(fic + art) One Night Bite
Title: One Night Bite
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE <3
Prompt: Blood, Sex
Word count: 4200
Rating: Fic- NC-17 Art- NSFW
Warnings: Mild bloodplay (of the vampire kind)
Summary: These days, Eames tells people he met Arthur when they were both hired for the same job in the high-end vampire district of west London. It’s close enough to the truth.
*
Most vampire clubs stink of stale blood. This one’s different though, an upper-class club for rich college kids and bored businessmen looking to get their kicks. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there at all, hovering under the smell of alcohol and sweat, but it’s understated enough that Eames can drink his whisky without wanting to throw up all over the plush carpet.
He sips his drink and watches people dance to a hundred and sixty beats per minute. It’s the sound of fear, a constant electronic heartbeat tuned to set blood hunger on edge, and they’re still bumping and grinding and offering their necks like a frantic vampire couldn’t kill them.
The mark hasn’t shown amongst the sheep, but Eames isn’t worried. The first team meeting isn’t even for another two days, but casing the place early beats sitting in his hotel room alone.
He’s about to order another drink when movement at the far corner of the bar draws his eye. It’s a man, too quiet and solitary to be one of the vampires that prance about places like this trawling for willing prey. Pretty though, all dark mussed hair and lithe muscle, more than attractive enough to pull the attention of a vampire if that’s what he really wanted.
Definitely enough to pull Eames’s attention, at least.
He picks up his empty glass and shifts down to the seat just beside the loner. “You don’t look like you come here often.”
The man glances up, nonplussed, and gives Eames a steady once over with his eyes. “That’s a pity,” he says. American. Even more out of place than he looks. “You do. You’d look good otherwise.”
Eames plucks at his low neckline. “You don’t like this?”
The man sighs and swirls the dregs in the bottom of his wineglass. The thick red liquid sticks to the edges, and Eames watches, fascinated, as the vampire downs the last mouthful of blood.
So he was wrong about the human part, it’s not like he never makes mistakes. The important part is never making them twice.
“I don’t like it when people think wrapping themselves up like slices of prime rib is a good way to get a vampire’s attention, no.” He sets down the wineglass. “It doesn’t seem like you come to places like this often, either.”
There are two choices when someone’s perceptive enough to see through a cover story. Keep bluffing, or take the path of least resistance. Eames has never cared much for fighting through resistance. “I don’t, actually. Name’s Eames.”
The other man tilts his head, eyeing him up and down again, before replying. “Arthur.”
Eames catches the barman’s attention. “Another scotch for me, and…” he looks at Arthur.
“Two parts A-neg to one B-pos,” Arthur says, lips turned up in a wry smile that wasn’t there before.
“What?” Eames slides a note across to the barman.
“Nothing,” Arthur says. “Just I’ve never seen a human buy a vampire a drink in a place like this.”
It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, and Eames wishes he could curse. Maybe getting some practice in with the locals before the job starts is actually a really good idea. “I’m not exactly out to pick up.”
Arthur laughs as the barman passes them their drinks. “And yet, here you are, dressed up like every other human in this place. What are you here for then, Mr. Eames?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me the same.”
Arthur shifts on the cushioned barstool, crossing his legs, and Eames lets his eye drift along the flex of muscle in his thigh as he settles into the position. “Not to pick up,” Arthur says cryptically.
The way his knee is brushing Eames’s now says otherwise. “And you?”
“Same as you,” Eames replies, and lifts his glass off the bar. He doesn’t even get it half way to his mouth before Arthur’s fingers curl around his forearm.
“Right, and that’s why you’re here, dressed up like this.” Arthur tries to close his hand around the thick muscle of Eames’s arm, cool pressure just below the elbow, before he lets go and trails his fingers up over the swell of his biceps.
Eames tenses the muscle and lets Arthur squeeze. “You’re the one accepting drinks from strangers and then feeling them up.”
“You’re the one buying drinks for strangers and letting them feel you up,” Arthur says, matter of fact, and Eames has to admit he’s got him there.
Arthur smiles like he knows he’s won and lets go, turning his attention back to the blood in his glass. He licks his lips after the sip, leaving them bright and wet and kissable enough that Eames is really, really glad he’s not actually on the job yet.
“In that case, if I were to tell you my hotel is just around the corner, you wouldn’t be interested, would you. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?” Arthur toys with the stem of his glass, then bites his lower lip as if he’s thinking. The tip of one fang digs into the already stained skin, and for all that he’s never really been into the whole fucking vampires thing, Eames’s stomach tenses in anticipation.
“Hypothetically, no, I wouldn’t be interested.” Arthur shifts again, knee rubbing against the side of Eames’s leg. “But you’re not telling me hypothetically at all, are you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Eames says, leaning forward a little so his knee slides between Arthur’s.
Arthur lets go of the wineglass and mirrors the action, planting his hands flat on Eames’s thighs. He’s close enough that Eames can smell the blood on his breath, close enough for their noses to brush, and he’s about to wrap his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and tug him in for the kiss when Arthur pulls away.
“You better lead the way, then,” he says, picking up a coat from the stool beside him.
