Fic: Body Language (arthur/eames)
So apparently me plus inception_kink equals an absolute writing/(READING) frenzy, because that's all I've been doing lately. But it just gets my mind buzzing with ideas, which equals more writing, which equals more Arthur/Eames, which ultimately equals a more satisfied me as an individual. (Christ, why am I doing this to myself? I'm working on like five stories at the same time. Maybe I am a masochist...)
Prompt: Naked, floofy, ridiculous cuddling involving Arthur kissing/going over Eames’ tattoos and Eames tells him where they’re from. (aka HOW COULD I RESIST?!?!)
"Body Language"
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Words: 1722
Genre: Romance
Rating: Meh. PG-13.
Status: Complete (oneshot)
Arthur extended an index finger and pressed it to the raised skin of Eames’ shoulder, the riddle of ink there. Eames mistook the gesture, his hands flattening against Arthur’s neck and back as he rolled the point man beneath him so that their bodies fit together in all the right places.
“Eames,” Arthur said, tone conveying a mild warning. Still, there was something like a smile creeping around the edges of his mouth, so that Eames could only grin in return.
“What?” he said, pressing his nose to Arthur’s nose. “You started it-again.”
Arthur shook his head, not even about to go into how it was almost always Eames who started anything, regardless of where they were or who they were with. Granted, this did not mean Arthur was faultless, and indeed maybe he had started it this time, the moment they had passed through the main doors of the hotel, Eames looking all dapper with that lopsided grin of his and practically asking for it anyway. And Arthur, glancing at Eames and loosening his neck tie with a subtle jerk as they had exited the cab, had probably been asking for it, too.
How they ever managed to make it to their room was beyond either of them.
However, they always made it this moment, the moment afterwards-this moment of soft speech and languid smiles that proved a stark contrast to the passionate and eager tussles they had shared only a few moments prior.
Sighing contently, Eames fitted his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, a small smile gracing his lips as Arthur’s fingers combed through his hair, massaging the nape of his neck.
“You’re scruffy,” said Arthur.
“You love it,” replied Eames.
Forget that they had a job tomorrow or that their clothes were quite literally everywhere except on them, or that Eames had probably lost one of the key cards on the way up, or that Arthur would be complaining in the morning when he saw just how rumpled his shirt was. For now, none of that was important.
Now was Arthur’s fingertips tracing over Eames’ bare shoulder, and his succinct question of “What’s this?”
“Mmm? What’s-Oh that.” Rolling onto his side, Eames propped his face on his hand.
Arthur’s eyes were on the black symbol that graced his skin, and then they were on Eames. “Is that Chinese?”
“If I remember correctly.”
Arthur reached his hand out so that he gripped Eames’ upper arm, muscles shifting beneath his hand as his thumb brushed over the symbol again. “What does it say?”
“It says ‘Saito.’”
Cracking a rare smile, Arthur punched Eames in the chest. “Be serious,” he said.
Chuckling, Eames took his hand and held it so that their fingers intertwined.
“I don’t know what it means. It was my first tattoo. Got it ages ago…It really could mean ‘Saito,’ for all I know. What I do know is that Dad wasn’t too happy about that one, getting it without his permission and all.”
Giving him a veiled look, Arthur closed the space between them, his lips pressing against the mark. Eames’ fingers were suddenly in his hair, angling Arthur’s face so that he could kiss him.
“Eames,” said Arthur, in between the gentle connections of their mouths. “I’ll never…be able to…get you up in the…morning, at this rate.”
“Darling, you can always get me up.”
Ignoring that last comment, Arthur’s eyes went to Eames’ other arm, the one propping up his face. It was the one Arthur sometimes saw when Eames was dressed in a plain white t-shirt, but he only ever saw enough to make out “und…” and nothing more. Now he could clearly see the word “underneath” printed in a simple sans serif font.
Eames watched as Arthur pressed his fingers against it, followed by his lips. “And this one?” Arthur asked.
“Ah, that one…I thought I was being clever there. I got that one in my early twenties. No significance. At least not one I can remember.”
Arthur sat up, dark hair spilling over his forehead and into his half-lidded eyes. Eames’ smile was borderline predatory.
“Have I ever told you how sexy you look with your hair all undone like that?”
“Many times.”
“Just checking.”
Arthur’s eyes found Eames’ legs, and he slid the thin white sheet up until his right calf was exposed. Folding his arms behind his head, Eames opened up his legs, suggestively, until Arthur pinched his thigh.
“And this?” Arthur inquired, referring to the ornate dragon that curled around his calf to his shin, so that it appeared to be swallowing its tail.
