Eames/Arthur
Title: Words Are Not Enough
Summary: It all started with a text.
Rating: NC-17, NSFW, etc~
Word Count: 4400/?
Beta: Lmao are there porn beta's?
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and fulfills this prompt as well (later on RIGHT NOW). 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.
Slow weeks are the bane of Arthur’s existence.
For a man who focused on little details, who needed to have everything in order and be working toward a greater goal, sitting in his posh little apartment for days on end is a cruel and unusual form of torture indeed.
This is why he loved working with Cobb; that man had a way of attracting work like no one’s business. Arthur never had a spare moment to remember how excruciatingly tedious free time was when Cobb whisked them from job to job. He missed the way Cobb would freeze in the middle of planning, stare at Arthur as if realizing his presence in the room, and demand to know if Arthur needed a break. Arthur would bite his tongue and just barely refrain from snapping that he didn’t need to be babied, shake his head and tell Cobb to take a break if he needed one.
The clock on the wall of the bar read 11:35 pm.
Cobb was probably asleep, curled up with his actual children and not playing the misplaced father figure to a bunch of conmen.
Eames’ plump lips crowded his thoughts, needing only the slightest provocation. He honestly can’t help the small upward tick of his mouth at the thought of the Forger.
Alright, so his week hadn’t been entirely devoid of entertainment. His phone had never been used quite so extensively and Arthur would deny it vehemently if anyone ever accused him but he was honestly starting to feel like the stereotypical teenager he’d never been. If Eames had the slightest inkling of what proper phone etiquette was it seemed he felt Arthur was an exception to these rules. Eames texted whenever he felt like it, with little regard to the time or content of the message and Arthur looked forward to every alert.
There were the amusing ‘Holy shit Im holding a starfish Im sending you a pic rn you better look at it’ texts, the innocuous ‘Heading up to ATL w my mates. Its your job to entertain me for the next 2394809 hours’ texts, and the ever infuriating ‘Yo.u should be hsere kditten. I cbnt enjoy this hot tttub wo loveu’ texts which kept Arthur’s attention more than he wanted to admit.
But then there were the ‘Good morning love. Whats on the agenda for today?’ texts that he woke up to because he’d fallen asleep texting Eames. The ‘Whats your opinion on cufflinks?’ or ‘Darling whats your favorite color?’ texts that Eames wouldn’t explain even after Arthur interrogated him for the better half of an hour. And then there were the ‘I dreamt of you again last night. Its probably best if you never take your jacket off around me again. I wont be held responsible for my actions’ texts that invariably wound up with Arthur’s hand between his legs and his phone open to his picture folder.
It was shameful how easy their repartee had become.
So in an attempt to keep himself from texting Eames for the second time that day Arthur had spent an extravagant amount of time dressing himself to the nines, ignoring Eames’ ridiculous plea to detail the process, and made his way downtown. After a series of texts with his old roommate, Arthur found himself perched on a plush stool in a smokey room with one too many fashionable people crowded into it. A live jazz band situated at the front helped keep up the image of exclusivity, all the women in subdued colors with cloying smiles aimed at the men who all wore ties and varying degrees of pressed slacks.
Arthur stirred his White Russian absently.
Why had he thought that going out alone would be a good idea? Arthur was likeable; pleasant and well read enough to hold up his end of any conversation. He was, at the very least, the best dressed even in this crowd of people. Yet the brunette smiling at him from the other end of the stylishly curved bar held none of the allure of the heavy weight in his pocket.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too obtrusive if he texted Eames, just to say goodnight. Los Angeles was three hours ahead of the East Coast and last he heard Eames was staying with some friends in Atlanta.
Plucking his phone from his pocket he unlocked the keypad and blinked at the message alert already waiting for him.
Having fun darling?
How had he missed the buzz? He checked the time stamp on it, relieved to see that he’d missed Eames by less than 20 minutes.
Honestly? Not really. The band is dull and the people are boring. Did you ever find that place you were looking for?
It wouldn’t hurt anyone to be perfectly honest. Besides, Eames was probably asleep at this point.
You shouldve txtd me kitten Im here to entertain you. The boys did, I thought I would keep a quiet night & wait for you to txt me
Eyebrow rising of its own accord, Arthur typed out his response.
If you’re still in Atlanta its after 2 in the morning, I wouldn’t want to wake you. Besides, I told you I was going out. What if I didn’t text you?
Was he expected to text Eames now? Arthur tried to recall a night where he had fallen asleep without texting Eames. If he didn’t text Eames, the Forger invariably texted him; that didn’t mean he was expected to text Eames, did it?
I cant imagine anyone else Id rather wake up to. There are plenty of things a man can get up to at 2am. You did send me those pics
He swallowed a gulp of his drink, wishing it were more vodka than liqueur.
Please, you make them sound dirty. They’re nothing like the pictures you’ve sent me.
Which was true. As far as Arthur was concerned he’d outgrown swimming trunks when he hit double digits, regardless of beach proximity- so Eames got no beach pictures. It seemed like the amount of clothes Arthur preferred to spend his leisure time in was directly proportional to the amount of skin Eames preferred to show. The raunchiest picture he’d sent was of him lounging on the couch eating some yogurt and that had been under much duress from Eames’ end.
Oh but what they do to me
Arthur sipped his drink until it was more empty than full, making sure he could blame the Russians for what he wanted to ask.
What do they do to you?
