Fic: Beware Our Nubile Miscreants
Title: Beware Our Nubile Miscreants
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17, for sex
Warning: Uh...sex. Gratuitous indie-dick swinging.
Summary: Arthur meets Eames at an Of Montreal concert while wearing skinny jeans and a Ted Leo pin. AUish.
Notes: Thanks to my internet soulmate/beta, sorrynotsorry . For this prompt on
: "Eames picks up Arthur at a concert. Something indie and/or hipster [...]," which, true to form, spiraled rapidly out of my control into something else entirely (something suspiciously like smut). There are some photo links scattered through, which is a technique I just shamelessly lifted from zarathuse 's amazing Star Wars fic. Please don't steal my horrible concert photos.
Words: 3,768
But I've seen him work, and I am getting the feeling //
He has some serious predatory domination issues'>Arthur is waiting in the will call line in front of the 9:30 Club for Of Montreal when he first spots the guy. He’s big, bigger than the average scenester at these shows, all hard planes of muscle underneath his Architecture in Helsinki shirt. The guy is trying to score a ticket, and Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes. He bought his months ago. None of his friends had, of course, even though they swore they would, which means he’s standing in line alone watching a hot guy try to get a scalped ticket. But he clings to that small piece of superiority anyway - he planned to be here and here he is.
He stubs out his cigarette on the pavement when it’s his turn to get his hand stamped and goes inside.
-
The opening band sucks. Arthur doesn’t know why he gets to shows early these days, but he likes being punctual, so he’s hanging out by the bar as people mill around, smoking a cigarette and drinking an $8 beer. He adjusts his blazer and scans the crowd, hoping he doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. The eyeliner smudged around his eyes might have been too much.
He sees the muscled guy again as the opener winds down, and wonders how people can just show up to concerts and expect to get in. It’s irritating - no planning, all whim. No passion for the bands, he figures, if they can’t be bothered to get tickets in advance.
And it’s at that part in his mental tirade that he notices the guy has pushed his way to sit right next to him at the bar. He sneaks a full glance, and the guy’s jeans are ripped at the left thigh. Arthur lets his gaze flick up to the face. It is startlingly familiar, and suddenly he feels a creeping sense of déjà vu. But he knows there he hasn’t met the man before. In fact, he’s positive - he never forgets a face he meets. He makes a mental note, but the guy is attractive enough that he lets it slide.
The man winks. Arthur can hear the sound of himself swallowing over the din of the entire venue.
“See something you like?” the guy says, and Arthur is instantly more attracted due to the clean British accent. Arthur cracks his neck and shrugs casually.
“Maybe,” he says, and tips back the last of his beer.
The man grins and holds out a large palm to shake and for a second they’re locked in a manly dominance ritual that has nothing to do with indie bands. They lock eyes - and Arthur notices that his slate gray eyes are highlighted with fucking glitter - and both grapple, tightening the handshake’s grip. They both look away and drop the handshake at the same minute, and then Eames chuckles.
“I like your Ted Leo pin,” he says, running his whole hand over the left side of Arthur’s blazer. He can feel the heat through the material.
"I feel like I gotta support local music that doesn’t suck and isn’t Fugazi,” Arthur says, and moves to signal the bartender. The man talks over him.
“Two PBRs, please,” he says.
Arthur can feel his jaw clench involuntarily, and forces himself to relax. He’s very good at what he does, and if that means ironically enjoying beer that tastes like piss, then he will. When their beers come, he raises his glass to the his benefactor.
“What’s your name?” Arthur asks.
“Eames. And you? Who are you, and what is it that you do?”
Arthur pulls a card from his breast pocket, nonchalant, but the name “Eames,” the British accent, twig something again in his brain.
The card reads: Arthur, reviewer for the prominent local music blog, DCSCENE
Eames laughs and Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "DCist has nothing on us, I swear,” Arthur says, waving his beer a little for emphasis.
“I take photos for them, actually.”
“You what?”
“I’m their photographer,” he says, shifting the strap over his broad chest. “I even brought my gear.”
“Oh.” Arthur is stunned but manages to say, “That’s pretty cool.” If he’s a tail, he’s a good one, Arthur thinks.
Eames laughs again and drinks. “So I guess I didn’t miss anything good?”
“Naw, the opener sucked. Surprise surprise.”
They talk a little more, and then there’s movement on stage, and Eames excuses himself.
Arthur buys a third beer and wanders out into the crowd, pushing his way up with sharp elbows till he’s only a few rows from the stage when Kevin Barnes explodes out wearing nothing but silver eye make-up and a giant diaper.
There are huge screens flashing animated backdrops and Arthur wants to be swept up in the whole ambience but he feels a little too sober for that, just three beers in, and instead feels awkward on his feet by himself.
And that, of course, is when Eames mystifyingly appears next to him. “Hullo there!” he yells into Arthur’s ear, and then holds up a joint. “Got a light?”
Arthur wonders briefly, as he fumbles for his lighter, why convenient plot devices never appear in his life in the form of dream jobs or scholarships. He rakes his eyes over Eames and decides he’ll take it.
