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The first time Eames met Arthur, he genuinely thought Cobb had broken into a high school and dragged out a random nerd—one of the worst kinds, no less. The boy—because he couldn't possibly be older than twenty—stood framed in the warehouse's flickering fluorescents, his cheap black-rimmed glasses catching the sickly light like twin camera lenses. Each curl in his midnight hair seemed precisely calculated to project academic dishevelment, the kind cultivated by Ivy League overachievers who wanted to appear too engrossed in quantum physics to bother with combs. The crisp white shirt tucked into his pleated trousers screamed debate team captain, right down to the faint ink stain on the pocket that Eames would later learn was actually a Montblanc fountain pen leak.
“Eames, this is Arthur. Arthur, Eames,” Cobb introduced the two with his usual calm efficiency, completely ignoring the blatant skepticism written across Eames' face.
Arthur extended his hand like a surgical instrument, palm dry and fingers aligned at perfect right angles. "Your reputation precedes you," he said in a voice smoother than the warehouse's concrete floors, though the faint crease between his eyebrows betrayed his distaste at Eames' grease-stained leather jacket.
Eames let the hand hang suspended for three full heartbeats before clamping down with a grip that could crack walnuts. "So this is your new recruit, Cobb?" Eames barked a laugh. "What is this? A science fair prize? Are we even sure he’s legal."
“You’ll find out when you work with him,” Cobb replied evenly, seemingly immune to Eames’ antagonism. “The kid’s logical, precise, and highly adaptable. His research skills are exactly what we need to create a more realistic dream.”
“Ha bloody ha,” Eames scoffed, pacing idly to the side. He picked up a paper model from the table and began to idly fiddle with it, his fingers tracing the intricate details. “Dreamsharing isn’t some extracurricular project for overachieving students, Cobb. You need creativity, not research papers.”
Arthur’s jaw twitched. "I’ve attend fourteen dream-sharing test with zero incidents." He adjusted his glasses with a jerk of his wrist, the gesture betraying his first flicker of irritation. "But I’m sure your method of winging it until projections swarm is far more sophisticated."
The air thickened. Eames opened his mouth, ready to eviscerate this walking Wikipedia entry—until he caught the faintest tremor in Arthur’s left pinky where it braced against his thigh. Ah. There you are. The kid was good, but not that good.
"Children," Cobb warned, massaging his temple. "We’re here to steal an election blueprint, not reenact Lord of the Flies. Eames, you’re on infiltration. Arthur—"
"—will stick to his coloring books," Eames finished with a wolfish grin. "Lovely."
The job should have been textbook simple—infiltrate the mark's subconscious during his weekly visit to Club Dionysia, a neon-drenched pleasure palace where politicians went to pretend they had human vices.
The mark’s lair reeked of hubris and overpriced cologne—a velvet-roped VIP section drowning in champagne flutes and cigar smoke. Eames melted into the throng, his leather jacket swapped for a silk shirt unbuttoned to scandalous depths, the glint of a gold Rolex peeking beneath his cuff. Too easy. The legislator held court like a Roman emperor, projections circling him in sharp suits that couldn’t hide their telltale rigidity.
Eames was two steps from the mark’s ear, a custom sedative pen poised between his fingers, when the universe decided to implode.
A crash. A curse. A familiar mop of curls ducking beneath a tray of shattered martini glasses.
No.
Arthur moved with the grace of a wind-up toy soldier, his borrowed waiter’s uniform straining at the shoulders, sleeves riding up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle that Eames hadn’t noticed before. The collision was textbook clumsy—elbow jostling the mark’s drink, ice cubes skittering across the man’s Italian loafers—but Eames saw the calculation beneath the act. Saw how Arthur’s fingers lingered a half-second too long near the man’s breast pocket.
Idiot. Reckless, suicidal idiot.
Chaos detonated.
The mark surged up, face purpling. "You blithering—!"
