earlier that day I'd received a generous offer from a third party for the information we'd extracted."

"You were considering selling us out?" Arthur asks. He knows Eames' history; he's always been a little surprised Eames hasn't double-crossed him yet.

"I considered it, and declined." Eames glances over his shoulder at Arthur. "I didn't wish for you to be cross with me. But I also didn't think—I wasn't quite ready for a drink, yet."

"Fair enough." Arthur joins Eames at the edge of the cliff, ready to step off one last time.


* * * * *

Eames is already awake when Arthur opens his eyes. Their chemist, Shimizu, is buzzing around in obvious relief, recording vitals and drawing blood for further tests. She barely glances at Arthur as he sits up.

Arthur's not sure why he expects Eames to look different; barely twelve hours have passed in the real world since Eames went under. Already, the details of the various dream levels are beginning to slip away, leaving hazy memories of a castle, a hotel room, a mountain.

"Do you recognize me?" Shimizu asks Eames. At his nod, she points at Arthur, "How about him?"

"Shimizu and Arthur." Eames' drawl is unhurried, easy. "Would you like your full dossiers or are your current criminal aliases enough?"

"No lasting damage, I see," she wanders back to her machines and mutters, not quite under her breath, "more's the pity."

Eames seems more amused than miffed, submitting to a full battery of tests. After watching Eames get poked and prodded for twenty minutes, Arthur asks whether he should be examined, too. Shimizu turns to him with blank surprise and says, "You're still here?"

Arthur takes that as his cue to leave, driving back to the short-term rental apartment, undecided about whether sleep sounds appetizing or appalling. He's fixing himself some dinner when there's a knock on the door.

It's Eames.

"The dream took some turns," Eames starts after Arthur invites him in.

"Some crazy shit went down," Arthur translates.

Eames chuckles. "Yes, that's—accurate." Arthur waits and Eames scratches his nose. "I suppose it's become obvious that I may desire more than a purely professional relationship at this juncture."

"Are you asking for a date or a fuck?" Arthur asks, not sure what answer he'd prefer.

"I don't know, to be quite honest." Eames is looking all around the apartment living room, as if taking in all the details.

"I'm making some dinner, if you want to start there," Arthur says, after a pause.

"Dinner." Eames smiles, something familiar and lovely and sweet in it. "Yes, I think I'd like that."


fin

The Adventures of Eames the Satyr, Arthur the Sexy Shepherd, and the Thrust of Destiny

Thanks to: sibilantly
Written for i_reversebang and skipping_pledge's wonderful art.
Wordcount: 3200



Eames' furry, pointed ears perk up: a short distance away is the unmistakable sound of a handsome human singing. It's a rather nice baritone that can actually carry a tune, which makes it even better.

He follows the sound through the lush forest to a secluded blue pond, fringed by some rather suggestively shaped cattails. There is indeed a gorgeous man seductively sluicing water over his naked body while humming the theme to the Harry Potter movies. Eames decides to settle in behind the bushes for some quality voyeurism.

Unfortunately, he trips over a log and rolls headfirst into the water, promptly ruining that plan.

The bathing man turns, not bothering to cover an inch of silky smooth skin, and asks, "Who goes there?"

Eames stands and brushes stray leaves out of his chest fur. "It is I, Eames the Satyr. And who are you?"

"Arthur, a simple shepherd of the peasant village Dullington," Arthur replies. He points at Eames' turgid member, clearly visible given Eames' nudity (Satyrs don't wear clothing, after all). "Is that for me?"

"Not specifically, no. It's always like that," Eames replies. "Part of my Satyric nature. But even if I didn't have a constant erection, I would very much like to have sex with you. It's why I was watching you bathe from the bushes."

"I could be into that," Arthur says. "But before I fuck a total stranger of a different species in the woods, I like to ask where he's going in the literal and non-metaphorical sense. Therefore: where are you going?"

"I'm on a quest to drink from the Goblet of Destiny."

"How fascinating," Arthur says. "When I was a baby, there was a prophecy which foretold that bathing in the forest that would lead me to my destiny."

"You've been bathing for a while, I take it?"

"I have. My fingers and toes have gone all pruney." Arthur holds them up as proof. "But it sounds like you're my cue to stop washing myself in a seductive manner. Your goblet must be the destiny that was foretold."

"Sounds about right," Eames agrees, hoping this will all lead to a blowjob. He'd settle for a handjob, though. "You're welcome to join me on my quest, if you'd like."

"Alright." Arthur wades out of the water, glistening in the sun like a chiseled god. "Is the Goblet of Destiny the key to saving the world?"

"No, but I hear it's filled with the best wine in the world," Eames says.

Arthur shrugs. "I like wine. You want a pruney handjob?"

Eames does.

* * * * *

After a rousing exchange of handjobs, Eames and Arthur set off. Arthur puts on clothing, sadly, because human feet and skin are terribly delicate. At least it's a very tight shepherd's outfit with a startling amount of cleavage.

"What's with the pan flute?" Arthur says, pointing at the pipe instrument dangling around Eames' neck.

"Oh, you know, I play provocative songs upon it to tempt mortals into orgies," Eames replies. "Also, wind instruments keep my lips limber for spectacular blowjobs. Not to mention the breath control."

"I'm not sure I should simply believe you like some country rube," Arthur says. "I may have to verify for myself."

"I stand behind my claims," Eames says, licking his lips as he undoes the front of Arthur's trousers.

After Eames has put to use his breath control and Arthur demonstrated some of his own techniques in return, they start walking again.

"Now, I have to admit that I've never fully understood the point of prophecies," Eames says, jaw pleasantly sore. "Are they meant to be helpful? Because the ones I've heard are so vague and obscure they're virtually useless."

"I think they're mostly useful for causing people to do things that otherwise wouldn't make much sense."

"Right, like joining up with a complete stranger on a quest," Eames replies as they round the corner to the location of the first clue to the Goblet of Destiny. It's a gnarled old tree around which a store has been built, proudly named: Adventurer's Sex Supply Shop.

There's a portly woman, presumably the shopkeeper, standing at the door and bellowing at prospective customers. "Come inside to solve the ancient riddle! And while you're at it, shop! All the latest fashions in fur loincloths and chainmail bikinis sold here!"

"I may be a sheltered shepherd from an incomparably boring village, but this seems like a fantastic combination of arboreal mystery and commerce," Arthur says.

"Ah yes, welcome, welcome," the shopkeeper replies, beckoning them in. "I, too, hail from an incredibly tedious little village. In the aimless wanderings of my youth, I saw dozens of would-be fortune hunters stop at this tree and spotted a business opportunity. Also, an ideal excuse to leave my hometown for good."

