Nellie (cthonical) wrote,


Carporn, orginally written for cherrybina 's ass worship fest. NC-17, 1,876 words. 
AN: Watch me totally fail to actually have any ass worship lol. Arthur does fuck Eames into the hood of an Astin Martin though. Also the most perfect partner in crime ever, Lydia took one for the team and drew this even though she doesn't like bottom Eames. (NSFW) :3 <3

Arthur is twenty-four years old when he cashes his first million dollar paycheck.

This doesn't surprise Eames. What does surprise him is the fact that instead of some meticulously researched investment properties or something equally pragmatic, Arthur buys a car.

"It's... nice," Eames says, crossing his arms and trying to work out exactly what the appeal is as Arthur runs his hands reverently along the fender.

"It's so far beyond nice it's ridiculous, Eames," Arthur says, like it should be obvious. "This is a '63 DB5. It is the car of my dreams."

"You've never driven one of these in a dream before."

Arthur doesn't even look at him. "The real thing is a million times better." He runs his hand along the bonnet again, along the flawless lines of shine from the garage's overhead lights.

"Uh-huh." He doesn't mean to be dismissive, he really doesn't, but it's getting late and at this rate he's going to start feeling jealous about the way Arthur is stroking a fucking car.

"There's really nothing that could make this any better," Arthur continues.

"Two '65 DB7s?" Eames tries helpfully.

" ‘63 DB5. And no, although that wouldn't be bad. I suppose I could get one in silver." He pauses. "I could get one in silver and have it painted red, and then I could bend you over the hood and fuck you."

It takes Eames three tries to process the sentence. "Wait, what?"

Arthur just smiles at him, drumming his fingers lightly along the edge of the windshield. "I could have it painted red. Then I could bend you over the hood and fuck you."

Every word is enunciated with sharp edges, as if there was even any doubt what he said the first time. Eames's cock twitches at the thought, being pressed down against cool metal while Arthur fucks into him from... "Why the bloody hell does it have to be red?" He looks pointedly at the sleek black bonnet of the car.

Arthur shrugs like it's nothing, like he's not being a monumental cocktease right now. "I think your ass would look better on red."

"I think you're wrong," Eames says.

“I think there’s one way to find out.” Arthur taps the bonnet. “Take off your belt, hands on the hood.”

Eames looks at Arthur, then the bonnet of the car. “You’re serious?”


Arthur isn’t exactly wearing his deadly serious face, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking, either. Eames undoes his belt, sliding it through the loops and dropping it on the floor. “Like this?” he asks, resting his hands lightly on the pristine finish. He shifts his fingers slightly, looking at the fingerprints he’s leaving. The idea that soon Arthur’s going to make him come all over the bonnet of this ridiculous car has him half-hard already.

“Just like that.”

Eames hears movement behind him, and then deft hands are reaching around to undo his fly. Arthur’s breath is warm against the back of his neck, so much warmer than the cool air that washes over his cock when Arthur tugs his pants and boxers down in one motion.

“It’s a 1963 Aston Martin, to be precise,” Arthur says, biting Eames’s earlobe.

His fingers curl against the bonnet. “Is it now.”

“It is. They made less than nine hundred of them.”

Every muscle in Eames’s stomach and thighs quiver as Arthur strokes purposefully over the backs of his thighs, up over his arse. He just pets for a moment, a warm weight against Eames’s back.

“That’s all very interesting, love. But it’s not getting me fucked into this bonnet, is it?”

Not that Arthur can fuck him into this bonnet, really, because that would need—

Fuck,” Eames gasps, when he feels warm, slippery fingers press against his hole, teasing pressure.

Arthur seems to ignore him, just rubbing those two wet fingers against him, slow and insistent like there’s all the time and not a care in the world. “No, it’s not. But you need to understand exactly what it is you’re getting fucked into. “

“You brought lube down here,” Eames says accusingly, dropping his head forward a little so he can arch back against Arthur’s hand better.

“Of those eight hundred and eighty,” Arthur continues, “Only a hundred or so were convertible.”

Both fingers push into him at once, enough for a pleasant burn but not enough to hurt, and Eames leans into it with a low moan. He can see his breath marring the car’s finish, damp fog from hot breath and cold metal.

Arthur twists his wrist. “This is a convertible,” he says.

“Okay,” Eames says, shuddering against the change in pressure as Arthur spreads his fingers once before pulling them out. A few seconds later it’s three, dripping with lube, working him open with the same determined efficiency Arthur gives to anything he sets his mind to. The wet sounds seem loud in the empty, open space of the garage, and Eames presses down hard against the bonnet of the car for more leverage. “Shit, yeah, like that,” he hisses.

