brother-naming/burro & i accidentally write Inception fic/WIP dump
HELLO HELLO INTERWEBS.
I apologize for being a little MIA, shit has been busy etc etc holiday parties etc etc limited time etc etc OMG YULETIDE all of things etc etc etc etc. I have a lot of things to say! But, first and foremost, I would like to let everyone know that (drumroll please):
I HAVE NAMED MY BROTHERS.
Yes, it's true, everyone clap, I know you are as thrilled as I am about this. AND EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT, I am deeply relieved not to have to keep typing out "the nineteen year old" and "the eleven year old" every six seconds. And I guess I should probably...tell you...the names. So, uh, basically what happened is two_if_by_sea suggested I call one of them Donkey Punch because she's hilarious and horrifying and stuff, and then that mutated into:
Burro Punch/Burro: My 19-year-old frat boy brother
Burrito Punch/Burrito: My 11-year-old sixth grade brother
You know, because burro means...donkey and "ito" is an...affectionate diminutive...okay anyway HURRAY FOR CATHY! I will probably mostly be calling them Burro and Burrito, TBH :D BUT AT LEAST THEY ARE NAMED NOW.
Speaking of my brothers, the other night Burro and I got high and he unwittingly outlined a hilarious Inception fic with me. We were, uh, talking about how Inception was going to be to our kids what Back to the Future was to us (don't question the stoned-brain, okay, just refrain) and then somehow we got into this discussion about how there could never be a sequel to Inception because it would all just be settling out AND THEN:
Burro: Unless you call it Perception.
Me: *Spits out drink in amazement*
Burro: And it's about how Cobb thinks everyone is watching him all the time!
Me: Oh my god, the entirety of Inception is just another one of Cobb's paranoid stoner dreams.
Burro: And then he wakes up and all the people from the movie are actually his like, stoner buddies, right, and he's like I JUST HAD THE WEIRDEST DREAM and they're all like SHUT UP COBB.
Me: Ahahhahahahahaha, it's like the Wizard of Oz. "And you were there, Arthur! And you, Eames!"
Burro: "Oh, Saito, I think I'll miss you most of all."
Me: And Mal's all, "It's really disconcerting how you keep dreaming about me being dead."
Burror: No, but, dude, seriously. Imagine being stoner Cobb, right, and waking up from dreaming Inception and having to try to explain ALL OF IT, what would you even do.
Me: I...I don't know, oh man.
Burro: It'd be like, "So I had this dream, man, and Arthur, you were like--people were like pushing you out of chairs and shit, and Mal you were all evil, and then there was like--we kidnapped a dude and went down into a dream, I mean, in my dream we went into a dream, and then it was RAINING because Yusuf had to PEE and there was a train and these taxis and Eames you were like shooting at people and shit, and then we went into another dream INSIDE my dream INSIDE MY DREAM, and Saito you were like bleeding and shit and Ariande you we all mad at me but that was before, and anyway ARTHUR YOU DID THIS AWESOME THING WHERE YOU WE LIKE FIGHTING WITH NO GRAVITY AND SHIT OH MY GOD IT WAS SO AWESOME and then like. There was a THIRD DREAM IN MY DREAM OF MY DREAM OF DREAMS, and there was snow everywhere and shit blew up and a giant safe and a pinwheel, and then I got to go home and see my kids!"
Me: And then everyone yells "SHUT UP COBB!"
Burro: Aaaaaaaaand scene!
So, you know, that was the best ten minutes of my life.
And now, because it's been ages since I posted fic and I feel legit bad about that (although I am working on things I swear I am) here is a WIP dump!
1200 words of unfinished top!Arthur PWP
It's not that Arthur has an impulse control problem, exactly. Control, as it happens, is actually something of a skill of Arthur's, insofar as these things can be quantified. He's got a talent for it, for biting back what he would say, for reigning in his baser instincts, and--
--well, fuck, it's not his fault that Eames has gone and shot his entire system all to shit.
Arthur stares at him from across the subway car, eyes narrowed, his hand curling to a fist in his pocket. He's painfully hard, has been painfully hard for five stops now, and every bump and turn and jolt just makes it worse. He keeps getting harder, how can that possibly be happening, and Eames doesn't even know what he's doing, chewing on the edge of his thumbnail like that as he looks out the window.
Arthur is going to kill him.
"I'm going to kill you," he says, grabbing Eames by the lapel and hauling him towards the doors.
"I've long said you'll be the death of me," Eames agrees cheerfully. "But we're four stops early, what--"
"Stop talking," Arthur insists. "Just, Jesus, shut up."
"What've I done?" Eames asks, all innocence, as the train shudders to a stop. Arthur shudders with it--fuck, fuck, it shouldn't even be physically possible to be this hard, this is a medical condition, and Eames doesn't even know, doesn't even know that Arthur has been staring at him this whole time, watching him slide his thumb in and out of his mouth.
"Really," Eames says, more serious now, "hired guns? Security detail following us? What are you on about?"
Arthur just growls low in his throat and doesn't let go of Eames' jacket, dragging him forward. Eames stumbles after him, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur can see Eames' thumb, spit-slick at the edges from where he was biting it. And Arthur's casting around for an out of the way place, a bathroom, an abandoned corner, something, because this is a problem and Arthur knows how to deal with problems.
This is Eames, and Arthur knows how to deal with Eames.
"Supply closet," he grunts, not even aware he's said it out loud until Eames makes a noise behind him. And then Eames is laughing, stupidly low, dark with amusement. Arthur's cock fucking twitches, and he thanks his lucky goddamn stars that it's the middle of the night and there's no one here to see him wrench the damn door open.
"Eager, darling?" Eames asks, all flippancy, but Arthur drags him forward, swallows whatever bullshit follow-up he'd had planned with a brutal kiss, and wrenches the door shut behind them.
"Christ," Eames gasps, and he's not flippant anymore, "Arthur, what--"
"Shut the fuck up," Arthur snaps, reaching to undo Eames' trousers. "I don't know how much clearer you want me to be, but shut your fucking mouth or I'm going to--"
"Shut it for me?" Eames asks, swaggering even if his eyes are wide, and Arthur all but bares his teeth.
"God, you're so full of shit," he growls, instead of hitting Eames until those disgusting lips are bleeding and ruined and Arthur doesn't have to look at them anymore. "You're so full of shit, Eames, you're such a goddamn prick, playing like you don't want it--"
"You're the one pulling me into closets--"
"I am going to fuck you," Arthur says, enunciating the words crisply into Eames' ear as he finally gets his hands on Eames' cock, "until you forget how to be such a fucking asshole."
Eames shudders under his hands at this, because at the end of the day, for all his talk, Eames is pretty good about doing exactly what Arthur wants. At the end of the he's pretty good at shutting his mouth and taking what Arthur's willing to give him; at the end of the day, if he's saying anything, he's saying 'please'.
"Yeah," Arthur murmurs, "yeah, that's right, don't have anything to say to that, do you?"
Eames moans in response, probably because Arthur's just pulled on his cock, his thumb pressed into Eames' slit. Eames moans and Arthur bites down on his collarbone, because Jesus Christ, he loves Eames like this, getting hard in his hand, writhing under his touch. He loves watching everything Eames puts on, all his carefully constructed nonsense, slip the fuck away, because when Arthur's got Eames where he wants him Eames can't help but be himself.
