Eames/Arthur
Title: Words Are Not Enough
Summary: It all started with a text message.
Rating: getting to the good stuff hotter
Word Count: 3600/?
Beta: Still not beta'd, probs not gonna be beta'd. Whatevs~
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and kinda fulfills this prompt as well (later on). Oh god Idek I'm just a wordy bastard.
A/N: Links to the pictures described are embedded when it says [Multimedia Message from Eames]. Why? Because its fun to feel like we're getting these texts as well~ Also, I tried really hard to keep all their "texts" within the 160 character limit. Haha, yes, I did.
Distantly, Arthur realizes that staring at a computer screen for the better end of five hours is probably not the smartest thing to do. There was just something about planning a well-constructed heist that demanded all of Arthur’s attention.
If I bought you a ticket to key west would you drop everything and come?
Arthur couldn’t help it, he laughed outright. Eames always had impeccable timing.
In a heartbeat.
His phone buzzed almost instantly.
Really?
Heart twisting itself in rather strange positions Arthur tapped out a reply.
Well… no, probably not. Job tomorrow, remember? But it’s a nice thought, even if I can’t remember the last time I was on a beach.
He leans back, resting his head on the back of his chair and wondering if Eames will even reply. He fingers the keys on his phone, wondering nebulously at why he actually wants Eames to reply back.
Blow off the job. I bet youd look great on the beach. Come down here & keep me company. Ill lotion your back darling
The thought of Eames’ thick fingers and wide palms against his flesh, slick with oily suntan lotion and free to touch his exposed back is enough to have Arthur shutting his eyes tightly, willing the image and phantom touches away.
I’d need SPF 4000 and I don’t think they sell it that strong. Skinny only works for women on the beach. No, I think I’ll stay here and steal things.
Arthur sighed, resting his phone against his stomach, the smooth fabric of his formfitting vest cool against his fingers.
You can make anything work kitten. Besides theres no one here its almost like a private beach. I feel you need more persuasion…
He smiles; Eames’ empty words feel a lot like flattery. Even if they don’t mean anything, he does have a way of making them sound nice.
You can try and persuade me, but it is going to take a LOT to get me to drop this job and my dignity for a pair of swimming trunks.
Sometimes, in some tenuous place between those times where Eames is a complete bastard and an insufferable flirt, Arthur quite enjoys talking to the Forger. He’s got a twisted sense of humor and a strange way of invading the thoughts, but its an enjoyable distraction to say the least.
Are you ready to really wish you were here darling?
Arthur sends a curt Yes, wondering how Eames is going to capture the magnificence of a private beach on his camera phone.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
It’s almost as good as a kick.
There, brazenly displayed on his phone’s screen were the hottest pair of tanned biceps Arthur had ever seen. Propped up on his elbows, Eames’ body was a long line of muscle. Nearly naked, perfectly tanned, very tattooed muscle. There was some blue stuff in the background that might have been the ocean or something but Arthur’s eyes kept tracing the huge, winding tattoo on Eames’ right bicep, getting distracted by the spattering of hair over a pectoral which just lead his eyes down, down, down the line of his stomach, into obscenely short swimming trunks. He’d had swimming trunks before, and those weren’t any swimming trunks he’d ever seen.
“Fucking screen,” Arthur muttered, texting the picture to his email and swearing that if the picture didn’t have a higher resolution he would fucking kill someone.
Arthur opens the picture and forgets to feel embarrassed when he makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, the picture blowing up substantially. He would never be able to see Eames in a shirt without seeing him without one; his shoulders alone could sell a porn magazine even if the long lean line of his body wasn’t interrupted by the substantial bulge in the front of his trunks. Arthur tried to convince himself that it was the angle of the photo.
It only occurred to Arthur that Eames might be expecting a reply after an embarrassingly extended period of staring at the Forger’s body. Flustered and beyond turned on he sent the first neutral thing he could think of.
Your hair is shorter.
Because what else is he supposed to say to a picture of Eames’ tanned, naked, muscled body splayed out like so much fodder for all of his dirty fantasies from now till kingdom come?
Wait. Eames wasn’t fodder for his fantasies.
Then why was he looking at a substantially enlarged picture of him on his computer screen, breathing through his mouth and fighting the urge to palm the problem between his legs?
Lol thats all youve got to say to a pic like that, pet?