“So you have to understand, Eames,” Arthur must be using his free hand to pour more lube, because bloody hell, he can feel it dripping down his balls. “There aren’t many people I’d fuck over my million dollar car.”

“Was this part of your dream too, then?” Eames gets out, and fuck it, he’s grinding back shamelessly on Arthur’s fingers now, feeling them spread him wide. He’s hard, so fucking hard, and when he looks down there are spots of precome from his cock standing out stark white against the black finish of the car. His come is on Arthur’s million dollar car, and it shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is.

“I may or may not have jerked off to thoughts of fucking a man over the hood of a ’63 DB5 in the past,” Arthur says, and his own voice is starting to break at the edges. Those little ripples at the edge of his enunciation that Eames loves to hear, because they mean Arthur is losing control, losing control over him.

He pushes back harder, taking Arthur’s fingers as deep as he can. “Well,” he pants, arching his spine and groaning when the angle changes into something utterly perfect that makes his hips buck forward, “are you going to fuck a man over the hood of your ’67 GD9 or not?”

Arthur growls, planting a hand between Eames’s shoulder blades and shoving him down so his cheek is pressed against the bonnet. “I am going to fuck you until you get the fucking name right.”

Arthur twists the fingers in Eames hard, as if to make his point, sending a jolt all the way up Eames’s spine and straight to his cock. And God, he can’t keep this up much longer, he’s going to be reduced to incoherent syllables and Arthur’s name, but it’s too much damn fun when Arthur’s all riled up before a fuck. “Not much incentive to get it right then, is there?”


Arthur slips his fingers out of Eames’s ass, and Eames can’t help the pained sound he makes low in his throat.

There’s the rustle of clothing being rearranged, and a few seconds later Eames feels the warm head of Arthur’s cock pressing against his slick hole. He tries to push back, arch his spine just enough for Arthur to slide in, but it doesn’t work.

“What’s the car, Eames?” Arthur says, low, digging the fingers of one hand into the curve of Eames’s ass.

Eames grits his teeth, because it shouldn’t be this easy to give in. He should make Arthur fight for it just a little bit longer. But he’s spread open, wet and filthy and Arthur’s goddamn cock is so close to actually fucking him, just barely pressing in, and he has his limits. “1963 Aston Martin DB5, come on, Arthur.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Arthur thrusts in, slick and easy.

“Why do you make this so fucking hard sometimes,” Arthur growls, tugging Eames’s collar down with his teeth so he can bite at the nape of his neck.

Eames hisses, bracing his knees against the bumper and clawing his hands against the unforgiving steel. Arthur doesn’t ride him hard often, not like this, but it’s so fucking worth baiting his temper for it.

He’s trying to concentrate on a witty response when Arthur picks up the pace, fucking him with long, hard strokes that make his toes curl. “Arthur,” he says, and it’s half encouragement half warning, because there’s no way he’s going to last much longer.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he pants. “Fuck, Eames.”

Slim fingers slide across his stomach, and for one perfect breath-defying second Eames thinks Arthur’s finally going to wrap a hand around his cock and stroke him through it. Instead it slips under his shirt, sliding up to rub one nipple. And it’s not a hand on his cock, but when Arthur pauses for a second to kick his legs further apart, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

“I’m...” Eames chokes out. “Fuck, Arthur, I’m this close to....”

“I’m going to touch your cock in a second,” Arthur hisses, ragged and utterly perfect. “I’m going to jerk you off and you’re going to— you’re going to come on this fucking car.”

The words alone are enough to make Eames groan. His knees hurt from the bumper and there’s a faint sort of ache beneath how good Arthur feels pounding into him that’s a definite precursor to being sore in the morning, and all he can think is yes, yes please, right now.

It’s almost embarrassing how fast he comes when Arthur finally does curl his fingers around his cock, barely one stroke and he’s done, gasping, knees shaking from the effort.

“Eames, Eames, fuck,” Arthur groans, scratching down the side of Eames’s ass as he comes , and Eames can’t even muster up the energy to flinch away from the pain.

They lean together for a moment, before Arthur braces a gentle hand on Eames’s lower back and pulls out. Eames winces at the friction, the warm drip of Arthur’s come down his thighs. Yeah, he’s a mess, and he’s going to be fucking sore.

