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"Was it good for you, Arthur?"
"It was okay."
Eames is fucking sick of hearing this. He slumps down on the mattress, swatting away Arthur's tentative hand searching for his, and groans.
Anger boils up in his chest, and he waits for it to dissipate like it usually does after a few seconds. The only thing he wants is a little bit of post-coital happiness before Arthur jumps out of the bed again, back to his work or whatever it is he's always doing. But this time, his irritation is surprisingly insistent.
He watches Arthur lying next to him on his back, looking up at the ceiling while his thoughts are obviously far away. It's a sight Eames is used to by now and it's still driving him crazy.
"What do you want?" Eames shouts suddenly, frustration making the words sharp and stinging.
Arthur flinches and props himself up on one elbow. The sheets slide down around his perfect chest, but Eames can't appreciate that right now.
"What?" Arthur asks, carefully.
"What is it that you want? Because obviously it isn't this." Eames gives his pillow a hard punch and sends it flying down on the floor.
"Oh," Arthur says, realisation dawning behind his dark eyes, furrowing his forehead in thought.
They stare at each other in silence for a few minutes. And then, Arthur tells him.
Arthur tells him, with a confident small smile playing around his lips that Eames usually sees exclusively after a job went remarkably well and everyone knew it was thanks to Arthur, but no one would say it out loud.
Arthur tells him, without batting an eye, without hesitation or searching for words.
Arthur tells him, and Eames opens his mouth but doesn't manage to get a grip on his thoughts long enough to form a sentence.
Arthur, lovely, beautiful, perfect Arthur tells him how he fantasises about getting raped. Sure, he says, he's too clever to go out looking for trouble. He'd hate to get serious injuries, and of course, how could he trust a stranger? But he has this dream, this one true desire, where it happens, not for real, just for him.
And he really needs, he says and comes closer to stress this word, right into Eames' face, needs someone to finally do this before he goes crazy.
Maybe Arthur thinks that for some reason, Eames is just the right kind of guy for this job. Maybe Eames is the first he can trust. Maybe Eames is just the first who asked.
Eames stops thinking about it when Arthur drops his voice and keeps on talking, letting more filthy words spill out of his mouth than Eames has heard from him in a lifetime. He talks about the thrill of letting someone take over complete control, to be forced to lie down and just take it and be expected not to enjoy any of it. He whispers how he'd secretly love every second, saying no and meaning yes, beg them to stop and think yes please more. His lips move against Eames' ear when he says that this is what he wants.
Eames swallows. "Um," he says slowly.
He thinks about the possibility that a person he thought he knew so well could hide such a huge secret behind his young brown eyes. Then he thinks that maybe, at the back of his mind, he already knew.
He imagines hurting Arthur, seeing the pain on his face. Then he imagines granting Arthur a wish, and seeing real gratitude in his eyes.
He's scared, and not at all sure he can do this. Then the picture of this one guy he used to forge steals into his mind, and he thinks, maybe he could do it.
"I'll think about it."
Arthur smiles and obviously takes that as a yes.
The next morning, when Eames' spoon is full of cereals and milk and right on its way to his mouth, Arthur folds up the newspaper he's been reading, puts it down on the table and says, "You can tie me up, but only the hands, not the legs."
Eames drops his spoon, and it falls back into the bowl with a loud clang, spilling milk everywhere. "Fuck," he mutters quietly and wipes the drops on his face away with the back of his hand.
Arthur smiles. "Well, but that's not so bad, is it?"
"Very funny," Eames answers, and quickly scoops a large portion of cereals in his mouth.
"If you want to use a gun, don't threaten to shoot me, because I know you would never do it, and that means I won't believe you."
Eames was just about to swallow, but at this he can't help but gasp, and immediately starts to choke.
Over his slightly embarrassed and increasingly desperate coughs, he thinks he hears Arthur say, "Of course you'll have to treat me roughly and everything, but please don't destroy any clothes."
Eames downs half a glass of orange juice and tries to breathe. He's pretty sure his face is red by now.
"What?" he asks weakly when he notices Arthur has said something.