Eames throws back the last of the scotch, and grins.
*
He barely gets the room door closed behind them before Arthur shoves him up against the wall, hard enough to knock the air out of him.
“What?” Arthur murmurs, raking his nails down Eames’s chest, still not closing the space between their lips. “Changed your mind?”
Eames sucks in a breath and grabs Arthur's waist, pulling their hips close. "Not a chance."
Arthur kisses him then, finally, tongue cool against the edge of his lip. He curls his fingers in Eames's hair and forces the kiss harder, deeper. Eames slips his hands inside Arthur's coat, tests the slim line of his waist down to his hips, flexing his fingers against the thin cotton of his shirt.
“You need to be more naked,” he says, tugging at Arthur’s coat.
“Likewise.” Arthur shrugs it off and reaches for Eames’s belt.
It’s probably true, but Eames is far more interested in finding out what those hips will feel like naked under his hands than letting Arthur do what he wants. His pants are still undone by the time he strips the shirt off over Arthur’s head and buries a hand in his hair, pulling hard enough to expose the vulnerable length of his neck. It’d be so fucking easy to bruise that skin, suck dark marks to the surface so there’s no way for Arthur to deny what they did in the morning.
Arthur hisses as soon as Eames’s lips brush his throat. “What are you doing?”
He’s not trying to get away, so Eames doesn’t loosen his grip when he looks up. There’s that glint of fang again, deceptively innocuous against the soft curve of Arthur’s lip, a reminder of just how different Arthur really is.
“Oh.” Eames tilts his head. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Arthur stares at him for a second before struggling free of Eames’s grip. It’s harder than it should be to just let him go instead of making him fight for it, but this is what he gets for deciding a pretty face and a nice body is worth bringing a vampire home. A good fuck is a good fuck in any case, at least.
“Sure,” Arthur says, unbuttoning his own pants and moving closer to the bed.
He sounds anything but sure, face turned away, and Eames takes a second to just watch him. Everything from the line of his shoulders to the twist of his body screams uncertainty, and Eames walks toward him, leaning close to murmur in his ear. “Sure?”
The shudder that runs across Arthur’s skin is unmistakable, and Eames has no idea how their wires got so crossed.
He’s never been so glad to be wrong.
It only takes a couple of steps to back Arthur up to the edge of the bed and even less effort to shove him down, one hand planted between his shoulderblades. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?” Eames says, rocking his hips against the firm curve of Arthur’s arse.
Arthur’s spine tenses, arches, thighs shifting further apart in an invitation so blatant that it doesn’t matter if he says anything else at all. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you.” He digs his fingers into the carefully turned-down bedcovers, using the leverage to arch back harder.
Eames reaches around Arthur’s waist, stroking the soft line of hair low on his belly before pulling down the zip on his trousers and easing them over his hips. “I can go either way, love, but let’s put it this way. I’d really,” he tugs the trousers a little lower, rubbing his thumbs over the jut of Arthur’s hipbones, “really like to fuck you.”
“I’d really, really like that,” Arthur says, breathless, straightening up enough to wriggle out of his pants and kick them aside.
His arse looked good enough under the tailored fit of his trousers on the walk back and now, naked muscle laid out pale in the bright hotel light, it’s perfect. Eames licks his lips. “Up on the bed, then.”
He pushes off his own pants as Arthur rolls into the middle of the bed, long legs spread and shameless. That grin is the expression Eames expects to see on someone about to have a good, no-strings-attached fuck with a stranger in a hotel room.
“Don’t move,” he says, quickly grabbing the tube of lube from the pocket of his suitcase on the other side of the room.
When he turns back to the bed Arthur’s stroking himself lazily, lower lip caught between his teeth as he thrust up into the loose grip of his fingers.
“I said don’t move,” Eames says, crawling onto the bed and slapping at Arthur’s thigh.
“I’m right where you left me,” Arthur retorts and opens his eyes as he lets go of his cock. “You can take over if you want.”
Tempting as the idea of holding those lean thighs wide open and teasing that cock with his tongue until Arthur’s begging for it is, the idea of fucking him is far more interesting right now. Eames runs his hands down his inner thighs, squeezing. “I’ve got better things to do with you. Turn over.”
Arthur gets on his knees, resting his head on his forearms so his back is a provocative slope all the way down from the curve of his arse to the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
Eames strokes the roundness of Arthur’s arse, feels down along the exposed ridges of his spine before sweeping back up and spreading him open with his thumbs.
“Ready?” he asks, reaching for the lube on the mattress with one hand and pressing down on Arthur’s hole with the other, feeling the muscle clench.
“I’ve been ready for the last ten minutes at least, fuck,” Arthur hisses, leaning back into the pressure.
“Good.” Eames pours lube over the fingers already touching Arthur, rubbing gently until his skin is slick and there’s less resistance when he tries to ease his thumb inside.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur moans as he pushes it in. His thighs are already trembling, and Eames watches the tremors as he works his thumb in and out slowly, twisting a little deeper each time.
“Fuck,” he repeats when Eames replaces his thumb with two fingers, carefully slicked with more lube before slipping in.