He takes a deep breath, finally pushing up off the bonnet of the ’63 DB5. There’s thick white splattered on the black, and Eames grins at the fact that Arthur let him come on his million dollar car.

He turns slowly, muscles still quivering. “So, was it everything you dreamed it would be?”

Arthur rakes a hand through his hair and takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know. We might have to try it again. On a red one.”

Eames raises an eyebrow.

“For comparison, obviously.”


Eames is already thinking about where they might be able to pick up the next job with a six figure pay check.

Spanking Arthur Till He Cries, an extra to the motorbike porn here. NC-17. 649 words.

Arthur's trembling by the time Eames urges him up onto his hands and knees, gasping wetly into the pillow as Eames strokes down over his arse. He can't feel Arthur's skin properly through the gloves, can't read every little twitch and shiver, but he decided it was worth it somewhere between the sounds Arthur made when he fingered him and the feel of Arthur's mouth sucking him through the leather.

"Ready to beg?" Eames asks, sliding his fingers up through the come still dripping down Arthur's inner thigh from his last orgasm.

"No," Arthur says, muffled, spreading his knees further apart.

Eames leans down to kiss the bottom ridges of his spine. Arthur's come three times already, hand and fingers and tongue driving him closer and closer to breaking. Eames could fuck him now, he knows, and the fourth one would probably push Arthur to tears. Or...

He squeezes Arthur's arse just because he can. Or, he could try for five, because there's really nothing more gorgeous than seeing Arthur sobbing and broken and covered in come, and knowing Arthur loves it.

"Sure?" Eames asks, one more time.

By the time Arthur sucks in a breath to reply, Eames has already lifted his hand and brought it down hard on Arthur's arse.

"Fuck," Arthur chokes out, toes curling against Eames's calves.

Eames smooths his hand over the bright red mark. "Now?"

"No," Arthur snaps.

The leather protects Eames's hand from the sting and makes a satisfying thwack when it hits Arthur's skin. He can see the shape of his fingers in the red stains spreading across the pale curve of Arthur's arse, like a tag, like a footnote that says I am Eames and this is mine.

Arthur sobs on the third smack, fingers clawing the pillows. "For fuck's sake, hit me like you mean it if you're going to hit me."

Eames hesitates a second, because as gorgeous as Arthur is when he's letting Eames brutalise him, he never really wants to hurt him. But this is Arthur, and because it's Arthur asking, Eames does it.

The fourth blow rings loud even over the rough pant of Arthur’s breath. The arch of his spine seems impossible, a taut curve that quivers when Eames bends down to soothe some of the burn with his tongue. He drags his left hand across Arthur’s untouched cheek, so cool beside the angry heat, until those gloved fingers are dipping back inside Arthur. He’s still so wet and open, pliant, and pushes back against Eames’s hand as he slides two fingers in deep and easy. “All you have to do is say the words, Arthur,” Eames says, twisting his fingers just to hear Arthur make that wet sobbing sound again.

“Maybe... maybe I don’t want to.”

Eames smacks him again, hard as he can, and even the leather glove can’t stop the force from stinging his hand. He can feel Arthur clench around his fingers as the blow lands, so hot on the inside just like the hot red marks across his arse. “I love how stubborn you are.”

Arthur just groans in response, sliding his hand down to his own cock. He comes on the next smack, jerking like he’s been shocked and crying out into the pillow.

But Eames keeps fingering him, slow strokes, long and deep.

“Okay,” Arthur gasps, writhing. “Okay, okay, fucking stop.”

“I think I’m going to fuck you instead,” Eames says.

Arthur arches back onto his fingers, shaking, all the smooth muscle in his back heaving as he sobs.

“Okay?” Eames prompts, sliding his fingers out.

“Fucking do it then,” Arthur hisses, the sound even more sibilant through his tears. “Fuck me.”

Eames grabs his hips, hard, and does just that.

Professor!Eames Fucks BB!Genius!Arthur With Arthur's Purple Dildo. Set in the same verse as On The Curve and This Time I'll Teach You How To Dance. NC-17. 902 words. 
WARNING: Underage/Age Difference

“I’m going to be late for my first fucking class,” Arthur says, flipping through papers and throwing them into his briefcase. “Fucking car, fucking snow. Fuck.”

Eames watches from the door, leaning back against the frame as Arthur grabs a shirt from the closet. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah, because it’s not going to be hard enough to get those third years to take me seriously as it is or anything.”