“Here,” he half shouts and lights it. Eames takes a deep drag and then Arthur reaches for it.
Eames pulls it away and then kisses him, opened mouth. Arthur’s eyes widen and his jaw goes slack, and he barely manages to avoid coughing directly into Eames’ face. “What the fuck?”
But Eames is just smiling. Arthur snatches the joint and takes a drag, glaring.
The weed and the alcohol in his system are creating a lovely swirling effect in his mind, and he wonders how he’s going to spin this in the review. Kevin Barnes brings you into a dreamlike state. Time fuzzes out, and he just leans against Eames, whose hands are resting heavily on his hips. It is an experience, Arthur decides.
Up on stage, six people dressed as silver-headed John McCains in spacesuits hang Kevin Barnes on an elaborate gallows. Arthur, despite his immediate doubts, is infinitely happier watching this while stoned with dubious company than he was sober and alone. The McCains spread out all over the club and shoot glitter and feathers everywhere, and Arthur wants to reach into a pocket, just for a second, because it’s a thing that is both beautiful and terrifying, but Eames’ heat keeps him grounded through the encore.
They stumble outside and the air is instantly freezing on Arthur’s sweaty face. Eames grabs him by the arm.
“You’re real pushy, you know that,” Arthur says, but there’s nothing but a mild curiosity there. Eames spins him up against the club’s outside wall as people continue to stream out. The brick is rough between his shoulder blades and Eames keeps one hand on his shoulder and picks a feather out of his hair gently.
Arthur knows, somewhere in his baked out brain, that this is a bad idea, but Arthur doesn’t get a lot of chances to make bad decisions, so he kisses Eames first. Eames growls in his mouth and shoves him up against the wall, and it just solidifies Arthur’s feelings. There’s something else there, in the line of the man’s body, the swell of his arms, that shouldn’t be at this club, at this concert, or winding his hand into Arthur’s hair.
Well, he’s done worse, he thinks, and wonders if the eye makeup is enough of a red herring. He licks into Eames’ mouth and drags his teeth lightly over the full bottom lip, and he can tell that whatever Eames is, he’s only thinking about one thing at that moment. Arthur figures he’ll sort out what all those mild alarm bells in his brain mean later, after fucking.
He hails a cab, and Eames all but shoves him into it. Arthur glances over at him, eyes shaded and eyebrows quirked. “Your place then?”
The ride is short, and Arthur is intoxicated enough when he gets out of the cab to, at first, overlook the fact that he is standing in front of an honest to goodness townhouse, rather than an apartment complex. He expects to be led to an English basement, but Eames pulls out a laughably full keyring and somehow manages to find the key for the front door.
"Is this place yours?" Arthur asks, wary, and Eames laughs and kisses him in the doorway.
"Maybe I'm housesitting," he says and pulls Arthur across the threshold into the house.
It looks like a catalog for middle class domiciles, Arthur thinks, and Eames falls in a languid heap on the overstuffed sofa, yanking on Arthur's arm so he sprawls half into the other man's lap. Arthur kisses him, and Eames leans over him to pick up an already packed pipe from the birch coffee table. His hand squeezes into Arthur's pocket and he manages to extract his lighter, lightening up the bowl and inhaling. This time Arthur's ready for it, sucking deep when Eames' mouth opens into his. They do this a few more times until Eames puts the pipe back on the table and grabs Arthur's face and really starts to kiss him.
It’s wet, and slow, and Eames runs his tongue over Arthur’s teeth and Arthur shivers. He’s hypersensitive and wants to feel Eames everywhere. Arthur feels relaxed, the smoke curling itself in his limbs, twining around his fingertips so they spark when he runs his hands over Eames' broad chest.
"Maybe we should move to the bedroom, yeah?"
Arthur smiles. "You're a terrible housesitter."
They somehow manage to make it up the stairs while still entwined, but Arthur scans the walls, the dresser, the nightstand before he falls onto the bed, enmeshed in Eames’ limbs.
"There aren't any pictures here," he says, suddenly, staring into Eames' slate gray eyes. Eames' face is still and he doesn’t smile like Arthur expects.
"No, I suppose there aren't," he says, and they gaze at each other steadily. Arthur's trying to focus on something, but the pleasant buzz of alcohol and pot settling in the back of his neck is making it hard for his thoughts to stay linear.
Eames gets up and moves over to the dresser, suddenly illuminated by the bright light of an iPod.
"Is this In Rainbows?" Arthur asks, and then his brain latches onto that thought process as Eames pulls off his shirt and comes back onto the bed.
“Too many clothes,” Eames grunts as he pulls off Arthur’s blazer, and Arthur manages to pull his v-neck off by himself.
“Fuck,” Arthur says as his hands fumble with the button on his jeans.
“Too tight, those are,” Eames growls and yanks, which manages to peel them down to his knees.