For a second, there's the dark shadow of annoyance on Arthur's face, but then he smiles.
Eames is always scared by those smiles.
"Don't worry," Arthur practically purrs. "I'll set it out in writing for you later."
"Um," Eames says. "Thanks."
He focuses his attention back on his cereals, hoping to actually get to eat them.
"Just," Arthur begins, suddenly very serious, but then he breaks off.
"What?"
Arthur picks up the newspaper again. "Nothing."
Eames catches his right hand and lets his fingers run over his knuckles. "You know, I'd love to tell you that I'll be careful, but that's probably not the right thing to say."
Arthur hides his smile behind the pages of the New York Times. Eames can still see the dimples and the crinkled skin around his eyes.
"The safeword is Edith Piaf."
A few days later, Arthur tries to relax in the bath tub. It's been a busy day, and his mind is still racing over the latest research, trying to piece together a decent plan to present tomorrow. He feels tense, the muscles in his back a constant burn, and there's this throbbing pain at the back of his skull he can't quite place.
Eames knows all this, and more.
Arthur is just sinking deeper, tipping his head back to let hot water rush over his face, and then smoothing his hair back with one hand when he spots Eames sitting on the rim, staring down on him.
The first rule on the third sheet of paper Arthur has pushed into his hands at work says, don't tell me when you'll do it. Surprise me.
"Jesus, Eames," Arthur gasps. "You scared me."
The second but last rule on the first sheet says, no names.
Eames watches Arthur frown in annoyance first, and then frown even more when he notices that something is wrong.
Eames sees a thought fighting its way to Arthur's mouth, and waits for it with a patient little smile that feels strange on his lips.
In one sudden movement, Arthur sits up. Water spills over the rim of the bath tub and on the sleeves of Eames' shirt. Some of it lands in Eames' crotch. His smile deepens.
Arthur clasps the collar of Eames' shirt and pulls him close. "Wait. Are we...?"
Eames has never heard Arthur so speechless.
"What, dear?"
"Are we doing this? Now?"
Eames notices the insecurity in Arthur's voice, edging on genuine fear, and he drops out of role within the second to give him a true, familiar smile.
"Yes, Arthur, we are."
Arthur blinks at the sudden mention of his name. Then, realisation dawns, and there's a shy, satisfied smile around the corner of his lips. "Good."
Arthur slides back into the tub, immersing completely for a second, and when he comes up again, he looks perfectly innocent and quite afraid.
"So you said I scared you?" Eames picks up where they've left off.
His voice is deep and soft velvet, a nuance he usually uses together with the looks of a tall black-haired woman with huge dark eyes, a full mouth and a tiny black dress.
He's perfected this kind of seduction a long time ago, using nothing but his voice and carefully chosen and placed words.
He knows how to apply only small portions of it on men with ordinary lives who look for this one moment of adventure, and how to give the full version to men who think they've seen everything and can't be surprised any more.
They all end up the same, every belief about the world shattered, breathless and wordless, naked and shivering.
Arthur takes a deep breath that ends up hitched and choked.
The smile Eames lets follow is something he only uses as a young man who's too beautiful for his own good.
It's not about seduction at all.
It's reserved for moments when he needs to have people fall in love with him and leave him alone at the same time, with just one single look.
It makes people doubt their sanity, this quick spreading, the stretch of the skin on his lips, the smile turning for one second into a grimace of madness. And then it disappears so quickly that they are left wondering if what they've seen can possibly be real.
People run away after that smile, and although they forget it as soon as they wake up, it haunts them in their sleepless nights.
When Eames smiles this smile as himself, the effect is slightly altered. It keeps people rooted on the spot, makes them speechless, makes them listen to every word he says.
Arthur has never seen it before, and now his eyes are fixed on Eames' face in an intense, but unfocused stare.
Eames drops his hand into the water and draws slow circles next to Arthur's thigh, effectively redirecting Arthur's eyes down.
His movements leave trails in the thick blanket of foam, swirls and lines of suddenly clear water that show Arthur's naked thighs as blurred white spots.