"Like that?" Arthur murmurs, pulling at him again.
"Christ, Arthur," Eames gasps, "oh, Christ, what-- "
"Do you not remember me telling you to shut the fuck up?" Arthur asks, voice silky smooth. "Maybe this will jog your memory."
He slips to his knees, not stopping to give a fuck about what the state of the ground must be like in here, and pulls Eames into his mouth.
Eames chokes--Arthur can hear him doing it, feels the rush of satisfaction deep in his gut. He takes a staccato breath and threads his fingers through Arthur's hair as Arthur grabs his hip, tightening them as Arthur draws him in deeper. He feels Eames scraping the back of his throat, fully hard now, and hums against his dick, licking up and around him.
Eames' hips jerk forward--involuntarily, Arthur is almost sure, although Eames is just enough of a bastard to do it on purpose--and Arthur tightens his grip on Eames' hip and pulls back.
"No," he says. His voice is a little rough, but he makes it rougher, because he knows full well that Eames is an egomaniac, gets off on that kind of thing. "You play by my rules or you don't play at all, Mr. Eames. Stay still."
Eames looks down at him, eyes wide in the dim light. "Yeah," he says, finally, and the way his breathing is already labored makes Arthur fucking dizzy. "Yeah, alright."
Arthur grins up at him, feral, all his edges out to play. He pulls Eames' cock in again and lets his teeth graze ever-so-lightly against the underside; as expected, Eames lets out a strangled cry and stumbles back, reaching out for something to steady himself on.
"Sorry," he gasps, "sorry, I didn't mean to--for fuck's sake don't stop, Arthur, bloody hell, you can't--you can't leave me like--"
Arthur takes pity on him, follows with his mouth. He leans forward to brace himself on Eames' knees as he mouths at the head of his cock, his tongue darting up and under the layer of uncut skin there.
"You," Eames gasps, voice cracking on it, "oh Christ, Arthur, you have no bloody idea what you--"
"I'll gag you if I have to," Arthur hisses, pulling back just enough that his breath is ghosting over Eames' balls. Eames' knees fucking tremble under his palms, under those too-big slacks he insists on wearing everywhere because he can't be bothered to buy new ones when he sheds weight for a con.
"Why," Eames pants, "why don't you want me to--"
"Goddamn it," Arthur growls. He stands, one fluid motion, and Eames is sweating and wide-eyed as Arthur shoves him, hard, against the wall. A shelf rattles above them and something crash-lands behind Arthur; he doesn't bother to turn around and look.
2,000 words of...um, drunk blowjob porn, from a collab that angelgazing and are SOMEDAY GOING TO FINISH called "I Speak Fluent Tequila and Passable Love"
It's Arthur's eighth shot that does it--he knows because he keeps track of these things, because he's the fucking point man, isn't he, and he can tell when he's been put over the edge. And, see, before his eighth shot the bar had been a little warm, pleasantly full of the crush of people that lets him kid himself into believing that this is practically anonymous, nothing more dangerous than finding some wastrel to take home.
Only now it's after Arthur's eighth shot, it's after his ninth and tenth and Eames isn't just any wastrel, and it's not warm anymore, it's hot, it's fucking hot. Arthur loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves and loses his jacket and Eames is laughing, he's laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen, Arthur sweating across from him.
Sometimes, sometimes, on nights like this, Arthur trusts the alcohol to cover him and he lets himself stare. Because the slick-sharp heat of Eames' mirth isn't doing anything to lessen the growing pressure under his collar and those lips, catching on his canines as he leans back, smiling and smiling and god, fuck, Arthur is drunk. He's drunk and Eames is laughing at him and he says, he says:
"Eames, I'm thinking we should--I'm thinking, you know, about getting out of here."
"I'm always, about your imagination--I'm always wrong," Eames murmurs, leaning across the sticky table. And even like this Arthur spares a passing thought for his sleeves, for what they will look like tomorrow, coated in someone else's spilt beer. Eames is looking respectable for once, in a white button down and a pair of grey slacks, and maybe that's why Arthur feels like he's going to die of heat stroke--but probably not.
Probably it's the way Eames is looking at him like he's going to eat him alive, like he's going to flay him across the hot coals of his own goddamn want until he's reduced to nothing but ash.
"You can shut the fuck up about my imagination," says Arthur, sharp, reflexive, and Eames doesn't even wince. He just grabs Arthur's wrist and presses too hard against his pulse point and Arthur can't help the way his eyelashes flutter, just once, against his will.
"And where are we going?" he says.
Arthur will wonder, later, how the hell they even got to the alley behind the bar. Arthur will wonder later how he didn't just fall down on the fucking floor and wait for Eames to pound the fever of it out him, because that was what he wanted, really. Just now all he knows is that he's hot, he's hot like India, hot like Khartoum and Acapulco and Madrid and Eames' hand is on his ass and when he bursts out through the back door into the pouring goddamn rain he's got nothing, no plan, no next step.
It feels so fucking good, the rain, that Arthur turns his face up it, letting it drip down into his hair, letting it settle against his cheekbones, his lips. He still feels like he's going to die but he could go like this, on fire from the outside in, he thinks--there's dignity in it, the fucking irony, the juxtaposition of everything he is and everything he wants, and wants, and wants.
"I want to," he says, "I want to--right here, I want to--Jesus fuck, Eames, how the fuck do you expect me to--"
"Do you," Eames says, staring, "you're--wet, Arthur, Christ--"
"Why do you talk," Arthur hisses, "why the fuck do you ever talk," and he shoves at him, slams him too hard into the brick.
Eames grips his shoulders, rough, tight enough to bruise, because at the end of the day Eames is a self-interested self-serving little shit and he fucks like he fights like he does everything: to win. There are going to be marks in the morning, rutted against Arthur's rock-hard deltoids, and Arthur doesn't care--he doesn't care because he's too occupied caring about why the hell Eames is holding him off and just staring, staring, fucking staring like he's never going to stop.
"What," Arthur demands, "what the fuck, what is it, are you suddenly--is this like some kind of fucking propriety thing, because you just, you've never given a fuck before about who sees us--"
"Wet," Eames repeats, and he licks his lips, and Arthur is on fire.
"Oh god, Eames, goddamn it, fuck you," Arthur growls, and he vaunts himself up and against Eames' mouth. He feels Eames' head hit the bricks and Eames makes this raw, pained noise and Arthur thinks An eye for a eye, motherfucker, but he's too occupied biting Eames' lips to say it. Those lips, those fucking lips, too full even in Arthur's mouth and there's rain in his eyes and Eames' hands aren't on his shoulders anymore, they're bunched in his shirt, they're hauling him so close he can feel Eames' breath in his chest.
This, this, this is why Arthur shouldn't drink tequila: because it's itching under his skin and coursing through his veins and for a second, wildly, he thinks gasoline, like that's what's in him, like Arthur's going to take out a city block when Eames lights him up. Then he doesn't think anymore because Eames is groaning and arching against the brick and grinding their hips together, and Arthur breaks away with one last fierce tug and slips to his knees.
"Christ," Eames chokes, "oh, Christ, Arthur, oh, fuck, fuck, what--"
"You want to insult my fucking imagination," Arthur says, "you go ahead, you just--you do that, Eames, you do that all day, but when you think about how fucking creative I can be you're going to--"
"Jesus, do you think I want to play your bloody games right now?"