Arthur frowns, pushing the keys too hard, as if his annoyance will somehow translate.
What do you want me to say to a picture like that? Who took that picture anyway?
He hit the Send button, slapping his phone down on the desk and getting even more agitated when he realizes he very well could have cracked his phone’s screen that way. Fucking Eames.
One of my mates.
Eames’ curt response frustrated Arthur even more. Why wouldn’t he just answer both questions instead of playing this stupid cat and mouse game? Someone needed to deflate Eames’ giant fucking ego and Arthur was entirely too annoyed that he was the one saddled with the task.
You didn’t answer my other question.
He expected a quick, joking retort so when it took a moment for the text to come through Arthur checked his signal impatiently. The message was opened before the message alert finished buzzing.
You dont want me to answer your other question.
Arthur blinked, strangely put-off by the lack of endearment.
Yes I do.
It wasn’t until he hit Send that he recognized that pushing this particular topic could be a very bad idea.
What do I want you to say to that pic?
He scowled at the reply.
That’s what I asked, isn’t it?
It was always like this. Eames toying with him, saying stupid things with ambiguous meanings that never mean exactly what they should mean but could always be laughed off. Arthur hates that he has to deal with Eames’ joking; he hates that he’s the only one who has to deal with it. He hates that Eames gets him so frustrated with his stupid stubble and annoying accent and blisteringly hot body.
He hits the View button with too much force when his phone vibrates.
I want you to say you like what you see. I want you to say you wish you were here, next to me, taking my pic instead. I want you to say I look better than you imagined & that youre gonna keep this pic & look at it sometime when youre alone & needy
Arthur stared at his phone, heat rising in his cheeks and reading the text several times before his hand dives into his pocket to wrap around the comforting weight of his die.
If this wasn’t a dream it had to be a joke. Some very cruel, very immature joke that Eames was taking entirely too far. No one would say something like that in a text. No one would actually say something like that to him.
No one but Eames.
~
It’s been two days. Two whole days since Arthur last heard his phone buzz and he doesn’t want to admit it but every time he finds himself eyeing his phone he knows why.
He slams the door to his apartment and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing his keys into the bowl by the front door.
The job went without a hitch, a rather routine extraction that left his mind with too much free time. Too much time to unlock his phone’s keys, under the pretense of checking the weather or his email and if that happened to give him the opportunity to see that he had a total of zero new text messages well, that was just a coincidence.
At first it was easy to ignore the silence from his phone. He had wanted Eames to leave him alone, to stop wasting his time and his patience- he had a job to do and obviously Eames had nothing better to do than torment him.
Then came the compulsive need to check his phone. Perhaps Eames had thought better and apologized for being such a prick? Arthur hadn’t realized how often he’d been checking his phone until one of his coworkers asked him if he was expecting a call.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t expecting anything from Eames.
Which put him where he was now, ridiculously aware of his phone in his breast pocket- because it fit perfectly there, not because he might miss the soft buzz in his trouser pocket. Telling himself he wasn’t aware of its still weight against his chest and knowing that lying to oneself was a colossal waste of time.
He toed his shoes off by the front door and made his way into the kitchen.
Opening his refrigerator reveals two bottles of wine, a head of lettuce, some Tupperware he’s not brave enough to venture into at the moment, and a cup of yogurt turned on its side. Arthur puts the yogurt back right side up before grabbing the Beaujolais Nouveau. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet he collapses on the couch, bottle on the chic glass coffee table and idly twirling the glass between his fingertips.
He’s never sipped anything straight from the bottle, not even unpretentious, silly stuff like Beaujolais. He could, there’s nothing, nobody stopping him.
Arthur sighs and fills the glass, not just the three fourths that would otherwise be proper with company present. He doesn’t particularly enjoy such a sweet wine, it is too vibrant, unserious. It’s the kind of wine meant for dinner parties, made to drink quickly and without thinking.
Fucking Eames. Why did he think he had the right to contact him at all? If Arthur had wanted to keep in touch, he would have given his number to the cheeky Forger to begin with. Why did he even contact him at all? Was tormenting him that much fun? Surely he could find someone else to pester, Eames was an attractive man who obviously had no qualms with flaunting himself.