Arthur's hands move aimlessly. Eames suspects he's not sure whether to give into his desire to shield himself or deny his awareness of what's actually happening a bit longer.
"What...?" Arthur's voice sounds hoarse. He clears his throat a few times before speaking again. "What are you doing?"
Eames' hand trails higher in what could be considered a coincidence. Arthur squirms uncomfortably under him, still trying not to show any reaction, but his body betrays him. There's the tense line of his jaw, the wide eyes, the nervous twitch of his hands.
"Having a bit of fun," Eames says, his voice light and blissfully ignorant.
And then Eames dips in his hand, soaking his cuff, and grabs Arthur's hips.
Arthur makes a surprised gasp and tries to wind out of the grip, but Eames is prepared for it and pins him down against the slippery bottom of the tub.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice still casual. "Don't you want to have some fun with me?" He smiles, but he keeps his eyes hard.
"You're hurting me," Arthur whimpers.
"Am I?"
Arthur can't answer. He just stares at him with huge eyes, looking so young and stripped bare.
Eames tries to focus on the rules instead of having to see Arthur like that, but his memory is just a blur of letters right now, until his mind deciphers the words, Never hesitate.
Eames dips in his other hand to let it run teasingly over Arthur's hipbones, rub hard circles on the insides of Arthur's thighs, and then he takes hold of Arthur's cock.
"You like that, don't you," he continues in the same, indifferent voice.
Arthur is still unable to speak.
Eames curls his fist around Arthur's cock, secretly relieved to find it already hard and jumping eagerly into his grip, and then he gives it a few hard squeezes.
"You want me so bad, I can feel it," he says, emphasising his words by stroking harder. "Say it."
"I…" Arthur tips back his head and tries to get away from Eames' hands, but he can't, lying pressed down and exposed on his back.
"Just say it."
The fifth rule on the first sheet says, If I don't do what you say, slap me.
Eames slaps him, hard, right across the face. There's a sharp burn in his palm, and he watches a red streak forming on Arthur's pale cheek.
"Say how much you want me, you little slut." His words slur in impatience.
He sees tears welling up in Arthur's eyes, but except for the tiny hiss of shock and pain he made when Eames' hand had hit him, Arthur suppresses every sound.
"I can't hear you, bitch." The barely contained anger of these words forces Arthur to snap out of his silence.
"Please, just…"
In one sudden movement, Eames bows down, hooks his hands under Arthur's armpits and pulls him out of the tub. There's a loud thud when Arthur's hips collide with the rim, but Arthur bites on his tongue and swallows down his cry.
"Oh, shut up," Eames sighs, suddenly busy keeping Arthur under control when he starts to struggle.
Eames dodges away from the kicks and weakly-swung punches and, tightening his grip, he jostles and drags Arthur out of the bathroom along the hallway. Arthur screams in fear when he realises Eames is heading for the bedroom.
"What's wrong?" Eames asks innocently. "Don't you like where this is going?"
When Eames lets go of him, Arthur has to steady himself with a shaky hand on the wall, leaving behind a wet print.
Eames walks around him into the bedroom and busies himself with the stereo until some easy listening jazz music fills the room.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Arthur staying rooted on the spot where he has left him, staring at him.
The sixth rule on the second sheet, after five rules on the mechanics and limits of tying him up, says It's even better if you can make me stay without tying me up.
Eames slumps down on the bed.
"Why don't you come here," he says invitingly, but his body sends out a completely different, archaic message of a predator.
Arthur shifts around uncomfortably, and Eames can sense the change in Arthur's posture before he actually sees it.
Eames is on his feet and through the door before Arthur makes it down the stairs.
He jerks him back with a hand around his throat, pulls him away from the staircase and makes them both tumble over. For a second they lie on each other, hearts fluttering, breathing hard in exertion and shock.
He can't remember on which sheet the rule was, but he clearly remembers, When I try to run away, punish me.
"You really –," Eames gasps, his voice a low growl right into Arthur's ear. "– really shouldn't have done that."
All resistance dissipates from Arthur's body. He's nothing but a limbless, shaking mess in Eames' arms.