"No," Arthur says, unzipping his flies and pulling at his cock, already aching-hard, already dripping with it. "No, I know what you fucking want."
"God," says Eames, and it's half-sob, mangled in his quickening breath as Arthur widens his mouth and pulls him in. The rain goes harder, fierce, beating a tattoo on Arthur skin, and Arthur wonders what it looks like--if the pattern of it matches the tendrils of ink visible under Eames' soaked-through shirt, if it's something he'll be able to trace in the morning.
He draws Eames deep, until he's rubbing the back of Arthur's throat, until Arthur could nuzzle Eames' stomach with his forehead if he wanted to. He draws Eames deep and Eames' moan is so low, so wracked, that Arthur almost doesn't hear it. He does, though, he hears it on a kind of primal level, with something more than just his ears, and it settles at the pit of his stomach like a weight and grows there, eating at him, coiling and uncoiling around his various vital signs.
"Oh, Jesus, Arthur," Eames gasps, vowels splayed wide, "Arthur, Arthur, oh, Arthur, god," and Arthur taps the bottom of his dick with his tongue, hard. Eames' body folds over itself in a spasm and he fists his hands in Arthur's hair to catch himself.
"You don't even," Eames says, as Arthur pulls at him, punishing, "god, you don't even, Arthur, fuck, do you even--when you're like this, you just, because when are you ever this--"
And Arthur lets a little bit of tooth slide into the suck, because he wants Eames to shut up, fuck, why doesn't he ever shut up, always going on and on in that stupid accent, and no one sounds like Eames. No one ever sounds like Eames, because Eames sounds like thick humidity and sunburn and the taste of his own goddamn come.
Arthur's shivering now, he can feel himself shivering, can feel the way his shirt is clinging to him, can feel the way his hair is drenched to the root in Eames' hands. He's shivering and he knows, he knows that he's not hot anymore, but that doesn't stop him from feeling that way. And isn't that appropriate, like he's straddled the state lines of his own fucking temperature the way he's straddling idiocy and competence and reality, the way he always ends up straddling Eames.
Or being straddled by Eames, nine times out of ten.
And really, he'd pull back and tell Eames to shut the fuck up, only he doesn't trust himself not to say…other things. Things about how fucking good Eames' cock feels in his mouth or even, just, about how he can't get cool, he can't calm down. So he lets his teeth scrape lightly, lightly against Eames' flesh and is rewarded with a wrung-dry guttural hiss.
"Arthur," Eames says, because he never shuts up, because he's never what Arthur wants him to be, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, oh, Arthur, fucking bloody buggering sodding fuck, I, A-Arthur."
He's tripping over himself, tripping over Arthur's name like it fits wrong in his mouth, and Arthur sucks at him ruthlessly, like his spilling will send with it the wave of chilled air he needs. Like when he comes it'll trickle down Arthur throat and spread, dousing these fucking flames. Because there are third degree burns on Arthur's insides, he'll be grafting for years and years, he'll be tasting smoke on his tongue long after the sticky salty Eames-flavor has died out.
"I'm going to," Eames says, pulling at his hair, "oh, Arthur, I'm--shit, I can't, I can't, I'm going to--"
So Arthur reaches up and slides a hand into Eames' boxers and cups his balls, rolling them under his palm, because if he has to hear Eames say his name like that one more fucking time he's going to scream bloody murder right up his shaft. He makes Eames scream instead, sensory-overload white-hot and he's jerking into Arthur's mouth, his orgasm pounding down Arthur's throat, and Arthur is never, ever going to get cool.
"Christ," Eames says, and it's well more than half-sob as he sags against the wall, "Arthur, fucking hell."
Arthur stays where he is, because he's feeling like a caged animal right at this moment, doesn't know where to go. And then Eames is letting one hand slide from Arthur's hair in exhaustion and it slips down Arthur's face like a fucking caress and he's away, he's up so fast that he loses his balance.
Eames reaches out an arm and catches him before he can fall.
"Arthur," he says, quiet, reverent, and if it weren't for the way he still smells like tequila when he's all the way soaked-through, if it weren't for the fact that Eames can sound like anyone, Arthur would believe in the things he isn't saying. But he can't, because for all he's stupid he's not that fucking stupid, and he turns on his heel and runs.
"Arthur," Eames calls, "Arthur, wait, Arthur," but he doesn't follow, and fuck, fuck, Arthur fucking hates to be right.
The next morning he can't stop shivering, because he's cool at last, he's cold. He'd fallen asleep in his drenched clothes on top of his rented bed and the shower this morning couldn't run hot enough, couldn't fix him. He's at his desk in the warehouse and he's biting his lip against it, and no one has noticed except Eames and Eames keeps looking at him, and Arthur doesn't want him to look. In truth he can't tell if he's shivering because he's freezing everywhere, like snow packed into his skin, or if it's that he can't stop thinking about Eames' fingers in his hair, the way Eames' hand had felt slip-sliding against his cheek.
Before lunch, Eames gets up and walks over to Arthur's desk. He takes off his jacket, and for a sick, slow second Arthur thinks Eames is going to to drape it over him, tuck it round his shoulders.
In maybe the worst moment of Arthur's life, he thinks: I want that. He wants Eames to give him the fucking jacket, still warm and smelling like him. He wants Eames to smirk at him and say "Take care of yourself, darling," his eyes fond and full of promise. He wants Eames to pull him close, transfers some of the heat that's just radiating, radiating off of him into Arthur's frozen flesh; he wants Eames to take him home and touch him, again and again, until Arthur regains feeling in his fingers and toes.
Eames just drapes his jacket over his arm and walks on, and Arthur thinks: goddamn it. Arthur thinks: I am totally, totally fucked.
Arthur thinks: oh, god.
That coffeeshop AU drabble that I posted on butterflythread's AU thinger awhile back
"No," Eames moans, shutting Arthur's door behind him, dropping his coat on the floor, and walking over to the couch. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."
"I don't even know what we're arguing about," Arthur says, in as reasonable a tone as he can manage. "You know, if you want to talk to me while I'm not with you, you have to actually, uh, call me. Did you try calling me to start that thought?"
Rather than replying, Eames sighs and drops his entire person onto the couch, crashing down against Arthur's chest. His elbow hits Arthur's diaphragm and Arthur lets out a surprised "Oof," but Eames doesn't apologize. He just groans, long and low, and tucks his face into Arthur's neck.
"Ah," Arthur says, not able to bite back the sympathy in his tone. "Bad close, then?"
"Do you know how much bloody money it's going to cost us to replace the left steamer on the espresso machine?" Eames demands, muffled in Arthur's neck. "That thing's an antique."
"I didn't even know it was broken," Arthur points out. "Is that why you told me not to bother coming in tonight?"
"No," Eames sighs. "That was because I thought you deserved a day off."
"You're not my boss," Arthur points out, grinning, because that's only been legally, officially true for a week. Eames lifts his head, and his eyes are tired but bright as he matches Arthur's smile.
"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I know."
Arthur kisses him then, a hand resting on his jaw, for a long minute. Eames sighs into his mouth, and he must be really fucking tired, because usually he's all over Arthur within three seconds of first contact. Tonight he's slow, soft, and when Arthur pulls back he makes a soft appreciative noise but doesn't open his eyes.