Slipping into this banter was appallingly easy now; it was a strange thrill, this one-upsmanship just this side of sexual. It was actually fun turning the tables back on Eames.
Now now. Youre in no condition to be hearing such things
Arthur looked at his glass accusingly, as if Eames could somehow know he’d been drinking. Two White Russians were hardly enough to start assessing “conditions.”
Whats that supposed to mean?
He set his phone down on the counter and contemplated ordering a glass of water, only just refraining from spinning the phone on its back. The soft buzz of his phone distracts him from distracting the bartender.
The things I would tell you would hardly be proper. Wouldnt want you to get thrown out darling
Oh.
He picks up his glass and takes his time putting it back exactly as it had been in the wet indentations of his napkin.
‘Hardly be proper?’ As often as Arthur had used Eames’ pictures he’d only thought of Eames doing the same at the critical moment, never afterwards and never at his leisure. Eames was practically admitting to getting off to Arthur’s pictures. Wasn’t he?
No one is paying me any attention; tell me?
He tells himself that it’s the excitement of finally getting something definitive from Eames, not the fact that he’s having the textual equivalent of a dirty conversation with the Forger- regardless of how many times he may have thought of just such a scenario.
Darling I fear you may not understand what I mean. Telling you what they do to me would be quite obscene & I dont want to break the rules
Arthur frowns, typing out his reply almost as fast as it occurs to him.
What rules?
There were no rules. Arthur knew all the rules, and there were no rules to texting. Even if there were, Eames certainly wouldn’t heed any rules that didn’t apply directly to the lackadaisical Forger. He hits the View button as soon as his phone buzzes.
These rules you want me to figure out on my own. The rules that say I cant move too fast but can compliment you so long as you explicitly say you want it
Arthur blinks at his phone, feeling like he should be vexed at Eames making him sound so simple and feminine but… he can’t quite bring himself to be properly outraged.
So there were rules.
Stranger even, Eames had picked up on them.
He downs the rest of his drink, drowning the part of him that’s telling him to put his phone down and talk to the smiling brunette.
Well I want to know what they do to you. Explicitly.
The screen stares up at him, innocently reminding him that yes, he was the one to hit the Send button and no, he cannot do anything to take that action back.
There was a lot of tiptoeing around each other and as much as Arthur wanted to believe Eames’ words there was always that little bit of doubt that kept him from clarifying exactly what they were doing. If Eames replied back with some joke about Arthur being too eager or something equally demeaning he’d deserve every mocking word because he had brought this on himself.
The phone buzzes in his hand and he is frozen for an instant.
Don’t think about elephants.
He hits the View button, deciding that nothing Eames can say could be worse than not opening the text.
I like looking at them b4 I txt you. I look at them when I wake up&when Im hoping youll txt me first. I cant tell you how many times Ive looked at that one w the yogurt
Both relieved and intrigued Arthur types out ‘Why?’ and hits Send.
You look so relaxed& your shirt is unbuttoned like you want me to touch you& your tongue kitten is the thing of my dreams Id give anything to be that spoon
Arthur shifts in his seat, knowing exactly what Eames is insinuating and finding that he approves of the idea wholeheartedly.
You want to touch me? I hope this doesn’t mean you have an inappropriate yogurt fetish.
Eames’ reply doesn’t come fast enough, leaving Arthur with enough time to wonder if he’s really in a position to question what kinks the Forger might have.
I want to touch you rn. Want you to touch me. You to touch yourself while I touch me kitten I want it all
Arthur closes his eyes, a soft hiss slipping past his lips. Eames’ hands are too easy to imagine, his shoulders firm and fleshy under Arthur’s hands. Arthur knows he’s evenly tanned all the way down to those perfect hipbones and that makes it so much harder to control the problem making its presence known between his legs.
You’ve conveniently left out the part about the yogurt.
At this point he isn’t entirely sure if he’s above palming himself in a room full of elegant strangers.
I have a fetish with your mouth darling. Yogurt whipped cream my tongue your tongue my fingers so long as its near your lips
As intense as the urge to ask Eames if he had any clue where his comma key was, Arthur refrained. He was really starting to regret his decision to wear tailored trousers; they weren’t doing him any favors.
Are you touching yourself?
His fingers are not shaking when he hits the Send button.
Do you want me to touch myself?
Arthur groans lightly, getting a strange look from the businessman sitting next to him; of course the band had to change sets right that second. He can’t bring himself to care too much, hastily typing out a ‘Yes.’
Your hands would feel better.
Thinking of Eames’ hands on those long, lean planes of muscle, ghosting down a stomach Arthur can picture only too clearly and into whatever tacky brown pants he might be wearing today is enough to ensure that Arthur will look like a pervert if he leaves his stool.
What would my hands be doing?
He swallows, able to imagine what he’d like to do with his hands if he could touch Eames right now. What would Eames want him to do? What was Eames doing to himself right now? He licked his lips, willing Eames to type faster.
Pushing my shirt over my head keeping it on. touching my chest&pushing my pants off. We wont get to the bedroom before you start touching me in my boxers
Biting his lip Arthur takes a minute to imagine his hands on Eames’ chest. If he’d have to push his shirt up it meant Eames was wearing something that didn’t button down. He can’t imagine Eames in anything not silk and tacky- then again, he can’t imagine Eames in anything more than those white swimming trunks. Arthur shifts, squeezing his legs together and managing to type out ‘What color are your boxers?’