"Someone could actually get the idea you didn't want to have fun with me," Eames drawls on as he shoves Arthur to his feet.
"I'm sorry," Arthur whispers.
"I know, baby, I know," Eames croons, and lets his hand run over Arthur's red cheek. His index finger caresses Arthur's lower lip gently, before he pushes it in.
"Suck on it, baby, will you," he encourages him.
Arthur's eyes widen when Eames clutches his neck with his free hand. Arthur slowly opens his mouth a little bit, and Eames shoves his whole finger in.
Arthur bites down on it, probably more a reflex than anything else, and Eames screams out in pain, pulls out his finger and slaps him hard on the other cheek.
Arthur slumps down, but Eames catches him before he can fall on the floor.
"Get up," he hisses between clenched teeth.
Arthur tries to stay on his feet when Eames pushes him back to the bedroom. He doesn't walk quickly enough, though, so Eames decides to slap him again, this time on the ass.
Arthur collapses on the bed, face first, and Eames is over him immediately.
There's an actual hand print forming in flaring red, and Eames takes a moment to revel in the sight.
Eames sees Arthur's shaking with fear and pain, so he lets him alone for a bit. Straddling his lower back, he allows himself to take his eyes off of him long enough to reach over to the bed table.
There's a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of lube lying there, and he grabs both.
Arthur moves under him, trying to shift away from the heavy weight on his back, and Eames rubs himself against him.
"You're so desperate, you dirty little slut," he says delighted.
The first rule on the last sheet says, in capital letters, HUMILIATE ME.
Eames squeezes some lube on his finger and shoves it in Arthur's ass. Arthur arches up from the mattress, trying to get away from the sudden pain, but Eames settles his weight on his thighs and keeps him down with one hand between his shoulder blades.
"Please," Arthur begs in a low voice.
"Please what? You mean please more?"
"No, I..." Arthur gets interrupted by his own scream when Eames uses another finger to scissor him open.
There's this rule that says, be rough with me, but Eames is very determined not to cause any real damage, so he spreads him slowly, careful not to let the burn turn into actual pain.
"No what, you whore?"
Eames shifts his hand from Arthur's shoulders to his hair, clutching at the wet strands, and pulls his face up from the pillow.
He bows down and twists Arthur's face around until he's forced to look into his eyes.
Eames makes sure that his nostrils are flaring and his brows pulled together.
"No what, you whore?" he repeats, shouting right into Arthur's face.
Arthur closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as if he's trying to wish himself away from here.
"Please stop."
It's barely audible over Eames' heavy breathing.
Eames tightens his grip on Arthur's hair and pulls him even closer. He can see the muscles in Arthur's neck straining against the position.
"I don't think I understood you correctly. I thought I heard you telling me to stop."
"Just stop, please," Arthur repeats with a bit more strength in his voice.
Eames lets go off Arthur's hair, but Arthur still keeps his head in the uncomfortable position, paralysed in fear.
Eames straightens up and pretends to consider it for a second. For his answer, he uses the light voice he knows is scarier than anything else.
"No."
Arthur finally buries his head in the pillow and starts to sob quietly.
With the hand that's not busy spreading Arthur open, Eames feels around for the pack of cigarettes, pulling out one and tucking it between his lips. When he crooks the fingers he still has buried in Arthur's ass, he elicits a muffled grunt and smiles.
He doesn't need to hold Arthur down any more. He's completely broken and compliant under him.
"That's a good boy," Eames encourages him, and Arthur moans in response.
Eames lights his cigarette and takes a first, deep drag.
"I've waited so long for this," Eames chatters on, voice strained from holding in the smoke, until he blows it out through his nose.
Arthur bucks up against his fingers, and Eames has to use the hand holding the cigarette to keep him down. He makes sure Arthur is in no danger of actually getting burned by the glowing tip, but it's still close enough to make Arthur feel the heat.
He shoves in a third finger, and Arthur jerks so hard that the effort of keeping Arthur down makes the muscles in Eames' arm twitch violently.