"Jesus," Arthur says, "you're wiped."
"Mmm," Eames agrees, putting his head back down. "Broken machine. Million customers. Bloke from the thing--"
"The flour shipment guy?" Arthur demands. "Hey, I needed to talk to him!"
"He delivers flour, it's not rocket science--"
"I happen to have a very specific--"
"Well I told him to come back tomorrow in any case," Eames says, yawning, "so it's not like it really matters."
"Oh," Arthur says. Then, "Sorry," because he's trying this new thing where he makes an effort to do things like apologize. It's been eight months and Eames hasn't left him yet, so he thinks it's probably working okay.
"S'ok, love," Eames says, nipping halfheartedly at his neck. "Know how you are."
"Yeah," Arthur agrees, curling a hand up into Eames' hair. "So what were you talking about when you came in, then?"
"The telly," Eames mutters. "Fucking Mythbusters, haven't the faintest idea how you stand it."
"You haven't even looked at the television," Arthur laughs. "I might not be--"
"Always," Eames says, "you're always watching--except when it's the bloody Food Network--"
"Well, I can't help that I make better crostata than--"
"We should move in together," Eames says, and then yelps a little when Arthur's fingers tighten in his hair. "Christ, Arthur, what are you, the Jaws of Life?"
"What," Arthur says, "a second ago you were--you were like, you were practically asleep, how did you--"
"Still pretty much asleep," Eames admits, "although less so now that I've seen how much this freaks you out."
"It doesn't freak me out!" Arthur says, his voice cracking. "I just, you know, I don't--I mean, we signed those contracts like, what, like a week ago, and I mean, I don't want to be all--"
"Putting all your eggs in one basket?" Eames asks. "Yeah, well, me neither, except that at this point we've kind of already--"
"--oh god I am a terrible example," Arthur realizes, all at once. "Oh my god, I've done all the things you're not supposed to do, you are like--you are the worst business partner of all time, this is so fucking unprofessional, who sleeps with and lives with the co-owner of their business--"
"I thought the idea of living with me freaked you out," Eames puts in.
"No, no, don't be stupid," Arthur says, waving a hand. "I said it didn't, we already practically do anyway, I just--doesn't it make you nervous? That we're all, you know. Fucking tangled up like this?"
"Not really," Eames says, shrugging. His face is still in Arthur's neck, and Arthur thinks he can feel the curve of his smile there. "Planning on leaving me?"
"Well of course not," Arthur snaps. "Don't be more of an idiot than you can help."
"Okay, darling, well, I'm not planning on leaving you either," Eames says decisively. He yawns again and shifts, tucking an arm under Arthur's back. "Are you going to continue with the panicking, or can I proceed with sleeping through this show now?"
"You might like it," Arthur says, after a minute. Eames snorts.
"'S terrible," he says, "terrible show, you've appalling taste in television."
"You're the one who wants to move in with me," Arthur points out.
"Too right," Eames agrees, pressing a sleepy kiss into the side of Arthur's neck, and that, as it turns out, is that.
And a coffeeshop AU drabble never before seen by the internet
"This," Arthur slurs, leaning back against a cabinet, "is partner scotch, that's what this is. This is--this is serious scotch."
He punctuates this statement by waving the bottle in front of him; seeing as how this is the third time he's done that, Eames anticipates him and catches his wrist. Arthur, because he's Arthur and impossible and adorable and the sloppiest drunk Eames has ever had the great fortune of meeting, scowls at him.
"You've got sugar," he says, jerking his head. Indulgently--mostly because Arthur has had rather a lot more of the 'partner scotch' than was probably wise--Eames follows the line of the motion to discover that he does indeed have a spot of powdered sugar on his inner forearm.
"Hmm," he agrees. "Well-spotted, love."
"Undignified," Arthur informs him sternly. "Having to be mab--map--manhandled by a sugar-person."
"A sugar person," Eames repeats, fighting the good fight against the urge to laugh. Above them, sitting across from each other on the counter, Yusuf and Ariadne are losing that particular battle.
"Yes," Arthur says. "But I have the solution!"
And then, bloody hell, he leans forward and licks Eames' arm, smacks his lips once, and takes another pull from the bottle.
"It's like tequila!" he offers, as Yusuf chokes on his own mirth and Eames wrestles down the urge to tackle Arthur backwards. "Does anyone have a lemon?"
"You said we weren't allowed to have lemons anymore after those cookies last week," Ariadne says, leaning over the counter to poke Arthur in the cheek. "Also, you're trashed."
His grin dissipates at once and he scowls up at her, his brow knitted together. "I am not trashed! I am the picture of soberness--soberitude--whatever, I don't even care, those cookies were a secret. Traitor. Traitoress. I hate you."
"Arthur," Eames says, because he cannot actually help himself, "did you burn something? Here? In our bakery? You?"
"No!" Arthur protests, waving his arms wildly. "No, no, they weren't burnt, they were--extra golden brown--"
"No, they were burnt," Yusuf says gleefully. "I was here, and they were burnt. They were burnt into little crescent crisps of glorious failure."
Arthur takes another bitter pull from the scotch bottle. "Golden brown," he insists. "To…dark brown. Darkish brown. Darkish golden black."
"He turned purple," Ariadne tells Eames, sotto voce. "He yelled at the oven for a whole hour, it was like street theatre. Mrs. Batterly upstairs made popcorn."
"Well," Arthur mutters sullenly, "it's not my fault the oven sucks."
"Where was I for this little display?" Eames asks, mostly to distract them, because it's easy enough to tell when Arthur has tripped over the line of good-natured teasing and into actual embarrassment. Sure enough, Arthur glances at him, offers him a grateful half-smile, and then reaches out to rest a hand on the back of his neck.
It's stupid, and it's ridiculous, and they've been together for too long for it to still be true, but…sometimes it still floors Eames, just a little, when Arthur does things like that.
"Delivering the Feinstein cake, I think," Ariadne says, waving a hand. Eames isn't exactly paying attention to her anymore, because Arthur is biting his lip the way he does when he's drunk, or nervous about something, or drunk and nervous about something.
"Oh dear," he hears Yusuf say, "I think maybe we'd better go."
Here are some things that are true, in no particular order: Arthur has shifted, just enough that his breath is coming soft and warm against Eames' cheek, and Eames has had rather a lot to drink himself. His self-control when it comes to Arthur and the touching of every available Arthurian surface is limited at best, and his friends are aware of his problem. Probably, right now, he looks like the cat who's got the canary, because he's got his hand on Arthur's thigh and Arthur is leaned half into his lap, their shoulders bumping, casual with his touches the way he tries so hard to be when he's sober.
Eames runs his hand down Arthur's spine, watches the way the flush on Arthur's cheeks deepens into something too heady to be embarrassment, and smiles.
--
Will these coffeeshop scenes make it into the coffeeshop sequel? Er, maybe. Which brings up the question: is there going to be a coffeeshop sequel? Er...probably. BUT I DON'T KNOW WHEN, GUYS, IT MIGHT BE MONTHS FROM NOW, DON'T HOLD ME TO ANYTHING, OKAY?