Want to see?
Arthur can’t believe he’s actually typing ‘More than you can imagine.’
The exit seems impossibly far and Arthur isn’t sure how he’s going to deal with getting from the bar all the way down the street with his erection pressing insistently against the front of his trousers. His escape plan is thwarted when his phone alerts him to a new message.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
He looks so young. Young and sleazy and fuck he has hair in all the right places and Arthur’s toes are curling in his expensive John Lobb’s just looking at it. Eames’ scruff doesn’t know when to quit and Arthur wants to run his palms over every inch of it, possibly followed by his lips and tongue. Arthur has never seen a man with such fuckable lips and if ever got his hands on that hat he’d have it declared a biohazard. Eames is solid, all tanned muscle and ropey sinew and dusky nipples and abs you could lick wine off of and fuck, even Arthur would forego his Armani’s for a pair of Joe Boxer’s if they had Eames’ hand delving into the dark nest of curls-
It’s the knowledge that Eames is an ‘innie’ that has Arthur slapping the first bill he snatches out of his wallet onto the bar’s counter and fleeing to the bathroom.
There must be a God because he bursts into an empty bathroom.
He fumbles with his phone, hitting the call button when slides the lock into place on one of the stalls. Eames picks up on the third ring.
“I thought you didn’t ‘do’ calls, darling.” Eames’ voice is even, teasing and swollen and so much better than Arthur’s pale mental imitation.
“I don’t,” Arthur breathes into the phone, wondering how his body can possibly have enough blood to blush and be painfully hard at the same time.
Eames is quiet for a moment, savoring the breathy words coming through his phone.
“Where are you?”
“The bathroom,” Arthur ground out. “Some Jazz bar downtown.”
“Kitten,” Eames’ voice is a deep appreciative purr that runs along Arthur’s skin like so many approving fingers. “I would not expect this from you, what have you done with my uptight little firecracker?”
“What have you done with your clothes?” Arthur cant help but quip because really, if Eames had been wearing any less…
“I’ve already told you that haven’t I?” Eames is smirking and it looks good on him even over the phone.
Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat, wishing he could care less about the state of the stall’s cleanliness and just rest his head against it. Eames is considerably less subdued.
“Arthur,” Eames groans, sounding like he wants to say more.
“Eames,” Arthur’s pants are unbearably tight and he wants to be back in his house, somewhere he can slip his pants down his thighs and come undone in a sticky, trembling mess. “Keep going.”
There’s a moment where Arthur is terrified he’s overstepped some boundary by calling, by being so turned on by Eames’ words and body and he’ll feel bad for it later, he swears, he just needs this right here right now.
“Lick your lips kitten, I want to hear it.”
Arthur sucks his lower lip into his mouth, wetting it with an indecent sucking sound. He’s sure his breathing is loud enough for the phone to pick up but he cant bring himself to care when Eames’ voice is hot in his ear.
“Oh good- God, Arthur are you hard?” Eames’ voice is rough and low, like nothing Arthur has ever heard before and it’s enough to set his hand to wandering
“Impossibly,” Arthur breathes and it feels like he’s been hard for hours.
“Do you want-“ Eames began.
“Yes, fuck, I want you to tell me everything. What you’d do, what you want from me, I don’t care just talk to me…”
There’s a thump from the other end and a throaty groan that Arthur’s sure will haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his life.
“Fuck I wish I was there, pressing you against the bathroom wall-“
“Stall,” Arthur interrupts.
“Stall,” Eames corrects. “Because I know you’re not going to touch it even when you come all over your hands but you’d let me throw you up against it even if you’d bitch at me about it later.”
“I’d never forgive you,” Arthur bites his lip, palming himself through his trousers.
“Oh kitten, you would.” Eames sounds like he’s already done it and Arthur has yet to find out. “These lips can be very persuasive.”
“How- nnng,” The sound of his belt being unbuckled is the loudest thing he’s ever heard and if he isn’t caught in this bathroom stall beating off to his phone it’ll be a small miracle.
“Everywhere,” Eames sighed, breathing quick and shallow. “Fucking everywhere. You couldn’t keep me off; I’d find all those spots you cover up with those fucking suits and make you come undone over and over. Shite- your skin would feel so good on my lips, I’d shave to feel you against my cheek-“
“No you wont,” Arthur’s snug boxer-briefs are tight against his thighs, riding just low enough to press against his balls when he leans forward. “I want that scruff so fucking bad, I wouldn’t let you touch me until you grew it back.”
“Yes, God,” Eames’ voice falters for a second, the sound of fabric rustling in the background. “Whatever you want darling. Oh, I’d be hard the instant I touched your tie. You could keep it on and I’d get on my knees and let you fuck my mouth sloppy as you please. God, I’d suck you like the best fucking whore money could buy. You’d never need another-“
“Don’t want another,” He groans, forehead perilously close to the stall. “Just need you.”
Eames’ groan sounds like its right fucking there and Arthur makes a keening noise, needing those lips pressed against him, that body flush against his, all teeth and rough fingers and unbearable heat.
“Damn right you’d only need me,” Eames growls and Arthur can see the furrow of his brow, the hunch of his shoulder and the sweat rolling between perfect shoulder blades. “I would take you all night. I’d never get tired of touching your skin, you’d have to tie me down because I don’t know how I’d ever stop touching you.”