“You’re tight,” Eames says. Arthur’s barely taken two fingers past the second knuckle, opening up so slowly under the pressure.
“It’s been a while,” he bites out, shifting his hips. “Oh, yeah, right there. Like that.”
Eames spreads his fingers slightly again and Arthur tosses his head, leaning back and letting Eames’s fingers slide even deeper into him.
Arthur’s letting out rough sounds on every breath by the time Eames works a third finger in alongside the others. It’s not exactly an easy slide, despite how wet he is.
“C’mon,” Arthur says, spreading his legs wider and rocking against Eames’s fingers. “You can’t break me.”
Eames pulls his fingers free and shifts closer, cock sliding over Arthur’s slick cleft. He runs one hand down Arthur’s back to settle between his shoulders again, pressing down just enough to feel the flex of the muscle as Arthur arches and shudders. “Okay,” he murmurs, steadying his other hand on the dip of Arthur’s waist and pushing in.
It’s tight enough that he only makes it part way, working the head of his cock slowly in and out to tease Arthur open wide enough to take him all.
Arthur bucks his hips when Eames pulls out, and Eames smooths a soothing hand down over the side of his thigh as he reaches for the lube again. “Just a second, then I promise I’ll fuck you as hard as I can.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to make you watch me jerk off instead, so hurry up.”
Eames almost tells him that he could still fuck him after that, all languid and covered in his own come, but he concentrates on pouring more lube instead. This time when he lines his cock up to push in it’s an easier slide, and it only takes a couple of slow thrusts before he can pull back and thrust in hard, all the way. “Is that better?” he growls, building up momentum. “That what you wanted?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Arthur pants, lifting his hips to meet every thrust.
Eames grabs his hips with both hands and pulls him back harder, hoping he can hold out for Arthur’s orgasm for the sake of feeling him come from nothing but his cock.
“Please,” Arthur sobs, his entire body trembling as Eames shifts the angle. “Oh fuck, please, I need… fuck.”
Eames eases back to gentle, rocking thrusts and leans down, pressing his chest to Arthur’s back and lifting his right wrist to brush against Arthur’s lips. His breath is coming in hot bursts, and Eames goes still when the tip of his tongue draws a wet line over the thin skin covering his veins.
“Please,” Arthur says, writhing.
It’s impossible to imagine being so desperate for something he can’t have unless someone says so, and Eames wonders how it would feel to say no, how much deeper the desperation in Arthur’s voice could go. “Go on then,” he whispers instead, nudging Arthur’s ear with his nose and rocking into him again to ease the tension twisting low in his stomach. “Bite me.”
He turns his wrist a little to give Arthur better access. The first scrape of teeth across his skin makes his breath stutter, but he keeps up the slow thrusts. “Go on,” he repeats.
Arthur’s fangs sink into Eames wrist and pain streaks up his arm, a sharp kick that makes his shoulder twitch with the sudden urge to pull away. He snaps his hips forward instead, and Arthur moans against the broken skin of his wrist as he laps at the wound.
The wet sounds of someone drinking his blood probably shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but the harsh rhythm of his own breathing says otherwise. Eames picks up the pace again, ignoring the warm blood dripping down his forearm. It’s hard to hold his wrist steady and fuck Arthur as hard as he wants to at the same time, but Eames is beyond caring even when sharp teeth scrape over the already torn skin.
“Fuck, Arthur,” he gasps, pressing his nose to the nape of Arthur’s neck. The smell of his hair is undercut by the fresh scent of spilt blood, and Eames sucks in a breath. “I’m about to-“
Arthur bites down before Eames can finish the sentence, muffling the moan with Eames’s wrist as he comes, shoulders heaving.
The tight clench of Arthur’s muscles on his cock is all it takes. Eames digs his fingers into Arthur’s left hip hard enough to bruise as comes with a low groan on the next thrust in.
Arthur twitches beneath him, but they stay pressed together anyway. Eames doesn’t move until his wrist starts to throb, a very different kind of pain to the sharp edge of the bite in the heat of the moment. It’s surprisingly not unpleasant, and he eases his eyes open. There’s blood seeping across the pale fabric of the bed linens.
Eames flexes his fingers against Arthur’s cheek, listening to him pant softly. “You okay?”
“Mmm,” Arthur says.
Eames takes that as a yes and pulls out carefully, free hand still braced on Arthur’s hip. Once he lets go Arthur slumps down bonelessly onto the bed, soft and pliant. Eames curls over his back, enjoying the stretch of skin against his.
Finally, Arthur squeezes his forearm, turning his head a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Eames looks down at him. His eyes are still a little glazed, almost sleepy, blood smeared over his lips and chin, staining the white of his teeth. He’s fucking gorgeous, and Eames leans down to kiss him. He can taste his own blood, primal and metallic, as Arthur parts his lips with a contented sigh.
They lie like that for ten minutes or so, kissing slow and languid, tangled together until the sticky blood and drying come gets too irritating to enjoy lying still any longer. Eames gets up, pulling his arm free and ignoring Arthur’s soft sound of protest.
“Going to have a shower,” Eames says, raking his clean hand through his hair and eyeing the crumpled sheets. They really are a bloody mess, but a hotel in the middle of the vampire district is probably used to far worse than what they’ve done.