"I left to help a Satyr get drunk, so I hear you," Arthur says as they step inside and start examining her wares. "You don't sell any non-sexy armor or food here?"

"Used to," she shrugs. "But almost all my sales came from lube packets, condoms, and erotic armaments. So I figured, hey, let's give the horny people what they want. Hence, a shop for all a swashbuckler's sexual needs was born."

"We do have many needs," Eames says.

"If you're interested in a snack, I do carry aphrodisiacs like chocolate, bananas, and chocolate covered bananas. Not to mention the ever popular edible underwear, candy thongs, and whipped cream bras."

"Your tits would look great in a whipped cream bra," Arthur says to Eames, who preens and doesn't disagree.

"And you would look bloody fantastic in a fur loincloth," Eames says, holding up a narrow triangle of cloth decorated with a growling wolf's face.

Arthur considers the loincloth and heads into the dressing room to change. He comes out a minute later, naked but for the artfully placed wolf face. "Do you think I should switch to adventuring in this?"

Eames circles Arthur to admire the view of his chest, his legs, and especially his arse, which is on full display. "Absolutely, yes. You'll terrify your enemies with the allusion to your bestial nature and inspire wild lust in nearby Satyrs."

"I do enjoy ravishing Satyrs," Arthur says as he goes to haggle with the shopkeeper. He returns with a gift for Eames as well.

"A jeweled cockring?" Eames asks. "Darling, how did you know?"

"It's the one cockring to rule them all." Arthur helps Eames try it on in the dressing room with a maximum amount of groping. It takes a rather long time, and Eames finds himself on his back with legs in the air.

"I'm not quite sure what my arse has to do with the cockring," Eames pants as Arthur fucks him splendidly with his fingers. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Nothing, really. I'm just testing the efficacy of my loincloth," Arthur replies.

"Two hundred percent efficacious," Eames declares as he comes with a happy sigh. He returns the favor on his knees and swallows, so as not to muss up Arthur's brand new garment.

After neatening up, they walk to the very back of the shop where the tree is located. The riddle is etched into the trunk in a long dead language. Luckily, underneath is a handy plaque with a translation: What can be polished by hand, thrust into bodies, and is harder than a rock?

"A cock?" Arthur suggests after a moment of puzzling at it. Nothing happens.

"A tumescent cock?" Eames offers. Nothing.

"A dildo?"

"A jewel-encrusted dildo?" Still nothing.

"I don't think we're very good at riddles unless they're dirty ones," Arthur says. Eames is forced to agree.

The shopkeeper drifts over. "Since you two are currently my favorite customers, I'll give you an exclusive deal: buy one more item in my shop and I'll throw in the answer for free!"

"Well," Eames says. "I was interested in that magical talking prostate massager."

"Ah yes, one of our most popular toys," she replies. "It comes with three personality settings ranging from humiliating dirty talk to tender word-snuggles. If you're playing with a partner, it's like having a threesome with fewer complicated feelings involved!"

"I do enjoy word-snuggles," Eames says.

"Who doesn't?" she replies as she rings him up. "Congratulations on your excellent purchase. The answer to the riddle is 'The sword in the stone' and please come again! In all senses of the phrase."

They return to the tree. Eames repeats the password, which prompts a ghostly woman to appear and announce, "In the field of wildflowers where unicorns frolic, you shall find the sword buried in a tight, round stone. Remove it and be rewarded with the next secret spot on your journey to climax, which in your case means the Goblet of Destiny."

The figure vanishes and Arthur leers at Eames. "I'll show you a sword."

"Oh yes." Eames spreads his legs eagerly. "Please do."

* * * * *

They set off for the Wildflower Field of Unicorns, which takes two days to reach from the Adventurer's Sex Supply Shop. It's actually only a few hours' walk, but Eames accidentally drifts behind Arthur and becomes too distracted by the sight of bare arse to navigate properly.

They also make several stops to use the talking prostate massager and ensure all the various personality settings work. It really is like having a threesome with fewer complicated feelings involved.

Upon reaching the field, they wade through floral vegetation that comes up to their waists. The pollen causes Eames to sneeze more or less incessantly, which earns them disapproving looks from the unicorns frolicking about. In the middle of the clearing is a sword embedded in a round stone with a rather familiar cleft.

"Is that yours?" Eames says, taking to a moment to admire the curves of the stone and compare them with Arthur's arse.

"No, I'm positive that's yours," Arthur says, encouraging Eames to bend over so he can make a more thorough comparison.

Some time later, they get around to trying to extract the sword from the stone. It turns out not to be as easy as it looks.

Arthur tries first: yanking, pushing, and finally cursing it. Eames tries pulling, then wiggling, and eventually cursing it as well.

A nearby unicorn observes their struggles and trots over. "You're doing it wrong," it informs them in a voice like twinkling wind chimes on a sunny day.

"Oh yeah? Why don't you try pulling it out?" Arthur says, somewhat belligerently. Only somewhat, though. They are still talking to a unicorn, after all.

The unicorns rolls its eyes. "Because I lack opposable thumbs, duh. Anyway, you can't just start grabbing at a hilt and expect it to go somewhere. You need to use some finesse. Massage a little, warm up before you really start going at it."

"So we need to tease the sword until it's overwhelmed with desire," Eames says. "Then we can remove it?"

"Exactly. And they say Satyrs are too dumb to learn," the unicorn coos in a baby voice, giving Eames' ear a fond nip. "Who's not a stupid Satyr? Who?"

Using some of the lube packets at the bottom of their Bag of Holding, Eames proceeds to rub the hilt until it's flushed and practically purring in his palm. Together, they ease the sword out of the stone while it hums with contentment.

"That was surprisingly erotic," Eames says as he gives his own cock a few strokes; no point wasting good lube, after all.

Arthur licks his lips as he eyes Eames' cock. "Yes. And it's nearly nightfall, so we might as well make camp for the night."

Eames lays down on a bed of crushed wildflowers (not as comfortable as it sounds) while Arthur climbs on top. Although most of his attention is focused on Arthur riding him, out of the corner of his eye he can see a whole herd of unicorns gathered round to observe.

"Perhaps we ought to put up our tent?" Eames suggests, groaning when Arthur works his hips just so. "Feels a bit weird with these unicorns watching us."

"In a minute," Arthur replies, breathless as he chases his own orgasm. "Close your eyes and pretend they're robots."

Eames closes his eyes even though the idea of robot unicorns is singularly terrifying, and ignores the sound of unicorns chewing flower petals as he comes.

* * * * *

The next morning, after some intense cuddling along with a stream of compliments regarding its intelligence and beauty, the sword is persuaded to reveal the location of the next trial: the Saucy Tavern.

