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Always-female!Arthur fucks Eames with a strap-on. AKA "fic I wrote when I should've been writing other stuff because I needed to finish something goddamnit. Thanks to [personal profile] annejumps for putting the idea in my head and for betaing, and to [personal profile] anatsuno, also for betaing :D

Arthur is good with people when she wants to be. It probably isn't the quality that first comes to mind when most dreamshare people think "Arthur", but most dreamshare people don’t get to see her pretending to be a 16-year-old girl collecting money for hurricane relief.

And she can easily slip from persona to persona, all the little details just naturally flying to her like iron dust to a magnet. Eames nearly did a spit take the first time he drove by her meeting place with an informant and saw her slouching on the hood of a Dodge Neon, wearing jeans and a Notre Dame sweatshirt, unselfconsciously chewing huge mouthfuls of a sandwich made on white bread. Eames had to begrudgingly admit that in her own way she was as good an actor as he was (he privately referred to the little sub-navel inconvenience he'd had that day as a "Respect Boner").

She doesn't usually enjoy acting the way Eames enjoys it–says it wears her out. She doesn't seem too worn out tonight, though. Eames can't help but glance at her over his shoulder as he's getting robbed of thirty kronor by the wet bar; he's lucky he's blessed with the multitasking ability to make change, keep an eye out for Møller on the off chance he shows up before 23:00, hold a vodka tonic, wonder if the vodka contains immortality serum or ground-up diamonds from Mars, and watch Arthur as she talks enthusiastically between rare open-mouthed smiles. He stirs his drink (this stirrer had better be made of nephrite jade, truly) and thinks of going over to her, but he's enjoying the view from a distance.

He tries lipreading, at which he’s admittedly shaky. It looks like she's saying "But that is kitchen blonde counter assents, right? It's just a hop Leslie pleeg–er, more likely "bleak"–virgin of our Ron lives." Eames figures that whatever she is saying, she's probably not orally writing high-modernist poetry about that “Parks and Recreation” show she likes.

Oh well. Lip-reading is always an inexact science.

The people she's talking to, a middle-aged couple who look similar enough to be related, seem charmed. They follow her eyes as she looks back and forth between the conceptual artworks before them. Eames edges closer. One piece looks like a gray mug; the other is a plank of wood leaning against the wall. He sighs.

At that moment Arthur glances behind her. Eames tries to hide behind a six-foot-something woman in a hat that looks like Rutherford's model of an atom, but she sees him, because she sees everything, especially when it has to do with Eames. She gives him a slightly annoyed smirk and waves him over with a silver-nailed hand.

"Camilla, Tomas," she says as he sidles up to her, "this is my partner, Henry Adams. Henry, this is Camilla and Tomas Jeppesen."

Eames nods and offers them the hand that isn't guarding the priceless elixir.

"Christine's a charming girl," Camilla says in slightly Danish-accented English. "She was just telling us her thoughts on kitsch. I told her that if she ever wanted to leave investment banking she could have quite a future as an art critic."

"Oh, I'm not sure if there's anything she can't do," Eames says, beaming rather genuinely as he slips an arm around Arthur's waist. "So tell me, what are we looking at here?"

"This? This is called The Prefiguration and Return of Moses In A Deceptively Toroidal Shape."

He looks at the gray mug with his head cocked. "What's it made of?"

"Ground-up copies of U2's The Joshua Tree," Arthur says with perfect restraint. "I think it's a really powerful representation of how anything can slip out of our hands, no matter how we intended it to be used. Like James Stewart's character in ‘Rope’, telling those murderers that the idea of the superman was never meant to actually be practiced. An idea, or philosophy, or religion, it just exists as a story, but then people use it in the way that suits them. The name suggests mutation too. In topology, you know, a mug is no different from a donut."

"You just contradicted yourself though, love," Eames says. "You said things slip out of our hands and become unrecognizable, but then underneath then you say there's this underlying structure."

Arthur glares at him. "Yes, but is a mug actually a donut? Topology isn't everything, Henry, or we'd be in a whole lot of trouble. Does the number of holes in you say everything about what you are?"

Eames looks nervously over at the Jeppesens, but they’re both smiling. Arthur did indeed read them correctly; they like a bit of sass.