“Yes, Eames- fuuuck,” Arthur knows he should keep it down but he’d give anything to press his ass against Eames and grind into that fleshy heat, for Eames’ hands to hold him down and bring him off all over himself. “Fuck me.”
“Kitten, I would sell my soul to fuck you,” Eames breathes, sounding for all the world like he’s tried. “Anywhere, anyway, goddamn how many times have I thought of your perfect ass against my cock? Pressing against me like the tease you are, telling me to wait, making me work you over the edge twice before I even get to think about touching myself.”
“How?” Arthur moaned, images of Eames’ smooth back, muscled arms, and slick hair springing to mind; their limbs tangled and dripping, slick with semen and sweat.
“Shit, I’d do it. You’d be so fucking perfect with come all over your stomach,” Eames is practically purring, low and barely contained. “I’d grab that tight little ass, pull you up to me and- oh god, you’d wrap your legs around me and I’d have to press you into the wall-“
Arthur bit his lip, hand moving furiously over needy flesh.
“because you’d be heavier than you look. I’d promise to lift you up as many times as it took until you could wrap around me and we’d fuck standing up,”
“So close, Eames…” He’s whimpering and thrusting into his hand, sloppy and uncoordinated and wishing frantically for Eames’ body pressed against his.
“nothing but my legs keeping you up as you rode my dick like a fucking porn star. But you’d be so good against the wall too, writhing and wild and too hot for words- fuck, oh fuuuck-”
Arthur’s forehead pressed against the stall, slick with perspiration and so close that he’s actually trembling.
“Oh- ah shit, I can’t-“ Eames is barely making sense any more, mouth pressed too close to the phone and too close to his own orgasm.
“Oh god, don’t stop,” Arthur pleads, creasing his shoes irreparably as he stands on the balls of his feet, tense from thigh to toe.
“Arthur, darling, come,” And the way Eames says come is like a secret, like a gift he wants Arthur to enjoy “Come right now kitten, I need you to come with me. Sticky, all over your hand, thinking of me fucking you, so fucking deep wrapped around you pressed to you, your neck, your lips and su-uuh, ah-“
Pressed to the stall from temple to jaw Arthur comes like his life depends on it, mouth forming Eames’ name continuously and he doesn’t have a single synapse left to care if he’s dripping all over his shoes. He pumps in time to Eames’ ragged breaths against his ear and imagines the slick press of his shirt against his back is wet with Eames’ sweat as well. He doesn’t realize he’s actually saying Eames’ name over and over until he’s completely spent.
“Arthur.” Eames is breathless and slow, like he’s only now remembering how his lungs work.
Arthur mumbles something he hopes sounds like ‘what’ but probably sounds more like ‘uuuut?’
Somewhere between ‘darling’ and Eames’ second attempt to form a coherent sentence Arthur remembers where his face is.
“Shit!” Arthur jerks his head away from the stall, grimacing at the moist imprint of his face on the plastic wall. He’s sure there isn’t enough soap in the world to ever make him feel clean again.
Eames’ voice is tinny from his phone when not pressed directly to his ear.
“What!” He snaps, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he attempts to clean himself up.
“Don’t,” Eames pauses.
“Don’t overreact.” That was not what he wanted to say and they both knew it but Eames left it at that.
Arthur tucks himself back in his boxer-briefs and does his zipper in a quick movement that he likes to think sounds confident and self-assured.
“I need to get out of this bathroom.” The ‘before I breakout in hives’ is left unsaid. “I’ll talk to you later,” Arthur assures, unsure why he feels the need to assure Eames.
“See that you do kitten,” Eames replies, sounding like he’s caught his second wind. “And, Arthur?”
“What?” Arthur asks, slipping his belt into place and resisting the urge to wipe his face for fear of spreading bathroom germs over more of his person.
“You were amazing darling, thank you.”
Arthur isn’t sure if he mumbles out ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘shut up’ before he hits the End Call button on his phone.
When he goes to unlock the stall door he glances down at his shoes, pleased to find them pristine as ever.
~
Has a Taurus come into your life recently?
It takes a moment but Arthur finally shakes the sound of Eames from his head and appropriates the text with his mother’s voice. Halfway through his practiced reply of ‘No Mom, I’ve been very busy with work’ his fingers still.
He had never taken his mother’s fascination with the Zodiac seriously. She texted him every so often asking if this symbol or that sort of person had come into his life; up until now he had been able to say no, facetiously lament his grueling work schedule, and assure her he was eating properly.
Arthur exits out of the reply message to his mother and clicks up to Eames’ name, staring at the little highlighted letters as if they’d give him the answers he wanted.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask. After they had-
He hits the Compose Message button before he can follow that particular line of thought, again, and quickly types out ‘Do you know anything about the Zodiac?’
That sounds demeaning. He erases it and types ‘Are you a Taurus?’ instead.
That sounds like he specifically wants to know. Arthur can only imagine how long it’ll take to live down Eames’ taunts so he erases this too.
With an annoyed huff Arthur buries his face in his arms, fighting the urge to groan. Eames made him groan enough as things were.
Arthur sits up straight, deciding he doesn’t need to know what Eames’ Zodiac sign is just because he can’t think of the Forger without blushing. It wouldn’t do to get his mother’s hopes up either; she would positively blow his phone up if she knew anything of the sort.
Which is why he doesn’t understand when he sends her a curt ‘Possibly.’ and promptly shuts his phone off.
