Fic: Expectations
Expectations
Wordcount: 800
A ficlet inspired by motetus' beautiful art, which can be viewed here or at the end of the story.
Arthur had always assumed two things about sleeping with Eames: 1, that the sex would be decent and 2, that the sleeping with part would be mostly terrible with a side of torture.
Arthur's slept with--or observed sleeping--enough people in the dreamshare business to know that they're typically worse-than-average sleepers. Prone to violent nightmares, restless in bed, relentless cover-hogs, and liable to wake up at the slightest noise in a fifty foot radius. And then there's the snoring.
He's surprised to discover that's he's wrong on both counts when it comes to Eames: not only is the sex staggeringly good, but
Eames is in fact, a quiet, non-moving, heavy sleeper. No screaming out the names of dead family members in vivid nightmares. No flailing at invisible hands reaching out to grab him. No sleepwalking or sleepeating or any other sort of sleep-activity. He does drool, but Arthur considers that a relatively minor flaw in the grand scheme of sleep-related idiosyncracies and, in his more horrifyingly sentimental moments, almost finds it endearing.
"You don't even wake up when I get up to use the bathroom anymore," Arthur says as he watches Eames slide into paisley pajama bottoms. They've already fucked and Arthur still feels loose-limbed and sated, naked under the covers. Eames likes to put on pants or underwear before he goes to sleep. Arthur's not sure he sees the point since they're just going to have sex again when they wake up, but everyone has their bedtime rituals.
"Once I grow accustomed to a particular person's rhythms and sounds, I stop noticing them and they cease to wake me." Eames says as he gets on the bed. They're both too overheated from recent sexual exertions to lie closer than a few inches beside each other, but Eames puts a rather proprietary palm on the flat of Arthur's belly.
"Getting used to me talking in my sleep?" Arthur asks, covering Eames' hand with one of his.
"We had some lovely, sparkling conversations the first few nights we spent together, but those evenings are long past now," Eames replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling with good humor. "Now I simply want you for your steady Wall Street Journal subscription."
"Oh, is that why you decided to stay for breakfast instead of creeping out at dawn six months ago?"
"I could still creep out at any moment," Eames says. "You don't know. I'm unpredictable that way."
Arthur falls asleep with a smile on his face and Eames' hand on his stomach. He wakes up Eames nuzzling his nose and a hand tugging the sheet away from Arthur's lower body.
"Do I have to wake up for this?" Arthur asks, cracking open one eye.
Eames smiles against Arthur's lips. "Only if you want to."
"Would you be offended if I chose another hour of sleep over fucking you into the mattress?" Arthur asks, his own hand snaking forward to undo the drawstring of Eames' pajama pants.
"Gravely offended. Mortally offended." Eames' lips bump up against Arthur's mouth with the unmistakable tinge of morning breath, but Arthur doesn't mind so much when Eames' fingers find Arthur's dick. As it turns out, all the manual dexterity of a pickpocket makes for fantastic handjobs.
Arthur pulls Eames' waistband loose and slides a hand underneath to stroke Eames' half-hard cock. "I can live with that."
Eames can make Arthur come in forty-five seconds flat, and he also knows how to draw it out, work Arthur up. It seems impossible, yet Eames manages to play with Arthur's balls, stroke his perineum, tease his rim, and not completely abandon his dick all at once. Arthur can barely manage loose jerks of Eames' cock, half-awake like this, but Eames doesn't seem discontent.
"I want to go back to sleep," Arthur says after a few minutes, when it becomes clear Eames isn't in any hurry.
"By all means," Eames says in between each brush of his mouth against Arthur's, feather light.
"Seriously," Arthur says, sliding closer. "Make me come so I can go back to sleep already."
"So you're planning to abandon me after demanding I pleasure you."
Arthur gives Eames's cock a harder tug. "I'm just expecting you to finish what you started."
"Six months and the romance is already dead." Eames' expression is mournful while is fingers are beautifully nimble.
"I'm not really the romantic kind," Arthur says, breathing growing heavy.
Eames smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as deep lines furrow his forehead. It's unexpected and utterly gorgeous. "No, you're not."
A thought strikes Arthur, and he brings his free hand up to trace the angle of Eames' nose, the line of his brow. "Am I dreaming?"