The warm shower spray stings his torn wrist, and he watches the water run red down the length of his arm and across the white tile. Once it’s clean it doesn’t look so bad, a few cuts and a couple of puncture marks. He tilts it back and forth. Maybe, just maybe, he understands a little why people would go out of their way to find vampires for bed partners.
“I’m turning on the cold water, watch out.”
Arthur’s voice startles Eames, and he quickly finishes up and turns the taps off.
Arthur’s standing at the vanity when he steps out of the shower, washing the last traces of blood off his face. There’s an oversized hotel towel tucked around his slim hips, and even though they just fucked, Eames feels interest stir low in his belly as he reaches for a towel of his own.
“Hey,” Arthur says, turning around. “Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t look sorry at all, and Eames really isn’t, either. “Don’t be. I enjoyed it. Did you?”
Arthur grins. “Yeah.” He leans back against the sink. “You’re still bleeding,” he says a second later, reaching for Eames’s wrist. His fingers are cool against the water-warmed skin. “May I?”
Eames isn’t familiar with the specifics of vampire feeding requirements, but he’s fairly sure the permission he gave only a few minutes ago should still be in effect. “Sure,” he says, anyway.
It’s far more delicate now that Arthur’s not trying to balance being fucked hard with lapping at the bloody wound. He lifts Eames’s wrist to his mouth, licking at the fresh trail of blood. Eames watches, fascinated, at the way the pink tip of his tongue laps kitten-like at his skin.
“Keep pressure on it for a bit,” Arthur says once he lifts his head, pressing his thumb over the worst of the cuts. “I’m going to get clean.”
Eames holds his wrist for a few more seconds before pulling on a pair of old trackpants and calling the reception to ask for some fresh sheets. The shower’s shut off by the time he puts the phone down, and Arthur comes out, rubbing at his hair with a spare towel.
“You can stay, if you want,” Eames says, sitting on the edge of the bed as Arthur shimmies back into his trousers. It’s not often he’d ask an anonymous one night stand to stick around, but the possibility of mutual blowjobs later suddenly seems like a promising prospect.
Arthur smiles. “Not that I wouldn’t be up for a second round, but I’m actually in town for business. Lots to get done tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.”
It only takes Arthur a couple of seconds to slip on his shirt and get it buttoned up, and just like that it’s impossible to tell he’s just been fucked senseless. His cheeks are flushed, but Eames knows that’s probably more a result of all the blood he’s had than any kind of post coital glow.
Finally Arthur picks up his coat from the floor near the door and pulls it on. “So, no regrets,” he glances at Eames’s wrist.
Eames brushes his fingers over the cuts, the sharp pain already turned dull. “None.”
“Have a good night,” Arthur says, opening the door.
“You, too.”
Eames lies back on the bed once the door clicks shut and closes his eyes, enjoying the warm, relaxed feeling only a good fuck can bring. His wrist still throbs, but it’s almost pleasant in a way. A reminder.
He smiles. Definitely no regrets.
*
When Eames wakes up in the morning there’s a voice message on his phone from Marcus, the extractor, telling him the architect has gotten into town a day early so the meeting has been moved forward to this afternoon.
He’s already prepared notes on all the preliminary research so he scoops the documents into a folder and spends most of the day touching base with old contacts until five o’ clock comes around, then heads to the designated hotel.
Marcus opens the suite door when he knocks. “Eames! Good to see you. Finally got yourself off that MI5 watchlist, I assume?”
“Only took seven months and more favours than I care to count,” Eames says, adjusting the folder under his arm.
“I’m surprised you managed it all. Come in, anyway. Jill’s not here yet, but you’re probably more interested in talking to point, anyway.”
It’s a big suite, more than big enough to cater to their purposes for the next month. There’s already charts and diagrams strewn across the dining table, and Eames sets his folder down near the edge.
“Arthur,” Marcus calls. “Eames is here.”
“Eames?” a familiar voice replies.
“Yeah, the forger I told you about.”
Considering he makes a living putting on other personalities and emotions the same way other people put on socks, it’s harder than it should be to keep his face neutral when Arthur walks into view. The starched sleeves of his shirt are turned up at the elbow and the unruly curls of his hair are slicked back into a semblance of stern professionalism, and all Eames can think of is how graceful the curve of his back is when he comes.
“Hi,” Eames says quickly, before the silence makes it too obvious anything unusual might be going on.
Arthur glances at the square of gauze covering the marks on his wrist for a second before clasping his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
They stare at each other for a few seconds too long, fingertips lingering as they pull away.
“Jill shouldn’t be too much longer, so we can start going over the basics if you want,” Marcus says, oblivious as he turns towards the dining table.
“Sure,” Arthur says, but he’s looking at Eames as he says it, mouth tilted slightly like he’s trying not to smile.
Then he leans over the table for a piece of paper and if Eames is honest, he’s glad to have another chance to admire just how well tailored Arthur’s trousers are.
Eames licks his lips before moving to join them. Without a doubt, this job is going to be anything but strictly business.