[Part iv]
Summary: It all started with a text.
Rating: NC-17, NSFW, etc~
Word Count: 4400/?
Beta: Lmao are there porn beta's?
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and fulfills this prompt as well (later on RIGHT NOW). 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.
Slow weeks are the bane of Arthur’s existence.
For a man who focused on little details, who needed to have everything in order and be working toward a greater goal, sitting in his posh little apartment for days on end is a cruel and unusual form of torture indeed.
This is why he loved working with Cobb; that man had a way of attracting work like no one’s business. Arthur never had a spare moment to remember how excruciatingly tedious free time was when Cobb whisked them from job to job. He missed the way Cobb would freeze in the middle of planning, stare at Arthur as if realizing his presence in the room, and demand to know if Arthur needed a break. Arthur would bite his tongue and just barely refrain from snapping that he didn’t need to be babied, shake his head and tell Cobb to take a break if he needed one.
The clock on the wall of the bar read 11:35 pm.
Cobb was probably asleep, curled up with his actual children and not playing the misplaced father figure to a bunch of conmen.
Eames’ plump lips crowded his thoughts, needing only the slightest provocation. He honestly can’t help the small upward tick of his mouth at the thought of the Forger.
Alright, so his week hadn’t been entirely devoid of entertainment. His phone had never been used quite so extensively and Arthur would deny it vehemently if anyone ever accused him but he was honestly starting to feel like the stereotypical teenager he’d never been. If Eames had the slightest inkling of what proper phone etiquette was it seemed he felt Arthur was an exception to these rules. Eames texted whenever he felt like it, with little regard to the time or content of the message and Arthur looked forward to every alert.
There were the amusing ‘Holy shit Im holding a starfish Im sending you a pic rn you better look at it’ texts, the innocuous ‘Heading up to ATL w my mates. Its your job to entertain me for the next 2394809 hours’ texts, and the ever infuriating ‘Yo.u should be hsere kditten. I cbnt enjoy this hot tttub wo loveu’ texts which kept Arthur’s attention more than he wanted to admit.
But then there were the ‘Good morning love. Whats on the agenda for today?’ texts that he woke up to because he’d fallen asleep texting Eames. The ‘Whats your opinion on cufflinks?’ or ‘Darling whats your favorite color?’ texts that Eames wouldn’t explain even after Arthur interrogated him for the better half of an hour. And then there were the ‘I dreamt of you again last night. Its probably best if you never take your jacket off around me again. I wont be held responsible for my actions’ texts that invariably wound up with Arthur’s hand between his legs and his phone open to his picture folder.
It was shameful how easy their repartee had become.
So in an attempt to keep himself from texting Eames for the second time that day Arthur had spent an extravagant amount of time dressing himself to the nines, ignoring Eames’ ridiculous plea to detail the process, and made his way downtown. After a series of texts with his old roommate, Arthur found himself perched on a plush stool in a smokey room with one too many fashionable people crowded into it. A live jazz band situated at the front helped keep up the image of exclusivity, all the women in subdued colors with cloying smiles aimed at the men who all wore ties and varying degrees of pressed slacks.
Arthur stirred his White Russian absently.
Why had he thought that going out alone would be a good idea? Arthur was likeable; pleasant and well read enough to hold up his end of any conversation. He was, at the very least, the best dressed even in this crowd of people. Yet the brunette smiling at him from the other end of the stylishly curved bar held none of the allure of the heavy weight in his pocket.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too obtrusive if he texted Eames, just to say goodnight. Los Angeles was three hours ahead of the East Coast and last he heard Eames was staying with some friends in Atlanta.
Plucking his phone from his pocket he unlocked the keypad and blinked at the message alert already waiting for him.
Having fun darling?
How had he missed the buzz? He checked the time stamp on it, relieved to see that he’d missed Eames by less than 20 minutes.
Honestly? Not really. The band is dull and the people are boring. Did you ever find that place you were looking for?
It wouldn’t hurt anyone to be perfectly honest. Besides, Eames was probably asleep at this point.
You shouldve txtd me kitten Im here to entertain you. The boys did, I thought I would keep a quiet night & wait for you to txt me
Eyebrow rising of its own accord, Arthur typed out his response.
If you’re still in Atlanta its after 2 in the morning, I wouldn’t want to wake you. Besides, I told you I was going out. What if I didn’t text you?
Was he expected to text Eames now? Arthur tried to recall a night where he had fallen asleep without texting Eames. If he didn’t text Eames, the Forger invariably texted him; that didn’t mean he was expected to text Eames, did it?
I cant imagine anyone else Id rather wake up to. There are plenty of things a man can get up to at 2am. You did send me those pics
He swallowed a gulp of his drink, wishing it were more vodka than liqueur.
Please, you make them sound dirty. They’re nothing like the pictures you’ve sent me.
Which was true. As far as Arthur was concerned he’d outgrown swimming trunks when he hit double digits, regardless of beach proximity- so Eames got no beach pictures. It seemed like the amount of clothes Arthur preferred to spend his leisure time in was directly proportional to the amount of skin Eames preferred to show. The raunchiest picture he’d sent was of him lounging on the couch eating some yogurt and that had been under much duress from Eames’ end.
Oh but what they do to me
Arthur sipped his drink until it was more empty than full, making sure he could blame the Russians for what he wanted to ask.
What do they do to you?