Eames didn’t wait for the projections to mobilize. He was already moving, brass knuckles materializing in his palm like magic. The first swing caught a projection mid-lunge, cartilage crunching satisfyingly under his fist. The second was pure instinct—an elbow to the solar plexus, a knee to the groin. He grabbed Arthur’s bicep, fingers digging into muscle harder than necessary. "Move," he snarled, yanking him toward the fire exit.
They burst into an alley reeking of stale beer and urine. Arthur doubled over, blood pattering onto the asphalt in fat crimson drops. His glasses hung crooked, one lens cracked like a spider’s web.
“You’ve completely screwed my plan!” Eames slammed the iron gate at the end of the alley and whirled on Arthur, his voice thick with fury. “I told Cobb I’m not interested in babysitting. And this—this proves I was right!”
Arthur lifted his head slowly. Blood streaked his lips, glossy and obscene in the flickering neon. "I'm not... a baby," he rasped, breath hitching. Not from pain, Eames realized. From adrenaline. The kid’s pupils were blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
Then Arthur’s hands were on his belt, cold fingers fumbling with the buckle.
"What the—" Eames’ protest died in his throat as Arthur sank to his knees, the crackle of broken glass beneath him drowned out by the roar of blood in Eames’ ears. The first touch was electric—a velvet vise of heat and pressure that short-circuited every synapse in his brain. Arthur’s mouth was a revelation, all ruthless efficiency and calculated rhythm, his broken nose doing nothing to stifle the obscene wet sounds echoing off the alley walls. Eames' fingers became snarled in those ridiculous curls, holding on like a man clinging to a life raft in a hurricane.
It was sudden, jarring, and—bloody good.
It was undeniable—Arthur was no baby. No baby could take his cock so deep, so completely. Eames could feel every inch of Arthur's throat, tight and unrelenting, as if it had been made for this. The furious rhythm of Arthur's mouth was like a storm, unrelenting and overwhelming, until Eames was left utterly wrecked, gasping for air as his body sagged back into place.
Arthur rose slowly, his movements calm and deliberate despite the chaos he’d just unleashed. Tilting his head back slightly, he wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, the motion careless, almost dismissive. Eames’ eyes trailed down to his throat, watching it move as Arthur swallowed, no hesitation in his actions. The realization hit Eames like a second wave—Arthur had taken everything, not a drop left behind.
“We’re even,” He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I messed up your plan, and you messed up my throat.”
Eames opened his mouth—to curse, to demand answers, to do something—but Arthur was already walking away, a manila folder materializing in his hand like a magician’s trick.
"Extraction 101," Arthur tossed over his shoulder, the ghost of a smirk in his tone. "Distract the projections while the mark’s patting himself down for spilled drinks. You’re welcome… darling."
The folder hit Eames’ chest with a slap. Inside: blueprints, schedules, every dirty secret the mark had buried in his subconscious.
Clever little shittie.
Eames stared at the retreating figure, the alley suddenly too hot, too narrow. Arthur paused beneath a flickering streetlamp, backlit in sulfur-yellow halo. For a heartbeat, Eames could’ve sworn he saw the kid’s shoulders shaking—not with fear, but silent laughter.
Then he was gone, leaving Eames alone with the echo of his own heartbeat and the dawning realization that Cobb hadn’t hired a prodigy.
He’d hired a goddamn force of nature.
Years later, when everyone in the dream-sharing assumed Arthur had always been the man in the perfectly tailored three-piece suit, only Eames remembered the first time the boy had ever worn such custom-made attire.
Now, standing in the dimly lit bar of a five-star hotel, Arthur looked every inch the polished professional he’d worked so hard to become.
The first thing Eames noticed was the suit—a flawless ensemble from Christian Dior, custom-tailored to fit Arthur's lean frame like a second skin. It was obvious where Arthur had spent his first paycheck. The fabric gleamed under the low lighting, accentuating the subtle curves of his narrow hips and waist. Eames couldn't help but wonder how many pairs of eyes had lingered on that ass in those sharply cut trousers. Arthur's shoulders were broader now, his posture impossibly straight, and his legs—long, lean, and perfectly proportioned—were crossed with studied nonchalance at the knee.