The Saucy Tavern is a wooden building filled with warmth, delicious food, and scantily clad serving men. Arthur and Eames avail themselves of the hearty stew and beers on tap before heading into the side room where the third trial awaits.

"The third trial is a test of bravery," a bored attendant intones while picking at her nails. "He who has the courage to engage the glory hole shall gain entrance to the Castle of Ennui and the Goblet of Destiny."

Eames and Arthur stare at the wooden wall with a dick-sized hole carved into it. Peering into the hole reveals nothing, as it's completely dark and impossible to see what's behind it.

"What's on the other side?" Arthur asks the attendant, who shrugs.

Eames stares down at the hole. "Is it humanoid, at least?"

"The third trial is a test of bravery," the attendant repeats. "He who has the courage to engage—"

"Yes, we got it, thanks," Arthur interrupts. "You can't tell us anything about what's on the other side because that would ruin the test."

The attendant chews her gum loudly.

"We've only known each other a short while, but I can state confidently that you are far more courageous than I," Eames says. "You should do the honors and fulfill your destiny."

"Yeah, but you're already erect," Arthur points out.

"Damnit," Eames says. "Foiled by my perpetual erection again."

Eames gingerly eases his dick into the hole and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the dreaded sensation of teeth. Luckily, what he receives instead is a hot wet mouth and a great deal of tongue. It's not the best blowjob he's ever received, but it's not the worst either. Considering he's receiving it via a hole in the wall, Eames has no complaints.

After he orgasms, the glory hole magically widens to reveal a tunnel down into the earth.

"Hark, the fearless explorer has survived the final trial," the attendant says, reading off a paper script in monotone. "Behold: the secret passage to the Castle of Ennui where the Goblet of Destiny awaits. Sally forth, and travel with the blessings of the Saucy Tavern upon you."

The scantily clad serving men enter the room, clad even more scantily than before.

"I think they want you to show them your secret passage," Arthur comments, and Eames is more than happy to oblige.

* * * * *

An enjoyable round of bukkake later, Eames and Arthur head down into the tunnel beneath the Saucy Tavern. It is suitably spooky, filled with giant cobwebs, flickering blue ghostlights, and an improbable number of unopened treasure chests.

They emerge from the tunnel loaded down in gold chain necklaces and diamond bracelets. The Castle of Ennui appears to be deserted except for a few rats that pause when Eames and Arthur enter the room, only to resume their activities with great indifference.

A few wrong turns later, Eames and Arthur make their way to the throne room, where an enormous red dragon is sleeping, body curved around a marble pedestal upon which rests a plastic goblet.

"Shit," Eames murmurs under his breath as he tries to inch back out of the room, "perhaps it's a friendly dragon?"

One enormous dragon eye opens, and the most melancholy voice imaginable fills the air. "No. I have no friends."

"Er," Eames says, backing away more quickly. "We'll be off, then. Terribly sorry to disturb you."

"Or you could stay," the dragon says, low and tremulous. "Not that you will, I expect. No one ever does."

"To be fair, you are, objectively speaking, a nightmare creature," Eames says.

"I have hopes and desires, too, you know." The dragon heaves a long sigh, smoke issuing in wisps from its nostrils. "Not that anyone can ever see past the superficial to appreciate that."

"Uh, it sounds like you might be going through some stuff," Arthur says. "We actually just came for the Goblet of Destiny."

"I figured as much," the dragon says, flicking its tail at the pedestal. "That's what they always come for. Never me."

"Do you want them to come for you?" Arthur asks. "Because I'm pretty sure anyone who does would be trying to slay you for glory or honor or something."

"Yeah, I guess." The dragon heaves another huge sigh. "It'd be nice to have more visitors, all the same."

"Well," Eames says. "This has been a scintillating conversation, ta very much, we'll leave you to your brooding—"

"You came for the Goblet of Destiny? You can take it."

Arthur and Eames stop.

"Is this a trap?" Arthur asks.

"What does it matter?" The dragon shakes its enormous head despondently. "We're all pieces on some cosmic chessboard, dreamed up by a fickle creator. Might as well drink and escape into the void."

"This is not quite the note of victory I wished to end my quest on," Eames says as he takes the Goblet off the pedestal.

"One last celebratory screw before we drink?" Arthur offers.

"I suppose that would cheer me up." Eames glances up at the dragon. "Perhaps in another room, though."

Eames gives Arthur's lovely cock one last ride before tucking it back under the fur loincloth. "I've enjoyed traveling with you a great deal, sexy shepherd Arthur. I'm glad we embarked upon this journey together to many climaxes."

Arthur, still flat on the ground and panting, gives Eames a thumbs up.

"To destiny," Eames toasts, then drinks from the cup.

His vision goes black, and he wakes up.

* * * * *

"What just happened?" Arthur says upon opening his eyes.

"We shared a rather unique dream experience." Eames sits up and examines the front of his trousers, which are clean. More than a trifle surprising, given the sheer number of orgasms he experienced while asleep. His cock does ache with a pent up desire to come, however.

"I was a sexy shepherd and you were half goat," Arthur says. "Were we having the same dream?"

"It would appear so." Eames eyes the flatteringly large tent in Arthur's trousers. "Our subconscious minds may have been attempting to tell us something."

Arthur stands and stretches, seeming entirely aware of Eames' attention. "That we should fuck like talking animals, ASAP?"

"I was going to say that we were both in need of hydration, but fucking like talking animals works as well," Eames says.

And so they do.

The end.

Adventures of NORDA: the one where Arthur goes to a party!

Written for Inception Bingo. The prompt: genderbend.
Wordcount: 4,125

"Those are for the clients," Arthur says when Eames tries to take a water bottle from the mini fridge. "You can drink the tap."

Eames levels at him an injured look. "Am I to start bringing my own plastic cups to work now as well?"

"Ideally a re-useable water canteen or mug, yes. But we have a bunch of leftover cups from our last Meet 'N Greet, so I'm willing to be a little loose with them. You can take one for today." Arthur says, reviewing the most recent batch of intake forms. A few promising leads, at least.

"You can't be serious," Eames says, and when Arthur doesn't reply, he flings himself across one of their newly purchased reclining chairs. "I come into the office everyday—"

"Two times a week," Arthur corrects.

"—I slave away for a salary that is a mere pittance in comparison to what I could be receiving for jobs—"

"Where you are in constant danger, and may not ever see payment if the job goes south."

"—And you won't allow me one of the dozens of water bottles you have on the premises?" Eames is honest to god pouting. "Tap water. Really, Arthur, think of my complexion."

"Do you know how expensive a case of Fiji water is?" Arthur asks. "There's no room in the budget for waste in the next two months. This office is double the rent of our old one, required twenty thousand dollars' worth of renovation, plus we have to pay off the furniture you're currently lounging on. Can you at least put down a towel? We talked about this, baby."

