Inception - Lord Knows It Would Be The First Time (Eames/Arthur - PG-13)
First of all, it is maurheti's birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! \O/ maurheti getting to know you has been one of the highlights of my year and I am so pleased to call you my friend (and my beta, can't forget about that). I hope the next year brings you everything your heart desires.
Second of all silverotter made art for the story I posted yesterday No One Gets Out Alive, which is awesome, because I love fanart like a crazy person. Actually, so far the Friday Recs are looking like an all art edition (with a few stories thrown in).
I was also just informed that itomaki_chan made art (second image down) for a scene from just because a man visits another man doesn't mean they're doing anything illegal (yet)
Yay for art! *\o/*
Now, in honor of maurheti's birthday I would normally have a long story here, but I posted 14,000 words of A/E yesterday, so that's not the case. But she has my rain check. So, to tie her over until then we have a, uh, thirty minute scramble inspired by Joe and his guitar.
Lord Knows It Would Be The First Time
It's horrifically early.
Eames is going to write a letter to his MP and complain. Later. When he's lucid. And back in London.
He is not awake right now.
His conscious can fuck off directly.
Eames doesn't actually know the time, but his brain is still off-line and his body informs him that he can take a long walk off of Blackpool Pier if he thinks it's doing him any favors anytime soon.
He's not inclined to argue.
He's far more inclined to stick his head back under his pillow and go back to sleep. He's also open to sticking his head under Arthur's pillow and going back to sleep. Or tucking his head in that perfect little space between Arthur's neck and shoulder where he can press lazy kisses to Arthur's neck and then go back to sleep.
Yes. That.
Eames pries one eye open because he's patting the bed where there should be an Arthur-sized lump and there is no Arthur-sized lump. In fact the bed is mildly cool and empty where it should be pleasantly warm and occupied.
Eames' other eye opens of its own accord.
The Case of the Missing Arthur has superseded all other directives.
Eames doesn't so much get out of bed as he sort of attempts to, gets tangled in the bed linens and rolls off the mattress and onto the floor with a terrific thud.
He scrambles to his knees.
If him being clumsy doesn't automatically trigger Arthur's internal mocking beacon then this is much more serious than he thought. He waits. Peeking over the side of the mattress. Still no Arthur.
Eames stands up, wrapping the flat sheet around his waist as some sort of sarong cum attempt at modesty.
Frankly, Eames doesn't give a shit about modesty in Arthur's flat or his flat or anyone else's flat, but relationships are about compromise. And he's not sure if Arthur's forgiven him for that time he opened the door starkers and it was the Thai delivery man.
Or that other time that he stumbled into the kitchen one morning and Yusuf and Ariadne were there going over the latest job.
In his defense, he didn't even realize they were there until after he'd made his tea and started scratching himself. Apparently the naked tea-making was fine, but the scratching his arse was over the line.
Who knew?
The hardwood floors are cool against his feet and Eames can hear music playing the closer he gets to the sitting room.
He expects Arthur's in the kitchen whipping up crepes or pancakes or Belgian waffles or whatever culinary masterpiece Arthur's got in mind this morning. Bad enough the man vacillates between Cary Grant and Pharrell Williams on a sartorial level and is just as competitive at work as he is playing Monopoly. The fact that he cooks like Julia Child and happily lavishes that on Eames is just --
Well, Eames is a lucky fucker.
He knows this.
What he does not know -- or at least he didn't until he came around the corner and found Arthur sitting stark naked on the floor of the sitting room -- is that Arthur also plays the guitar.
So, please please please let me let me let me let me get what I want this time
Arthur finishes singing, finishes strumming on the acoustic guitar on his lap, the sun streaking in through the window coverings and displaying the reddish highlights in his hair.
The Smiths. The fucking Smiths?
Eames drops the flat sheet. "Are you fucking joking?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Good morning to you, too." His eyes are roving over Eames' body, but Eames will not be distracted. Much.
"You do not play the guitar," Eames says crossly.
Arthur's mouth quirks at the corner, that fucking brain-altering dimple appearing. "I don't?"
Eames narrows his eyes. "No," he says, "you don't."
Arthur's dimple is Eames' Kryptonite. His Dalek.
Arthur's dimple has caused Eames to agree to eat more experimental cooking, wear more incredibly luxe suits and whip out more random knowledge than he's ever employed in his life.
If the average human being uses ten percent of his (or her) brain, Arthur requires Eames to use twenty percent. If only because Eames knows Arthur's weaknesses and has no problem with exploiting them.
This is why he drops down to his knees and grabs Arthur's right ankle and yanks him forward. Arthur's guitar clatters off his lap with a thud. "Eames."
Eames can hear Arthur's bemusement, irritation, something else that might be amusement.
Eames ignores it as he studies the sole of Arthur's foot. "This is new," Arthur says.
"Where is it?" Eames demands.