It’s a testament to how nervous Arthur really is that he’s even admitting that. “It’ll be the same as for any new teacher,” Eames says. “Trial by fire. They’ll try to push you, test you out. Set your limits, give the first cocky idiot who thinks they’re smarter than you a verbal kick in the teeth, and don’t react when anyone calls you short stuff.”

“I’m not fucking short,” Arthur mutters, frowning at the piles of paper on his desk while he buttons his shirt. “Grab my tie would you? My red one?” He waves behind him at the college-issue dresser. “Top drawer.”

Eames unfolds his arms and crosses the floor. Arthur’s bed is unmade, a rumpled mess of comforter and sheets that doesn’t surprise Eames in the slightest considering how much Arthur kicks and thrashes in his sleep, but the dresser drawer is neat. Socks, underwear, and ties all folded up, arranged into tidy rows.

His hand is on the red tie he thinks matches Arthur’s shirt best when he spots it, half hidden under a pair of black boxer briefs he’s reasonably sure he’s stripped off Arthur before. He isn’t sure what he expected Arthur’s dildo to look like. Purple definitely wasn’t the colour that had first jumped to mind.

Eames glances at Arthur’s back, then down at the toy again. It’s sleeker than his own cock, not quite as big, and he wonders if the sounds Arthur makes when he fucks himself with it are different to the ones he makes when it’s Eames inside him rather than purple silicone.

On an impulse he reaches his other hand into the drawer and grabs the dildo, slipping it into his satchel before handing Arthur his tie. “Here."

Arthur turns, taking the tie and slinging it around his neck before running a tentative hand over his freshly slicked back hair. “Okay. Let’s go.”


Eames throws the dildo in the bottom drawer of his bedside table and forgets about it for a week, until Saturday night finds Arthur stalking out of the ensuite still damp and completely naked, crawling up Eames’s body and rocking down against the soft fabric of his sweat pants.

Eames drops the book he was reading over the side of the bed, sliding his hands up over Arthur’s shoulder blades. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Arthur mimics, breathy, and Eames can feel him hard against his stomach.

There’s no doubting what Arthur wants. Eames should be interested... he is interested, but they already fucked on the couch before dinner and Arthur still doesn’t quite get the concept of a refractory period longer than twenty minutes. But...

“Roll over,” he says. Arthur complies quickly, grinning, arching his spine just enough to lift his arse in silent invitation.

It only takes a few seconds to pull out the dildo and lube it up before shifting in behind Arthur, curling over his body. “Lift your knee a little.”

He does, spreading his legs and opening him up enough for Eames to reach down and tease his hole with the slick purple tip.

Arthur jerks. “What the fuck? Is that my--”

“Shh,” Eames soothes, sliding his free hand up to stroke Arthur’s fingers. He increases the pressure, feels Arthur’s body give way enough to slip an inch in. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says.

“It is, by the way,” Eames says. “Your dildo.”

Arthur groans, rutting down as Eames pulls the toy out and just teases around the outside. He can already feel the wet spot on his knee through the sweatpants, where Arthur is rubbing against him. “More?”

“Do it.”

Eames leans back and picks up the bottle of lube, pouring straight onto the cleft of Arthur’s arse. It drips down, adding to the wet patch on his knee, but he’s not sure if Arthur’s ever done this without the courtesy of a finger or two first so he’s not taking any chances. He squeezes Arthur’s hand when he presses the dildo into him again, slow, working his wrist in little half circles to ease Arthur open.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes.

“I can’t, love,” Eames says, kissing the warm angle of Arthur’s shoulder blade when he moans and presses his arse back against the toy, taking it deeper. “But hopefully this is good enough.”

It almost sounds like Arthur’s about to say something, but a gasp is all that comes out, toes curling against Eames’s foot.

Eames gives his wrist one last twist and that’s all it takes, his fingers pushed up against the hot pulse of Arthur’s skin. “That’s it,” he says. He doesn’t move for a second, just lets Arthur adjust to the thick stretch of the dildo. When he stops trembling a little Eames pulls it out. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you,” he says as he slides it back in, one smooth stroke that makes Arthur clench the pillow with his free hand.


Eames smiles against Arthur’s skin, and sets to making it happen.

Okay so not quite of doom, I had some other stuff like the other stories in the Tales From Liberty City 'verse (first time kissing and first time Arthur busted Eames out of detention) but it's late and I figure they can have their own GTA!verse post later). 
Tags: arthur's shoulders omfg, bb!arthur is my new kryptonite, fanfiction, inception fuck yeah, lydia is the most glorious pony, professor eames=pure sexy, whooo yeaaah
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