"Fascinating ideas here, but I'm not too sold on conceptual art as a whole," Eames sighs. "It's a bit too hung up on its own cleverness, don't you think? It's like a riddle, but then once you've solved it it's not really aesthetically interesting anymore. I prefer art that seems to warp reality a bit, something that's got its own set of rules." It’s one of those moments where Eames can’t stop himself talking despite the subtle horror that is reshaping Arthur's features.

"Well, vive la différence, I suppose," Camilla chuckles dryly. "Luckily art has no feelings to be hurt. If you'll excuse me?" She cranes her neck to look toward the door, then takes off in that direction. Her husband follows with a cursory nod to Arthur and Eames.

Eames looked down at his shoes. "Thaaat was the artist, wasn't it."

Arthur exhales and shuffles her foot. "Said so on the little plaque."

"Damn little plaque. You still might've said something."

"And you might've done your research. You're the one who always talks about the importance of environmental cues," Arthur says, but there is no malice in her tone.

They approach the balcony. Arthur takes his elbow and leans in, and the night breeze delivers him a deeply welcome whiff of her perfume. "I'm kind of glad we got an out anyway," she says conspiratorially. "Much more of that and I was considering doing to some of that stuff what John Belushi did to that guy's guitar in ‘Animal House’."

Eames kisses her cheek and bites her drop earring lightly on a whim. Diamonds still don't taste like anything. "But you looked like you were having such a good time.”

She pulls her shawl around her shoulders and rubs up against him. Laserlike, he directs all his attention to the feel of the goosebumps on her bare upper arm; it's May, but it's also 10 o'clock at night, and a late rain has flushed all of the residual balminess out of the air. It's not that he ever forgets how intoxicating the feel of her body can be, but some moments send the awareness barrelling into him like a driverless golf cart.

"I was, because it's nice to talk about art and see new things." She shrugs. "But it wasn't really my thing, and it gets exhausting pretending to like things I don't like."

"Our relationship must've put you nearly at death's door by now, then," he says wryly. She pinches his arm so hard he almost gasps.

"Unlike you, asshole, I don't lie for fun," she bites off.

"I only lie for practice," he says, lips nearly pressed to her ear. He can feel her shiver a bit, and it amazes him again that there can be such moments when they are so close that her trembling and shifting is conveyed right through his skin and nerves, literally becoming his own. "And I never lie to you."

"What, is that the beginning of a song?"

"Don't mock my feelings," he laughs. "I have so few, the ones I have are precious."

They just stand there like that for awhile, arms around each other, listening to the polyrhythms of Danish and English chatter as if they were any couple wearing Ozwald Boateng and Lanvin to attend a gallery opening, drinking cocktails that cost the equivalent of five days' worth of smorrebrod. The wind whips some of her hair into his face, the scent clean and floral, and underneath it all, her own, and Eames inwardly gnashes his teeth and curses the job, wishes they could be back at their hotel already, his fists tangled in that hair, his tongue not minding the bitter tang of ethanol as he licks perfume and sweat and heat from the hollow of her throat. He's half hard just from the thought of it. He feels like such a cliche.

As if she can read his mind–which she sort of can, by now–Arthur asks him, "If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?"

He gives it some serious thought, wanting to make some effort to dilute the evening's unadulterated sap a bit. "Don't know. Indonesia? That lavender field in Corfu, maybe, with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine."

She turns to him, a gentle pout on her lips. "I was sort of hoping you'd say fucking me."

At that, he becomes even more of a cliche. His cock and the fabric of his pants are definitely starting to get on each other's nerves a bit.

"I would hope that went without saying." His voice drops to a whisper. "God, if you could feel my cock right now...."

"Is that a challenge?" she whispers back.

His cock situation is rapidly moving from Advisory to Warning. "I suppose it could be, if you really want–"

He doesn't even finish his sentence before she grabs him by the arm and drags him back through the crowd, making half-arsed apologies to anyone they brush against. He wiggles out of her grasp just long enough to bend down and deposit his empty vodka glass next to the wall, hoping no one notices.

There's a line for the bathroom and Eames groans, but she takes him in the opposite direction. They go around a corner, and at the end of that hallway there's a brown door.

"I found this earlier when I made a wrong turn for the bathroom," she says. "It's some kind of supply closet."