Slipping into this banter was appallingly easy now; it was a strange thrill, this one-upsmanship just this side of sexual. It was actually fun turning the tables back on Eames.
Now now. Youre in no condition to be hearing such things
Arthur looked at his glass accusingly, as if Eames could somehow know he’d been drinking. Two White Russians were hardly enough to start assessing “conditions.”
Whats that supposed to mean?
He set his phone down on the counter and contemplated ordering a glass of water, only just refraining from spinning the phone on its back. The soft buzz of his phone distracts him from distracting the bartender.
The things I would tell you would hardly be proper. Wouldnt want you to get thrown out darling
Oh.
He picks up his glass and takes his time putting it back exactly as it had been in the wet indentations of his napkin.
‘Hardly be proper?’ As often as Arthur had used Eames’ pictures he’d only thought of Eames doing the same at the critical moment, never afterwards and never at his leisure. Eames was practically admitting to getting off to Arthur’s pictures. Wasn’t he?
No one is paying me any attention; tell me?
He tells himself that it’s the excitement of finally getting something definitive from Eames, not the fact that he’s having the textual equivalent of a dirty conversation with the Forger- regardless of how many times he may have thought of just such a scenario.
Darling I fear you may not understand what I mean. Telling you what they do to me would be quite obscene & I dont want to break the rules
Arthur frowns, typing out his reply almost as fast as it occurs to him.
What rules?
There were no rules. Arthur knew all the rules, and there were no rules to texting. Even if there were, Eames certainly wouldn’t heed any rules that didn’t apply directly to the lackadaisical Forger. He hits the View button as soon as his phone buzzes.
These rules you want me to figure out on my own. The rules that say I cant move too fast but can compliment you so long as you explicitly say you want it
Arthur blinks at his phone, feeling like he should be vexed at Eames making him sound so simple and feminine but… he can’t quite bring himself to be properly outraged.
So there were rules.
Stranger even, Eames had picked up on them.
He downs the rest of his drink, drowning the part of him that’s telling him to put his phone down and talk to the smiling brunette.
Well I want to know what they do to you. Explicitly.
The screen stares up at him, innocently reminding him that yes, he was the one to hit the Send button and no, he cannot do anything to take that action back.
There was a lot of tiptoeing around each other and as much as Arthur wanted to believe Eames’ words there was always that little bit of doubt that kept him from clarifying exactly what they were doing. If Eames replied back with some joke about Arthur being too eager or something equally demeaning he’d deserve every mocking word because he had brought this on himself.
The phone buzzes in his hand and he is frozen for an instant.
Don’t think about elephants.
He hits the View button, deciding that nothing Eames can say could be worse than not opening the text.
I like looking at them b4 I txt you. I look at them when I wake up&when Im hoping youll txt me first. I cant tell you how many times Ive looked at that one w the yogurt
Both relieved and intrigued Arthur types out ‘Why?’ and hits Send.
You look so relaxed& your shirt is unbuttoned like you want me to touch you& your tongue kitten is the thing of my dreams Id give anything to be that spoon
Arthur shifts in his seat, knowing exactly what Eames is insinuating and finding that he approves of the idea wholeheartedly.
You want to touch me? I hope this doesn’t mean you have an inappropriate yogurt fetish.
Eames’ reply doesn’t come fast enough, leaving Arthur with enough time to wonder if he’s really in a position to question what kinks the Forger might have.
I want to touch you rn. Want you to touch me. You to touch yourself while I touch me kitten I want it all
Arthur closes his eyes, a soft hiss slipping past his lips. Eames’ hands are too easy to imagine, his shoulders firm and fleshy under Arthur’s hands. Arthur knows he’s evenly tanned all the way down to those perfect hipbones and that makes it so much harder to control the problem making its presence known between his legs.
You’ve conveniently left out the part about the yogurt.
At this point he isn’t entirely sure if he’s above palming himself in a room full of elegant strangers.
I have a fetish with your mouth darling. Yogurt whipped cream my tongue your tongue my fingers so long as its near your lips
As intense as the urge to ask Eames if he had any clue where his comma key was, Arthur refrained. He was really starting to regret his decision to wear tailored trousers; they weren’t doing him any favors.
Are you touching yourself?
His fingers are not shaking when he hits the Send button.
Do you want me to touch myself?
Arthur groans lightly, getting a strange look from the businessman sitting next to him; of course the band had to change sets right that second. He can’t bring himself to care too much, hastily typing out a ‘Yes.’
Your hands would feel better.
Thinking of Eames’ hands on those long, lean planes of muscle, ghosting down a stomach Arthur can picture only too clearly and into whatever tacky brown pants he might be wearing today is enough to ensure that Arthur will look like a pervert if he leaves his stool.
What would my hands be doing?
He swallows, able to imagine what he’d like to do with his hands if he could touch Eames right now. What would Eames want him to do? What was Eames doing to himself right now? He licked his lips, willing Eames to type faster.
Pushing my shirt over my head keeping it on. touching my chest&pushing my pants off. We wont get to the bedroom before you start touching me in my boxers
Biting his lip Arthur takes a minute to imagine his hands on Eames’ chest. If he’d have to push his shirt up it meant Eames was wearing something that didn’t button down. He can’t imagine Eames in anything not silk and tacky- then again, he can’t imagine Eames in anything more than those white swimming trunks. Arthur shifts, squeezing his legs together and managing to type out ‘What color are your boxers?’