*
Artist: platina Author: butterflythread
Team: ROMANCE <3
Prompt: Blood, Sex
Word count: 4200
Rating: Fic- NC-17 Art- NSFW
Warnings: Mild bloodplay (of the vampire kind)
Summary: These days, Eames tells people he met Arthur when they were both hired for the same job in the high-end vampire district of west London. It’s close enough to the truth.
*
Most vampire clubs stink of stale blood. This one’s different though, an upper-class club for rich college kids and bored businessmen looking to get their kicks. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there at all, hovering under the smell of alcohol and sweat, but it’s understated enough that Eames can drink his whisky without wanting to throw up all over the plush carpet.
He sips his drink and watches people dance to a hundred and sixty beats per minute. It’s the sound of fear, a constant electronic heartbeat tuned to set blood hunger on edge, and they’re still bumping and grinding and offering their necks like a frantic vampire couldn’t kill them.
The mark hasn’t shown amongst the sheep, but Eames isn’t worried. The first team meeting isn’t even for another two days, but casing the place early beats sitting in his hotel room alone.
He’s about to order another drink when movement at the far corner of the bar draws his eye. It’s a man, too quiet and solitary to be one of the vampires that prance about places like this trawling for willing prey. Pretty though, all dark mussed hair and lithe muscle, more than attractive enough to pull the attention of a vampire if that’s what he really wanted.
Definitely enough to pull Eames’s attention, at least.
He picks up his empty glass and shifts down to the seat just beside the loner. “You don’t look like you come here often.”
The man glances up, nonplussed, and gives Eames a steady once over with his eyes. “That’s a pity,” he says. American. Even more out of place than he looks. “You do. You’d look good otherwise.”
Eames plucks at his low neckline. “You don’t like this?”
The man sighs and swirls the dregs in the bottom of his wineglass. The thick red liquid sticks to the edges, and Eames watches, fascinated, as the vampire downs the last mouthful of blood.
So he was wrong about the human part, it’s not like he never makes mistakes. The important part is never making them twice.
“I don’t like it when people think wrapping themselves up like slices of prime rib is a good way to get a vampire’s attention, no.” He sets down the wineglass. “It doesn’t seem like you come to places like this often, either.”
There are two choices when someone’s perceptive enough to see through a cover story. Keep bluffing, or take the path of least resistance. Eames has never cared much for fighting through resistance. “I don’t, actually. Name’s Eames.”
The other man tilts his head, eyeing him up and down again, before replying. “Arthur.”
Eames catches the barman’s attention. “Another scotch for me, and…” he looks at Arthur.
“Two parts A-neg to one B-pos,” Arthur says, lips turned up in a wry smile that wasn’t there before.
“What?” Eames slides a note across to the barman.
“Nothing,” Arthur says. “Just I’ve never seen a human buy a vampire a drink in a place like this.”
It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, and Eames wishes he could curse. Maybe getting some practice in with the locals before the job starts is actually a really good idea. “I’m not exactly out to pick up.”
Arthur laughs as the barman passes them their drinks. “And yet, here you are, dressed up like every other human in this place. What are you here for then, Mr. Eames?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me the same.”
Arthur shifts on the cushioned barstool, crossing his legs, and Eames lets his eye drift along the flex of muscle in his thigh as he settles into the position. “Not to pick up,” Arthur says cryptically.
The way his knee is brushing Eames’s now says otherwise. “And you?”
“Same as you,” Eames replies, and lifts his glass off the bar. He doesn’t even get it half way to his mouth before Arthur’s fingers curl around his forearm.
“Right, and that’s why you’re here, dressed up like this.” Arthur tries to close his hand around the thick muscle of Eames’s arm, cool pressure just below the elbow, before he lets go and trails his fingers up over the swell of his biceps.
Eames tenses the muscle and lets Arthur squeeze. “You’re the one accepting drinks from strangers and then feeling them up.”
“You’re the one buying drinks for strangers and letting them feel you up,” Arthur says, matter of fact, and Eames has to admit he’s got him there.
Arthur smiles like he knows he’s won and lets go, turning his attention back to the blood in his glass. He licks his lips after the sip, leaving them bright and wet and kissable enough that Eames is really, really glad he’s not actually on the job yet.
“In that case, if I were to tell you my hotel is just around the corner, you wouldn’t be interested, would you. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?” Arthur toys with the stem of his glass, then bites his lower lip as if he’s thinking. The tip of one fang digs into the already stained skin, and for all that he’s never really been into the whole fucking vampires thing, Eames’s stomach tenses in anticipation.
“Hypothetically, no, I wouldn’t be interested.” Arthur shifts again, knee rubbing against the side of Eames’s leg. “But you’re not telling me hypothetically at all, are you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Eames says, leaning forward a little so his knee slides between Arthur’s.
Arthur lets go of the wineglass and mirrors the action, planting his hands flat on Eames’s thighs. He’s close enough that Eames can smell the blood on his breath, close enough for their noses to brush, and he’s about to wrap his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and tug him in for the kiss when Arthur pulls away.
“You better lead the way, then,” he says, picking up a coat from the stool beside him.
Eames throws back the last of the scotch, and grins.