"A towel between my clean clothing and this piece of furniture made for lounging on?" Eames says, though he does deign to move his feet to the floor. "I don't see why we needed this new space anyway. I liked the old one."

"Because our customer satisfaction surveys were consistently coming back with comments on how the office was like, and I quote, 'journeying into a scary weird post-apocalyptic drug den.'"

"But isn't that an integral part of the recreational dreamshare experience?" Eames replies. "Escaping grim, nightmarish reality for a world of our design and choosing?"

"Baby, I love you, but no," Arthur says.

* * * * *

Budgeting aside, business has been good. The new offices are in a better location and customer comments indicate that although it still feels like a drug den, it is at least an upscale, classy drug den. Which is all Arthur's shooting for at this point.

He's hired part-time staff, got a decent website up, and even manages to send out an email newsletter around once a month.

Despite Eames' ongoing complaints about the indignity of working like a common plebe, he has proven surprisingly supportive and reliable in helping to create fantastic dream experiences. He's also a decent salesman when he wants to be; half their clients stare in slack-jawed wonder at Eames upon introduction, melting into stuttering puddles of goo when he opens that gorgeous mouth to speak. Arthur doesn't blame them; he knows the feeling.

Now that they've developed a bit of a reputation and some referrals via Eames' loaded family tree, getting new clients is easier, but Arthur still needs to hustle. And sometimes that includes taking on people that he'd really rather not.

* * * * *

"I got someone," Arthur says. "You're not going to like him."

Eames shrugs. "I rarely care enough to dislike anyone, family excluded."

"I know, but he's nouveau riche. You may find your aristocratic atoms repelled by his very presence."

Eames chuckles. "Consider me sufficiently warned."

"Okay." Arthur leans over to give him a quick kiss. "You'll introduce yourself at the beginning of the meeting, but I can do all the talking. You just have to sit there, take notes, and look pretty."

"It is what I do best," Eames agrees.

The client's name is Mark (which both Arthur and Eames can't help but snicker at in private). He's the founder of five companies, each named after some object with all the vowels taken out, like 'DNGL' and 'TRCTR' and 'WZRD'. Four of the five failed, but one sold for millions, and now Mark's "taking a break from the rat race and on a journey of self-discovery." As long as that process involves spending money on recreational (or therapeutic, a new offering!) dreamshare, Arthur's more than happy to be a pit-stop in Mark's enlightenment or whatever.

"I went on this two week silent meditation retreat followed by a digital detox and it was so, like, mind-clearing. Really put into perspective what's important and what's not, and how distracted we are on a constant basis," Mark says. His phone buzzes on the table. "Oh hey, I gotta take this."

Mark steps out and Eames drums his fingertips on the table in the slow, steady way that signals he is deeply displeased. "Well," is all Eames says, shortly.

"I warned you," Arthur replies. "He originally wanted to have this meeting in his self-driving Tesla. The only way I could get out of it was saying that I needed my associate with me and three people wouldn't fit in his Model J or whatever."

"Is that why I'm here? To cockblock his Tesla joyride?"

"And to be the prettiest." Arthur bends down to kiss Eames' unhappy fingers. There's a twitch upwards at the corner of Eames' mouth, which Arthur considers a win.

Mark returns and Arthur sits back. "Did I tell you guys about the blog I bought?" Mark doesn't wait for them to answer. "Every Friday from now on they're going to publish an article about topics relating to my life. Stuff like my morning rituals, the organic farm I own, and the company that will cryogenically freeze my body after I die."

"That's—awesome," Arthur says, after an expectant pause by Mark. "Congrats."

"Yeah, man, it's crazy." Mark flops into a chair and starts texting again. "In the midst of the whirlwind, you have to try to stay humble, you know?"

Out of the corner of Arthur's eye, he can see Eames clearly restraining a snort of laughter. "Yes, good words to live by." Arthur clears his throat. "Now, about your dream."

"Oh, my assistant will send you all the deets later today. This meeting was about seeing whether you guys are cool or not," Mark says, not looking up. "Can't let just anybody into my mind, am I right?"

"That's true," Arthur says, blinking. "Do you have any questions, or…?"

"Yeah, what's up with the silent British dude over there?" Mark jerks his chin at Eames. "Is the sun in here too much for you or something? I know you guys like it rainy and cloudy. Like vampires."

Eames' lips thin, and Arthur scrambles for something diplomatic to say, "He's nursing a hangover, nothing serious. But he's excited to get started on this new project, aren't you?"

Eames forces a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes. "Terribly excited."

"So you can talk." Mark stands up, apparently done with the meeting. "And I bet the ladies love that fucking accent."

Arthur leans forward to grab Mark's hand for a shake. "Good to meet you, Mark, and we'll get started on your dream as soon as we hear from your assistant."

After Mark is gone, Eames says, "You were right. I could feel my will to live waning with every minute I spent in the presence that—creature."

Arthur rubs Eames' shoulders consolingly. "Depending on what he wants from the dream, you might not have to interact with him again at all."

Eames leans into Arthur's embrace. "If I could be so lucky."

* * * * *

Eames is not so lucky.

The dream scenario that Mark wants is basically a video game come to life. In it, he has to leap and dodge through a booby-trapped building, defuse a gigantic bomb, crack a safe, and save the world. Literally.

But of course what action hero movie would be complete without the hot girl as a prize at the end?

"Am I going to have to kiss this pathetic man-child and say to him, with a straight face, 'You're my hero,'?" Eames says. "Because it's starting to sound as though I will."

"Maybe one of his female projections will step up at the end of the dream." Arthur flips through his file on Mark. "Hopefully, not his ex-wife. That was an ugly divorce."

"Can't imagine why," Eames says, dryly.

Unfortunately, they discover that hoping a projection will show up and solve their problems (which has worked in past jobs) is not a viable option in this situation. They discover this on the first trial run they hold with Mark, a dream which is filled with an overwhelming amount of nerdy men (as befits his Silicon Valley home) and women that flee Mark's presence.

"I don't think I've ever observed so many projections see the dreamer, turn on their heel, and walk away," Eames says after they watch it happen repeatedly. "I'd be fascinated under normal circumstances, but am currently preoccupied with my growing dread."

"I'm sorry, baby. I was really hoping you could sit this one out." Arthur says once they're alone at the office again. "After the job is done, let me make it up to you. Whatever you want."

Eames is quiet for a moment and Arthur girds himself for more blowjobs, that Philippe Patek wath Eames has been sighing about, or more activity with the erotic teddy bear they have stored in the back of the closet. But Eames says, "Holiday. I'd like to take a month-long holiday with you after all this business with Mark is done."