Want to see?
Arthur can’t believe he’s actually typing ‘More than you can imagine.’
The exit seems impossibly far and Arthur isn’t sure how he’s going to deal with getting from the bar all the way down the street with his erection pressing insistently against the front of his trousers. His escape plan is thwarted when his phone alerts him to a new message.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
He looks so young. Young and sleazy and fuck he has hair in all the right places and Arthur’s toes are curling in his expensive John Lobb’s just looking at it. Eames’ scruff doesn’t know when to quit and Arthur wants to run his palms over every inch of it, possibly followed by his lips and tongue. Arthur has never seen a man with such fuckable lips and if ever got his hands on that hat he’d have it declared a biohazard. Eames is solid, all tanned muscle and ropey sinew and dusky nipples and abs you could lick wine off of and fuck, even Arthur would forego his Armani’s for a pair of Joe Boxer’s if they had Eames’ hand delving into the dark nest of curls-
It’s the knowledge that Eames is an ‘innie’ that has Arthur slapping the first bill he snatches out of his wallet onto the bar’s counter and fleeing to the bathroom.
There must be a God because he bursts into an empty bathroom.
He fumbles with his phone, hitting the call button when slides the lock into place on one of the stalls. Eames picks up on the third ring.
“I thought you didn’t ‘do’ calls, darling.” Eames’ voice is even, teasing and swollen and so much better than Arthur’s pale mental imitation.
“I don’t,” Arthur breathes into the phone, wondering how his body can possibly have enough blood to blush and be painfully hard at the same time.
Eames is quiet for a moment, savoring the breathy words coming through his phone.
“Where are you?”
“The bathroom,” Arthur ground out. “Some Jazz bar downtown.”
“Kitten,” Eames’ voice is a deep appreciative purr that runs along Arthur’s skin like so many approving fingers. “I would not expect this from you, what have you done with my uptight little firecracker?”
“What have you done with your clothes?” Arthur cant help but quip because really, if Eames had been wearing any less…
“I’ve already told you that haven’t I?” Eames is smirking and it looks good on him even over the phone.
Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat, wishing he could care less about the state of the stall’s cleanliness and just rest his head against it. Eames is considerably less subdued.
“Arthur,” Eames groans, sounding like he wants to say more.
“Eames,” Arthur’s pants are unbearably tight and he wants to be back in his house, somewhere he can slip his pants down his thighs and come undone in a sticky, trembling mess. “Keep going.”
There’s a moment where Arthur is terrified he’s overstepped some boundary by calling, by being so turned on by Eames’ words and body and he’ll feel bad for it later, he swears, he just needs this right here right now.
“Lick your lips kitten, I want to hear it.”
Arthur sucks his lower lip into his mouth, wetting it with an indecent sucking sound. He’s sure his breathing is loud enough for the phone to pick up but he cant bring himself to care when Eames’ voice is hot in his ear.
“Oh good- God, Arthur are you hard?” Eames’ voice is rough and low, like nothing Arthur has ever heard before and it’s enough to set his hand to wandering
“Impossibly,” Arthur breathes and it feels like he’s been hard for hours.
“Do you want-“ Eames began.
“Yes, fuck, I want you to tell me everything. What you’d do, what you want from me, I don’t care just talk to me…”
There’s a thump from the other end and a throaty groan that Arthur’s sure will haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his life.
“Fuck I wish I was there, pressing you against the bathroom wall-“
“Stall,” Arthur interrupts.
“Stall,” Eames corrects. “Because I know you’re not going to touch it even when you come all over your hands but you’d let me throw you up against it even if you’d bitch at me about it later.”
“I’d never forgive you,” Arthur bites his lip, palming himself through his trousers.
“Oh kitten, you would.” Eames sounds like he’s already done it and Arthur has yet to find out. “These lips can be very persuasive.”
“How- nnng,” The sound of his belt being unbuckled is the loudest thing he’s ever heard and if he isn’t caught in this bathroom stall beating off to his phone it’ll be a small miracle.
“Everywhere,” Eames sighed, breathing quick and shallow. “Fucking everywhere. You couldn’t keep me off; I’d find all those spots you cover up with those fucking suits and make you come undone over and over. Shite- your skin would feel so good on my lips, I’d shave to feel you against my cheek-“
“No you wont,” Arthur’s snug boxer-briefs are tight against his thighs, riding just low enough to press against his balls when he leans forward. “I want that scruff so fucking bad, I wouldn’t let you touch me until you grew it back.”
“Yes, God,” Eames’ voice falters for a second, the sound of fabric rustling in the background. “Whatever you want darling. Oh, I’d be hard the instant I touched your tie. You could keep it on and I’d get on my knees and let you fuck my mouth sloppy as you please. God, I’d suck you like the best fucking whore money could buy. You’d never need another-“
“Don’t want another,” He groans, forehead perilously close to the stall. “Just need you.”
Eames’ groan sounds like its right fucking there and Arthur makes a keening noise, needing those lips pressed against him, that body flush against his, all teeth and rough fingers and unbearable heat.
“Damn right you’d only need me,” Eames growls and Arthur can see the furrow of his brow, the hunch of his shoulder and the sweat rolling between perfect shoulder blades. “I would take you all night. I’d never get tired of touching your skin, you’d have to tie me down because I don’t know how I’d ever stop touching you.”