*
He barely gets the room door closed behind them before Arthur shoves him up against the wall, hard enough to knock the air out of him.
“What?” Arthur murmurs, raking his nails down Eames’s chest, still not closing the space between their lips. “Changed your mind?”
Eames sucks in a breath and grabs Arthur's waist, pulling their hips close. "Not a chance."
Arthur kisses him then, finally, tongue cool against the edge of his lip. He curls his fingers in Eames's hair and forces the kiss harder, deeper. Eames slips his hands inside Arthur's coat, tests the slim line of his waist down to his hips, flexing his fingers against the thin cotton of his shirt.
“You need to be more naked,” he says, tugging at Arthur’s coat.
“Likewise.” Arthur shrugs it off and reaches for Eames’s belt.
It’s probably true, but Eames is far more interested in finding out what those hips will feel like naked under his hands than letting Arthur do what he wants. His pants are still undone by the time he strips the shirt off over Arthur’s head and buries a hand in his hair, pulling hard enough to expose the vulnerable length of his neck. It’d be so fucking easy to bruise that skin, suck dark marks to the surface so there’s no way for Arthur to deny what they did in the morning.
Arthur hisses as soon as Eames’s lips brush his throat. “What are you doing?”
He’s not trying to get away, so Eames doesn’t loosen his grip when he looks up. There’s that glint of fang again, deceptively innocuous against the soft curve of Arthur’s lip, a reminder of just how different Arthur really is.
“Oh.” Eames tilts his head. “Do you want to fuck me?”
Arthur stares at him for a second before struggling free of Eames’s grip. It’s harder than it should be to just let him go instead of making him fight for it, but this is what he gets for deciding a pretty face and a nice body is worth bringing a vampire home. A good fuck is a good fuck in any case, at least.
“Sure,” Arthur says, unbuttoning his own pants and moving closer to the bed.
He sounds anything but sure, face turned away, and Eames takes a second to just watch him. Everything from the line of his shoulders to the twist of his body screams uncertainty, and Eames walks toward him, leaning close to murmur in his ear. “Sure?”
The shudder that runs across Arthur’s skin is unmistakable, and Eames has no idea how their wires got so crossed.
He’s never been so glad to be wrong.
It only takes a couple of steps to back Arthur up to the edge of the bed and even less effort to shove him down, one hand planted between his shoulderblades. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?” Eames says, rocking his hips against the firm curve of Arthur’s arse.
Arthur’s spine tenses, arches, thighs shifting further apart in an invitation so blatant that it doesn’t matter if he says anything else at all. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you.” He digs his fingers into the carefully turned-down bedcovers, using the leverage to arch back harder.
Eames reaches around Arthur’s waist, stroking the soft line of hair low on his belly before pulling down the zip on his trousers and easing them over his hips. “I can go either way, love, but let’s put it this way. I’d really,” he tugs the trousers a little lower, rubbing his thumbs over the jut of Arthur’s hipbones, “really like to fuck you.”
“I’d really, really like that,” Arthur says, breathless, straightening up enough to wriggle out of his pants and kick them aside.
His arse looked good enough under the tailored fit of his trousers on the walk back and now, naked muscle laid out pale in the bright hotel light, it’s perfect. Eames licks his lips. “Up on the bed, then.”
He pushes off his own pants as Arthur rolls into the middle of the bed, long legs spread and shameless. That grin is the expression Eames expects to see on someone about to have a good, no-strings-attached fuck with a stranger in a hotel room.
“Don’t move,” he says, quickly grabbing the tube of lube from the pocket of his suitcase on the other side of the room.
When he turns back to the bed Arthur’s stroking himself lazily, lower lip caught between his teeth as he thrust up into the loose grip of his fingers.
“I said don’t move,” Eames says, crawling onto the bed and slapping at Arthur’s thigh.
“I’m right where you left me,” Arthur retorts and opens his eyes as he lets go of his cock. “You can take over if you want.”
Tempting as the idea of holding those lean thighs wide open and teasing that cock with his tongue until Arthur’s begging for it is, the idea of fucking him is far more interesting right now. Eames runs his hands down his inner thighs, squeezing. “I’ve got better things to do with you. Turn over.”
Arthur gets on his knees, resting his head on his forearms so his back is a provocative slope all the way down from the curve of his arse to the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
Eames strokes the roundness of Arthur’s arse, feels down along the exposed ridges of his spine before sweeping back up and spreading him open with his thumbs.
“Ready?” he asks, reaching for the lube on the mattress with one hand and pressing down on Arthur’s hole with the other, feeling the muscle clench.
“I’ve been ready for the last ten minutes at least, fuck,” Arthur hisses, leaning back into the pressure.
“Good.” Eames pours lube over the fingers already touching Arthur, rubbing gently until his skin is slick and there’s less resistance when he tries to ease his thumb inside.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur moans as he pushes it in. His thighs are already trembling, and Eames watches the tremors as he works his thumb in and out slowly, twisting a little deeper each time.
“Fuck,” he repeats when Eames replaces his thumb with two fingers, carefully slicked with more lube before slipping in.