But why did he insist on flaunting himself to Arthur? He was so forward; if he wanted anything from Arthur surely he would just tell him. He wouldn’t bother with this teasing, this childish ‘say you like me first’ crap, which was exactly what this all felt like.
Arthur massaged his temple, finishing off the glass and pouring another.
They were both men for fuck’s sake! He’d had sex with men before; flirting with men was easy, straightforward, upfront because in the end both parties knew what the other wanted. Arthur would have entertained a fling with the Forger if he would have just made it clear that he wanted something sexual from their rel- acquaintanceship. But Eames called him darling, touched him like he needed permission, insinuated things he never backed up and it was just frustrating as hell. Eames didn’t want him, he wanted to play with him.
And Arthur was stupid enough to miss it.
Fishing his phone from his pocket Arthur set it on his knee.
No new messages.
Drinking and having his phone within easy access was probably the worst idea possible right now. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and gently swirled the wine.
So Eames just wanted to play.
Arthur could play. Contrary to what the cocky Forger thought, Arthur had a wonderful imagination. If Eames wanted word games, that’s what he’d get. Because as frustrating as it was to hear that rough Brittish drawl in his head every time he got a text it was infinitely worse feeling like he’d closed off all communication between them.
The rest of his wine was gone in one gulp and he is sending a text in the next moment.
Say something.
He watches the little envelope icon disappear, indicating his message sent. He eyes his neutral phone background, a solar system, until his phone dims from lack of use and finally goes black. Refusing to contemplate why Eames might not be answering Arthur eyes the bottle, nearly kicking it off the table when his phone vibrates.
Arthur swallows the excitement that leaps up into his throat.
What do you want me to say?
This sounds all too familiar and suddenly Arthur cant remember why he thought this would be a good idea.
Where are you?
Arthur contemplates another glass, forgoing it in the name of capitalization and proper punctuation.
Still in key west.
Arthur pauses, refusing to send a text that simply says ‘Oh’ but everything that springs to mind seems so trivial. He could ask about Eames’ friends, but that seems too personal. He hits the Send key before he gives himself an ulcer over a text message.
How did your job go?
He almost smiles, pleasantly surprised that Eames remembered.
I was on it; that should say enough. Besides, it was very routine. You would have been bored.
When had this been hard?
With you around darling? I doubt it
Arthur felt the wine, warm in his chest and rosy on his cheeks. This was where it started, simple but blatant. He was honest enough with himself to happily note the return of the pet names.
Yes well, I have been. He added ‘What have you been doing?’ for good measure because he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to just send the first.
Missed me that much did you? Im sorry kitten, I didnt realize. Ive done everything possible to stay as far from sober as possible
How did he read that far into such a simple text? He erases the ‘Why?’ and sends ‘Perhaps, but like I said, the job was terribly routine. Sounds like fun.’ instead.
It would be more fun with you here but alas you do not desire my honest affections
Arthur raises his eyebrow.
The only thing honest about you, Eames, is your libido. What are you doing?
Sucking on his own lower lip Arthur contemplates sending that message. It couldn’t hurt and besides, Eames had sent worse. Eames would probably laugh it off and agree.
I wouldnt want to offend any of your sensibilities kitten
And he isn’t entirely sure what Eames is replying to so he sends an annoyed reply.
I’m really not the prude you make me out to be. Try me.
He sets the glass down on the coffee table, snatching his phone up when it buzzes again.
You caught me as I was heading for the shower
Arthur’s lips thin, not sure what Eames is trying to insinuate.
So? I shower. Why would that offend me?
It doesn’t take long for his phone to buzz again.
Im sitting starkers on the ledge of my mates tub talking with you
Arthur blinks, the image of Eames reclined on the beach assaults his senses in ways he shouldn’t be able to conjure- so much for a lack of imagination. It occurs to him that he hasn’t the slightest what kind of phone Eames has and yet he can picture the swell of his shoulders and the curve of his knees without any trouble.
To be fair, we aren’t talking. Do you make it a habit of texting people while naked?
It seems silly but he hits Send before he has a chance to think too clearly about why he’s asking.
Only for you darling. We can make it a habit if you wish
The reply nearly types itself.
And if I do?
Acknowledging that his stomach is knotted in apprehension to Eames’ answer is too much work for the buzz he’s got going on so he doesn’t bother.