"A month?" Arthur's mind whizzes at the idea of leaving NORDA for a month, now that they've finally started getting a steady stream of clients. "Where?"

"Anywhere," Eames pauses, and amends that. "Perhaps not anywhere. There may still be warrants out for my arrest in some locales. But excepting those and countries wherein my relatives might be found, anywhere."

"NORDA—"

"NORDA will survive a holiday," Eames says. "After Mark, we have no immediate client appointments. We can tell any prospective customers that we're booked up until after we return. Our staff can handle the emails and day to day while we're away."

"But. But." Arthur glances around the office, every facet of which he's spent the past three months obsessing over. "We're starting to build momentum."

"And this will be a wonderful opportunity for you to brainstorm some new services and offerings," Eames continues, arms slipping around Arthur's waist. "Weren't you complaining the other evening that you're too busy managing daily operations to step back and think about strategy?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. "You came prepared for this, didn't you?"

Eames nuzzles Arthur's cheek, kisses him sweetly. "Preparation and opportunity are the twin keys to success, a saying I recall a certain pushy American beating into my skull over the past half-decade."

Arthur leans into Eames' kisses, a little. "A month, though? How about a couple of weeks?"

"A month," Eames says, firmly, one hand creeping down the back of Arthur's pants. "With work emails and calls restricted to one day a week."

"One—" Arthur's protest is cut off by Eames' deep kisses.

"We can have sex every day on fresh sheets we don't have to change," Eames murmurs seductively. "Sex in a shower with fresh towels we don't have to launder. I could wear that tiny Speedo you like in the pool."

"What about, um—" Arthur's ears redden; he's still shy about asking for one particular thing, which thankfully, Eames already knows.

"Yes, I can hit on you in the hotel bar." Eames smiles. "Lure you back to my room and make you take my cock, no matter what you say."

Arthur shivers and rubs his hardening dick against Eames' hip. "Would you use force if you had to?"

"But of course." Eames' fingers are deft as ever on Arthur's fly. "I'd need to make this mysterious stranger mine."

Arthur moans as Eames wraps a hand around his cock, guides him back towards—

"Not on the recliners!" Arthur yelps, averting disaster at the very last moment. "Or the desk. Or any of the new furniture. Or near the walls—that's a fresh paint job."

Eames takes a step back, exasperated. "Not on the furniture or the walls? Are we to have freestanding sex in the middle of the room touching absolutely nothing?"

"And nothing on the carpet, either," Arthur says. He brings a thumb up to Eames' lower lip, thoughtful. "I do know one place…"

"I see I'm not the only one who prepared," Eames remarks with an eyebrow raised. But he sinks to his knees willingly enough, and later, when Arthur is returning the favor, he thanks his past self for testing the carpet for precisely this purpose before ordering it.

* * * * *

"Do you know what I think would be awesome?" Mark asks after a long day reviewing photos of female celebrities he thinks are hot or not, and whom he would like populating his dreamspace.

"I think I can say with absolute certainty that I do not know," Eames says, sounding weary.

"If you guys got a taste of my lifestyle by coming to the rager I'm throwing at my house tonight." Mark slaps Arthur's shoulder. "You know, so you can make my dream more realistic."

Arthur doesn't know what elements of realism a millionaire's party is supposed to provide, but he does know that Mark is paying them enough to cover the rent for six months. "Yeah, sounds fun," Arthur says with a cheery smile while Eames shoots him a look.

"Baller," Mark says, whipping out his phone. A moment later, Arthur's own cell buzzes. "Had my PA send you the info. Be there or be square, muchachos!"

* * * * *

After Mark's gone, Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't actually have to attend, do I?"

"I'm not going to force you," Arthur says as he packs his things. "But I definitely have to. If we're lucky, it'll be all his millionaire friends in desperate need of escape from their sad, lonely lives. An escape we can provide at an exorbitant fee."

"Services which can only start after our vacation," Eames says, eyes narrowing. "Two months from now at the earliest."

Arthur makes vague, noncommittal noises of agreement as he backs out of the room.

* * * * *

The party consist of a shit ton of socially awkward men standing around in a landscaped backyard. They sip beer nervously, chatting in small groups while some pop star or another performs on a specially constructed stage. Attractive female caterers move throughout with hors d'oeuvres while the guests stammer and avoid eye contact.

The conversations are stilted, and he finds himself being asked repeatedly if he can recreate this video game or that comic book (the answer is always yes, even if he's never heard of the nerdgasm in question). He's also asked highly specific questions about PASIV technology, and to lay out the argument for how it is different than virtual reality (answer: full immersion and customization). Several people try to debate him. One refuses to let Arthur leave the conversation until he literally shuts the bathroom door in his face.

On the bright side, he does pass out a lot of NORDA business cards and pick up some promising leads.

Arthur's preparing to beg off when Mark appears beside him, proffering craft beer from some microbrewery he purchased last year. Mark lead Arthur into some sort of private library, looking back at the exit with yearning. So close to escape.

"I didn't always have this," Mark says, waving an arm around in the air. "The awesome pad, sweet drinks, blah blah. All that came after years of sleepless nights and hard work, you know?"

"I do know," Arthur says, wondering how long he has to stay before he can reasonably excuse himself. Wonders if Eames will still be awake when he gets home, if he'll be up for cuddling and chatting for a bit before they turn in. "Did you have any questions about the dream build or…?"

"Oh, no questions, I'm sure you guys are going to make it kick serious ass." Mark takes a swig of his beer and makes a face. "This tasted better last time I drank it. Batch must have gone off."

"Must be that," Arthur says, wincing after his own truly awful sip.

"So you and that British dude aren't only business partners, right?" Mark says and Arthur blinks; they'd been trying to keep their relationship under wraps in front of clients. "You're bros."

"Ah. Yes. Bros."

"I had a business partner once." Mark takes a long drink. "I thought I could trust him. I thought we were friends. But it turns out that all it takes is a few million for someone to sell you down the river."

A few million is a fair amount of cash. Eames has certainly sold people out for less. "Yeah," Arthur says, not sure what response Mark is looking for. He buries himself in pretending to drink his awful beer.

"You think everyone likes the party?" Mark walks over to the window, peers out at where his guests are still awkwardly milling around. "Did you like the party?"

"It's great," Arthur says, though it sounds painfully unconvincing. This shit reminds him of why he always left the relationship management up to Cobb; the man could smile and squint his way attentively through all the neurotic bullshit clients threw his way. "The music is—I recognized a few songs from the radio."

"Yeah, my PA booked her. Hadn't even heard of her until this past week." Mark shrugs, diffident. "I don't really listen to much new music."

If Cobb were here, he's probably tell some unrelated metaphor or story in order to make some quasi-profound point, leaving the client confused but also vaguely impressed. Eames would ask probing questions, probably about childhood memories or parents or some shit. Arthur just wants to leave.