“You’re tight,” Eames says. Arthur’s barely taken two fingers past the second knuckle, opening up so slowly under the pressure.
“It’s been a while,” he bites out, shifting his hips. “Oh, yeah, right there. Like that.”
Eames spreads his fingers slightly again and Arthur tosses his head, leaning back and letting Eames’s fingers slide even deeper into him.
Arthur’s letting out rough sounds on every breath by the time Eames works a third finger in alongside the others. It’s not exactly an easy slide, despite how wet he is.
“C’mon,” Arthur says, spreading his legs wider and rocking against Eames’s fingers. “You can’t break me.”
Eames pulls his fingers free and shifts closer, cock sliding over Arthur’s slick cleft. He runs one hand down Arthur’s back to settle between his shoulders again, pressing down just enough to feel the flex of the muscle as Arthur arches and shudders. “Okay,” he murmurs, steadying his other hand on the dip of Arthur’s waist and pushing in.
It’s tight enough that he only makes it part way, working the head of his cock slowly in and out to tease Arthur open wide enough to take him all.
Arthur bucks his hips when Eames pulls out, and Eames smooths a soothing hand down over the side of his thigh as he reaches for the lube again. “Just a second, then I promise I’ll fuck you as hard as I can.”
“If you don’t, I’m going to make you watch me jerk off instead, so hurry up.”
Eames almost tells him that he could still fuck him after that, all languid and covered in his own come, but he concentrates on pouring more lube instead. This time when he lines his cock up to push in it’s an easier slide, and it only takes a couple of slow thrusts before he can pull back and thrust in hard, all the way. “Is that better?” he growls, building up momentum. “That what you wanted?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Arthur pants, lifting his hips to meet every thrust.
Eames grabs his hips with both hands and pulls him back harder, hoping he can hold out for Arthur’s orgasm for the sake of feeling him come from nothing but his cock.
“Please,” Arthur sobs, his entire body trembling as Eames shifts the angle. “Oh fuck, please, I need… fuck.”
Eames eases back to gentle, rocking thrusts and leans down, pressing his chest to Arthur’s back and lifting his right wrist to brush against Arthur’s lips. His breath is coming in hot bursts, and Eames goes still when the tip of his tongue draws a wet line over the thin skin covering his veins.
“Please,” Arthur says, writhing.
It’s impossible to imagine being so desperate for something he can’t have unless someone says so, and Eames wonders how it would feel to say no, how much deeper the desperation in Arthur’s voice could go. “Go on then,” he whispers instead, nudging Arthur’s ear with his nose and rocking into him again to ease the tension twisting low in his stomach. “Bite me.”
He turns his wrist a little to give Arthur better access. The first scrape of teeth across his skin makes his breath stutter, but he keeps up the slow thrusts. “Go on,” he repeats.
Arthur’s fangs sink into Eames wrist and pain streaks up his arm, a sharp kick that makes his shoulder twitch with the sudden urge to pull away. He snaps his hips forward instead, and Arthur moans against the broken skin of his wrist as he laps at the wound.
The wet sounds of someone drinking his blood probably shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but the harsh rhythm of his own breathing says otherwise. Eames picks up the pace again, ignoring the warm blood dripping down his forearm. It’s hard to hold his wrist steady and fuck Arthur as hard as he wants to at the same time, but Eames is beyond caring even when sharp teeth scrape over the already torn skin.
“Fuck, Arthur,” he gasps, pressing his nose to the nape of Arthur’s neck. The smell of his hair is undercut by the fresh scent of spilt blood, and Eames sucks in a breath. “I’m about to-“
Arthur bites down before Eames can finish the sentence, muffling the moan with Eames’s wrist as he comes, shoulders heaving.
The tight clench of Arthur’s muscles on his cock is all it takes. Eames digs his fingers into Arthur’s left hip hard enough to bruise as comes with a low groan on the next thrust in.
Arthur twitches beneath him, but they stay pressed together anyway. Eames doesn’t move until his wrist starts to throb, a very different kind of pain to the sharp edge of the bite in the heat of the moment. It’s surprisingly not unpleasant, and he eases his eyes open. There’s blood seeping across the pale fabric of the bed linens.
Eames flexes his fingers against Arthur’s cheek, listening to him pant softly. “You okay?”
“Mmm,” Arthur says.
Eames takes that as a yes and pulls out carefully, free hand still braced on Arthur’s hip. Once he lets go Arthur slumps down bonelessly onto the bed, soft and pliant. Eames curls over his back, enjoying the stretch of skin against his.
Finally, Arthur squeezes his forearm, turning his head a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Eames looks down at him. His eyes are still a little glazed, almost sleepy, blood smeared over his lips and chin, staining the white of his teeth. He’s fucking gorgeous, and Eames leans down to kiss him. He can taste his own blood, primal and metallic, as Arthur parts his lips with a contented sigh.
They lie like that for ten minutes or so, kissing slow and languid, tangled together until the sticky blood and drying come gets too irritating to enjoy lying still any longer. Eames gets up, pulling his arm free and ignoring Arthur’s soft sound of protest.