“The record industry, man,” Arthur gasps when Eames doesn’t bother to pull at his pants any more, instead splays his hands over his thighs and they’re hot and his body is suddenly filled with warmth. He smiles up at Eames and runs his hands over his chest, catching in chest hair, and things feel amazing. “Radiohead really worked to outsmart those bastards,” he pants as Eames fingers move over his hip bones.
Arthur jerks and manages to somehow kick off his jeans even with Eames straddling him, with his hands running everywhere, over his ribs and his clavicles and then down his sides to rest on his narrow hips. His skin feels like water, rippling and he makes a noise that would normally be embarrassing when Eames licks down his collarbone and then bites, lightly, at his shoulder.
“How particular are you about marks, then?” Eames asks, then tongues his pulse, blood under his teeth.
“Nng,” Arthur says, groans, his hands reaching for Eames’ belt, and Eames bites, makes Arthur arch up into him and whine. Eames pulls himself off of Arthur just long enough to pull off his own ripped jeans, and then he straddles Arthur again, cock bobbing right in front of him.
Arthur’s hands are roaming everywhere and he looks up at Eames with a soft-edged fondness that makes him push up against Arthur’s flat, taut stomach, and he can feel Arthur’s cock hit his ass. Arthur slides long fingers over his cock and Eames gasps, bucking.
Arthur grins a little lasciviously, his facial expressions all tiny explosions of minute changes in his face, and Eames loves it. Arthur put a hand on Eames’ hip and pushes him forward, forward, until the tip of Eames cock bumps against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur looks up at him, eyes dark and full of some kind of danger Eames should have been expecting but wasn’t, and he licks his lips before popping the head into his mouth.
Eames yelps, and his thighs tighten around Arthur’s chest, and Arthur’s pumping his shaft, working his tongue over the crown of his dick, tongue lapping into the slit and then his head surges up, taking more of him into his mouth. Eames adjusts until he’s practically shoving his cock down Arthur’s throat, hitting the back of it, feeling him swallowing over and over around it. There’s a little smile on the corner of his stretched mouth and it’s obscene, so fucking obscene Eames thinks, and he runs thick fingers through Arthur’s ridiculously wilted pompadour and pulls tight and Arthur moans around his cock, his eyes closing with some kind of primal pleasure that makes the whole thing even hotter. It’s hard not to fuck straight into that mouth so Eames doesn’t bother holding back, rocking back into his mouth from his position over Arthur’s body.
Eames cums, shooting straight down Arthur’s throat. He’s spent, whole body pulsating with the weed and the orgasm and Arthur hums with pleasure and then rolls Eames off of him in one fluid movement. The lean body holds strength he wasn’t quite expecting, and then Arthur is curling up on his chest, still making small contented sounds. His dick is at half mast and bumps into Eames’ thigh, and Eames is a little insulted, and ready to try to make Arthur scream or at least make that incredible throaty sound again when he notices.
Arthur’s asleep.
-
Arthur shifts when Eames wakes up, and the man runs his hands through Arthur’s rumpled hair. “Hush, love, go back to sleep,” he says softly, and Arthur blinks and then snuffles into Eames’ collarbone.
His eyeliner is smeared across his eyes in a way that he knows should look stupid, but Eames likes it anyway. It makes Arthur look a little wild, even when asleep. The glitter from Eames’ face has transferred itself everywhere, and Arthur glints a little from his cheekbones to his chest.
Eames makes waffles and Arthur stirs as he’s whisking the batter downstairs. Arthur’s wearing a pair of someone’s boxers from the dresser and nothing else, the pomade from last night making his hair a curled halo around his fair. His makeup is still raccooned around his eyes but the fuzzy kindness from the night before is gone, replaced with a dark sort of wariness.
He’s got dogtags around his neck, which is slender, just like the rest of him, and Eames wonders how he didn't notice them last night. The bruise from the night before is a bright blossom of purple right above his collar bone. Eames' breath hitches once, then he keeps whisking.
“Do you like blueberries?” he asks as Arthur manages to look suspicious as he slides into a wooden chair by the kitchen table.
“Whose house is this?” Arthur asks.
“What do you do for a living?” Eames counters, and pours batter into a waffle iron. “I mean, aside from complaining about shows.”
And that’s where Arthur has seen him before. “You’ve been stalking me!” he says, with a practiced amount of incredulity that Eames just doesn’t buy.
“If I were stalking you,” he starts, and turns to face Arthur at the table, back to the counter, “then I’d know where the fuck you lived, what you did for a living, and your damn last name. But all I know is that you like the Mountain Goats and Janelle Monae, and I got all that from a public website.”
“Or,” Arthur says, then he stands up. “Or, if you were stalking me, you’d be pretty frustrated because you’d have no way of figuring out any of those things.” He’s already in a crouch, and those lovely lean muscles are tight with anticipation.
“Oh, sod these waffles,” says Eames, and he unplugs the waffle iron, strides over, grips Arthur by the shoulders, and kisses him.
Arthur keeps his eyes open, so Eames gets an eyeful of shock and desire when he comes up for air. “Something wrong?”