But it was the absence of the cheap glasses that struck Eames the most. Without them, Arthur's eyes seemed sharper, more piercing, like twin lasers capable of cutting through any pretense. His hair was neatly trimmed and swept back now.
"Christ on a crutch," Eames muttered, taking a slow drag on his cigarette. "Who the bloody hell are you, and what did you do to my science boy?"
Arthur smirked, adjusting his tie with a practiced ease that spoke of countless hours spent perfecting such gestures. "Just trying to look the part," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Someone told me they weren't interested in babysitting, so I figured I should stop giving them reasons to think I needed it."
Eames chuckled, stepping closer. The faint scent of expensive cologne wafted toward him, mingling with the smoky tang of whiskey and the faintest hint of something uniquely Arthur—something sharp and intoxicating. "I thought you didn't care what I thought," he said, his tone playful but laced with a underlying seriousness.
Arthur's smirk widened, and for a moment, Eames saw the familiar flicker of that old fire in his eyes. "I don't," he replied, though his gaze dropped slightly, betraying a hint of vulnerability. "But I do care about appearing competent. This suit was a good investment."
Eames raised an eyebrow, running a speculative glance over Arthur's frame. "Competent, yeah," he drawled, leaning in until their shoulders brushed. "But for now, I'd rather tearing them."
Arthur's cheeks flushed ever so slightly, a reaction Eames found infinitely amusing. "Be careful," Arthur warned, his voice steady despite the faint tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his cuffs. "This suit cost a fortune."
Eames grinned, slipping a hand into his pocket and pulling out a lighter. He flicked it open with a practiced motion, the flame casting shadows across his face. "Mal would buy you another one," he said casually, though there was a warmth in his voice that surprised even him. "She's been talking about adopting you with Cobb."
Arthur rolled his eyes, but there was a softness in his expression that gave away his amusement. "I'm not a stray dog, Eames."
"No," Eames agreed, stepping back and lighting his cigarette with deliberate slowness. "You're worse."
Arthur's lips twitched into a smirk, and for a moment, the tension between them felt almost palpable. Eames could see the gears turning in Arthur's mind—calculating, analyzing, weighing every possible outcome. But beneath that carefully constructed facade of control, there was something else. Something raw and unpredictable that Eames had always found impossible to resist.
"Well," Arthur said finally, breaking the silence with a smoothness that belied the turmoil in his eyes. "Shall we get to work?"
Eames took a long drag on his cigarette, letting the nicotine course through his veins before exhaling slowly. "Work?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Or shall we see how many buttons you can make me pop with that pretty mouth of yours?"
Arthur's smirk turned into a full-blown grin—one that Eames hadn't seen in years but recognized instantly. It was dangerous, reckless, and entirely unlike the Arthur everyone else knew. "Careful," Arthur warned again, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might just end up falling to me."
Eames stepped closer once more, until there was barely an inch between them. "I already do," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "Now let's see if you can keep up."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a challenge in them that Eames couldn't ignore. "You're on," he said simply.
The job was simple, yet fraught with danger. Simple because they didn’t need to extract anything—just militrarize the subconscious of a Russian arms dealer’s daughter. Dangerous because they had to pass the father’s test before they could even begin to navigate the labyrinth of her mind.
The test was straightforward: survive the projections for as long as possible without being shredded by the militraized subconscious. They had faced projections before, but nothing quite like this. The man’s mind was a fortress, every corner guarded by relentless soldiers programmed to dismantle intruders.
Arthur moved with the precision of a predator, his glock in hand, each shot precise and deadly. The projections lunged at him from all sides, their movements mechanical but relentless. He ducked under a wild swing, the blade whistling past his ear, and retaliated with a rapid shot. The bullet hit the projection square in the chest, sending it crumbling into fragments of light.
The fight was brutal, and Arthur could feel the toll it was taking on him. His movements were becoming slower, his breaths heavier, and his grip on his gun faltering. The projections were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. Arthur knew he couldn’t keep up much longer.