If that means you have a habit of txting naked I demand a pic rn. If that means you want me to txt naked more often I think I can suggest something better
Arthur’s lips tick up, fighting him into a full on smirk as he words his reply.
What makes you think you can demand a picture of me naked? …Do I even dare ask what you’d suggest?
He reached up to pull his tie loose, getting as far as his second button when his phone buzzed Eames’ reply.
Because I would gladly send you one? Youre the one insisting you arent a prude darling
This certainly felt like the flirting Arthur was used to. Straightforward, uncomplicated and yet Eames found a way to make it seem so sweet.
So send me one.
When a reply didn’t come immediately Arthur went into his text history and reread their texts, wondering if he had taken it too far. His reply didn’t seem out of place considering where the conversation had been going, why the sudden pause from Eames’ end?
Arthur nearly drops his phone when it finally buzzes.
You have to promise to reply back. No running away from me this time
His thumb pauses over the Reply button, guilt worming its way around in his stomach. Had he run away? Once Eames finally came right out and said what he wanted, Arthur put his phone away and what? He didn’t want to say ‘run away’ but ‘hid’ didn’t sound very nice either.
I can’t reply if you don’t send me something.
The fog of alcohol in his system sends his head back on the couch, assessing what part of this conversation is him and what part is the Beaujolais.
This is too hard (now now dont get any ideas without me there kitten) tell me what you want a pic of specifically
There was a lot of innuendo in that reply and Arthur was suddenly very aware of the amount of saliva in his mouth. He felt vaguely obscene swallowing and thinking of Eames naked telling him not to misconstrue his meaning of ‘hard.’
Did that mean Eames was hard? Or was he saying he wasn’t hard? Why did just thinking about that make him hard?
What was the question?
You. Your face. Your tattoos?
Arthur stared at the text as it sent, breathing softly into the silence of the room and not quite sure he actually sent that to Eames of all people.
How sweet are you? Im here starkers & willing to send you anything and you want to see my face. Darling you could steal a mans heart like that
Warmth floods his chest and he’s sure he must be blushing because what else would that warmth be? Before he can figure it out or reply his phone buzzes with another text.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
The text attached to the picture reads ‘since you couldnt seem to decide if you wanted the tats or not’
The Beaujolais supplies Arthur’s mind with the word beautiful but he blushes and pushes that thought away. Eames is all strong jaw and trimmed facial hair and Arthur’s fingers itch to find out what that stubble feels like against every part of his body. His lips are pornography personified and Arthur can’t help his tongue darting out to moisten his own. There is nothing feminine in the sharp lines that lead the eyes down his neck, across his collar bone, and down his chest where the barest hint of his tattoos peek into the picture; and yet, the way he looks away from the phone is coy, almost uncertain in all of that masculinity.
Are you getting a sunburn?
His head is in his hands the second he hits Send. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d done last time? Wasn’t this exactly what Eames told him not to do?
Don’t think so. Probs just the lights. My mates dont live in the swankiest of pads.
Arthur chews his lip with every keystroke, determined not to mess this up. It shouldn’t be this hard to compliment Eames.
Oh. Well, you look good either way.
His phone buzzes almost instantly.
How often can I get you to say that to me?
Arthur smiles at that and he cant remember why he didn’t indulge in this shameless flirting more often.
As often as you like?
Because something told him that he probably could get used to saying those things to Eames if he tried. If he didn’t feel like he was going to be made the butt of some elaborate joke that ended in Eames not actually caring one way or another.
You shouldnt promise something like that so easily. Wheres my reply pic?
His phone gets a very eloquently arched eyebrow.
What reply picture?
Did Eames honestly expect a reply picture? Arthur hadn’t been the one to start these picture messaging shenanigans. He didn’t look good on a camera, let alone a phone camera. And did that mean that Eames wanted a picture of him na-
Really pet I shouldnt have to explain this to you
He could just imagine Eames shaking his head, those full lips pulling into a grin that would draw his cheeks up.
Arthur focused on replying.
No, I shouldn’t have to explain to you that I’m not the one naked. You’d only get a picture of me with my tie loosened.
He hit Send, feeling like he was getting more out of this exchange than Eames was.
You dont want to know what that did to me
His eyebrows made a mad dash for his hairline as Arthur’s mind supplied him with several different scenarios of what exactly could have happened to the Forger that he supposedly wouldn’t want to know about.
Do you still want it?
