Another fill from the kink meme. Yes, I am outing myself with this post. Yes, I am possibly exposing my terrible inner secrets to people in the real world who know me. At this point, I think honesty is the best policy and I'm not afraid to post this (except a little).

WARNING: This fic contains WATERSPORTS, otherwise known as UROPHILIA, or the erotic fascination with urine. In this case I will use the annoying little phrase "dont't like, don't read!"

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception! Good thing, because I'm obviously wacko.

Eames looks up from his drink at the bar and quirks an eyebrow at his only companion on this job: Arthur. Arthur, who is currently picking dust off of his suit jacket in preparation for the mark's arrival, his goal ever to be the most presentable, the most dignified. Their target today is a woman of class, one who knows next season's high fashion plans. Her designs generally bloom magnificently into the latest trends, the hottest looks. They are also worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. That is why Arthur and Eames are here, to steal them and market them to the highest bidder. With Arthur leading this easy extraction, it should all go according to plan.

But that is not why Eames is looking at his partner. He is confident that they will pull this off and has no need to seek Arthur's glance for reassurance or approval. He is, instead, looking at Arthur because he is curious.

It had started to rain in the dream.

Which intrigues him, because Eames has lately had a… yearning for something he rarely sees: Arthur, vulnerable. Arthur, flushed with embarrassment or need, or even humiliation, looking up at him with hard eyes edged in desire, the promise of punishment to come.

No, it is not a nice yearning, but he cannot help it.

That Arthur's body is betraying him now with discomfort interests Eames, because Arthur has never been caught by him before in this situation. Eames wonders what it would be like to wake up and see his partner rising, irritation clouding dark eyes, tension in his shoulders betraying his vulnerability, his need.

Eames decides to stop thinking about it, lest it somehow impact the mission at hand. He turns back to his drink, watching his delicate, pale fingers clutch the martini stem. He is wearing a model; he calls her Tiffany, though she is based off real-world Amber Padget, a rising superstar in English fashion. Her coloring is striking: long dark hair and white skin that flushes easily. Her eyes are light brown.

She has always reminded him of Arthur, albeit somewhat less pretty.

Arthur has stood from his bar stool now, and he flashes a quick glance at Eames, one hand motioning him to stay where he is. His nod to the doorway tells Eames that Ms. Amanda Teller, the mark, has finally arrived, an hour or so behind schedule. Damn the shoddy architect who had constructed this world, though Eames supposes it was the best they could do, given that sweet little Ari was studying for her finals. He looks forward to working with her again.

Eames nods back to Arthur and swirls the green liquid in his glass, watching the smaller man disappear into the woodwork of the bar. It is his turn now, time to chat up the mark. He stands and smoothes his little black dress, an Amanda Teller from just a year ago, and places his drink on the bar.

Outside, it has started to pour.


Arthur leans against the wall in the smoky back corner, his eyes on TiffanyEames and Teller as they continue to chat across a tiny round table at the front of the bar. They have been talking now for two hours. More fruity drinks appear on command, and he can hear the mark's throaty laughter under the ambient roar of conversation. Tiffany is also animated, her thin arms gesticulating as she speaks, and Arthur imagines Eames's British accent rolling from her brightly-painted lips, an octave or so too high but nonetheless… distracting.

He tries to remember the plan, which has changed since the days before the job. Amanda Teller, shrewder perhaps than anyone gave her credit for, has not subconsciously placed her secrets in the convenient wall-safe in the room behind the bar, but in her Hermès purse, clutched on her lap in a grip of iron. He saw the folder when she took out her compact earlier. Somehow, they must separate her from the bag, but since the accessory itself costs twenty-three grand, Arthur is rather at a loss as to how. But he his thinking.

It keeps his mind off other things.

He crosses his legs and chews thoughtfully on his thumbnail, irritated, while the rain runs down the sidewalk in streams.


Eames is frustrated. Amanda Teller loves to talk, but like many famous figures she never says anything. He has now heard the rundown on at least twenty of her fashion rivals, and has been forced to critique every one. He wants her to like Tiffany; she should like Tiffany. Tiffany is supposed to be parroting back her thoughts like any good projection. But Eames is bored and uncomfortable in his super-tiny dress, his exposed thighs freezing in the air-conditioned room, the clasp of his strapless bra pinching him between the shoulder-blades. He spares a moment to wonder if, perhaps, Tiffany could stand to be a little less buxom the next time he uses her.