Also I'm working on this other thing. I'll tell you guys about it soon, when it's done. For now, I have a Yuletide to write (oh god) and nails to paint and, hopefully, coffee to drink. HAPPY SATURDAY, GUYS :D
I apologize for being a little MIA, shit has been busy etc etc holiday parties etc etc limited time etc etc OMG YULETIDE all of things etc etc etc etc. I have a lot of things to say! But, first and foremost, I would like to let everyone know that (drumroll please):
I HAVE NAMED MY BROTHERS.
Yes, it's true, everyone clap, I know you are as thrilled as I am about this. AND EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT, I am deeply relieved not to have to keep typing out "the nineteen year old" and "the eleven year old" every six seconds. And I guess I should probably...tell you...the names. So, uh, basically what happened is two_if_by_sea suggested I call one of them Donkey Punch because she's hilarious and horrifying and stuff, and then that mutated into:
Burro Punch/Burro: My 19-year-old frat boy brother
Burrito Punch/Burrito: My 11-year-old sixth grade brother
You know, because burro means...donkey and "ito" is an...affectionate diminutive...okay anyway HURRAY FOR CATHY! I will probably mostly be calling them Burro and Burrito, TBH :D BUT AT LEAST THEY ARE NAMED NOW.
Speaking of my brothers, the other night Burro and I got high and he unwittingly outlined a hilarious Inception fic with me. We were, uh, talking about how Inception was going to be to our kids what Back to the Future was to us (don't question the stoned-brain, okay, just refrain) and then somehow we got into this discussion about how there could never be a sequel to Inception because it would all just be settling out AND THEN:
Burro: Unless you call it Perception.
Me: *Spits out drink in amazement*
Burro: And it's about how Cobb thinks everyone is watching him all the time!
Me: Oh my god, the entirety of Inception is just another one of Cobb's paranoid stoner dreams.
Burro: And then he wakes up and all the people from the movie are actually his like, stoner buddies, right, and he's like I JUST HAD THE WEIRDEST DREAM and they're all like SHUT UP COBB.
Me: Ahahhahahahahaha, it's like the Wizard of Oz. "And you were there, Arthur! And you, Eames!"
Burro: "Oh, Saito, I think I'll miss you most of all."
Me: And Mal's all, "It's really disconcerting how you keep dreaming about me being dead."
Burror: No, but, dude, seriously. Imagine being stoner Cobb, right, and waking up from dreaming Inception and having to try to explain ALL OF IT, what would you even do.
Me: I...I don't know, oh man.
Burro: It'd be like, "So I had this dream, man, and Arthur, you were like--people were like pushing you out of chairs and shit, and Mal you were all evil, and then there was like--we kidnapped a dude and went down into a dream, I mean, in my dream we went into a dream, and then it was RAINING because Yusuf had to PEE and there was a train and these taxis and Eames you were like shooting at people and shit, and then we went into another dream INSIDE my dream INSIDE MY DREAM, and Saito you were like bleeding and shit and Ariande you we all mad at me but that was before, and anyway ARTHUR YOU DID THIS AWESOME THING WHERE YOU WE LIKE FIGHTING WITH NO GRAVITY AND SHIT OH MY GOD IT WAS SO AWESOME and then like. There was a THIRD DREAM IN MY DREAM OF MY DREAM OF DREAMS, and there was snow everywhere and shit blew up and a giant safe and a pinwheel, and then I got to go home and see my kids!"
Me: And then everyone yells "SHUT UP COBB!"
Burro: Aaaaaaaaand scene!
So, you know, that was the best ten minutes of my life.
And now, because it's been ages since I posted fic and I feel legit bad about that (although I am working on things I swear I am) here is a WIP dump!
1200 words of unfinished top!Arthur PWP
It's not that Arthur has an impulse control problem, exactly. Control, as it happens, is actually something of a skill of Arthur's, insofar as these things can be quantified. He's got a talent for it, for biting back what he would say, for reigning in his baser instincts, and--
--well, fuck, it's not his fault that Eames has gone and shot his entire system all to shit.
Arthur stares at him from across the subway car, eyes narrowed, his hand curling to a fist in his pocket. He's painfully hard, has been painfully hard for five stops now, and every bump and turn and jolt just makes it worse. He keeps getting harder, how can that possibly be happening, and Eames doesn't even know what he's doing, chewing on the edge of his thumbnail like that as he looks out the window.
Arthur is going to kill him.
"I'm going to kill you," he says, grabbing Eames by the lapel and hauling him towards the doors.
"I've long said you'll be the death of me," Eames agrees cheerfully. "But we're four stops early, what--"
"Stop talking," Arthur insists. "Just, Jesus, shut up."
"What've I done?" Eames asks, all innocence, as the train shudders to a stop. Arthur shudders with it--fuck, fuck, it shouldn't even be physically possible to be this hard, this is a medical condition, and Eames doesn't even know, doesn't even know that Arthur has been staring at him this whole time, watching him slide his thumb in and out of his mouth.
"Really," Eames says, more serious now, "hired guns? Security detail following us? What are you on about?"
Arthur just growls low in his throat and doesn't let go of Eames' jacket, dragging him forward. Eames stumbles after him, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur can see Eames' thumb, spit-slick at the edges from where he was biting it. And Arthur's casting around for an out of the way place, a bathroom, an abandoned corner, something, because this is a problem and Arthur knows how to deal with problems.
This is Eames, and Arthur knows how to deal with Eames.
"Supply closet," he grunts, not even aware he's said it out loud until Eames makes a noise behind him. And then Eames is laughing, stupidly low, dark with amusement. Arthur's cock fucking twitches, and he thanks his lucky goddamn stars that it's the middle of the night and there's no one here to see him wrench the damn door open.
"Eager, darling?" Eames asks, all flippancy, but Arthur drags him forward, swallows whatever bullshit follow-up he'd had planned with a brutal kiss, and wrenches the door shut behind them.
"Christ," Eames gasps, and he's not flippant anymore, "Arthur, what--"
"Shut the fuck up," Arthur snaps, reaching to undo Eames' trousers. "I don't know how much clearer you want me to be, but shut your fucking mouth or I'm going to--"
"Shut it for me?" Eames asks, swaggering even if his eyes are wide, and Arthur all but bares his teeth.
"God, you're so full of shit," he growls, instead of hitting Eames until those disgusting lips are bleeding and ruined and Arthur doesn't have to look at them anymore. "You're so full of shit, Eames, you're such a goddamn prick, playing like you don't want it--"
"You're the one pulling me into closets--"
"I am going to fuck you," Arthur says, enunciating the words crisply into Eames' ear as he finally gets his hands on Eames' cock, "until you forget how to be such a fucking asshole."
Eames shudders under his hands at this, because at the end of the day, for all his talk, Eames is pretty good about doing exactly what Arthur wants. At the end of the he's pretty good at shutting his mouth and taking what Arthur's willing to give him; at the end of the day, if he's saying anything, he's saying 'please'.
"Yeah," Arthur murmurs, "yeah, that's right, don't have anything to say to that, do you?"
Eames moans in response, probably because Arthur's just pulled on his cock, his thumb pressed into Eames' slit. Eames moans and Arthur bites down on his collarbone, because Jesus Christ, he loves Eames like this, getting hard in his hand, writhing under his touch. He loves watching everything Eames puts on, all his carefully constructed nonsense, slip the fuck away, because when Arthur's got Eames where he wants him Eames can't help but be himself.
"Like that?" Arthur murmurs, pulling at him again.