“What are you doing?” Arthur doesn’t move, which Eames finds encouraging, so Eames kisses him again. This time Arthur’s eyes flutter close.
“Making up for last night? You fell asleep before I could have any fun with you at all.”
Arthur gives him a close-lipped grin. “I was pretty tired. And your hosts have an excellent mattress.”
“Well we should give it a proper breaking in,” Eames says into his neck, “I’m sure the Cobbs won’t mind.” They end up back upstairs.
Eames runs his hands all over Arthur again, and it tingles, his pale skin breaking into goosebumps all over. Arthur shivers, flat on his back, his head cushioned by a surplus of down pillows, and Eames pulls off his shirt and Arthur tugs on his sweatpants.
“Put those hands down, young man,” Eames says with a filthy grin on his face and he pins Arthur’s wrists down by his side. Arthur’s body goes rigid again, just for a moment, and they both gaze past each other. Arthur’s nostrils flare and he visibly wills himself to stand down, and Eames lets up on the weight, letting his hands loosely circle Arthur’s slender wrists. He kisses his way down Arthur’s neck and says some things against his skin, words like beautiful and fuck and I didn’t really plan this, you know.
When he bites down on a nipple it’s like an electric shock’s run through the man underneath him, so he sucks it into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, and bites again. Arthur makes a wonderful gasping noise when Eames pinches his other nipple at the same time.
He pulls up and Arthur’s a wreck, flushed and kohl-eyed and glittery and angular and not at all what Eames expected when he first started tracking him. He fumbles in the nightstand from some lube and a condom and Arthur parts his legs, no preamble.
“C’mon,” he says, voice low and rough, and Eames isn’t sure how much of that feeling is real, but it doesn’t matter. He slicks up his fingers and Arthur takes two smoothly at his first hesitant push against his ass. He grunts, though, and so Eames takes his time, slowly curling his fingers in the tight heat that is Arthur. He lets his fingers brush lightly over the prostate but doesn’t push, and he’s rewarded with a full body tremor.
“Eames,” Arthur says, and it doesn’t take much more prompting for Eames to roll a condom on and lube up his cock, guiding it to Arthur’s hole and pressing, slowly. Arthur’s eyes close and his muscles relax, controlled. Eames pushes, slow, centimeter by centimeter, until Arthur’s eyes snap wide and his mouth falls open in a little gasp. His hips roll, and he clenches, right around the half of Eames’ dick that’s buried in him tight, and it’s Eames turn to make an incoherent sound.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur says, relaxing and rolling his hips again, and Eames grabs his knees and lifts his legs over his shoulders, and slams in.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur groans, eyes rolling back, and Eames keeps one hand wrapped around Arthur’s left leg and lets the other run itself up the man’s smooth chest. The angle he’s getting is perfect, hitting Arthur’s prostate over and over and burying himself deep with each thrust. They’re slowly getting less measured because Arthur’s making little noises and pushing back, all heat and skin.
Eames’ hand finds its way to Arthur’s neck and he yanks on the chain there, giving Arthur a smooth, deep thrust. He takes a shaky breath and tries to stay off the edge of orgasming, running his thumb over the dog tags clenched in his fist.
They’re blank.
Eames lets them drop and grabs Arthur’s hips bruisingly hard, which just makes Arthur groan again and squeeze, and it feels so fucking good he digs his fingers against the bone. He’s fucking him hard now, half strokes that have his balls slapping up against Arthur’s ass and he can feel the tension in Arthur’s legs from keeping them spread and up high, the small trembles through the taut muscles.
Eames is close, so close, so he starts to jack Arthur off. It’s rough but Arthur is there too, and he cums with a strangled noise and fucks back against Eames’ cock through the aftershocks until he’s coming too, fast and hard and explosively.
They both roll apart and land on their backs on the enormous bed, panting and slick with sweat and jizz. Arthur is the one who moves first, sliding halfway off the bed to fumble with his blazer. Eames takes his cue and grabs his jeans, fumbling through the pockets.
Arthur’s holding a die, apparently satisfied, and he leans back against the pillows and lights a cigarette. Eames gives him a sidelong glance, then looks down at the poker chip he's flipping through his fingers.
“Going to offer me a fag or what?” Eames asks.
Arthur smirks. “Going to tell me why you’re really stalking me? Aside from mindblowing sex, of course.”
Eames sighs. “What do you know about dreams?”
Arthur snorts. “You wear a watch on your right hand, face inside, when you’re not trying to blend into a rock concert. You’ve broken your nose twice, but it was only professionally reset once. You bite the nails on your left hand only. That’s not your real accent, it’s a practiced one. Those shoes you wore rubbed a blister that made it a little tough to walk. Who sent you?”
Eames is surprised, and kind of pissed off. “When did you have the time to look up anything about me.”
Arthur shrugs languidly and tosses Eames his pack of American Spirits. “I didn’t. I don’t even know who you are, Mr. Eames, but I just wanted to remind you that I’m the best at what I do, which is watching. Observing.” Eames avoids looking Arthur in the face, but he can feel the weight of his gaze.