Then, somehow, there is an opening. A young female projection has just come into the bar, dressed as some sort of secretary. When she sees Amanda Teller, her face lights up and she starts over, wending her way expertly through the crowd.

"Who is that?" Eames asks, pointing a cherry-red nail in the direction of the woman. "A friend?"

"Yes," exclaims the mark, excited, apparently. She stands and takes a step toward the projection, her voice warm. "My good friend's daughter. Ah, she has so much potential!"

Ms. Teller places her Hermès on their small, round table and opens her arms, pulling the woman into a hug. Eames takes the Hermès off the table and throws it underhand to Arthur, who catches it in both arms and exits through a back door. When Teller turns around again, her smile falters. She sees Tiffany leaving first, and then she notices the missing bag.

"Thief!" she screams, though it is low and rich, a bell, not a siren.

Eames is himself again, shoving his way through a crowd of rowdy projections beginning to sense something amiss. He reaches the door and throws a look backward, feeling his gun in the small of his back, under his waistband. Then he throws the door open and flees.

It is time to get the hell out of Dodge.

The shock of cold water almost stops him in his tracks, but Eames is smarter than that. He manages to get around the corner of the bar and into an alleyway before he lets himself feel the surprise, the dismay, and yes, the secret desire. The sky has opened up, a veritable waterfall is drenching the city and himself and shows no sign of letting up. His leather shoes slosh in an inch or two of water on the brick walkway of the alley and Eames allows himself a grin.

Things will be interesting when they wake.

In the meantime, he tries to look around. It is difficult. The storm is obscuring everything but the buildings that are closest, and Eames has to keep scrubbing water from his eyes. It is never-ending and futile. He feels glad that he doesn't need glasses, not that he would wear them when he could buy laser surgery, but the sentiment remains. He is distracted.

After a moment or two, he catches sight of a figure that can only be Arthur, pelting down the street behind the bar, away from Eames. He will take the designs somewhere safe to read, Eames knows. He relegates himself to damage control, removing his pistol. He shoots a man leaving the bar and makes his own escape.

It is hard to run in the conditions, and he throws up plumes of water when he splashes his way clumsily through a puddle. It's not as easy to be stealthy as he would like… Visibility is also shot to hell, and he finds himself jerking away from gunshots, bullets impacting the pavement too close. He hadn't even seen his opponents. He fires into the downpour, but doesn't think he hits anything.

"Dammit, Arthur," he says, because this is a completely different thing in the dream. A lack of responsibility. Then he gets hit by a car.

He wakes gasping, because even if he knows it wasn't real, having one's spine broken by tires is not a pleasant experience. He rips the IV from his wrist and looks over at Arthur, asleep beside him in an expensive armchair. They are in Amanda Teller's sitting room, and Eames spares a glance through the study door to see that she is also slumbering. Her face is peaceful, aside from the angry quirk of one carefully-sculpted eyebrow.

Arthur looks exceedingly uncomfortable.

"What happened?" asks the architect, a young man named Dylan or Dillman or something like that. His face is pinched and thin, like a rodent's. Eames does not want to look at him.

"I woke up," says Eames. "Now I want you to go into the other room while I wake up Arthur and watch the mark." He frowns. "When we get out of here, we are going to have a little discussion about layouts, hm? It shouldn't take a bloody hour for the mark to reach us."

He shoos the kid away, ignoring the baffled apology and questions, and pulls out a pair of black headphones.


"Non~ Rien de rien~ Non! Je ne regrette rien~"

Arthur starts up from poring over the dress designs. He has so little time left? Well, he has managed to memorize seven of the nine plans. He will succeed. He places another paper on the pile beside him on the floor of the warehouse, checks again for any projections and is satisfied to find none. Eames must be doing his job.

He has just committed the final details to a memory that specializes in them when he wakes.

Eames is on top of him.

"What-" he begins, angrily, and then flushes. He needs to get up. "Eames," he says with careful control. "Move."

"No," replies the man, that bastard. "Have you got all of them?"

"Yes, all nine." He looks past Eames's shoulder and realizes, belatedly, that they are alone in the room with the PASIV. "Where's Dillmond?" he asks, trying not to betray his desperation.

"In the other room, with Teller." Eames glances over at the closed study casually. "The sedative he's applying should keep her under for plenty of time, certainly enough for us to make ourselves scarce."

"Good," says Arthur. "Get off."