Yes.
[Part iii]
Summary: It all started with a text message.
Rating: getting to the good stuff hotter
Word Count: 3600/?
Beta: Still not beta'd, probs not gonna be beta'd. Whatevs~
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and kinda fulfills this prompt as well (later on). Oh god Idek I'm just a wordy bastard.
A/N: Links to the pictures described are embedded when it says [Multimedia Message from Eames]. Why? Because its fun to feel like we're getting these texts as well~ Also, I tried really hard to keep all their "texts" within the 160 character limit. Haha, yes, I did.
Distantly, Arthur realizes that staring at a computer screen for the better end of five hours is probably not the smartest thing to do. There was just something about planning a well-constructed heist that demanded all of Arthur’s attention.
If I bought you a ticket to key west would you drop everything and come?
Arthur couldn’t help it, he laughed outright. Eames always had impeccable timing.
In a heartbeat.
His phone buzzed almost instantly.
Really?
Heart twisting itself in rather strange positions Arthur tapped out a reply.
Well… no, probably not. Job tomorrow, remember? But it’s a nice thought, even if I can’t remember the last time I was on a beach.
He leans back, resting his head on the back of his chair and wondering if Eames will even reply. He fingers the keys on his phone, wondering nebulously at why he actually wants Eames to reply back.
Blow off the job. I bet youd look great on the beach. Come down here & keep me company. Ill lotion your back darling
The thought of Eames’ thick fingers and wide palms against his flesh, slick with oily suntan lotion and free to touch his exposed back is enough to have Arthur shutting his eyes tightly, willing the image and phantom touches away.
I’d need SPF 4000 and I don’t think they sell it that strong. Skinny only works for women on the beach. No, I think I’ll stay here and steal things.
Arthur sighed, resting his phone against his stomach, the smooth fabric of his formfitting vest cool against his fingers.
You can make anything work kitten. Besides theres no one here its almost like a private beach. I feel you need more persuasion…
He smiles; Eames’ empty words feel a lot like flattery. Even if they don’t mean anything, he does have a way of making them sound nice.
You can try and persuade me, but it is going to take a LOT to get me to drop this job and my dignity for a pair of swimming trunks.
Sometimes, in some tenuous place between those times where Eames is a complete bastard and an insufferable flirt, Arthur quite enjoys talking to the Forger. He’s got a twisted sense of humor and a strange way of invading the thoughts, but its an enjoyable distraction to say the least.
Are you ready to really wish you were here darling?
Arthur sends a curt Yes, wondering how Eames is going to capture the magnificence of a private beach on his camera phone.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
It’s almost as good as a kick.
There, brazenly displayed on his phone’s screen were the hottest pair of tanned biceps Arthur had ever seen. Propped up on his elbows, Eames’ body was a long line of muscle. Nearly naked, perfectly tanned, very tattooed muscle. There was some blue stuff in the background that might have been the ocean or something but Arthur’s eyes kept tracing the huge, winding tattoo on Eames’ right bicep, getting distracted by the spattering of hair over a pectoral which just lead his eyes down, down, down the line of his stomach, into obscenely short swimming trunks. He’d had swimming trunks before, and those weren’t any swimming trunks he’d ever seen.
“Fucking screen,” Arthur muttered, texting the picture to his email and swearing that if the picture didn’t have a higher resolution he would fucking kill someone.
Arthur opens the picture and forgets to feel embarrassed when he makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, the picture blowing up substantially. He would never be able to see Eames in a shirt without seeing him without one; his shoulders alone could sell a porn magazine even if the long lean line of his body wasn’t interrupted by the substantial bulge in the front of his trunks. Arthur tried to convince himself that it was the angle of the photo.
It only occurred to Arthur that Eames might be expecting a reply after an embarrassingly extended period of staring at the Forger’s body. Flustered and beyond turned on he sent the first neutral thing he could think of.
Your hair is shorter.
Because what else is he supposed to say to a picture of Eames’ tanned, naked, muscled body splayed out like so much fodder for all of his dirty fantasies from now till kingdom come?
Wait. Eames wasn’t fodder for his fantasies.
Then why was he looking at a substantially enlarged picture of him on his computer screen, breathing through his mouth and fighting the urge to palm the problem between his legs?
Lol thats all youve got to say to a pic like that, pet?