"Christ, Arthur," Eames gasps, "oh, Christ, what-- "
"Do you not remember me telling you to shut the fuck up?" Arthur asks, voice silky smooth. "Maybe this will jog your memory."
He slips to his knees, not stopping to give a fuck about what the state of the ground must be like in here, and pulls Eames into his mouth.
Eames chokes--Arthur can hear him doing it, feels the rush of satisfaction deep in his gut. He takes a staccato breath and threads his fingers through Arthur's hair as Arthur grabs his hip, tightening them as Arthur draws him in deeper. He feels Eames scraping the back of his throat, fully hard now, and hums against his dick, licking up and around him.
Eames' hips jerk forward--involuntarily, Arthur is almost sure, although Eames is just enough of a bastard to do it on purpose--and Arthur tightens his grip on Eames' hip and pulls back.
"No," he says. His voice is a little rough, but he makes it rougher, because he knows full well that Eames is an egomaniac, gets off on that kind of thing. "You play by my rules or you don't play at all, Mr. Eames. Stay still."
Eames looks down at him, eyes wide in the dim light. "Yeah," he says, finally, and the way his breathing is already labored makes Arthur fucking dizzy. "Yeah, alright."
Arthur grins up at him, feral, all his edges out to play. He pulls Eames' cock in again and lets his teeth graze ever-so-lightly against the underside; as expected, Eames lets out a strangled cry and stumbles back, reaching out for something to steady himself on.
"Sorry," he gasps, "sorry, I didn't mean to--for fuck's sake don't stop, Arthur, bloody hell, you can't--you can't leave me like--"
Arthur takes pity on him, follows with his mouth. He leans forward to brace himself on Eames' knees as he mouths at the head of his cock, his tongue darting up and under the layer of uncut skin there.
"You," Eames gasps, voice cracking on it, "oh Christ, Arthur, you have no bloody idea what you--"
"I'll gag you if I have to," Arthur hisses, pulling back just enough that his breath is ghosting over Eames' balls. Eames' knees fucking tremble under his palms, under those too-big slacks he insists on wearing everywhere because he can't be bothered to buy new ones when he sheds weight for a con.
"Why," Eames pants, "why don't you want me to--"
"Goddamn it," Arthur growls. He stands, one fluid motion, and Eames is sweating and wide-eyed as Arthur shoves him, hard, against the wall. A shelf rattles above them and something crash-lands behind Arthur; he doesn't bother to turn around and look.
2,000 words of...um, drunk blowjob porn, from a collab that angelgazing and are SOMEDAY GOING TO FINISH called "I Speak Fluent Tequila and Passable Love"
It's Arthur's eighth shot that does it--he knows because he keeps track of these things, because he's the fucking point man, isn't he, and he can tell when he's been put over the edge. And, see, before his eighth shot the bar had been a little warm, pleasantly full of the crush of people that lets him kid himself into believing that this is practically anonymous, nothing more dangerous than finding some wastrel to take home.
Only now it's after Arthur's eighth shot, it's after his ninth and tenth and Eames isn't just any wastrel, and it's not warm anymore, it's hot, it's fucking hot. Arthur loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves and loses his jacket and Eames is laughing, he's laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen, Arthur sweating across from him.
Sometimes, sometimes, on nights like this, Arthur trusts the alcohol to cover him and he lets himself stare. Because the slick-sharp heat of Eames' mirth isn't doing anything to lessen the growing pressure under his collar and those lips, catching on his canines as he leans back, smiling and smiling and god, fuck, Arthur is drunk. He's drunk and Eames is laughing at him and he says, he says:
"Eames, I'm thinking we should--I'm thinking, you know, about getting out of here."
"I'm always, about your imagination--I'm always wrong," Eames murmurs, leaning across the sticky table. And even like this Arthur spares a passing thought for his sleeves, for what they will look like tomorrow, coated in someone else's spilt beer. Eames is looking respectable for once, in a white button down and a pair of grey slacks, and maybe that's why Arthur feels like he's going to die of heat stroke--but probably not.
Probably it's the way Eames is looking at him like he's going to eat him alive, like he's going to flay him across the hot coals of his own goddamn want until he's reduced to nothing but ash.
"You can shut the fuck up about my imagination," says Arthur, sharp, reflexive, and Eames doesn't even wince. He just grabs Arthur's wrist and presses too hard against his pulse point and Arthur can't help the way his eyelashes flutter, just once, against his will.
"And where are we going?" he says.
Arthur will wonder, later, how the hell they even got to the alley behind the bar. Arthur will wonder later how he didn't just fall down on the fucking floor and wait for Eames to pound the fever of it out him, because that was what he wanted, really. Just now all he knows is that he's hot, he's hot like India, hot like Khartoum and Acapulco and Madrid and Eames' hand is on his ass and when he bursts out through the back door into the pouring goddamn rain he's got nothing, no plan, no next step.
It feels so fucking good, the rain, that Arthur turns his face up it, letting it drip down into his hair, letting it settle against his cheekbones, his lips. He still feels like he's going to die but he could go like this, on fire from the outside in, he thinks--there's dignity in it, the fucking irony, the juxtaposition of everything he is and everything he wants, and wants, and wants.
"I want to," he says, "I want to--right here, I want to--Jesus fuck, Eames, how the fuck do you expect me to--"
"Do you," Eames says, staring, "you're--wet, Arthur, Christ--"
"Why do you talk," Arthur hisses, "why the fuck do you ever talk," and he shoves at him, slams him too hard into the brick.
Eames grips his shoulders, rough, tight enough to bruise, because at the end of the day Eames is a self-interested self-serving little shit and he fucks like he fights like he does everything: to win. There are going to be marks in the morning, rutted against Arthur's rock-hard deltoids, and Arthur doesn't care--he doesn't care because he's too occupied caring about why the hell Eames is holding him off and just staring, staring, fucking staring like he's never going to stop.
"What," Arthur demands, "what the fuck, what is it, are you suddenly--is this like some kind of fucking propriety thing, because you just, you've never given a fuck before about who sees us--"
"Wet," Eames repeats, and he licks his lips, and Arthur is on fire.
"Oh god, Eames, goddamn it, fuck you," Arthur growls, and he vaunts himself up and against Eames' mouth. He feels Eames' head hit the bricks and Eames makes this raw, pained noise and Arthur thinks An eye for a eye, motherfucker, but he's too occupied biting Eames' lips to say it. Those lips, those fucking lips, too full even in Arthur's mouth and there's rain in his eyes and Eames' hands aren't on his shoulders anymore, they're bunched in his shirt, they're hauling him so close he can feel Eames' breath in his chest.
This, this, this is why Arthur shouldn't drink tequila: because it's itching under his skin and coursing through his veins and for a second, wildly, he thinks gasoline, like that's what's in him, like Arthur's going to take out a city block when Eames lights him up. Then he doesn't think anymore because Eames is groaning and arching against the brick and grinding their hips together, and Arthur breaks away with one last fierce tug and slips to his knees.
"Christ," Eames chokes, "oh, Christ, Arthur, oh, fuck, fuck, what--"
"You want to insult my fucking imagination," Arthur says, "you go ahead, you just--you do that, Eames, you do that all day, but when you think about how fucking creative I can be you're going to--"
"Jesus, do you think I want to play your bloody games right now?"