"Shh," Eames urges him. "Shh, calm down."
Working up all last remnants of strength, Arthur intensifies his efforts.
"Stop it," Eames shouts, and slaps him on the ass again.
When Arthur petrifies in shock, Eames adds in a lighter tone, "You'll just make it worse. And we don't want that, do we?"
While he waits for an answer, he sucks in another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke calm his nerves.
"No," Arthur says finally.
Eames smiles at that and bends over.
"Good," he says, releasing a lungful of smoke right into Arthur's face.
Arthur coughs helplessly and gasps for air.
"I want you so much, baby," Eames whispers against Arthur's neck, and Arthur's response is a choked small cry.
Eames suddenly pulls out his fingers, and Arthur finally screams out in surprise.
"You want me too," Eames says. "I know you do. I can see it. I can feel how much you need me in you."
He reaches around for the ashtray that's filled with the cigarettes Eames smoked after good fucks, with Arthur's disappointment still echoing in his ears while he's long gone back to his desk. And Eames is still very determined to change that.
He snaps the ash from the tip of the cigarette and tucks it back between his lips. Arthur's body shudders when Eames slowly unzips his trousers. He shoves down his clothes only as far as necessary and takes his half-hard cock in one hand, giving it a few rough squeezes.
With the other hand, he tugs Arthur's hips into position, and starts to press in.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and shoves his forehead into the pillow. His lips are opened in a silent scream, and Eames stops for a while, only moving to tip off the ash from his cigarette, until Arthur's breaths have calmed down.
Then he slams in, low grunts rippling their way up from his chest.
Rule number one says, Just take me.
Eames waits until he can feel the signs of Arthur relaxing around him, opening himself up, pulling him in, before he starts to rock his hips. He keeps one hand on Arthur's ass, slapping him lightly in encouragement.
Eames' movements are tiny and careful, until he's sure he's about to snap. He tosses the cigarette into the ashtray and puts both hands on Arthur's hips, taking a deep breath.
Everything in him screams to just go for it, tells him he really needs to start pounding into this shivering warm mess under him, around him, and he very much wants to, but something stops him.
Still buried up to the hilt, he bends forwards to let a careful hand run through the mess of Arthur's still wet hair, softly nudging his chin around until Arthur looks at him.
His pupils are huge, his eyes wet from tears but with this glaze that Eames has come to know as signs of desire. His breath is hot and irregular, his skin flushed, his jaw slack.
Eames thinks about ways to ask this without dropping out of the role, and he realises there are no hints on the list of rules. There's only There's just you and your needs, and a scribbled note on the margin saying, And God, don't worry, I'll be fine.
And while he's still skipping through possible ways to say what he isn't supposed to say, which is "Are you okay?", Arthur smiles at him, just a tiny tug on the corner of his lips, and then he burrows his head into the pillow and starts to make deliciously sweet little noises.
Eames feels himself smiling back against his will, and he's very glad Arthur can't see his face right now. It takes him a few seconds to get his act together again.
"I need to fuck you so hard," Eames finally growls, and his first real shove is forceful and unexpected and leaves both of them a bit breathless.
His fingertips dig into the soft skin around Arthur's hipbones, but he's sure Arthur won't even feel it any more.
He tries to set up a pace, but he finds himself fucking Arthur hard and fast without finesse and he can't bring himself to care.
Arthur moans under him, sounding almost pained, but Eames knows it's quite the opposite.
He lets one hand stray upwards to the small of Arthur's back, and pushes him down forcefully. Arthur moans again, apparently unable to contain his pleasure any longer now that his cock gets rubbed on the mattress each time Eames shoves into him.
The rule right under the one about him and his needs says, You shouldn't care if I get off.
Eames can feel Arthur shuddering, and he knows how to angle his hips to hit his prostrate.
"You like that, you little bitch. You're so close just from my dick in your tight ass. You're gonna come like that, rubbing yourself all over the bed. You're gonna come so hard when I come into your ass, filling you up, fuck, come deep into you..."
Eames can hear himself trailing off, already so close, and his thrusts become erratic and violent and shove Arthur over the edge.