“Going to have a shower,” Eames says, raking his clean hand through his hair and eyeing the crumpled sheets. They really are a bloody mess, but a hotel in the middle of the vampire district is probably used to far worse than what they’ve done.
The warm shower spray stings his torn wrist, and he watches the water run red down the length of his arm and across the white tile. Once it’s clean it doesn’t look so bad, a few cuts and a couple of puncture marks. He tilts it back and forth. Maybe, just maybe, he understands a little why people would go out of their way to find vampires for bed partners.
“I’m turning on the cold water, watch out.”
Arthur’s voice startles Eames, and he quickly finishes up and turns the taps off.
Arthur’s standing at the vanity when he steps out of the shower, washing the last traces of blood off his face. There’s an oversized hotel towel tucked around his slim hips, and even though they just fucked, Eames feels interest stir low in his belly as he reaches for a towel of his own.
“Hey,” Arthur says, turning around. “Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t look sorry at all, and Eames really isn’t, either. “Don’t be. I enjoyed it. Did you?”
Arthur grins. “Yeah.” He leans back against the sink. “You’re still bleeding,” he says a second later, reaching for Eames’s wrist. His fingers are cool against the water-warmed skin. “May I?”
Eames isn’t familiar with the specifics of vampire feeding requirements, but he’s fairly sure the permission he gave only a few minutes ago should still be in effect. “Sure,” he says, anyway.
It’s far more delicate now that Arthur’s not trying to balance being fucked hard with lapping at the bloody wound. He lifts Eames’s wrist to his mouth, licking at the fresh trail of blood. Eames watches, fascinated, at the way the pink tip of his tongue laps kitten-like at his skin.
“Keep pressure on it for a bit,” Arthur says once he lifts his head, pressing his thumb over the worst of the cuts. “I’m going to get clean.”
Eames holds his wrist for a few more seconds before pulling on a pair of old trackpants and calling the reception to ask for some fresh sheets. The shower’s shut off by the time he puts the phone down, and Arthur comes out, rubbing at his hair with a spare towel.
“You can stay, if you want,” Eames says, sitting on the edge of the bed as Arthur shimmies back into his trousers. It’s not often he’d ask an anonymous one night stand to stick around, but the possibility of mutual blowjobs later suddenly seems like a promising prospect.
Arthur smiles. “Not that I wouldn’t be up for a second round, but I’m actually in town for business. Lots to get done tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.”
It only takes Arthur a couple of seconds to slip on his shirt and get it buttoned up, and just like that it’s impossible to tell he’s just been fucked senseless. His cheeks are flushed, but Eames knows that’s probably more a result of all the blood he’s had than any kind of post coital glow.
Finally Arthur picks up his coat from the floor near the door and pulls it on. “So, no regrets,” he glances at Eames’s wrist.
Eames brushes his fingers over the cuts, the sharp pain already turned dull. “None.”
“Have a good night,” Arthur says, opening the door.
“You, too.”
Eames lies back on the bed once the door clicks shut and closes his eyes, enjoying the warm, relaxed feeling only a good fuck can bring. His wrist still throbs, but it’s almost pleasant in a way. A reminder.
He smiles. Definitely no regrets.
*
When Eames wakes up in the morning there’s a voice message on his phone from Marcus, the extractor, telling him the architect has gotten into town a day early so the meeting has been moved forward to this afternoon.
He’s already prepared notes on all the preliminary research so he scoops the documents into a folder and spends most of the day touching base with old contacts until five o’ clock comes around, then heads to the designated hotel.
Marcus opens the suite door when he knocks. “Eames! Good to see you. Finally got yourself off that MI5 watchlist, I assume?”
“Only took seven months and more favours than I care to count,” Eames says, adjusting the folder under his arm.
“I’m surprised you managed it all. Come in, anyway. Jill’s not here yet, but you’re probably more interested in talking to point, anyway.”
It’s a big suite, more than big enough to cater to their purposes for the next month. There’s already charts and diagrams strewn across the dining table, and Eames sets his folder down near the edge.
“Arthur,” Marcus calls. “Eames is here.”
“Eames?” a familiar voice replies.
“Yeah, the forger I told you about.”
Considering he makes a living putting on other personalities and emotions the same way other people put on socks, it’s harder than it should be to keep his face neutral when Arthur walks into view. The starched sleeves of his shirt are turned up at the elbow and the unruly curls of his hair are slicked back into a semblance of stern professionalism, and all Eames can think of is how graceful the curve of his back is when he comes.
“Hi,” Eames says quickly, before the silence makes it too obvious anything unusual might be going on.
Arthur glances at the square of gauze covering the marks on his wrist for a second before clasping his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
They stare at each other for a few seconds too long, fingertips lingering as they pull away.
“Jill shouldn’t be too much longer, so we can start going over the basics if you want,” Marcus says, oblivious as he turns towards the dining table.
“Sure,” Arthur says, but he’s looking at Eames as he says it, mouth tilted slightly like he’s trying not to smile.
Then he leans over the table for a piece of paper and if Eames is honest, he’s glad to have another chance to admire just how well tailored Arthur’s trousers are.
Eames licks his lips before moving to join them. Without a doubt, this job is going to be anything but strictly business.
*