One projection stepped forward, eyes glowing with a cold, calculated intensity. Arthur lunged, his karambit slicing through the air with a deadly precision. But the projection anticipated his move, sidestepping effortlessly and countering with a swift kick to Arthur’s ribs. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backward, his knife slipping from his grasp.
A gun cocked. Three projections materialized from the shadows, barrels trained on Arthur’s chest. Time seemed to freeze as the barrels gleamed under the dim light, each one a cold, unblinking eye waiting to pull the trigger.
Eames acted on instinct. A knife slid from his sleeve—Arthur’s karambit—and buried itself in the lead projection’s throat. Blood sprayed, dark and viscous, as the body crumpled to the ground.
“Run!” Eames shouted, grabbing Arthur’s arm and yanking him toward a service stairwell. “You stole my—” Arthur began, but Eames cut him off with a growl.
“Later, princess!”
They burst through the stairwell door, the sound of pursuit echoing behind them. Bullets whizzed past, tearing through the air like angry bees. Arthur’s suit was already torn at the knee, a jagged rip marring the pristine fabric. His lip was split, bleeding steadily, but he didn’t flinch. He was a soldier now, every step precise, every movement calculated.
“Slow down,” Arthur said suddenly, pulling Eames to a halt. “They’re getting closer.”
Eames raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan, Mr. point man?”
Arthur didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device, fiddling with it expertly. “Distraction,” he said simply, tossing it into the stairwell behind them.
The device detonated with a loud bang, sending debris flying and creating a temporary barrier between them and their pursuers. Eames grinned. “Impressive,” he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely surprised.
Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile.
They reached the safehouse, collapsing onto the floor. Arthur’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving beneath the tattered remains of his suit. Eames tossed him a whiskey bottle, his own hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Still think I wing it?” Eames asked, his voice laced with amusement.
Arthur caught the bottle, wiping the neck with a look of disgust before taking a long swig. “You got lucky,” he said, his voice low and clipped.
“Lucky?” Eames leaned in, close enough to see the faint flicker of gold in Arthur’s frostbitten eyes. “Face it, darling. If it weren’t for me, the blood in your body would have already dried up.”
A beat. Two.
Then Arthur did the unthinkable—he laughed. A real, unfiltered sound. “You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was a hint of a smile lingering on his lips.
The air crackled with tension. Eames’ gaze dropped to Arthur’s ruined lip. “Careful, boy scout,” he warned. “This isn’t the way to treat someone who saved your life.”
“It’s a warning,” Arthur replied, standing with all the grace of a predator ready to strike. “Next time you steal my things, I’ll make you beg to return it.”
“Jealous, darling?” He pressed the flat of the blade to his lips in mock reverence. " I can teach you knife tricks later."
Arthur didn't turn. "That karambit has gutted men twice your size."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you." Eames traced the weapon's arc through the air. "Though I do enjoy watching you squirm."
Silence thickened. Then Arthur pivoted, his movements liquid and deliberate. Three strides brought him to the couch, one knee sinking into the cushion beside Eames' thigh.
"You want to play games?" Arthur's voice dropped to velvet danger. He plucked the whiskey bottle from Eames' grip and took a slow swig, throat working as amber liquid vanished. "Let's play."
Eames' grin turned feral. "Careful, boy scout. You might—"
Arthur's mouth crashed into his.
It wasn't gentle. It was a calculated ambush—teeth and tongue and the bitter sting of bourbon. Eames' free hand tangled in Arthur's shirt, the knife still clutched triumphantly in his right. Arthur's fingers slid into Eames' hair, tugging hard enough to burn, and for one glorious moment, the world narrowed to heat and hunger—
—until cold steel pressed against Eames' jugular.
He froze. Arthur pulled back just enough to reveal the karambit now gleaming in his own hand, the blade kissing Eames' throat.
"That's how you steal properly," Arthur murmured, thumb brushing the bruise forming on Eames' lower lip.
A provocative tease.
Eames felt his body instantly tense up, and his cock twitched involuntarily as if pulled by some irresistible force. After a whirl of dizziness, he found himself pinning Arthur down. His large hands tightly held Arthur's wrists, pressing him firmly to the ground. Their bodies were pressed closely together, their hips rubbing against each other through the fabric, that hard almost suffocating touch making his desire swell to its peak under the adrenaline rush after the battle—would burst out at any moment.