Arthur screams out when he comes, not even caring to muffle his cry with the pillow, and Eames presses him down harder, fucking him through it.
He doesn't get any slower though, because he wasn't even supposed to notice Arthur coming. Arthur shudders and grunts under him, and Eames keeps on fucking him until he's coming himself, digging bruises into Arthur's white skin, letting his hips slap hard against Arthur's ass until he collapses.
Eames allows himself to lie there for a few seconds, letting his heartbeat calm down. He knows Arthur can barely breathe, so he slides off eventually.
"That was good for you, right? You really loved being taken like that, you whore."
Arthur turns his head and stares at him with wide eyes. Eames' voice is back to his light, cruel tone, teasing and mocking.
"Look at the mess you've made," Eames says, gesturing to the wet spot forming under Arthur's stomach and his own come sliding down Arthur's thighs.
The last rule on the last sheet says, After you're done, leave me. Make me feel dirty and used.
Eames takes the ashtray and dips in one finger to feel the temperature of the ash. It's still hot, but not dangerously. With a strained sigh, he climbs out of the bed and lifts the ashtray, sending grey dirt flying all over Arthur.
Arthur shields his eyes with one hand, the other scrambling for some sheets to cover himself.
When the last shreds have settled on Arthur's shoulders, lips, eyelids, Eames turns around and slams the door shut behind him.
There's one second when Eames is sure he has to break down on the floor and cry. All his strength leaves his body, and he leans against the wall, taking deep breaths, fighting down the tears that burn their way into his eyes.
He focuses on the way Arthur looked at him when he finally gave in, promised him to do all that he wants, just to see satisfaction on Arthur's face for once. He remembers the beautiful sounds Arthur made when he fucked him open, the unabashed loud cry when he came, the way his body silently egged him on for more.
He swallows, hard, and looks into the mirror on the other side of the hallway. A second later, he looks like himself again.
He opens the door.
"Arthur?"
He walks carefully towards the bed where Arthur still lies just as he's left him. When he bends over, he looks into perfect bliss, all lines in his face gone, all muscles relaxed, his lips slightly opened.
Finally, Arthur blinks his eyes open. "Eames?"
Eames sits down on the bed next to Arthur and tucks his thumb under Arthur's chin to make him look at him.
"Arthur, are you okay?"
Arthur nods, his eyelids already dropping again.
"I'm here," Eames says and pulls Arthur up against his lap.
Arthur makes a happy sigh that Eames has never heard before and makes all the panic that has curled up in his chest dissipate at once.
"I'm here," Eames repeats, rocking Arthur in his arms. "You're safe now."
Arthur nods again, weakly, and Eames can see him fighting against the drowsiness.
"That was really, really," Arthur starts, slow and dragging with impending sleep, and then he yawns, "really good for me."
"I know, Arthur," Eames says soothingly, and feels a sudden, intense spike of fondness. "You can sleep now."
Eames keeps him cradled in his arms, letting his fingers run through his hair, whispering assurances and promises, until Arthur is completely gone in a perfect, natural sleep that's so rare for him.
Eames carefully lowers him back on the bed and and pulls up the sheets around him. Then he leaves quietly to get a few towels, and starts cleaning him up.
When all the ash and fluids are gone, he turns on a small light, shielding it from Arthur's eyes with one hand, to examine and probe all the bruises he's caused.
It's only when he's checked Arthur's whole body and his gaze finally rests on Arthur's face that's completely relaxed and content, he's sure he hasn't done any permanent damage.
He exhales a long breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and leaves the bedroom one last time to walk over the bathroom. Arthur's clothes are lying on the floor, loosely folded, and he picks up his trousers to carry them over.
Quietly, he kneels on the floor next to the bed and tenderly turns and opens Arthur's hand. Picking up the trousers again, he holds them upside down and shakes the little red die from the pocket into Arthur's palm.
Arthur's fingers close around it.
Eames slips out of his clothes and slides into the bed. Arthur's lips curl into a tiny smile as he shifts into Eames' waiting arms.