"No," Arthur says, unzipping his flies and pulling at his cock, already aching-hard, already dripping with it. "No, I know what you fucking want."
"God," says Eames, and it's half-sob, mangled in his quickening breath as Arthur widens his mouth and pulls him in. The rain goes harder, fierce, beating a tattoo on Arthur skin, and Arthur wonders what it looks like--if the pattern of it matches the tendrils of ink visible under Eames' soaked-through shirt, if it's something he'll be able to trace in the morning.
He draws Eames deep, until he's rubbing the back of Arthur's throat, until Arthur could nuzzle Eames' stomach with his forehead if he wanted to. He draws Eames deep and Eames' moan is so low, so wracked, that Arthur almost doesn't hear it. He does, though, he hears it on a kind of primal level, with something more than just his ears, and it settles at the pit of his stomach like a weight and grows there, eating at him, coiling and uncoiling around his various vital signs.
"Oh, Jesus, Arthur," Eames gasps, vowels splayed wide, "Arthur, Arthur, oh, Arthur, god," and Arthur taps the bottom of his dick with his tongue, hard. Eames' body folds over itself in a spasm and he fists his hands in Arthur's hair to catch himself.
"You don't even," Eames says, as Arthur pulls at him, punishing, "god, you don't even, Arthur, fuck, do you even--when you're like this, you just, because when are you ever this--"
And Arthur lets a little bit of tooth slide into the suck, because he wants Eames to shut up, fuck, why doesn't he ever shut up, always going on and on in that stupid accent, and no one sounds like Eames. No one ever sounds like Eames, because Eames sounds like thick humidity and sunburn and the taste of his own goddamn come.
Arthur's shivering now, he can feel himself shivering, can feel the way his shirt is clinging to him, can feel the way his hair is drenched to the root in Eames' hands. He's shivering and he knows, he knows that he's not hot anymore, but that doesn't stop him from feeling that way. And isn't that appropriate, like he's straddled the state lines of his own fucking temperature the way he's straddling idiocy and competence and reality, the way he always ends up straddling Eames.
Or being straddled by Eames, nine times out of ten.
And really, he'd pull back and tell Eames to shut the fuck up, only he doesn't trust himself not to say…other things. Things about how fucking good Eames' cock feels in his mouth or even, just, about how he can't get cool, he can't calm down. So he lets his teeth scrape lightly, lightly against Eames' flesh and is rewarded with a wrung-dry guttural hiss.
"Arthur," Eames says, because he never shuts up, because he's never what Arthur wants him to be, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, oh, Arthur, fucking bloody buggering sodding fuck, I, A-Arthur."
He's tripping over himself, tripping over Arthur's name like it fits wrong in his mouth, and Arthur sucks at him ruthlessly, like his spilling will send with it the wave of chilled air he needs. Like when he comes it'll trickle down Arthur throat and spread, dousing these fucking flames. Because there are third degree burns on Arthur's insides, he'll be grafting for years and years, he'll be tasting smoke on his tongue long after the sticky salty Eames-flavor has died out.
"I'm going to," Eames says, pulling at his hair, "oh, Arthur, I'm--shit, I can't, I can't, I'm going to--"
So Arthur reaches up and slides a hand into Eames' boxers and cups his balls, rolling them under his palm, because if he has to hear Eames say his name like that one more fucking time he's going to scream bloody murder right up his shaft. He makes Eames scream instead, sensory-overload white-hot and he's jerking into Arthur's mouth, his orgasm pounding down Arthur's throat, and Arthur is never, ever going to get cool.
"Christ," Eames says, and it's well more than half-sob as he sags against the wall, "Arthur, fucking hell."
Arthur stays where he is, because he's feeling like a caged animal right at this moment, doesn't know where to go. And then Eames is letting one hand slide from Arthur's hair in exhaustion and it slips down Arthur's face like a fucking caress and he's away, he's up so fast that he loses his balance.
Eames reaches out an arm and catches him before he can fall.
"Arthur," he says, quiet, reverent, and if it weren't for the way he still smells like tequila when he's all the way soaked-through, if it weren't for the fact that Eames can sound like anyone, Arthur would believe in the things he isn't saying. But he can't, because for all he's stupid he's not that fucking stupid, and he turns on his heel and runs.
"Arthur," Eames calls, "Arthur, wait, Arthur," but he doesn't follow, and fuck, fuck, Arthur fucking hates to be right.
The next morning he can't stop shivering, because he's cool at last, he's cold. He'd fallen asleep in his drenched clothes on top of his rented bed and the shower this morning couldn't run hot enough, couldn't fix him. He's at his desk in the warehouse and he's biting his lip against it, and no one has noticed except Eames and Eames keeps looking at him, and Arthur doesn't want him to look. In truth he can't tell if he's shivering because he's freezing everywhere, like snow packed into his skin, or if it's that he can't stop thinking about Eames' fingers in his hair, the way Eames' hand had felt slip-sliding against his cheek.
Before lunch, Eames gets up and walks over to Arthur's desk. He takes off his jacket, and for a sick, slow second Arthur thinks Eames is going to to drape it over him, tuck it round his shoulders.
In maybe the worst moment of Arthur's life, he thinks: I want that. He wants Eames to give him the fucking jacket, still warm and smelling like him. He wants Eames to smirk at him and say "Take care of yourself, darling," his eyes fond and full of promise. He wants Eames to pull him close, transfers some of the heat that's just radiating, radiating off of him into Arthur's frozen flesh; he wants Eames to take him home and touch him, again and again, until Arthur regains feeling in his fingers and toes.
Eames just drapes his jacket over his arm and walks on, and Arthur thinks: goddamn it. Arthur thinks: I am totally, totally fucked.
Arthur thinks: oh, god.
That coffeeshop AU drabble that I posted on butterflythread's AU thinger awhile back
"No," Eames moans, shutting Arthur's door behind him, dropping his coat on the floor, and walking over to the couch. "Abso-fucking-lutely not."
"I don't even know what we're arguing about," Arthur says, in as reasonable a tone as he can manage. "You know, if you want to talk to me while I'm not with you, you have to actually, uh, call me. Did you try calling me to start that thought?"
Rather than replying, Eames sighs and drops his entire person onto the couch, crashing down against Arthur's chest. His elbow hits Arthur's diaphragm and Arthur lets out a surprised "Oof," but Eames doesn't apologize. He just groans, long and low, and tucks his face into Arthur's neck.
"Ah," Arthur says, not able to bite back the sympathy in his tone. "Bad close, then?"
"Do you know how much bloody money it's going to cost us to replace the left steamer on the espresso machine?" Eames demands, muffled in Arthur's neck. "That thing's an antique."
"I didn't even know it was broken," Arthur points out. "Is that why you told me not to bother coming in tonight?"
"No," Eames sighs. "That was because I thought you deserved a day off."
"You're not my boss," Arthur points out, grinning, because that's only been legally, officially true for a week. Eames lifts his head, and his eyes are tired but bright as he matches Arthur's smile.
"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I know."
Arthur kisses him then, a hand resting on his jaw, for a long minute. Eames sighs into his mouth, and he must be really fucking tired, because usually he's all over Arthur within three seconds of first contact. Tonight he's slow, soft, and when Arthur pulls back he makes a soft appreciative noise but doesn't open his eyes.