She jiggles the doorknob, but it's locked. That's where he comes in. He's more glad than usual that he has no compunction about breaking into other people's property.

After he's worked his magic with the lock-picking kit, it’s a quick glance back down the hall to make sure no one's coming and then they close themselves into the room. The air is dusty; Arthur muffles a series of (adorable) sneezes with the crook of her elbow. In their effort to find a light, their knees and toes bump into all sorts of angular things.

"Can you find a light?" she whispers. Groping all down the wall, Eames accidentally bangs a metal shelf with a resounding donk. He feels for a cord, but there's nothing. Even though they're not actually working right now per se, it makes him feel like a pretty incompetent criminal. He chalks it up to distraction. Arthur hisses "Fuck!" after sending some poles clattering to the ground, and it makes him feel slightly better.

"As long as we can find a flat surface, we should be alright," he says, and finds her arm in the darkness. "That would be the door. We're pretty set." He pulls her toward him and runs his hands up the sides of her body. She hums needily into his cheek, kisses her way toward his mouth, and he grabs a handful of her arse and presses their hips together so he can grind his cock against her pubic bone. Her tongue is playing with his, rough and wet, and he just doesn't care, about the mess or about anything else. He wants her lipstick all over his face and her wetness all over his cock. "Fuck, I need you," he says, kiss-garbled.

She's kissing him as if she’s sucking his cock and it's enough to almost make him come in his trousers. "Jesus, all I want is for us to fuck each other all night," he moans. He puts his hand around her wrist and guides her hand down the back of his pants, between his arse cheeks. "I've been ready for you all night," he says when she feels the top of the rubber plug. "Can't wait for you to take me home and fuck my arse."

Her soundless laughter vibrates against his chest. There’s the snap of her purse, and it's her turn now to wrap his fingers around something cylindrical. "You're not the only one who came prepared," she drawls.

"God, you're–" he gasps as he's pushed to his knees. Arthur grabs his head and urges it forward; her pubic hair tickles against his nose. He wants so badly to taste as well as smell and feel, but what his tongue meets first when he goes to lick her is the leather strap of the harness that frames her cunt. He's never licked the harness itself before, but it's unexpectedly erotic, and he wiggles his tongue underneath the leather a few times before feeling his way onto the soft wet lips of her vulva.

Usually Eames loves to tease her cunt, but they don't have much time, and she's as desperate right now to get off as he is to eat her, reaching down to spread herself open for his mouth. He gives her firm licks from side to side, his failsafe way to get her clit swollen and her wetness dripping on his tongue. He works a finger into her too and crooks it toward himself, keeps crooking it, in a come-hither motion. Her thighs tense up, and the feather-light hem of her dress tickles the nape of his neck. His nails dig into the meat of her arse as he pulls her further into his mouth. "Eames," she breathes, like she's running a marathon or running away from the cops. She sounds ragged, in need of comfort. It makes him want to stroke her even more lovingly, to wrap his lips around her clit and kiss her there long and hard. She's close now, he knows. Even though she stutters out a protest, he pulls his lips away for a moment; it'll only make her come harder. And then he gives her what she's asking for. Her cunt contracts around his tongue as she whimpers out her orgasm.

Eames strokes up her thighs and holds her close while she tries to steady her breathing. Reluctantly, he checks his disposable cell phone: 22:33.

She sighs into his mouth when he kisses her with his wet lips. He knows she likes the taste of herself, so he brings up the digit he used to finger her and she sucks it in contentedly.

But not for too long. "I haven't forgotten about you, believe me," Arthur says. "You think I'm wrecked, it isn't half of what I'm gonna do to you."

Eames tries to think of a clever retort, but his mental CPU's pretty maxed out by thoughts of said activities.

She guides his hand down to the dildo she must've inserted in the harness while he was otherwise occupied. Without even a suggestion from her, he lowers himself back down on his knees to suck the tip of the dildo. If they had proper time and could see each other, he'd make a real show of this part, moaning and deep-throating her cock. Instead, he stands back up with a kiss to her stomach along the way, and listens to her lubing herself while he fumbles with his belt buckle.

"How do you want me?" he asks, cock loosely in hand, wishing furiously he could see her right now: emerald-green couture dress hiked up around her waist, dark lipstick smeared, black harness strapped round her hips, her eyes a little swollen and cheeks all flushed, a consummately and heart-skippingly beautiful sight.