“Yes, Eames- fuuuck,” Arthur knows he should keep it down but he’d give anything to press his ass against Eames and grind into that fleshy heat, for Eames’ hands to hold him down and bring him off all over himself. “Fuck me.”
“Kitten, I would sell my soul to fuck you,” Eames breathes, sounding for all the world like he’s tried. “Anywhere, anyway, goddamn how many times have I thought of your perfect ass against my cock? Pressing against me like the tease you are, telling me to wait, making me work you over the edge twice before I even get to think about touching myself.”
“How?” Arthur moaned, images of Eames’ smooth back, muscled arms, and slick hair springing to mind; their limbs tangled and dripping, slick with semen and sweat.
“Shit, I’d do it. You’d be so fucking perfect with come all over your stomach,” Eames is practically purring, low and barely contained. “I’d grab that tight little ass, pull you up to me and- oh god, you’d wrap your legs around me and I’d have to press you into the wall-“
Arthur bit his lip, hand moving furiously over needy flesh.
“because you’d be heavier than you look. I’d promise to lift you up as many times as it took until you could wrap around me and we’d fuck standing up,”
“So close, Eames…” He’s whimpering and thrusting into his hand, sloppy and uncoordinated and wishing frantically for Eames’ body pressed against his.
“nothing but my legs keeping you up as you rode my dick like a fucking porn star. But you’d be so good against the wall too, writhing and wild and too hot for words- fuck, oh fuuuck-”
Arthur’s forehead pressed against the stall, slick with perspiration and so close that he’s actually trembling.
“Oh- ah shit, I can’t-“ Eames is barely making sense any more, mouth pressed too close to the phone and too close to his own orgasm.
“Oh god, don’t stop,” Arthur pleads, creasing his shoes irreparably as he stands on the balls of his feet, tense from thigh to toe.
“Arthur, darling, come,” And the way Eames says come is like a secret, like a gift he wants Arthur to enjoy “Come right now kitten, I need you to come with me. Sticky, all over your hand, thinking of me fucking you, so fucking deep wrapped around you pressed to you, your neck, your lips and su-uuh, ah-“
Pressed to the stall from temple to jaw Arthur comes like his life depends on it, mouth forming Eames’ name continuously and he doesn’t have a single synapse left to care if he’s dripping all over his shoes. He pumps in time to Eames’ ragged breaths against his ear and imagines the slick press of his shirt against his back is wet with Eames’ sweat as well. He doesn’t realize he’s actually saying Eames’ name over and over until he’s completely spent.
“Arthur.” Eames is breathless and slow, like he’s only now remembering how his lungs work.
Arthur mumbles something he hopes sounds like ‘what’ but probably sounds more like ‘uuuut?’
Somewhere between ‘darling’ and Eames’ second attempt to form a coherent sentence Arthur remembers where his face is.
“Shit!” Arthur jerks his head away from the stall, grimacing at the moist imprint of his face on the plastic wall. He’s sure there isn’t enough soap in the world to ever make him feel clean again.
Eames’ voice is tinny from his phone when not pressed directly to his ear.
“What!” He snaps, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he attempts to clean himself up.
“Don’t,” Eames pauses.
“Don’t overreact.” That was not what he wanted to say and they both knew it but Eames left it at that.
Arthur tucks himself back in his boxer-briefs and does his zipper in a quick movement that he likes to think sounds confident and self-assured.
“I need to get out of this bathroom.” The ‘before I breakout in hives’ is left unsaid. “I’ll talk to you later,” Arthur assures, unsure why he feels the need to assure Eames.
“See that you do kitten,” Eames replies, sounding like he’s caught his second wind. “And, Arthur?”
“What?” Arthur asks, slipping his belt into place and resisting the urge to wipe his face for fear of spreading bathroom germs over more of his person.
“You were amazing darling, thank you.”
Arthur isn’t sure if he mumbles out ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘shut up’ before he hits the End Call button on his phone.
When he goes to unlock the stall door he glances down at his shoes, pleased to find them pristine as ever.
~
Has a Taurus come into your life recently?
It takes a moment but Arthur finally shakes the sound of Eames from his head and appropriates the text with his mother’s voice. Halfway through his practiced reply of ‘No Mom, I’ve been very busy with work’ his fingers still.
He had never taken his mother’s fascination with the Zodiac seriously. She texted him every so often asking if this symbol or that sort of person had come into his life; up until now he had been able to say no, facetiously lament his grueling work schedule, and assure her he was eating properly.
Arthur exits out of the reply message to his mother and clicks up to Eames’ name, staring at the little highlighted letters as if they’d give him the answers he wanted.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask. After they had-
He hits the Compose Message button before he can follow that particular line of thought, again, and quickly types out ‘Do you know anything about the Zodiac?’
That sounds demeaning. He erases it and types ‘Are you a Taurus?’ instead.
That sounds like he specifically wants to know. Arthur can only imagine how long it’ll take to live down Eames’ taunts so he erases this too.
With an annoyed huff Arthur buries his face in his arms, fighting the urge to groan. Eames made him groan enough as things were.
Arthur sits up straight, deciding he doesn’t need to know what Eames’ Zodiac sign is just because he can’t think of the Forger without blushing. It wouldn’t do to get his mother’s hopes up either; she would positively blow his phone up if she knew anything of the sort.
Which is why he doesn’t understand when he sends her a curt ‘Possibly.’ and promptly shuts his phone off.
[Part iv]