Arthur frowns, pushing the keys too hard, as if his annoyance will somehow translate.
What do you want me to say to a picture like that? Who took that picture anyway?
He hit the Send button, slapping his phone down on the desk and getting even more agitated when he realizes he very well could have cracked his phone’s screen that way. Fucking Eames.
One of my mates.
Eames’ curt response frustrated Arthur even more. Why wouldn’t he just answer both questions instead of playing this stupid cat and mouse game? Someone needed to deflate Eames’ giant fucking ego and Arthur was entirely too annoyed that he was the one saddled with the task.
You didn’t answer my other question.
He expected a quick, joking retort so when it took a moment for the text to come through Arthur checked his signal impatiently. The message was opened before the message alert finished buzzing.
You dont want me to answer your other question.
Arthur blinked, strangely put-off by the lack of endearment.
Yes I do.
It wasn’t until he hit Send that he recognized that pushing this particular topic could be a very bad idea.
What do I want you to say to that pic?
He scowled at the reply.
That’s what I asked, isn’t it?
It was always like this. Eames toying with him, saying stupid things with ambiguous meanings that never mean exactly what they should mean but could always be laughed off. Arthur hates that he has to deal with Eames’ joking; he hates that he’s the only one who has to deal with it. He hates that Eames gets him so frustrated with his stupid stubble and annoying accent and blisteringly hot body.
He hits the View button with too much force when his phone vibrates.
I want you to say you like what you see. I want you to say you wish you were here, next to me, taking my pic instead. I want you to say I look better than you imagined & that youre gonna keep this pic & look at it sometime when youre alone & needy
Arthur stared at his phone, heat rising in his cheeks and reading the text several times before his hand dives into his pocket to wrap around the comforting weight of his die.
If this wasn’t a dream it had to be a joke. Some very cruel, very immature joke that Eames was taking entirely too far. No one would say something like that in a text. No one would actually say something like that to him.
No one but Eames.
~
It’s been two days. Two whole days since Arthur last heard his phone buzz and he doesn’t want to admit it but every time he finds himself eyeing his phone he knows why.
He slams the door to his apartment and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing his keys into the bowl by the front door.
The job went without a hitch, a rather routine extraction that left his mind with too much free time. Too much time to unlock his phone’s keys, under the pretense of checking the weather or his email and if that happened to give him the opportunity to see that he had a total of zero new text messages well, that was just a coincidence.
At first it was easy to ignore the silence from his phone. He had wanted Eames to leave him alone, to stop wasting his time and his patience- he had a job to do and obviously Eames had nothing better to do than torment him.
Then came the compulsive need to check his phone. Perhaps Eames had thought better and apologized for being such a prick? Arthur hadn’t realized how often he’d been checking his phone until one of his coworkers asked him if he was expecting a call.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t expecting anything from Eames.
Which put him where he was now, ridiculously aware of his phone in his breast pocket- because it fit perfectly there, not because he might miss the soft buzz in his trouser pocket. Telling himself he wasn’t aware of its still weight against his chest and knowing that lying to oneself was a colossal waste of time.
He toed his shoes off by the front door and made his way into the kitchen.
Opening his refrigerator reveals two bottles of wine, a head of lettuce, some Tupperware he’s not brave enough to venture into at the moment, and a cup of yogurt turned on its side. Arthur puts the yogurt back right side up before grabbing the Beaujolais Nouveau. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet he collapses on the couch, bottle on the chic glass coffee table and idly twirling the glass between his fingertips.
He’s never sipped anything straight from the bottle, not even unpretentious, silly stuff like Beaujolais. He could, there’s nothing, nobody stopping him.
Arthur sighs and fills the glass, not just the three fourths that would otherwise be proper with company present. He doesn’t particularly enjoy such a sweet wine, it is too vibrant, unserious. It’s the kind of wine meant for dinner parties, made to drink quickly and without thinking.
Fucking Eames. Why did he think he had the right to contact him at all? If Arthur had wanted to keep in touch, he would have given his number to the cheeky Forger to begin with. Why did he even contact him at all? Was tormenting him that much fun? Surely he could find someone else to pester, Eames was an attractive man who obviously had no qualms with flaunting himself.
But why did he insist on flaunting himself to Arthur? He was so forward; if he wanted anything from Arthur surely he would just tell him. He wouldn’t bother with this teasing, this childish ‘say you like me first’ crap, which was exactly what this all felt like.