"Where's what?" Arthur's eyebrows furrow together.
"Your bar code?" Eames says.
"You've lost me."
"You are not real," Eames says. "You've clearly been made up, so I'm looking for your Property of the United States Government tag. Or possibly your Proclus Global tag -- where is it?"
Arthur's laugh is sudden and unexpected. Hoped for, but unexpected. Arthur wiggles his toes and Eames sighs dramatically and releases his foot. "I'm clearly dreaming," he says, mock aggrieved as he sits down on the discarded bed linen.
"Would you feel better if you had your totem?" Arthur says as he puts the guitar back in its case.
Eames thinks about getting up and getting his totem from the bedroom. And then he loses his train of thought because Arthur's on his hands and knees crawling toward him.
"I'd feel better if I had you," Eames says as Arthur proceeds to crawl over him, hands on Eames' knees, then on his shoulders, thighs bracketing Eames own. Arthur's warm naked body settling on top of his own.
"Lucky for you then," Arthur says as Eames hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing the thin skin near his hipbones.
Eames nods as Arthur leans in. "Lucky for me then," he exhales against Arthur's mouth.
Arthur pulls back, nose wrinkling. "Did you brush your teeth this morning?"
Eames stares back. "Are you denying me a snog because I didn't brush my teeth?"
"Possibly."
"Forget what I said about dreaming," Eames says, attempting to push Arthur off his lap. "I'd know the real you anywhere."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I can't dream up this sort of superciliousness."
Arthur smirks. "You know how I feel your expansive vocabulary."
Eames gives him a haughty look. "Sod off, I'll have a wank in the shower and be done with it."
Arthur laughs again, resolutely not letting Eames' dislodge him. "Better than a totem," he says.
Eames can feel the petulant look on his face. It's still there after Arthur kisses his forehead. And his temple.
The sullenness starts to fade when Arthur kisses his cheek.
And his jaw.
And the corner of his mouth.
"Am I forgiven?" Arthur says, kissing Eames on the lips softly.
"You're a twat," Eames says.
Arthur grins in delight. "Yes, but you like me anyway."
Eames' left eyebrow arches upward even as he tightens his hold on Arthur. As his hands map Arthur's lower back and he can feel his breathing syncing up with the rise of fall of Arthur's chest against his own. He rolls his eyes. "For some inexplicable reason, yes, I do."
Arthur smirks. "Then that's all that matters."
-end-
Happy Birthday, Dearest maurheti!
Inspired by the fact that Joe sings in French, bitches. Egads.
Read-through by lazlet all mistakes by me. Cause that's what happens when you write shit for your beta, you can't really use her services.
Second of all silverotter made art for the story I posted yesterday No One Gets Out Alive, which is awesome, because I love fanart like a crazy person. Actually, so far the Friday Recs are looking like an all art edition (with a few stories thrown in).
I was also just informed that itomaki_chan made art (second image down) for a scene from just because a man visits another man doesn't mean they're doing anything illegal (yet)
Yay for art! *\o/*
Now, in honor of maurheti's birthday I would normally have a long story here, but I posted 14,000 words of A/E yesterday, so that's not the case. But she has my rain check. So, to tie her over until then we have a, uh, thirty minute scramble inspired by Joe and his guitar.
Lord Knows It Would Be The First Time
It's horrifically early.
Eames is going to write a letter to his MP and complain. Later. When he's lucid. And back in London.
He is not awake right now.
His conscious can fuck off directly.
Eames doesn't actually know the time, but his brain is still off-line and his body informs him that he can take a long walk off of Blackpool Pier if he thinks it's doing him any favors anytime soon.
He's not inclined to argue.
He's far more inclined to stick his head back under his pillow and go back to sleep. He's also open to sticking his head under Arthur's pillow and going back to sleep. Or tucking his head in that perfect little space between Arthur's neck and shoulder where he can press lazy kisses to Arthur's neck and then go back to sleep.
Yes. That.
Eames pries one eye open because he's patting the bed where there should be an Arthur-sized lump and there is no Arthur-sized lump. In fact the bed is mildly cool and empty where it should be pleasantly warm and occupied.
Eames' other eye opens of its own accord.
The Case of the Missing Arthur has superseded all other directives.
Eames doesn't so much get out of bed as he sort of attempts to, gets tangled in the bed linens and rolls off the mattress and onto the floor with a terrific thud.
He scrambles to his knees.
If him being clumsy doesn't automatically trigger Arthur's internal mocking beacon then this is much more serious than he thought. He waits. Peeking over the side of the mattress. Still no Arthur.
Eames stands up, wrapping the flat sheet around his waist as some sort of sarong cum attempt at modesty.
Frankly, Eames doesn't give a shit about modesty in Arthur's flat or his flat or anyone else's flat, but relationships are about compromise. And he's not sure if Arthur's forgiven him for that time he opened the door starkers and it was the Thai delivery man.