Arthur glances at his watch and stands. "Well, I should probably get going—"

"Right, yeah, of course." Mark stands, offers his hand out for another shake. "You had fun, right? You liked the party?"

"Sure," Arthur says, wondering how many times he has to repeat himself before Mark hears it. "I had a blast."

* * * * *

Arthur recounts the conversation to Eames when he gets home, pleased to find him awake and reading in bed. Arthur wriggles in, rests his head on Eames' lap.

"He sounds like the loneliest motherfucker in the whole world," Eames says after Arthur's done.

"You think so?" Arthur tilts his head, encouraging Eames to pet his hair more. "There were a lot of people at that party."

"And yet somehow, he was spending time with you and not any one of his multitude of mates."

"You think he was hitting on me?" Arthur manages to ask with a straight face.

Eames chuckles. "I certainly wouldn't blame him for the attempt, but no."

"I couldn't figure out why he dragged me into that library. I asked him if he had any questions about the build, but he said no."

"Darling, he was extending to you a disgusting micro-brewed beer of friendship," Eames says. "Now I suppose I feel a mix of pity and revulsion. Rather uniquely unpleasant combination, really."

"Would you sell me out for a few million dollars?" Arthur looks up at Eames, wearing horn-rimmed reading glasses that are always slipping down his nose.

Eames studies Arthur for a moment before saying, "I'd be lying if I said the thought had never crossed my mind."

Arthur tips his head to one side. "What's stopping you?"

"Aside from the fact that you don't currently possess a few million dollars that aren't tied up in NORDA, I've grown to quite enjoy our life together." Eames takes off his glasses. "I don't know what a few more dollars could buy me that would make me happier than what we already have, other than a holiday longer than a month, I suppose. But even that wouldn't be worth much without you there."

Arthur pokes him in the stomach. "You're really gunning for that vacation, huh?"

Eames catches Arthur's fingers, laughing. "And, of course, there's also the fact that I'm madly in love with you."

"Yeah, but." Arthur props his head up on his elbow. "We've both done relationships before. The first year is the fun part. The real test is when you're not feeling lovey anymore and you gotta decide whether to call it quits or keep playing."

Eames runs a thumb over Arthur's cheekbone. "Are you asking for commitment?"

"I'm asking if you're seeing this as a few good years, or something that could go longer than that." Arthur shrugs. "No pressure, no judgment. I want to be able to calibrate my expectations, is all."

Eames says nothing for a minute, choosing his words carefully. "I suppose I've always felt that every romantic endeavor has an expiry date, whether that's at the end of the night or at the end of a year. I don't know if it means I'm up for decades together, but for what it's worth, I haven't felt as though there's an expiry date for me and you."

Arthur sits up to kiss Eames' mouth, jaw bristly with stubble. "Then let's say it's working for now and we'll reconvene at a later date to discuss if it stops working. In the meanwhile, you'll agree to talk to me before pulling any disappear into the night routines."

"Deal," Eames says, smile bright and happy and beautiful.

* * * * *

The job goes surprisingly well. Mark gets to run, jump, and dive through impractical booby-trapped buildings, crack a safe, and defuse a bomb. At the end of it all, Eames appears forging a woman that looks like the lovechild of Lucy Liu and Eva Longoria. She congratulates Mark with a coy smile and a flirtatious hand on his shoulder before the dream comes to an end.

"Was that the awesomest dream ever created or the awesomest dream ever created?" Mark crows once they're topside. "I was pretty badass, right?"

"You cracked that safe in under sixty seconds," Arthur says, which is factually true. He doesn't mention that the safe would have opened for any combination.

"Hey, that girl at the end—she was one of your projections, wasn't she? I think I'd remember someone that looked like her," Mark says. "If she's single, you think you could introduce me to her?"

"Don't know her, I'm afraid," Eames says as he throws out his disposable IV needle and helps Arthur clean up the equipment. "I saw her for thirty seconds at the airport before she boarded. Striking woman, but didn't have the opportunity to chat, unfortunately."

"Too bad," Mark says, and brightens. "Killer dream, though."

"You nailed it," Arthur says. "We're booked up for the next two months, but if you have any friends you think would enjoy our services, we'd be happy to offer the friends and family discount."

"I have a ton of friends who'll totally be down for this." Mark hovers in the doorway, playing nervously with his cell phone. "And I'll have my PA release the last payment, ASAP."

"Great," Arthur says. "Shaniqua can show you out. Unless there's anything else you need?"

"No, um." Mark straightens. "Nothing. I—I'll shoot you an invite to my next party. Maybe I'll see you guys there?"

"Looking forward to it," Eames says with an almost convincing smile, gesturing for Shaniqua to come take Mark away.

"You were right," Arthur says after he's gone. "That was a depressing microbrew of friendship."

"Indeed," Eames replies. "And did I hear correctly that we are booked for the next two months?"

"I got us roundtrip tickets to Wales!" Arthur says, and bursts into laughter at Eames' horrified expression. "Kidding, kidding. The prospect of spending time with your family makes me want to kill myself, too. I actually got a one way ticket to Bali, booked a week at a resort, and figured we could extend or hop on a flight somewhere else."

"I'm not going to kiss you right now because Shaniqua or one of the other staff are going to come in here in a few minutes to sterilize the PASIV, but." Eames hooks his pinky in Arthur's and squeezes. "Know that you are in for a fantastic ride this evening."

Arthur squeezes back. "Baller."

fin

The last in the NORDA series: Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames buys furniture!

Foreplay	Hurt/comfort	Reincarnation	Beloved enemies	Bedsharing
Erotic torture	Regency AU	Multiple orgasms	First time/last time	Sex under the influence
Animal transformation	Magical AU	Medical fetishisation	Intoxication and altered states	Time travel
Exposure	Pining	Confessions	Anti-heroes	Discomfort during sex
Exhibitionism	Cybersex	Deathfic	Genderbend	Heroic gestures

Adventures of NORDA: the one where Eames is Clark Kent!

Written for Inception Bingo. The prompt: beloved enemies.
Wordcount: 2,675



"Welcome to Number One Recreational Dream Agency, the place where we make your dreams come true," Arthur says, ushering prospective clients inside. "Would you like a seat?"

Business has picked up ever since Eames' great aunt Temperance enlisted NORDA to recreate a startlingly violent memory involving her deceased husband. Since then, she's referred a steady stream of people, most of whom turn into paying customers and glorious streams of revenue.

Now that Arthur's got some working capital, he's started investing back into the business: upgrading the PASIV, stocking up on Somnacin, etc. He's considering what other improvements to make when he overhears one of his customers talking on the phone in the hallway outside NORDA's offices.