Arthur massaged his temple, finishing off the glass and pouring another.
They were both men for fuck’s sake! He’d had sex with men before; flirting with men was easy, straightforward, upfront because in the end both parties knew what the other wanted. Arthur would have entertained a fling with the Forger if he would have just made it clear that he wanted something sexual from their rel- acquaintanceship. But Eames called him darling, touched him like he needed permission, insinuated things he never backed up and it was just frustrating as hell. Eames didn’t want him, he wanted to play with him.
And Arthur was stupid enough to miss it.
Fishing his phone from his pocket Arthur set it on his knee.
No new messages.
Drinking and having his phone within easy access was probably the worst idea possible right now. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and gently swirled the wine.
So Eames just wanted to play.
Arthur could play. Contrary to what the cocky Forger thought, Arthur had a wonderful imagination. If Eames wanted word games, that’s what he’d get. Because as frustrating as it was to hear that rough Brittish drawl in his head every time he got a text it was infinitely worse feeling like he’d closed off all communication between them.
The rest of his wine was gone in one gulp and he is sending a text in the next moment.
Say something.
He watches the little envelope icon disappear, indicating his message sent. He eyes his neutral phone background, a solar system, until his phone dims from lack of use and finally goes black. Refusing to contemplate why Eames might not be answering Arthur eyes the bottle, nearly kicking it off the table when his phone vibrates.
Arthur swallows the excitement that leaps up into his throat.
What do you want me to say?
This sounds all too familiar and suddenly Arthur cant remember why he thought this would be a good idea.
Where are you?
Arthur contemplates another glass, forgoing it in the name of capitalization and proper punctuation.
Still in key west.
Arthur pauses, refusing to send a text that simply says ‘Oh’ but everything that springs to mind seems so trivial. He could ask about Eames’ friends, but that seems too personal. He hits the Send key before he gives himself an ulcer over a text message.
How did your job go?
He almost smiles, pleasantly surprised that Eames remembered.
I was on it; that should say enough. Besides, it was very routine. You would have been bored.
When had this been hard?
With you around darling? I doubt it
Arthur felt the wine, warm in his chest and rosy on his cheeks. This was where it started, simple but blatant. He was honest enough with himself to happily note the return of the pet names.
Yes well, I have been. He added ‘What have you been doing?’ for good measure because he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to just send the first.
Missed me that much did you? Im sorry kitten, I didnt realize. Ive done everything possible to stay as far from sober as possible
How did he read that far into such a simple text? He erases the ‘Why?’ and sends ‘Perhaps, but like I said, the job was terribly routine. Sounds like fun.’ instead.
It would be more fun with you here but alas you do not desire my honest affections
Arthur raises his eyebrow.
The only thing honest about you, Eames, is your libido. What are you doing?
Sucking on his own lower lip Arthur contemplates sending that message. It couldn’t hurt and besides, Eames had sent worse. Eames would probably laugh it off and agree.
I wouldnt want to offend any of your sensibilities kitten
And he isn’t entirely sure what Eames is replying to so he sends an annoyed reply.
I’m really not the prude you make me out to be. Try me.
He sets the glass down on the coffee table, snatching his phone up when it buzzes again.
You caught me as I was heading for the shower
Arthur’s lips thin, not sure what Eames is trying to insinuate.
So? I shower. Why would that offend me?
It doesn’t take long for his phone to buzz again.
Im sitting starkers on the ledge of my mates tub talking with you
Arthur blinks, the image of Eames reclined on the beach assaults his senses in ways he shouldn’t be able to conjure- so much for a lack of imagination. It occurs to him that he hasn’t the slightest what kind of phone Eames has and yet he can picture the swell of his shoulders and the curve of his knees without any trouble.
To be fair, we aren’t talking. Do you make it a habit of texting people while naked?
It seems silly but he hits Send before he has a chance to think too clearly about why he’s asking.
Only for you darling. We can make it a habit if you wish
The reply nearly types itself.
And if I do?
Acknowledging that his stomach is knotted in apprehension to Eames’ answer is too much work for the buzz he’s got going on so he doesn’t bother.
If that means you have a habit of txting naked I demand a pic rn. If that means you want me to txt naked more often I think I can suggest something better
Arthur’s lips tick up, fighting him into a full on smirk as he words his reply.