"Jesus," Arthur says, "you're wiped."
"Mmm," Eames agrees, putting his head back down. "Broken machine. Million customers. Bloke from the thing--"
"The flour shipment guy?" Arthur demands. "Hey, I needed to talk to him!"
"He delivers flour, it's not rocket science--"
"I happen to have a very specific--"
"Well I told him to come back tomorrow in any case," Eames says, yawning, "so it's not like it really matters."
"Oh," Arthur says. Then, "Sorry," because he's trying this new thing where he makes an effort to do things like apologize. It's been eight months and Eames hasn't left him yet, so he thinks it's probably working okay.
"S'ok, love," Eames says, nipping halfheartedly at his neck. "Know how you are."
"Yeah," Arthur agrees, curling a hand up into Eames' hair. "So what were you talking about when you came in, then?"
"The telly," Eames mutters. "Fucking Mythbusters, haven't the faintest idea how you stand it."
"You haven't even looked at the television," Arthur laughs. "I might not be--"
"Always," Eames says, "you're always watching--except when it's the bloody Food Network--"
"Well, I can't help that I make better crostata than--"
"We should move in together," Eames says, and then yelps a little when Arthur's fingers tighten in his hair. "Christ, Arthur, what are you, the Jaws of Life?"
"What," Arthur says, "a second ago you were--you were like, you were practically asleep, how did you--"
"Still pretty much asleep," Eames admits, "although less so now that I've seen how much this freaks you out."
"It doesn't freak me out!" Arthur says, his voice cracking. "I just, you know, I don't--I mean, we signed those contracts like, what, like a week ago, and I mean, I don't want to be all--"
"Putting all your eggs in one basket?" Eames asks. "Yeah, well, me neither, except that at this point we've kind of already--"
"--oh god I am a terrible example," Arthur realizes, all at once. "Oh my god, I've done all the things you're not supposed to do, you are like--you are the worst business partner of all time, this is so fucking unprofessional, who sleeps with and lives with the co-owner of their business--"
"I thought the idea of living with me freaked you out," Eames puts in.
"No, no, don't be stupid," Arthur says, waving a hand. "I said it didn't, we already practically do anyway, I just--doesn't it make you nervous? That we're all, you know. Fucking tangled up like this?"
"Not really," Eames says, shrugging. His face is still in Arthur's neck, and Arthur thinks he can feel the curve of his smile there. "Planning on leaving me?"
"Well of course not," Arthur snaps. "Don't be more of an idiot than you can help."
"Okay, darling, well, I'm not planning on leaving you either," Eames says decisively. He yawns again and shifts, tucking an arm under Arthur's back. "Are you going to continue with the panicking, or can I proceed with sleeping through this show now?"
"You might like it," Arthur says, after a minute. Eames snorts.
"'S terrible," he says, "terrible show, you've appalling taste in television."
"You're the one who wants to move in with me," Arthur points out.
"Too right," Eames agrees, pressing a sleepy kiss into the side of Arthur's neck, and that, as it turns out, is that.
And a coffeeshop AU drabble never before seen by the internet
"This," Arthur slurs, leaning back against a cabinet, "is partner scotch, that's what this is. This is--this is serious scotch."
He punctuates this statement by waving the bottle in front of him; seeing as how this is the third time he's done that, Eames anticipates him and catches his wrist. Arthur, because he's Arthur and impossible and adorable and the sloppiest drunk Eames has ever had the great fortune of meeting, scowls at him.
"You've got sugar," he says, jerking his head. Indulgently--mostly because Arthur has had rather a lot more of the 'partner scotch' than was probably wise--Eames follows the line of the motion to discover that he does indeed have a spot of powdered sugar on his inner forearm.
"Hmm," he agrees. "Well-spotted, love."
"Undignified," Arthur informs him sternly. "Having to be mab--map--manhandled by a sugar-person."
"A sugar person," Eames repeats, fighting the good fight against the urge to laugh. Above them, sitting across from each other on the counter, Yusuf and Ariadne are losing that particular battle.
"Yes," Arthur says. "But I have the solution!"
And then, bloody hell, he leans forward and licks Eames' arm, smacks his lips once, and takes another pull from the bottle.
"It's like tequila!" he offers, as Yusuf chokes on his own mirth and Eames wrestles down the urge to tackle Arthur backwards. "Does anyone have a lemon?"
"You said we weren't allowed to have lemons anymore after those cookies last week," Ariadne says, leaning over the counter to poke Arthur in the cheek. "Also, you're trashed."
His grin dissipates at once and he scowls up at her, his brow knitted together. "I am not trashed! I am the picture of soberness--soberitude--whatever, I don't even care, those cookies were a secret. Traitor. Traitoress. I hate you."
"Arthur," Eames says, because he cannot actually help himself, "did you burn something? Here? In our bakery? You?"
"No!" Arthur protests, waving his arms wildly. "No, no, they weren't burnt, they were--extra golden brown--"
"No, they were burnt," Yusuf says gleefully. "I was here, and they were burnt. They were burnt into little crescent crisps of glorious failure."
Arthur takes another bitter pull from the scotch bottle. "Golden brown," he insists. "To…dark brown. Darkish brown. Darkish golden black."
"He turned purple," Ariadne tells Eames, sotto voce. "He yelled at the oven for a whole hour, it was like street theatre. Mrs. Batterly upstairs made popcorn."
"Well," Arthur mutters sullenly, "it's not my fault the oven sucks."
"Where was I for this little display?" Eames asks, mostly to distract them, because it's easy enough to tell when Arthur has tripped over the line of good-natured teasing and into actual embarrassment. Sure enough, Arthur glances at him, offers him a grateful half-smile, and then reaches out to rest a hand on the back of his neck.
It's stupid, and it's ridiculous, and they've been together for too long for it to still be true, but…sometimes it still floors Eames, just a little, when Arthur does things like that.
"Delivering the Feinstein cake, I think," Ariadne says, waving a hand. Eames isn't exactly paying attention to her anymore, because Arthur is biting his lip the way he does when he's drunk, or nervous about something, or drunk and nervous about something.
"Oh dear," he hears Yusuf say, "I think maybe we'd better go."
Here are some things that are true, in no particular order: Arthur has shifted, just enough that his breath is coming soft and warm against Eames' cheek, and Eames has had rather a lot to drink himself. His self-control when it comes to Arthur and the touching of every available Arthurian surface is limited at best, and his friends are aware of his problem. Probably, right now, he looks like the cat who's got the canary, because he's got his hand on Arthur's thigh and Arthur is leaned half into his lap, their shoulders bumping, casual with his touches the way he tries so hard to be when he's sober.
Eames runs his hand down Arthur's spine, watches the way the flush on Arthur's cheeks deepens into something too heady to be embarrassment, and smiles.
--
Will these coffeeshop scenes make it into the coffeeshop sequel? Er, maybe. Which brings up the question: is there going to be a coffeeshop sequel? Er...probably. BUT I DON'T KNOW WHEN, GUYS, IT MIGHT BE MONTHS FROM NOW, DON'T HOLD ME TO ANYTHING, OKAY?
Also I'm working on this other thing. I'll tell you guys about it soon, when it's done. For now, I have a Yuletide to write (oh god) and nails to paint and, hopefully, coffee to drink. HAPPY SATURDAY, GUYS :D