“College. Undergrad, to be exact. That is my drunk tattoo. I couldn’t have been any more smashed when I got that one.”
Arthur arched a dark brow just as Eames propped his ankle on the point man’s shoulder with a lazy grin.
“Seeing as how we seem to be going in something of an order,” he purred, “my waist is next, love.”
Running a hand through his hair to get it more or less out of his face-(he drove Eames crazy when he did that)-Arthur sent Eames a challenging look before pushing Eames’ foot down so that he could slide up Eames’ body, stopping only once he had settled between Eames’ legs. Eames’ grin had morphed into one of those insufferable smirks that Arthur couldn’t help but find attractive as his fingers reached out to pull the blanket away from Eames’ stomach, his lips marking the trail of the material that stopped only once it had reached his waist. There, Arthur uncovered another word, or words, as it was. Two of them, off-center, and ones that Arthur knew too well.
“Memento mori,” Eames murmured, eyes locking with Arthur’s eyes. Breaking the gaze, Arthur traced each letter with his fingertip. “That tickles, Arthur. You know my waist is sensitive.”
“Why?” asked Arthur, in such a way that Eames knew he was referring to the tattoo and not his latest comment.
“Well…There are several ways of looking at it, but I choose to take it to mean that I should live my life to the fullest. We’re only human, after all. Some of us, anyway,” he added, trying to restore the playful mood. Arthur was still giving him one of those serious looks, his lips set in a grim line. It didn’t help that they had a knack for reading one another, reaching out to those places that no one else ever reached. Maybe that’s why Eames didn’t adorn the usual smile-at least, not until Arthur had leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Eames’ waist, warmth flooding his lower half as nimble fingers pressed into Eames’ sides.
“We’ll never get through them all if you start that now,” Eames laughed.
Arthur smiled, the expression soft as he tilted his face up and nuzzled his nose against the forger’s abdomen. Eames reached down and stroked his cheek, his fingers curling finally around the back of Arthur’s neck, so that Arthur leaned into the touch, his eyes closing momentarily. There was a thin sheet between them, but there might as well have been nothing.
“Eames,” said Arthur, eyes opening to pin Eames with another warning. It was only halfhearted though, a fact made obvious by the languid smile on Arthur’s face.
Regardless, Eames raised his hands in submission, saying, “Go on. I’m all yours, Arthur.”
Crawling up a little bit more, Arthur’s eyes fell on a bird, a large, dark shadow of wings that started on his side and curved all the way to his back. It was the one Arthur always found himself looking at when Eames was changing or getting dressed, unable to look away. It could have been flying-or falling.
“Like that one?” asked Eames, reading Arthur’s mind. “So do I. Got it a few years ago after a job-around the time I met you, actually. I had dreamt about it, and I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. Lovely image, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, listlessly, raking his fingernails over the image, and then his lips. “Lovely.”
And there was one more-a man’s name, or a boy’s, as it was. This one was in elegant cursive across his chest, slightly off-center, to the left. “Elliot,” it said, in a ghostly hand.
This one Arthur did not ask about. He already knew. He recalled the story Eames had told him, about a boy, his brother, who had been lost to a deadly illness. He did not ignore it, however, pressing his lips to the name.
“Arthur,” Eames spoke softly, smiling as their eyes met for perhaps the hundredth time that day, perhaps more. “Shall I get your name next?”
Arthur gave him a look that really could’ve been anything but was mostly skepticism. “Does it hurt?”
“Of course.” His hands were on Arthur’s face and then his hair, smoothing wayward strands. “But only for a moment.”
It was quiet as Arthur moved, their bodies flush against one another and Arthur’s lips close enough that Eames could feel the warm breath coming from them as he whispered, “Then, no,” before cutting off any further comment from the forger with a kiss. A small noise echoed from the back of Eames’ throat-some small sound of satisfaction, as his lips pressed behind Arthur’s ear, his fingers digging into the smaller man’s skin.
Arthur’s sigh was quiet as Eames’ arms snaked around him, pulling him close, and then even closer, and he certainly couldn’t deny that he found those muscled arms anything but a turn-on, particularly when they held him just like that, his fingers playing along the soft skin of Arthur’s waist, almost as if his body were made up of piano keys. He could feel Eames’ breath as it shifted from his neck to his lips to his shoulder, his own fingertips curling around the back of Eames’ head as their lips met again.
And eventually, Arthur would end up struggling to untangle the blanket from Eames’ limbs and just get it out of the way, all the while Eames laughing and telling him that come tomorrow, when they were both late and Cobb gave them that reprimanding look of his, Arthur had better remember that he had most definitely started it this time.