"Having a little trouble, darling?" Eames is smiling now, smirking really, and he looks… predatory. Arthur swallows. He is not afraid of Eames, by no means, but he is not entirely sure that he can forcibly remove the man under the… present circumstances. "It was raining rather hard down there."

Arthur cannot fight the embarrassed blush that stains his cheeks, though he does his best to avoid any other expression. "I apologize, Mr. Eames. Now get off." He places a hand against the forger's chest and pushes, but it does no good. Eames has the advantages of weight and leverage. "What do you want?"


And then Eames is leaning forward, kissing him, his jaw, stubble sliding over bare skin. Arthur shudders. This is not the first time they've kissed, and truthfully, he wouldn't mind, but there are matters to take care of. He pushes Eames away. "Stop."

"Darling, I'm only getting started." Eames's knee finds its way between Arthur's thighs and stays there. Arthur goes pale.

"What about the others?" he gasps, clutching the arms of his chair as Eames presses on him. He's fairly certain that the forger doesn't include voyeurism on his list of turn-ons, and it seems like his only chance.

"Dear Ms. Teller is knocked out, and as for our little architect…," Eames takes a key from his pocket, the key to the study, and tosses it behind him. "I'll let him out soon enough."

"I hate you."

"No, you love me. Or were you lying that one night in Prague?" Eames puts his face much too close to Arthur's. "Now where was I?"

Arthur fights back a groan as Eames starts to rock on top of him. The forger is already hard; Arthur can see it through the man's jeans. He can feel an answering twitch from his own cock, but he chokes it back. He doesn't have time for this!

From the study, they can hear the knocking of Dillmond, confused but muffled inquiries accompanying. Arthur starts to struggle.

Eames loves the look of terror on Arthur's face. Terror that he will lose his control, his dignity. Eames takes a second to feel bad, but this is, after all, what he wants. He presses closer, drawing his teeth lightly along Arthur's neck.

Arthur, for his part, is trying very hard to get away. He shoves at Eames's wrists, trying to knock him away from the chair. He kicks Eames in the shin, which makes the forger wince, but not slow. He tries to punch Eames, but he is clumsy from the pain and tension of his condition, the closeness of Eames's body. It glances. Eames makes a low noise in his throat in response. Arthur tenses under him.

"Come now, darling, it's not all bad, is it?"

But Arthur is glaring daggers and trying to pull away from Eames's inexorable pressure, scrabbling at the rich fabric of the chair and trying to back up, though he knows there is no escape that way.

There is a moment of silence, save for Dillmond's sad efforts to pick the study's lock and the obscene, but arousing sucking of Eames's mouth on Arthur's collarbone.

Then, "Please." There is no hint of anything but cold formality in the word, but Eames stops. His pretty Arthur is begging. He looks down to see Arthur's face turned away, his skin alight with a blaze of humiliation. "Please get off."

Eames is a bastard. "Didn't hear you darling," he chuckles, and leans down again. He wants to see that spark in Arthur's eyes, the gleam of murderous intent that so gets him, every time. He trails his tongue down Arthur's exposed skin, lapping, swirling, torturing.

"I said please, Mr. Eames." Arthur shifts angrily, turning his glare full-force on the forger. "Now move."

"With whipped cream and a cherry on top?" pants Eames, because he is getting close and Arthur is doing nothing to slow him now.

It surprises him when the point man shoves him again, putting all of his strength behind it. "For God's sake, you motherfucker!" snarls Arthur, obviously trying his damndest to escape, possibly with severe trauma to Eames in the process. Eames's shock has him give a little, and Arthur is now standing, legs still entangled with Eames. He is going to leave now.

But that's when they feel it: the warmth, spreading slowly and then quicker, down Arthur's beautifully tailored slacks and down Eames's jeans where their bodies are flush.

Arthur looks like he is going to kill something and then possibly die in a hole somewhere. Eames smiles, the grin creeping back onto his face.

"Darling," he begins, and Arthur decks him.


When Eames wakes up, he is in the back seat of a taxi, head banging on the window as the driver swerves through traffic. The other two members of his team are missing, but he can feel the crisp edge of a note pressing into his palm. This sensation isn't new, and he sits up to read it, other hand going to massage the massive pain in his jaw.

Mr. Eames,

I will call you tonight to discuss plans for the designs, and also plans for your punishment. Do not call me. Do not look for me.

I fucking hate you,


And Eames is content, because it was a job well done.

He can't wait to see what Arthur comes up with.

It's a little bizarre, yes, but reviews are still appreciated! Flames, however, are not.