Fic: Winter's Night (NC-17)
title: Winter's Night [Lame, lame, I know!]
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: PWP like WHOA, as in, NSFW, seriously. I don't know; this whole thing started with the image of Arthur being wrapped in blankets [and this story by pyrimidine? NOT HELPING], and then evolved into sexytiems. so, yeah...
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: it's cold out.
"Pet, you might want to shove over a bit," came a familiar voice, somewhat fogged with both fatigue and tenderness.
Arthur slits one eye open with herculean effort, to find Eames sitting on the edge of their bed. The corner of his mouth is quirked fondly. He's wearing the bottom half of a pair of navy-and-gray-pinstriped pajamas, and his hair has been mussed out of its earlier mostly neat state.
"What took you so long?" is all Arthur mutters, relinquishing most of the bed space and half the comforters. "You can't tell me that there's something so weird about the mark's sister that she's going to be hard to forge."
[He had not been planning to even let Eames know that he had a terrible tendency to hog the bedclothes, but obviously he'd found out about that. They'd reached a compromise.]
"There is nothing weird about the mark's sister," Eames answered as he climbed in, hauling his half of the blankets up to his chin.
Arthur finds himself gravitating slightly to his warmth.
"There is everything weird about the mark's sister's girlfriend."
Arthur chuckles, his shoulders shaking with cold and mirth. "If you're shocked then it's the end of the world."
Eames laughs and hauls him in, fitting Arthur into the crook under his chin. "If I'm shocked it just means we have some goals to reach, eh?"
The only dignified response to that is one very hard and very pointed finger, stabbed straight into the other man's ribcage, and Arthur laughs out loud as Eames squeals like a little girl and pushes him away.
"How you wound me!"
Arthur laughs even harder, hard enough to suddenly send him over the edge of the bed, and he goes flying with an undignified yelp. He's pretty sure he looks like he's all hands and feet, windmilling desperately before he thumps to the floor.
This time Eames's laughter fills the room. He goes on for a long time and Arthur, on the floor amid the comforters, grins despite the insult to his dignity.
He's looking up at the ceiling, enjoying the silence and the warmth, when suddenly Eames's face comes into view. He's mostly serious, except for the glint in his eye that means "Here we are", that glint that is Arthur's alone. "I happen to think it's the end of the world since there you are on the floor, which was cold when I last stepped on it."
Oh. He hadn't noticed.
He'd been too warmed by the laughter, their bodies close together, the blankets wound around his arms and legs.
"Do you want me to join you there," Eames is saying, "or shall I play the gentleman and haul your delicious glutton-for-warmth arse back into the bed where it belongs?"
"You? A gentleman? Not even close." But Arthur is smiling as he grabs a proffered hand and tumbles back onto Eames.
"Ooh, hello, darling," is all Eames manages to say before suddenly Arthur pounces, slamming their mouths together, the kiss demanding, hungry: I want.
Eames kisses like a forest wildfire.
Arthur snatches at every burning touch, kisses like he wants to be consumed, like he wants to burn his very heart on an altar and offer it to him.
Now Eames's hands are greedy, snaking nimbly under his soft gray t-shirt, mapping his skin with his fingertips. Eames always was one to touch, to take possession of someone gradually, with those talented hands of his.
When he pinches one of Arthur's nipples into a hard point there is a muffled cry that seems to come from neither of them and from both of them.
Eames growls, and flips them, Arthur now free of his shirt and completely exposed to him. Eames mouths greedily down the line of his neck, fastens his lips just below his collarbone, just over his heart, and sucks and licks viciously, reducing Arthur to breathless and incoherent cries.
There will be a bruise there later.
Arthur is now completely hard and he captures one of Eames's legs with both of his own, rocking against him, against that heated skin.
"Stop that," Eames orders breathily, stilling against him, his mouth moving against Arthur's hipbone.
"Make me."
So Eames claims another hard kiss, their teeth clashing a little, before slithering down Arthur's body and closing his mouth around his cock.
Arthur hears a strange sound that is somewhere between a needy whine and a victorious cry and only seconds later realizes that it came from his own mouth.
Eames is too good against him, mouth and tongue too wet and talented, and it takes all his willpower to wind his hand in his short, scruffy hair, shouting a little more loudly than he intended: "Stop, damn you!"
Their eyes meet: Arthur is pretty sure that his eyes are completely blown, little more than a thin rim of brown around the irises; Eames's seem to be all iris - and he looks thoroughly, unrepentantly, debauched.
Arthur likes him best when he looks just like that.
So he scrabbles blindly in the side tables for a well-used tube, throws it nearly into Eames's face, eagerly gets onto his hands and knees.
"fuck, yes," Eames not-quite-whispers behind him.
Arthur keens and nearly falls back down onto the bed as fingers enter him roughly, two at once moving into him, scissoring. "Eames!"
"Yes, yes, I'm here," sounding more than a little distracted and Arthur knows why.
The fingers are soon replaced by something much bigger and Arthur wills himself to relax, to breathe, hears someone growl "So good, yeah," and then Eames thrusts once, hard, and he's all the way in.
Arthur does shout now as Eames fucks him, listens to Eames as he breathes, riding the sensations. He shrieks into the mattress when Eames bears them both down, closer, closer, and he feels teeth sink into his shoulder when he comes.
***
Arthur wakes up on the floor in the morning with Eames both spooning and half-lying on top of him. They seem to be surrounded by all the comforters in their linen closet.