"Yes, I'm outside the offices and they're quite—what's the word—sinister? I thought I had the wrong address when I first arrived, but I checked and it was correct, unfortunately... I sat in this dreadful waiting room wondering if Temperance sent me to a black market organ harvesting operation as revenge for last Christmas—you know she'd be the type of do that… I was ready to leave when a handsome gentlemen in a three piece suit stepped out and I thought, well, perhaps I could live with one less kidney if he were the one to remove it. Then, Temperance's grand-nephew, Eames—do you remember him—appeared as well and explained the entire situation."

Arthur frowns. Sinister? Christmas vengeance?

"I also stopped by another dreamshare organization which was rather nice, I must say, nothing sinister about them at all. Lovely offices designed by that famous architect—what was her name? The one who did that building in London and—nevermind, it'll come to me later. Anyway, it was quite soothing inside, rather peaceful, with a fountain. Of course I'll go with Temperance's recommendation, but the experience was like night and day."

The client's voice fades and Arthur frowns even more deeply. There's only one other dreamshare organization she could be talking about, and Arthur knows exactly what he now has to do.

* * * * *

"You have to go undercover," Arthur tells Eames.

Eames continues to eat his tuna sandwich. "Must I?"

"We need to scope out our competition." Arthur sets his laptop down in front of Eames. "Look at this gorgeous website. How much do you think they spent on this website? And commissioning a starchitect to design their offices? What are they, made of money?"

Eames squints at the screen and presses play on the promotional video. An uplifting jingle plays as an extremely attractive man fills the screen. "Hi, my name is Xander Cheng. Welcome to the Dream Perfumerie. We invite you to come visit us at our newly renovated offices where we like to dream big, dream beautiful, and dream happy."

"God, he's got a promotional video now," Arthur says, heart sinking. "How much do you think he spent on that video?"

"Hm?" Eames says, still staring at the paused image of Xander smiling alluringly. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"We need to see those offices," Arthur says, closing the video with a small noise of protest from Eames. "No photos on the website. I heard they have a fountain."

"Is it a fountain of perfume? Because otherwise the name makes no sense," Eames says. "Perfumerie? That's not even how it's spelled."

"I got you a disguise. You can book an appointment pretending to be a prospective customer," Arthur says. "You'll be hooked up to a live camera so I can see the interior with you."

"As much as I love a good game of subterfuge, is there any particular reason why you can't perform this little mission?"

Arthur shifts, uncomfortable. "Xander used to work in extraction, too. He'd recognize me for sure."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "And…?"

"And he's my arch-nemesis, alright?" Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. "He opened his business the same month as we did, and in the same city! Seriously, what the hell."

"There it is," Eames says. "And what is to be my reward for all this skullduggery?"

"Isn't my peace of mind and the improvement of NORDA enough reward?" At Eames' unimpressed expression, Arthur adds, "Okay, we can order a sausage pizza tonight. You choose."

Eames' face lights up as he opens a gay hookup app on his phone. "Anyone I like?"

"Well, not anyone—" Arthur peers over Eames' shoulders at the hundreds of profiles. "Pick someone I'll like, too."

"Yes, I'm sure I will," Eames says absently as he begins messaging PedrosBigCock69. "Tonight at seven?"

"Better make it eight." Arthur retrieves the outfit he'd purchased earlier. "You need to try on your disguise."

"My—" Eames pauses.

"Ordinary clothes for your regular old customer," Arthur says, presenting the clothing with a flourish.

Eames holds up the pair of cutoff jeans. "Who wears these?"

"Just be normal, Eames," Arthur says. "Be normal in your totally normal clothes and Xander won't suspect a thing."

* * * * *

Arthur doesn't get a chance to see Eames off in his undercover mission to the Dream Perfumerie. Once Arthur finishes up with a client, however, he retreats to the back office to tune in to the live camera.

Just in time to catch Eames and Xander shaking hands.

"And you must be Archibald… Cattington?" Xander says.

There's a long pause before Eames says, "Yes. That's me. Archibald."

The camera is built into the glasses Eames is wearing, and provides a good view of Xander's spectacular bone structure. As Xander starts giving Eames a tour of the office, the camera swings down to focus on Xander's ass. Arthur sighs; at the rate things are going, the only footage Eames will leave with is of Xander's body.

Once Eames manages to rip his eyes away from Xander's numerous assets, the rest of the sleek, brightly lit office comes into view. Though it looks less like an office and more like a spa, with light wood and a delicate fountain and glasses of refreshing cucumber water. It is, Arthur has to grudgingly admit, a beautiful space.

Damn his fiendishly competent and sexy arch-rival.

"It was very nice to meet you… Archibald," Xander says at the end of the meeting. He shakes Eames' hand again and holds on for a minute too long. "Please let me know if there's anything else I can do for you."

"Oh," Eames' voice has taken on that familiar gravely tone he uses when he's flirting. "I absolutely will."

Arthur frowns when the camera lingers on Xander's admittedly luscious mouth. This is not the reconnaissance Eames was tasked with doing.

After another long moment, Eames reluctantly releases Xander's hand and leaves the Dream Perfumerie.

* * * * *

Eames is not wearing the disguise Arthur gave him. He has, in typical Eamesian fashion, styled himself not only in new clothing (skinny jeans and a flannel shirt) but also dyed his hair, put in brown contacts, and overlaid that with his thick plastic camera glasses.

It's horribly distracting. Arthur detests it. Yes.

"I walked through all the common areas, the office, and the bathroom, but couldn't get to the rooms in the back. Might have been staff-only, so we might not be missing much," Eames rattles off his report in a business-like fashion. "I also took some pamphlets and reading material in case you were interested in his promotional strategy."

"Seemed like you enjoyed that visit to the Perfumerie," Arthur says. "Surprised you had a chance to notice anything else with the way you were staring at Xander."

"You know the glasses camera never properly follows my eye-line—" Eames stops and takes a step closer to Arthur. "Are you jealous?"

"No," Arthur replies, heart thudding painfully with the question: will you leave me for his superior recreational dreamshare business? "Why would I be jealous of a gorgeous, successful small business owner with custom-made silk drapes and hand-carved furniture in his ideally situated office location? I wouldn't be, that's why."

"Darling," Eames' voice softens for a moment. "You do know that I don't work at NORDA for the measly salary and dubious benefits plan, don't you?"

"The payscale here is very competitive," Arthur protests. "And what do you need benefits for? You sleep all day!"

"Not the point I was attempting to make." Eames touches Arthur's cheek thoughtfully. "What is it about this man?"

Arthur is saved from having to answer by the office door swinging open and the man in question stepping inside. "Hello, Arthur," Xander says. "And hello, Archibald—or should I say Eames?"