"No," Eames says, face softening into something else, something that perhaps resembles contentment. "Neither of us are."
fin
Wordcount: 800
A ficlet inspired by motetus' beautiful art, which can be viewed here or at the end of the story.
Arthur had always assumed two things about sleeping with Eames: 1, that the sex would be decent and 2, that the sleeping with part would be mostly terrible with a side of torture.
Arthur's slept with--or observed sleeping--enough people in the dreamshare business to know that they're typically worse-than-average sleepers. Prone to violent nightmares, restless in bed, relentless cover-hogs, and liable to wake up at the slightest noise in a fifty foot radius. And then there's the snoring.
He's surprised to discover that's he's wrong on both counts when it comes to Eames: not only is the sex staggeringly good, but
Eames is in fact, a quiet, non-moving, heavy sleeper. No screaming out the names of dead family members in vivid nightmares. No flailing at invisible hands reaching out to grab him. No sleepwalking or sleepeating or any other sort of sleep-activity. He does drool, but Arthur considers that a relatively minor flaw in the grand scheme of sleep-related idiosyncracies and, in his more horrifyingly sentimental moments, almost finds it endearing.
"You don't even wake up when I get up to use the bathroom anymore," Arthur says as he watches Eames slide into paisley pajama bottoms. They've already fucked and Arthur still feels loose-limbed and sated, naked under the covers. Eames likes to put on pants or underwear before he goes to sleep. Arthur's not sure he sees the point since they're just going to have sex again when they wake up, but everyone has their bedtime rituals.
"Once I grow accustomed to a particular person's rhythms and sounds, I stop noticing them and they cease to wake me." Eames says as he gets on the bed. They're both too overheated from recent sexual exertions to lie closer than a few inches beside each other, but Eames puts a rather proprietary palm on the flat of Arthur's belly.
"Getting used to me talking in my sleep?" Arthur asks, covering Eames' hand with one of his.
"We had some lovely, sparkling conversations the first few nights we spent together, but those evenings are long past now," Eames replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling with good humor. "Now I simply want you for your steady Wall Street Journal subscription."
"Oh, is that why you decided to stay for breakfast instead of creeping out at dawn six months ago?"
"I could still creep out at any moment," Eames says. "You don't know. I'm unpredictable that way."
Arthur falls asleep with a smile on his face and Eames' hand on his stomach. He wakes up Eames nuzzling his nose and a hand tugging the sheet away from Arthur's lower body.
"Do I have to wake up for this?" Arthur asks, cracking open one eye.
Eames smiles against Arthur's lips. "Only if you want to."
"Would you be offended if I chose another hour of sleep over fucking you into the mattress?" Arthur asks, his own hand snaking forward to undo the drawstring of Eames' pajama pants.
"Gravely offended. Mortally offended." Eames' lips bump up against Arthur's mouth with the unmistakable tinge of morning breath, but Arthur doesn't mind so much when Eames' fingers find Arthur's dick. As it turns out, all the manual dexterity of a pickpocket makes for fantastic handjobs.
Arthur pulls Eames' waistband loose and slides a hand underneath to stroke Eames' half-hard cock. "I can live with that."
Eames can make Arthur come in forty-five seconds flat, and he also knows how to draw it out, work Arthur up. It seems impossible, yet Eames manages to play with Arthur's balls, stroke his perineum, tease his rim, and not completely abandon his dick all at once. Arthur can barely manage loose jerks of Eames' cock, half-awake like this, but Eames doesn't seem discontent.
"I want to go back to sleep," Arthur says after a few minutes, when it becomes clear Eames isn't in any hurry.
"By all means," Eames says in between each brush of his mouth against Arthur's, feather light.
"Seriously," Arthur says, sliding closer. "Make me come so I can go back to sleep already."
"So you're planning to abandon me after demanding I pleasure you."
Arthur gives Eames's cock a harder tug. "I'm just expecting you to finish what you started."
"Six months and the romance is already dead." Eames' expression is mournful while is fingers are beautifully nimble.
"I'm not really the romantic kind," Arthur says, breathing growing heavy.
Eames smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as deep lines furrow his forehead. It's unexpected and utterly gorgeous. "No, you're not."
A thought strikes Arthur, and he brings his free hand up to trace the angle of Eames' nose, the line of his brow. "Am I dreaming?"
"No," Eames says, face softening into something else, something that perhaps resembles contentment. "Neither of us are."
fin