Eames lowered his head, enjoying it almost cruelly, watching Arthur squirming beneath him, those eyes full of longing and the slightly trembling body silently conveying an unspoken signal.
The karambit was back in Eames' hand again, he used the tip to lightly draw across the fragmented Christian Dior suit on Arthur's body, producing a faint yet crisp sound. His voice was low and hoarse, like a warning, or a provocation—
"No one ever told you not to steal from a thief?"
Arthur's suit buttons popped off one by one, the blade traced over his exposed fair skin, leaving shallow pink scratches.
"I do enjoy seeing you so impatient though," Arthur raised his head slightly, smiling mischievously, but his rapid breathing betrayed his true feelings inside, "but you shouldn't ruin my suit. I told you, it cost a fortune."
"We're under now." There was an air of undeniable authority in Eames' voice as he slashed open Arthur's suit pants, revealing the shape tightly wrapped in the jockstrap. He picked up the piece of torn cloth with the tip of the knife, and with a tearing sound of fabric, Arthur's erection sprang out, eagerly showing its desire to Eames.
"So eager." Eames chuckled softly, pushing the erect penis with the back of the knife.
Eames' breath puffed onto Arthur's neck, the warmth making him shiver. The knife slowly slid across Arthur's chest, outlining traces on the delicate skin, the tip pressing against his nipple, dangerous and painful, yet incredibly exciting. Arthur's body tensed immediately, a low moan escaping his throat.
Arthur closed his eyes, his legs subtly parted, unconsciously making space for Eames' next move. A sly smile curled at the corner of Eames' lips as he gently placed the knife down, took hold of Arthur's legs with both hands, and slowly spread them apart, resting them on his shoulders.
"Relax, darling." Eames' voice was deep and magnetic. He leaned down, using his tongue to gently lick the scratches on Arthur's chest, the warm wetness covering the cold and pain, causing Arthur to emit a long moan.
Arthur's hands flailed in the air before finally grabbing a fistful of Eames' hair, pulling him closer.
Eames' actions became bolder and deeper. His tongue danced sensually around Arthur's sensitive area, sometimes lightly licking, sometimes deeply sucking.
Every touch drove Arthur nearly insane.
"Fuck, Eames, when the hell... are you going to in me..." Arthur's voice trailed off because Eames had already pushed his entire cock into Arthur's ass. His body leaned forward slightly, hands gripping Arthur's buttocks tightly, fixing him firmly below himself. With every slow and powerful thrust, Arthur's body trembled, being ripped apart by some irresistible force.
Eames' movements gradually quickened, his body moving within Arthur, each impact lifting Arthur's body slightly before slamming it down again. Arthur's legs tightly wrapped around Eames' waist, pulling him closer.
"You really are a man-whore." Eames grinned, showing his crooked teeth, "Cobb should give you a lesson in workplace etiquette," he said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "When your colleagues are, well, a bit older than you, it’s probably best to be careful to flirt with them."
"That hard to resist, huh? Old man..." Arthur teased, his voice barely audible above his gasping, his fingers digging into Eames' shoulders, nails almost embedding themselves into his skin.
"Though I hate to admit it, but—yes, especially with you in that suit," Eames' thrusts grew stronger and faster. Arthur's breathing became rapid and disordered, his body twisting under Eames' control, his body suddenly convulsing violently before releasing a low, satisfied moan. He curled up in Eames' arms, then relaxed slowly, all strength draining away.
Eames lifted his head, looking at Arthur's flushed face, red from his come. He leaned down, his breath hot against Arthur's skin as he closed the distance between them. With a sudden surge of intensity, he captured Arthur's mouth in a fierce, deep kiss, his hands gripping the back of his head, pulling him closer as though he couldn't get enough.
"You two really need to stop hooking-up in my mind. It feels like my brain is flooded with your sperms." After many years, the long-suffering Dominick Cobb finally let out a frustrated roar.