"Only one way, I guess," she says hoarsely, but then goes on anyway, plays it like she has a choice. Her voice becomes gruff. "Put your hands on the door and spread your legs."

He pushes his pants down around his ankles–no underwear tonight, thank God. There’s a thump as she puts her purse down again, and then she's draped over his back, and if he were claustrophobic he'd be in real trouble, because her four-inch heels make her as tall as him and every square inch of him feels stifled by her heat and strength. The darkness amplifies her breath in his ear, and it's as if the whole world is her, the lingering smell of her cunt and the slick surround of her hand grasping his cock; he just wants to melt into it all. Her hands creep around to his arse, and she squeezes his cheeks hard while she spreads him open. The plug is worked out of his arse and gets replaced by one, then two, then three of her slicked-up fingers making sure his hole stays stretched out.

Arthur delivers a kiss to the nape of his neck and sighs happily. "Ready?"

"Yes," he breathes.

Then, fuck, yes, then comes the blunt pressure of the cockhead at his entrance. Eames takes a deep breath and tries to release all the tension from his body. No matter how much they prepare for this, he's always a bit too tight at first. She takes her time, sliding in centimeter by centimeter, waiting, pulling out, sliding in a little more. He pushes back onto it as much as he can, and she wraps both hands around his stomach to help him onto her as gently as possible. Her kisses on his neck relax him, and so do her hands kneading his chest and shoulders.

“So fucking hot,” she pants. “I wish I could see you right now.”

When she can finally sink all the way in, with a satisfying glide he feels all down his body, she stills and holds him close for a moment. He's antsy, but he savors the embrace, wishes his arms weren't occupied in keeping both of them from collapsing to the floor.

"So," she says, trying for nonchalance, "wanna come?"

All Eames can do is groan.

She picks up the pace gradually. He feels her raise up on her toes so she can angle her cock downward, toward his prostate. The change in position makes a huge difference. Where before her thrusts just felt good, they now feel so delicious that some silly animal part of his brain worries his whole body might crumple like a cheap lawn chair. Her fingers teasing his nipples don't help matters. "Arthur, fuck, yes," he gasps. His cock is throbbing, and her cock is sliding against his nerve endings–he's helpless to do anything but hang his head down and squeeze his eyes shut until he sees phosphorescent bursts.

When she starts to work his cock, Eames knows he hasn't got much longer. The pleasure is everywhere, spreading all over his middle and down his thighs so they start to quiver in earnest; the back of his neck is tingling, he's talking nonsense, and it’s Arthur, beautiful, strong, inescapable Arthur whom he couldn't have invented if he'd tried who’s making him feel this way; that fact alone, he thinks, could make him shoot his load across five counties–

Or against the back of a door in a storage room in a Danish art gallery, at least.

Then his arms give out and he's just barely holding himself up anymore. Now Arthur is the one supporting him as she gathers him close and helps him stand, and it's a few moments before he can reassemble his faculties enough to turn in her arms and smile a huge gormless smile against her forehead.

"That was bloody fucking incredible." He takes her face in his hands. "If there's ever a gold medal in ass-fucking, you ought to get it. You know in Russia they consider chess a sport? Like, an actual sport?"

"Hmmm," she says distractedly, running her fingers through the back of his hair before releasing him with a sigh. "OK, checklist time. Pants?"



He pulls it out of his pocket. 22:47. 13 minutes until Møller’s arrival. "Check."

"My purse, check. Here, wipe yourself off with these." She hands him some tissues and he slides one through his come on the door. "Oh, fuck fuck."

"What is it?"

"Forgot makeup remover."

Eames smiles and reaches deep in his pocket. "You're not the only one who’s prepared."

He rips open a packet. "C'mere." When he finds her face in the darkness, he gently wipes the towelette around her mouth, chin and jaw before giving his own mouth a brisk once-over. When he remembers what's just happened to his neck, he rubs over that too.

"You are so useful," she says, fondness in her voice.

"Ahh, I love you too. We ready to go? We've got about twelve minutes."

"Let's go then." She reaches for his hand. "Close your eyes. I'm about to open the door.”

Eames squeezes her hand and closes his eyes.
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la pellegrina

May 2012

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