He is warm, even with the snow still drifting in the wan sunlight. He burrows back into Eames - who responds by clutching him even closer - and falls back asleep, content.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: PWP like WHOA, as in, NSFW, seriously. I don't know; this whole thing started with the image of Arthur being wrapped in blankets [and this story by pyrimidine? NOT HELPING], and then evolved into sexytiems. so, yeah...
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: it's cold out.
"Pet, you might want to shove over a bit," came a familiar voice, somewhat fogged with both fatigue and tenderness.
Arthur slits one eye open with herculean effort, to find Eames sitting on the edge of their bed. The corner of his mouth is quirked fondly. He's wearing the bottom half of a pair of navy-and-gray-pinstriped pajamas, and his hair has been mussed out of its earlier mostly neat state.
"What took you so long?" is all Arthur mutters, relinquishing most of the bed space and half the comforters. "You can't tell me that there's something so weird about the mark's sister that she's going to be hard to forge."
[He had not been planning to even let Eames know that he had a terrible tendency to hog the bedclothes, but obviously he'd found out about that. They'd reached a compromise.]
"There is nothing weird about the mark's sister," Eames answered as he climbed in, hauling his half of the blankets up to his chin.
Arthur finds himself gravitating slightly to his warmth.
"There is everything weird about the mark's sister's girlfriend."
Arthur chuckles, his shoulders shaking with cold and mirth. "If you're shocked then it's the end of the world."
Eames laughs and hauls him in, fitting Arthur into the crook under his chin. "If I'm shocked it just means we have some goals to reach, eh?"
The only dignified response to that is one very hard and very pointed finger, stabbed straight into the other man's ribcage, and Arthur laughs out loud as Eames squeals like a little girl and pushes him away.
"How you wound me!"
Arthur laughs even harder, hard enough to suddenly send him over the edge of the bed, and he goes flying with an undignified yelp. He's pretty sure he looks like he's all hands and feet, windmilling desperately before he thumps to the floor.
This time Eames's laughter fills the room. He goes on for a long time and Arthur, on the floor amid the comforters, grins despite the insult to his dignity.
He's looking up at the ceiling, enjoying the silence and the warmth, when suddenly Eames's face comes into view. He's mostly serious, except for the glint in his eye that means "Here we are", that glint that is Arthur's alone. "I happen to think it's the end of the world since there you are on the floor, which was cold when I last stepped on it."
Oh. He hadn't noticed.
He'd been too warmed by the laughter, their bodies close together, the blankets wound around his arms and legs.
"Do you want me to join you there," Eames is saying, "or shall I play the gentleman and haul your delicious glutton-for-warmth arse back into the bed where it belongs?"
"You? A gentleman? Not even close." But Arthur is smiling as he grabs a proffered hand and tumbles back onto Eames.
"Ooh, hello, darling," is all Eames manages to say before suddenly Arthur pounces, slamming their mouths together, the kiss demanding, hungry: I want.
Eames kisses like a forest wildfire.
Arthur snatches at every burning touch, kisses like he wants to be consumed, like he wants to burn his very heart on an altar and offer it to him.
Now Eames's hands are greedy, snaking nimbly under his soft gray t-shirt, mapping his skin with his fingertips. Eames always was one to touch, to take possession of someone gradually, with those talented hands of his.
When he pinches one of Arthur's nipples into a hard point there is a muffled cry that seems to come from neither of them and from both of them.
Eames growls, and flips them, Arthur now free of his shirt and completely exposed to him. Eames mouths greedily down the line of his neck, fastens his lips just below his collarbone, just over his heart, and sucks and licks viciously, reducing Arthur to breathless and incoherent cries.
There will be a bruise there later.
Arthur is now completely hard and he captures one of Eames's legs with both of his own, rocking against him, against that heated skin.
"Stop that," Eames orders breathily, stilling against him, his mouth moving against Arthur's hipbone.
"Make me."
So Eames claims another hard kiss, their teeth clashing a little, before slithering down Arthur's body and closing his mouth around his cock.
Arthur hears a strange sound that is somewhere between a needy whine and a victorious cry and only seconds later realizes that it came from his own mouth.
Eames is too good against him, mouth and tongue too wet and talented, and it takes all his willpower to wind his hand in his short, scruffy hair, shouting a little more loudly than he intended: "Stop, damn you!"
Their eyes meet: Arthur is pretty sure that his eyes are completely blown, little more than a thin rim of brown around the irises; Eames's seem to be all iris - and he looks thoroughly, unrepentantly, debauched.
Arthur likes him best when he looks just like that.
So he scrabbles blindly in the side tables for a well-used tube, throws it nearly into Eames's face, eagerly gets onto his hands and knees.
"fuck, yes," Eames not-quite-whispers behind him.
Arthur keens and nearly falls back down onto the bed as fingers enter him roughly, two at once moving into him, scissoring. "Eames!"
"Yes, yes, I'm here," sounding more than a little distracted and Arthur knows why.
The fingers are soon replaced by something much bigger and Arthur wills himself to relax, to breathe, hears someone growl "So good, yeah," and then Eames thrusts once, hard, and he's all the way in.
Arthur does shout now as Eames fucks him, listens to Eames as he breathes, riding the sensations. He shrieks into the mattress when Eames bears them both down, closer, closer, and he feels teeth sink into his shoulder when he comes.
***
Arthur wakes up on the floor in the morning with Eames both spooning and half-lying on top of him. They seem to be surrounded by all the comforters in their linen closet.
He is warm, even with the snow still drifting in the wan sunlight. He burrows back into Eames - who responds by clutching him even closer - and falls back asleep, content.