Or that other time that he stumbled into the kitchen one morning and Yusuf and Ariadne were there going over the latest job.
In his defense, he didn't even realize they were there until after he'd made his tea and started scratching himself. Apparently the naked tea-making was fine, but the scratching his arse was over the line.
Who knew?
The hardwood floors are cool against his feet and Eames can hear music playing the closer he gets to the sitting room.
He expects Arthur's in the kitchen whipping up crepes or pancakes or Belgian waffles or whatever culinary masterpiece Arthur's got in mind this morning. Bad enough the man vacillates between Cary Grant and Pharrell Williams on a sartorial level and is just as competitive at work as he is playing Monopoly. The fact that he cooks like Julia Child and happily lavishes that on Eames is just --
Well, Eames is a lucky fucker.
He knows this.
What he does not know -- or at least he didn't until he came around the corner and found Arthur sitting stark naked on the floor of the sitting room -- is that Arthur also plays the guitar.
So, please please please let me let me let me let me get what I want this time
Arthur finishes singing, finishes strumming on the acoustic guitar on his lap, the sun streaking in through the window coverings and displaying the reddish highlights in his hair.
The Smiths. The fucking Smiths?
Eames drops the flat sheet. "Are you fucking joking?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Good morning to you, too." His eyes are roving over Eames' body, but Eames will not be distracted. Much.
"You do not play the guitar," Eames says crossly.
Arthur's mouth quirks at the corner, that fucking brain-altering dimple appearing. "I don't?"
Eames narrows his eyes. "No," he says, "you don't."
Arthur's dimple is Eames' Kryptonite. His Dalek.
Arthur's dimple has caused Eames to agree to eat more experimental cooking, wear more incredibly luxe suits and whip out more random knowledge than he's ever employed in his life.
If the average human being uses ten percent of his (or her) brain, Arthur requires Eames to use twenty percent. If only because Eames knows Arthur's weaknesses and has no problem with exploiting them.
This is why he drops down to his knees and grabs Arthur's right ankle and yanks him forward. Arthur's guitar clatters off his lap with a thud. "Eames."
Eames can hear Arthur's bemusement, irritation, something else that might be amusement.
Eames ignores it as he studies the sole of Arthur's foot. "This is new," Arthur says.
"Where is it?" Eames demands.
"Where's what?" Arthur's eyebrows furrow together.
"Your bar code?" Eames says.
"You've lost me."
"You are not real," Eames says. "You've clearly been made up, so I'm looking for your Property of the United States Government tag. Or possibly your Proclus Global tag -- where is it?"
Arthur's laugh is sudden and unexpected. Hoped for, but unexpected. Arthur wiggles his toes and Eames sighs dramatically and releases his foot. "I'm clearly dreaming," he says, mock aggrieved as he sits down on the discarded bed linen.
"Would you feel better if you had your totem?" Arthur says as he puts the guitar back in its case.
Eames thinks about getting up and getting his totem from the bedroom. And then he loses his train of thought because Arthur's on his hands and knees crawling toward him.
"I'd feel better if I had you," Eames says as Arthur proceeds to crawl over him, hands on Eames' knees, then on his shoulders, thighs bracketing Eames own. Arthur's warm naked body settling on top of his own.
"Lucky for you then," Arthur says as Eames hands settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing the thin skin near his hipbones.
Eames nods as Arthur leans in. "Lucky for me then," he exhales against Arthur's mouth.
Arthur pulls back, nose wrinkling. "Did you brush your teeth this morning?"
Eames stares back. "Are you denying me a snog because I didn't brush my teeth?"
"Possibly."
"Forget what I said about dreaming," Eames says, attempting to push Arthur off his lap. "I'd know the real you anywhere."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I can't dream up this sort of superciliousness."
Arthur smirks. "You know how I feel your expansive vocabulary."
Eames gives him a haughty look. "Sod off, I'll have a wank in the shower and be done with it."
Arthur laughs again, resolutely not letting Eames' dislodge him. "Better than a totem," he says.
Eames can feel the petulant look on his face. It's still there after Arthur kisses his forehead. And his temple.
The sullenness starts to fade when Arthur kisses his cheek.
And his jaw.
And the corner of his mouth.
"Am I forgiven?" Arthur says, kissing Eames on the lips softly.
"You're a twat," Eames says.
Arthur grins in delight. "Yes, but you like me anyway."
Eames' left eyebrow arches upward even as he tightens his hold on Arthur. As his hands map Arthur's lower back and he can feel his breathing syncing up with the rise of fall of Arthur's chest against his own. He rolls his eyes. "For some inexplicable reason, yes, I do."
Arthur smirks. "Then that's all that matters."
-end-
Happy Birthday, Dearest maurheti!
Inspired by the fact that Joe sings in French, bitches. Egads.
Read-through by lazlet all mistakes by me. Cause that's what happens when you write shit for your beta, you can't really use her services.