"Goddamnit," Arthur says.

"Did you really think that after a decade of working in extraction, I'd somehow not recognize Eames just because he put on some glasses?" Xander says. "Although Clark Kent is a good look on you, Eames, keep rocking it."

"Ah, well," Eames ducks his head and preens. "Terribly good of you to say so."

"Hey," Arthur says, taking a step forward. "You stop that. You do not get to come over here to my business and hit on my employees. Have some respect."

"As the employee in question, I'd like to state for the record that I have no objection to being hit on," Eames says.

"The rumors are true, huh?" Xander leans in the doorway, T-shirt drawing tight in an unfairly mouthwatering way over his bicep. "You didn't tell me you'd officially shacked up with The Eames."

"This 'shacking up' has been a relatively recent development. It's only been the past year, six months, three weeks, and two days, not that I'm counting," Eames says. Xander's slight smirk doesn't fade and Arthur is silent, can practically hear the wheels grinding in Eames' head. Eames turns. "Arthur."

"I may have—known--Xander, better than I let on before," Arthur says, haltingly.

"That's one way of putting it," Xander says.

Arthur clears his throat. "And perhaps more recently. Known him."

Eames exhales noisily. "Have you been fucking the competition this entire time?"

"What? No. That makes it sound like an ongoing, sordid—" Arthur shakes his head. "It's not like that. We're frenemies. Who occasionally fuck."

"Frenemies with benefits," Xander cheerfully volunteers. "Frenefits. Enemifits."

"Is this why you sent me into his lair?" Eames says, sounding exasperated along with, Arthur hopes, a twinge of amused. "So your sidepiece wouldn't know you were trying to steal his ideas?"

"I reject the term 'lair,'" Xander interjects. "This place is far more lair-like than my Perfumerie could ever be. You even have someone ready to rip his shirt off and become superman here."

"Are you making a pass at Eames while simultaneously insulting my office?" Arthur asks.

"I was hoping to make a pass at both of you at the same time." Xander pushes off the door and strolls towards them, stride loose and confident. "Because I honestly don't give a fuck about your office."

"On that, we firmly agree," Eames says as he more or less shoves his tongue down Xander's throat.

Arthur watches the two of them make out for a few minutes, the insistent pressure in his pants dueling with his principled desire to take a stand for—something. He's not really sure what. But he thinks he should be standing up for something.

Then clothes start coming off and Arthur realizes that two gorgeous men are about to have sex in front of him. There's really only one rational response to this situation.

Join them.

* * * * *

After some enjoyable threesome action at the office (now one of Arthur's top favorite office activities), Eames and Arthur return home to hot showers and cuddling. Arthur cozies up to Eames' side in bed and prepares for an excellent night's sleep.

"About Xander," Eames says, and Arthur opens his eyes.

"That was fun," Arthur says, cautious. "Did you have fun?"

"Yes," is Eames' reply, but he seems to be working up to something more. "I know we agreed not to share the details of our—external partners with each other." Arthur grins at how Eames can make even random hookups sound upscale. "But I was under the impression we'd discuss anyone who became more than—a dalliance."

"Xander? Oh, that's not—I told you, frenemies with benefits is all. Infrequent and not a big deal." Arthur kisses Eames' pectoral and closes his eyes again.

"He seemed to spark a great deal of emotion for a simple frenemy with benefits."

"Nah, it's just nice to talk to someone else as passionate about building their dreamshare business as I am." Arthur yawns, already half-way to unconsciousness. But Eames doesn't reply, shallow breaths indicating he hasn't dozed off. Arthur sits up. "Baby?"

Eames is staring at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, jaw tight. "Yes, of course," he says, voice gruff, "you can go be capitalist American swine together. Roll around in all your money."

"Not naked, though. Did you know that paper money can carry more germs than a toilet?" Arthur tries to lighten the mood and fails. Eames still won't look at him. "What's wrong? I thought you had fun."

"I did. I enjoyed the sex, it's not about that."

"Then…" Arthur sighs. "Baby, you have to help me understand. I'm not as good at this talking and feelings stuff as you are."

"Arthur, I love you." Eames' words sound as if they are being forced out through gritted teeth. "And I am frightened that you might—leave me."

"What?" Arthur stares at him, bewildered. "Why?"

To Arthur's surprise, Eames chuckles and scrubs a hand over his own face. "Because apparently I become possessive and insecure when confronted by a handsome, successful businessman with a fantastic cock. The entire time he was fucking you, all I could do was wonder why you were moaning differently than you did with me."

"Well, it's not a competition," Arthur says, trying to be reasonable about it. He sees instantly that is the wrong thing to say. "Of course I like the way you fuck me the best."

"Nevermind. This was foolish." Eames turns onto his side, back to Arthur. "You have an early morning tomorrow and I shouldn't keep you up any longer with nonsense."

"Eames, no." Arthur squeezes his bicep and scoots closer. He thinks for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. "I love you and I want to be with you forever. No one has done as much for NORDA as you have, or for me, and maybe I don't show you how much I appreciate that often enough. But there's no comparison between you and Xander, at all."

Arthur watches carefully as Eames glances back over his shoulder at him. "No comparison?"

"How could there be when I get to wake up next to the sexiest guy in the world every day?" Arthur's not good at fancy speeches like Eames is, doesn't know how to dress up how he feels in anything more than plain words. Arthur covers his chest, his beating heart, with Eames' open palm and hopes it's enough. "I won't have sex with Xander anymore."

Eames stares at his hand. "I don't want to restrict your freedom."

"You're the best thing in my life." Arthur kisses Eames' hand and coaxes him onto his back again, crawls on top of him. "You make me happier than I've ever been."

"I want you to be able to do what you want." Eames blinks up at Arthur, mouth a solemn line.

"I am doing what I want." Arthur cradles Eames' face in his hands and kisses him. Eames kisses back, more sweetly than any words Arthur could summon.

* * * * *

Much later, after Arthur has blanketed Eames' face with more kisses, Eames whispers with barely a breath, "You want to be with me forever?"

"Of course." Arthur kisses the scar across Eames' eyebrow—dyed dark, to match his hair. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Maybe." There's a hint of smile pulling at the edge of Eames' mouth. "Yes."

fin

Next in the NORDA series: Adventures of NORDA: the one where Arthur goes to a party!

Foreplay	Hurt/comfort	Reincarnation	Beloved enemies	Bedsharing
Erotic torture	Regency AU	Multiple orgasms	First time/last time	Sex under the influence
Animal transformation	Magical AU	Medical fetishisation	Intoxication and altered states	Time travel
Exposure	Pining	Confessions	Anti-heroes	Discomfort during sex
Exhibitionism	Cybersex	Deathfic	Genderbend	Heroic gestures