“We need a forger,” Eames says.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17, for sex
Warning: Uh...sex. Gratuitous indie-dick swinging.
Summary: Arthur meets Eames at an Of Montreal concert while wearing skinny jeans and a Ted Leo pin. AUish.
Notes: Thanks to my internet soulmate/beta, sorrynotsorry . For this prompt on
: "Eames picks up Arthur at a concert. Something indie and/or hipster [...]," which, true to form, spiraled rapidly out of my control into something else entirely (something suspiciously like smut). There are some photo links scattered through, which is a technique I just shamelessly lifted from zarathuse 's amazing Star Wars fic. Please don't steal my horrible concert photos.
Words: 3,768
But I've seen him work, and I am getting the feeling //
He has some serious predatory domination issues'>Arthur is waiting in the will call line in front of the 9:30 Club for Of Montreal when he first spots the guy. He’s big, bigger than the average scenester at these shows, all hard planes of muscle underneath his Architecture in Helsinki shirt. The guy is trying to score a ticket, and Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes. He bought his months ago. None of his friends had, of course, even though they swore they would, which means he’s standing in line alone watching a hot guy try to get a scalped ticket. But he clings to that small piece of superiority anyway - he planned to be here and here he is.
He stubs out his cigarette on the pavement when it’s his turn to get his hand stamped and goes inside.
-
The opening band sucks. Arthur doesn’t know why he gets to shows early these days, but he likes being punctual, so he’s hanging out by the bar as people mill around, smoking a cigarette and drinking an $8 beer. He adjusts his blazer and scans the crowd, hoping he doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. The eyeliner smudged around his eyes might have been too much.
He sees the muscled guy again as the opener winds down, and wonders how people can just show up to concerts and expect to get in. It’s irritating - no planning, all whim. No passion for the bands, he figures, if they can’t be bothered to get tickets in advance.
And it’s at that part in his mental tirade that he notices the guy has pushed his way to sit right next to him at the bar. He sneaks a full glance, and the guy’s jeans are ripped at the left thigh. Arthur lets his gaze flick up to the face. It is startlingly familiar, and suddenly he feels a creeping sense of déjà vu. But he knows there he hasn’t met the man before. In fact, he’s positive - he never forgets a face he meets. He makes a mental note, but the guy is attractive enough that he lets it slide.
The man winks. Arthur can hear the sound of himself swallowing over the din of the entire venue.
“See something you like?” the guy says, and Arthur is instantly more attracted due to the clean British accent. Arthur cracks his neck and shrugs casually.
“Maybe,” he says, and tips back the last of his beer.
The man grins and holds out a large palm to shake and for a second they’re locked in a manly dominance ritual that has nothing to do with indie bands. They lock eyes - and Arthur notices that his slate gray eyes are highlighted with fucking glitter - and both grapple, tightening the handshake’s grip. They both look away and drop the handshake at the same minute, and then Eames chuckles.
“I like your Ted Leo pin,” he says, running his whole hand over the left side of Arthur’s blazer. He can feel the heat through the material.
"I feel like I gotta support local music that doesn’t suck and isn’t Fugazi,” Arthur says, and moves to signal the bartender. The man talks over him.
“Two PBRs, please,” he says.
Arthur can feel his jaw clench involuntarily, and forces himself to relax. He’s very good at what he does, and if that means ironically enjoying beer that tastes like piss, then he will. When their beers come, he raises his glass to the his benefactor.
“What’s your name?” Arthur asks.
“Eames. And you? Who are you, and what is it that you do?”
Arthur pulls a card from his breast pocket, nonchalant, but the name “Eames,” the British accent, twig something again in his brain.
The card reads: Arthur, reviewer for the prominent local music blog, DCSCENE
Eames laughs and Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "DCist has nothing on us, I swear,” Arthur says, waving his beer a little for emphasis.
“I take photos for them, actually.”
“You what?”
“I’m their photographer,” he says, shifting the strap over his broad chest. “I even brought my gear.”
“Oh.” Arthur is stunned but manages to say, “That’s pretty cool.” If he’s a tail, he’s a good one, Arthur thinks.
Eames laughs again and drinks. “So I guess I didn’t miss anything good?”
“Naw, the opener sucked. Surprise surprise.”
They talk a little more, and then there’s movement on stage, and Eames excuses himself.
Arthur buys a third beer and wanders out into the crowd, pushing his way up with sharp elbows till he’s only a few rows from the stage when Kevin Barnes explodes out wearing nothing but silver eye make-up and a giant diaper.
There are huge screens flashing animated backdrops and Arthur wants to be swept up in the whole ambience but he feels a little too sober for that, just three beers in, and instead feels awkward on his feet by himself.
And that, of course, is when Eames mystifyingly appears next to him. “Hullo there!” he yells into Arthur’s ear, and then holds up a joint. “Got a light?”
Arthur wonders briefly, as he fumbles for his lighter, why convenient plot devices never appear in his life in the form of dream jobs or scholarships. He rakes his eyes over Eames and decides he’ll take it.