What makes you think you can demand a picture of me naked? …Do I even dare ask what you’d suggest?
He reached up to pull his tie loose, getting as far as his second button when his phone buzzed Eames’ reply.
Because I would gladly send you one? Youre the one insisting you arent a prude darling
This certainly felt like the flirting Arthur was used to. Straightforward, uncomplicated and yet Eames found a way to make it seem so sweet.
So send me one.
When a reply didn’t come immediately Arthur went into his text history and reread their texts, wondering if he had taken it too far. His reply didn’t seem out of place considering where the conversation had been going, why the sudden pause from Eames’ end?
Arthur nearly drops his phone when it finally buzzes.
You have to promise to reply back. No running away from me this time
His thumb pauses over the Reply button, guilt worming its way around in his stomach. Had he run away? Once Eames finally came right out and said what he wanted, Arthur put his phone away and what? He didn’t want to say ‘run away’ but ‘hid’ didn’t sound very nice either.
I can’t reply if you don’t send me something.
The fog of alcohol in his system sends his head back on the couch, assessing what part of this conversation is him and what part is the Beaujolais.
This is too hard (now now dont get any ideas without me there kitten) tell me what you want a pic of specifically
There was a lot of innuendo in that reply and Arthur was suddenly very aware of the amount of saliva in his mouth. He felt vaguely obscene swallowing and thinking of Eames naked telling him not to misconstrue his meaning of ‘hard.’
Did that mean Eames was hard? Or was he saying he wasn’t hard? Why did just thinking about that make him hard?
What was the question?
You. Your face. Your tattoos?
Arthur stared at the text as it sent, breathing softly into the silence of the room and not quite sure he actually sent that to Eames of all people.
How sweet are you? Im here starkers & willing to send you anything and you want to see my face. Darling you could steal a mans heart like that
Warmth floods his chest and he’s sure he must be blushing because what else would that warmth be? Before he can figure it out or reply his phone buzzes with another text.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
The text attached to the picture reads ‘since you couldnt seem to decide if you wanted the tats or not’
The Beaujolais supplies Arthur’s mind with the word beautiful but he blushes and pushes that thought away. Eames is all strong jaw and trimmed facial hair and Arthur’s fingers itch to find out what that stubble feels like against every part of his body. His lips are pornography personified and Arthur can’t help his tongue darting out to moisten his own. There is nothing feminine in the sharp lines that lead the eyes down his neck, across his collar bone, and down his chest where the barest hint of his tattoos peek into the picture; and yet, the way he looks away from the phone is coy, almost uncertain in all of that masculinity.
Are you getting a sunburn?
His head is in his hands the second he hits Send. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d done last time? Wasn’t this exactly what Eames told him not to do?
Don’t think so. Probs just the lights. My mates dont live in the swankiest of pads.
Arthur chews his lip with every keystroke, determined not to mess this up. It shouldn’t be this hard to compliment Eames.
Oh. Well, you look good either way.
His phone buzzes almost instantly.
How often can I get you to say that to me?
Arthur smiles at that and he cant remember why he didn’t indulge in this shameless flirting more often.
As often as you like?
Because something told him that he probably could get used to saying those things to Eames if he tried. If he didn’t feel like he was going to be made the butt of some elaborate joke that ended in Eames not actually caring one way or another.
You shouldnt promise something like that so easily. Wheres my reply pic?
His phone gets a very eloquently arched eyebrow.
What reply picture?
Did Eames honestly expect a reply picture? Arthur hadn’t been the one to start these picture messaging shenanigans. He didn’t look good on a camera, let alone a phone camera. And did that mean that Eames wanted a picture of him na-
Really pet I shouldnt have to explain this to you
He could just imagine Eames shaking his head, those full lips pulling into a grin that would draw his cheeks up.
Arthur focused on replying.
No, I shouldn’t have to explain to you that I’m not the one naked. You’d only get a picture of me with my tie loosened.
He hit Send, feeling like he was getting more out of this exchange than Eames was.
You dont want to know what that did to me
His eyebrows made a mad dash for his hairline as Arthur’s mind supplied him with several different scenarios of what exactly could have happened to the Forger that he supposedly wouldn’t want to know about.
Do you still want it?
Yes.
[Part iii]