“Here,” he half shouts and lights it. Eames takes a deep drag and then Arthur reaches for it.
Eames pulls it away and then kisses him, opened mouth. Arthur’s eyes widen and his jaw goes slack, and he barely manages to avoid coughing directly into Eames’ face. “What the fuck?”
But Eames is just smiling. Arthur snatches the joint and takes a drag, glaring.
The weed and the alcohol in his system are creating a lovely swirling effect in his mind, and he wonders how he’s going to spin this in the review. Kevin Barnes brings you into a dreamlike state. Time fuzzes out, and he just leans against Eames, whose hands are resting heavily on his hips. It is an experience, Arthur decides.
Up on stage, six people dressed as silver-headed John McCains in spacesuits hang Kevin Barnes on an elaborate gallows. Arthur, despite his immediate doubts, is infinitely happier watching this while stoned with dubious company than he was sober and alone. The McCains spread out all over the club and shoot glitter and feathers everywhere, and Arthur wants to reach into a pocket, just for a second, because it’s a thing that is both beautiful and terrifying, but Eames’ heat keeps him grounded through the encore.
They stumble outside and the air is instantly freezing on Arthur’s sweaty face. Eames grabs him by the arm.
“You’re real pushy, you know that,” Arthur says, but there’s nothing but a mild curiosity there. Eames spins him up against the club’s outside wall as people continue to stream out. The brick is rough between his shoulder blades and Eames keeps one hand on his shoulder and picks a feather out of his hair gently.
Arthur knows, somewhere in his baked out brain, that this is a bad idea, but Arthur doesn’t get a lot of chances to make bad decisions, so he kisses Eames first. Eames growls in his mouth and shoves him up against the wall, and it just solidifies Arthur’s feelings. There’s something else there, in the line of the man’s body, the swell of his arms, that shouldn’t be at this club, at this concert, or winding his hand into Arthur’s hair.
Well, he’s done worse, he thinks, and wonders if the eye makeup is enough of a red herring. He licks into Eames’ mouth and drags his teeth lightly over the full bottom lip, and he can tell that whatever Eames is, he’s only thinking about one thing at that moment. Arthur figures he’ll sort out what all those mild alarm bells in his brain mean later, after fucking.
He hails a cab, and Eames all but shoves him into it. Arthur glances over at him, eyes shaded and eyebrows quirked. “Your place then?”
The ride is short, and Arthur is intoxicated enough when he gets out of the cab to, at first, overlook the fact that he is standing in front of an honest to goodness townhouse, rather than an apartment complex. He expects to be led to an English basement, but Eames pulls out a laughably full keyring and somehow manages to find the key for the front door.
"Is this place yours?" Arthur asks, wary, and Eames laughs and kisses him in the doorway.
"Maybe I'm housesitting," he says and pulls Arthur across the threshold into the house.
It looks like a catalog for middle class domiciles, Arthur thinks, and Eames falls in a languid heap on the overstuffed sofa, yanking on Arthur's arm so he sprawls half into the other man's lap. Arthur kisses him, and Eames leans over him to pick up an already packed pipe from the birch coffee table. His hand squeezes into Arthur's pocket and he manages to extract his lighter, lightening up the bowl and inhaling. This time Arthur's ready for it, sucking deep when Eames' mouth opens into his. They do this a few more times until Eames puts the pipe back on the table and grabs Arthur's face and really starts to kiss him.
It’s wet, and slow, and Eames runs his tongue over Arthur’s teeth and Arthur shivers. He’s hypersensitive and wants to feel Eames everywhere. Arthur feels relaxed, the smoke curling itself in his limbs, twining around his fingertips so they spark when he runs his hands over Eames' broad chest.
"Maybe we should move to the bedroom, yeah?"
Arthur smiles. "You're a terrible housesitter."
They somehow manage to make it up the stairs while still entwined, but Arthur scans the walls, the dresser, the nightstand before he falls onto the bed, enmeshed in Eames’ limbs.
"There aren't any pictures here," he says, suddenly, staring into Eames' slate gray eyes. Eames' face is still and he doesn’t smile like Arthur expects.
"No, I suppose there aren't," he says, and they gaze at each other steadily. Arthur's trying to focus on something, but the pleasant buzz of alcohol and pot settling in the back of his neck is making it hard for his thoughts to stay linear.
Eames gets up and moves over to the dresser, suddenly illuminated by the bright light of an iPod.
"Is this In Rainbows?" Arthur asks, and then his brain latches onto that thought process as Eames pulls off his shirt and comes back onto the bed.
“Too many clothes,” Eames grunts as he pulls off Arthur’s blazer, and Arthur manages to pull his v-neck off by himself.
“Fuck,” Arthur says as his hands fumble with the button on his jeans.
“Too tight, those are,” Eames growls and yanks, which manages to peel them down to his knees.
“The record industry, man,” Arthur gasps when Eames doesn’t bother to pull at his pants any more, instead splays his hands over his thighs and they’re hot and his body is suddenly filled with warmth. He smiles up at Eames and runs his hands over his chest, catching in chest hair, and things feel amazing. “Radiohead really worked to outsmart those bastards,” he pants as Eames fingers move over his hip bones.
Arthur jerks and manages to somehow kick off his jeans even with Eames straddling him, with his hands running everywhere, over his ribs and his clavicles and then down his sides to rest on his narrow hips. His skin feels like water, rippling and he makes a noise that would normally be embarrassing when Eames licks down his collarbone and then bites, lightly, at his shoulder.
“How particular are you about marks, then?” Eames asks, then tongues his pulse, blood under his teeth.
“Nng,” Arthur says, groans, his hands reaching for Eames’ belt, and Eames bites, makes Arthur arch up into him and whine. Eames pulls himself off of Arthur just long enough to pull off his own ripped jeans, and then he straddles Arthur again, cock bobbing right in front of him.
Arthur’s hands are roaming everywhere and he looks up at Eames with a soft-edged fondness that makes him push up against Arthur’s flat, taut stomach, and he can feel Arthur’s cock hit his ass. Arthur slides long fingers over his cock and Eames gasps, bucking.
Arthur grins a little lasciviously, his facial expressions all tiny explosions of minute changes in his face, and Eames loves it. Arthur put a hand on Eames’ hip and pushes him forward, forward, until the tip of Eames cock bumps against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur looks up at him, eyes dark and full of some kind of danger Eames should have been expecting but wasn’t, and he licks his lips before popping the head into his mouth.
Eames yelps, and his thighs tighten around Arthur’s chest, and Arthur’s pumping his shaft, working his tongue over the crown of his dick, tongue lapping into the slit and then his head surges up, taking more of him into his mouth. Eames adjusts until he’s practically shoving his cock down Arthur’s throat, hitting the back of it, feeling him swallowing over and over around it. There’s a little smile on the corner of his stretched mouth and it’s obscene, so fucking obscene Eames thinks, and he runs thick fingers through Arthur’s ridiculously wilted pompadour and pulls tight and Arthur moans around his cock, his eyes closing with some kind of primal pleasure that makes the whole thing even hotter. It’s hard not to fuck straight into that mouth so Eames doesn’t bother holding back, rocking back into his mouth from his position over Arthur’s body.
Eames cums, shooting straight down Arthur’s throat. He’s spent, whole body pulsating with the weed and the orgasm and Arthur hums with pleasure and then rolls Eames off of him in one fluid movement. The lean body holds strength he wasn’t quite expecting, and then Arthur is curling up on his chest, still making small contented sounds. His dick is at half mast and bumps into Eames’ thigh, and Eames is a little insulted, and ready to try to make Arthur scream or at least make that incredible throaty sound again when he notices.
Arthur’s asleep.
-
Arthur shifts when Eames wakes up, and the man runs his hands through Arthur’s rumpled hair. “Hush, love, go back to sleep,” he says softly, and Arthur blinks and then snuffles into Eames’ collarbone.
His eyeliner is smeared across his eyes in a way that he knows should look stupid, but Eames likes it anyway. It makes Arthur look a little wild, even when asleep. The glitter from Eames’ face has transferred itself everywhere, and Arthur glints a little from his cheekbones to his chest.
Eames makes waffles and Arthur stirs as he’s whisking the batter downstairs. Arthur’s wearing a pair of someone’s boxers from the dresser and nothing else, the pomade from last night making his hair a curled halo around his fair. His makeup is still raccooned around his eyes but the fuzzy kindness from the night before is gone, replaced with a dark sort of wariness.
He’s got dogtags around his neck, which is slender, just like the rest of him, and Eames wonders how he didn't notice them last night. The bruise from the night before is a bright blossom of purple right above his collar bone. Eames' breath hitches once, then he keeps whisking.
“Do you like blueberries?” he asks as Arthur manages to look suspicious as he slides into a wooden chair by the kitchen table.
“Whose house is this?” Arthur asks.
“What do you do for a living?” Eames counters, and pours batter into a waffle iron. “I mean, aside from complaining about shows.”
And that’s where Arthur has seen him before. “You’ve been stalking me!” he says, with a practiced amount of incredulity that Eames just doesn’t buy.
“If I were stalking you,” he starts, and turns to face Arthur at the table, back to the counter, “then I’d know where the fuck you lived, what you did for a living, and your damn last name. But all I know is that you like the Mountain Goats and Janelle Monae, and I got all that from a public website.”
“Or,” Arthur says, then he stands up. “Or, if you were stalking me, you’d be pretty frustrated because you’d have no way of figuring out any of those things.” He’s already in a crouch, and those lovely lean muscles are tight with anticipation.
“Oh, sod these waffles,” says Eames, and he unplugs the waffle iron, strides over, grips Arthur by the shoulders, and kisses him.
Arthur keeps his eyes open, so Eames gets an eyeful of shock and desire when he comes up for air. “Something wrong?”
“What are you doing?” Arthur doesn’t move, which Eames finds encouraging, so Eames kisses him again. This time Arthur’s eyes flutter close.
“Making up for last night? You fell asleep before I could have any fun with you at all.”
Arthur gives him a close-lipped grin. “I was pretty tired. And your hosts have an excellent mattress.”
“Well we should give it a proper breaking in,” Eames says into his neck, “I’m sure the Cobbs won’t mind.” They end up back upstairs.
Eames runs his hands all over Arthur again, and it tingles, his pale skin breaking into goosebumps all over. Arthur shivers, flat on his back, his head cushioned by a surplus of down pillows, and Eames pulls off his shirt and Arthur tugs on his sweatpants.
“Put those hands down, young man,” Eames says with a filthy grin on his face and he pins Arthur’s wrists down by his side. Arthur’s body goes rigid again, just for a moment, and they both gaze past each other. Arthur’s nostrils flare and he visibly wills himself to stand down, and Eames lets up on the weight, letting his hands loosely circle Arthur’s slender wrists. He kisses his way down Arthur’s neck and says some things against his skin, words like beautiful and fuck and I didn’t really plan this, you know.
When he bites down on a nipple it’s like an electric shock’s run through the man underneath him, so he sucks it into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, and bites again. Arthur makes a wonderful gasping noise when Eames pinches his other nipple at the same time.
He pulls up and Arthur’s a wreck, flushed and kohl-eyed and glittery and angular and not at all what Eames expected when he first started tracking him. He fumbles in the nightstand from some lube and a condom and Arthur parts his legs, no preamble.
“C’mon,” he says, voice low and rough, and Eames isn’t sure how much of that feeling is real, but it doesn’t matter. He slicks up his fingers and Arthur takes two smoothly at his first hesitant push against his ass. He grunts, though, and so Eames takes his time, slowly curling his fingers in the tight heat that is Arthur. He lets his fingers brush lightly over the prostate but doesn’t push, and he’s rewarded with a full body tremor.
“Eames,” Arthur says, and it doesn’t take much more prompting for Eames to roll a condom on and lube up his cock, guiding it to Arthur’s hole and pressing, slowly. Arthur’s eyes close and his muscles relax, controlled. Eames pushes, slow, centimeter by centimeter, until Arthur’s eyes snap wide and his mouth falls open in a little gasp. His hips roll, and he clenches, right around the half of Eames’ dick that’s buried in him tight, and it’s Eames turn to make an incoherent sound.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur says, relaxing and rolling his hips again, and Eames grabs his knees and lifts his legs over his shoulders, and slams in.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur groans, eyes rolling back, and Eames keeps one hand wrapped around Arthur’s left leg and lets the other run itself up the man’s smooth chest. The angle he’s getting is perfect, hitting Arthur’s prostate over and over and burying himself deep with each thrust. They’re slowly getting less measured because Arthur’s making little noises and pushing back, all heat and skin.
Eames’ hand finds its way to Arthur’s neck and he yanks on the chain there, giving Arthur a smooth, deep thrust. He takes a shaky breath and tries to stay off the edge of orgasming, running his thumb over the dog tags clenched in his fist.
They’re blank.
Eames lets them drop and grabs Arthur’s hips bruisingly hard, which just makes Arthur groan again and squeeze, and it feels so fucking good he digs his fingers against the bone. He’s fucking him hard now, half strokes that have his balls slapping up against Arthur’s ass and he can feel the tension in Arthur’s legs from keeping them spread and up high, the small trembles through the taut muscles.
Eames is close, so close, so he starts to jack Arthur off. It’s rough but Arthur is there too, and he cums with a strangled noise and fucks back against Eames’ cock through the aftershocks until he’s coming too, fast and hard and explosively.
They both roll apart and land on their backs on the enormous bed, panting and slick with sweat and jizz. Arthur is the one who moves first, sliding halfway off the bed to fumble with his blazer. Eames takes his cue and grabs his jeans, fumbling through the pockets.
Arthur’s holding a die, apparently satisfied, and he leans back against the pillows and lights a cigarette. Eames gives him a sidelong glance, then looks down at the poker chip he's flipping through his fingers.
“Going to offer me a fag or what?” Eames asks.
Arthur smirks. “Going to tell me why you’re really stalking me? Aside from mindblowing sex, of course.”
Eames sighs. “What do you know about dreams?”
Arthur snorts. “You wear a watch on your right hand, face inside, when you’re not trying to blend into a rock concert. You’ve broken your nose twice, but it was only professionally reset once. You bite the nails on your left hand only. That’s not your real accent, it’s a practiced one. Those shoes you wore rubbed a blister that made it a little tough to walk. Who sent you?”
Eames is surprised, and kind of pissed off. “When did you have the time to look up anything about me.”
Arthur shrugs languidly and tosses Eames his pack of American Spirits. “I didn’t. I don’t even know who you are, Mr. Eames, but I just wanted to remind you that I’m the best at what I do, which is watching. Observing.” Eames avoids looking Arthur in the face, but he can feel the weight of his gaze.
“We need a forger,” Eames says.