Caviar and Cigarettes [part 1/4]
Title: Caviar and Cigarettes
Author: my_0wn_madness
Beta: fuzzyniffler
Overall Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Jailbait!Arthur (Arthur's 16-17 to Eames' 27), toys (vibrator), slight and very brief breath play
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: When the landlord - Eames, a man of British heritage, a sculpted body and approximately 30 years of age - answers the door, Arthur knows his search for an apartment is over.
Word Count: 27,355
Disclaimer: Inception is not mine in any way, shape or form. The title belongs to Queen.
Author's Notes: This is probably the most shameless thing I've ever written and I blame it on fuzzyniffler . She asked me for a jailbait!Arthur fic (yes, I made her edit her own story) and… Well, this monster was born. It's completely finished, but due to its ridiculous length, I'm going to post it in parts. It'll probably be updated every other day. ... God, so shameless. But I hope you enjoy :) <3
The first time Arthur stood face-to-face with his soon-to-be landlord-his beautiful landlord of British heritage, a perfectly sculpted body and approximately 30 years of age-he resisted the urge to say he could pay with a lot more than cash. He resisted the urge to lean close enough to taste the smoke drifting from the cigarette perched between his landlord's full lips. He resisted leaning even closer than that and replacing said cigarette with his tongue.
He instead settled for shifting his hips into a position that he knew to be attractive, briefly grateful that he had chosen to wear his best fitting pair of jeans. He tried not to smirk when the man's gray-green eyes subtly slipped down his posture.
"I can pay the first payment right now, in cash," Arthur said quietly and pushed his hips forward beneath his black, faded jeans, reaching around into his back pocket to grab his wallet.
The man leaned his broad shoulders against the wooden doorframe and crossed his arms. The motion caused the muscles in his biceps to protrude further. "There's a down payment as well-"
"I can pay that too. Right now."
There was a passing skepticism over the man's face as he cocked a light eyebrow. "Don't you at least want to see the place?"
Normally, Arthur would say yes. He would immediately demand to see the apartment and inspect every corner of every room, every edge of every appliance, test said appliances and then stand in the entry way for about five minutes, tapping his index finger against his lips as he made sure that the place gave off an immediately pleasing feeling. It was true that he was eager to finally get out of his parent's house, but he had time. And he had money-or, well, they had money and they were willing to pay. So there was really no rush.
But these weren't normal circumstances.
These were circumstances in which this landlord was the hottest man he had ever seen and he knew right then that he didn't want to live anywhere else.
So Arthur just shook his head. "That's not necessary."
There was a pause, another one that accompanied the doubtful visage that tainted-no, enhanced-those piercing eyes and that sculpted jaw. "You know that the contract is binding for at least a year, yeah?"
Only a year? Arthur wanted to say and scoff before leaning in close to touch the man's chest through that unfortunately pattered and mint-colored shirt. "I'm aware. This isn't my first time buying an apartment."
A lie. But Arthur was prepared to lie about a few things.
The landlord-Arthur wished he'd find out his name soon-finally let out a defeated breath and plucked the smoking cigarette from his lips. Smoke rolled lazily from his lips and Arthur couldn't look away for a long moment. "All right. Come in, I need your signature on a few pieces of paper."
Gladly.
Arthur pocketed his wallet and followed the other man into the apartment, his eyes immediately darting around the flat. It honestly wasn't the nicest kept of all places, but Arthur was not about to judge this wonderful being who, when he walked, carried himself with such an authority that nearly made Arthur's knees weak. After all, the man could surely do no wrong. Not with those broad shoulders that Arthur wanted to splay his hands over, that taunting neck that he wanted to kiss and those lips that were only the gateway to the most beautifully accented and husky voice that he had ever heard. No, this man was perfect, even with his jackets strewn across the backs of every chair and papers scattered about every table and even portions of the floor.
Normally, things like this would prove to be annoyances for Arthur, but here? They were just quirks.
He was led to the kitchen table and watched as the landlord shoved an open, empty pizza box aside. As the man slipped the cigarette back between his pink lips, he plucked a few papers from a manila folder.
"Ignore the mess," he mumbled belatedly and a bit unnecessarily as he straightened, turning one of the papers towards Arthur. "You can call me Eames and these are the terms to living in my building. No pets except for those you can keep in aquariums or terrariums. No illegal drugs; the last thing I need is the police climbing all over my arse. Be nice to your neighbors, no blasting any music unless it's good-"
"Zeppelin?" Arthur tried.
Eames rolled his eyes. "If I hear Stairway to Heaven one more god damn time-"
"Absolutely," Arthur quickly agreed and immediately revised, "Bad Company? Queen?"
After all, you could do no wrong with Queen.
That made Eames pause, his gray-green eyes twinkling briefly as he tilted his head back and surveyed Arthur. There was a subtle approval laced within his features and it made Arthur smirk complacently, his heart leaping excitedly that he had guessed correctly. Honestly, he just wanted any sort of approval or attention from the man. It didn't really matter what kind, though he was silently proud that he also liked the same type of music.
He filed the information away in his mental folder for excuses to come over to Eames' place.
"That's more like it," Eames murmured lightly, the cigarette shifting between his lips with the words. And the praise was immediately gone from his features as he glanced back down and referred back to the document. He went on to read the rest of the rules though Arthur's mind was still caught with the way that Eames had looked at him just a moment ago.
"Oh, and lastly, no smoking." Just as the last rule was spoken, Arthur cocked an eyebrow and watched as Eames' pulled the cigarette from his lips. When Eames' throat constricted briefly and his lips rounded themselves out as he puffed out a smoke ring, Arthur's mind went momentarily dizzy and he leaned heavily against the table. "Do as I say not as I do, got it?"
"Okay," Arthur breathed shakily, his eyes fixed on those lips that he was sure to fantasize about for the rest of his life.
He didn't miss the small smirk that curled them as Eames glanced back down and turned the other document towards him. "Lastly, I need you to fill this out. It's all your personal information for me to keep on record. And I need an ID to verify it."
Arthur nodded and tried to look casual as he shifted his hips again and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He knew then that he couldn't really lie about his age anymore like he had planned to; previously, he had every intention to tell Eames that he was seventeen. And, honestly, in a few months, that wouldn't be a lie. He just knew that he probably wouldn't stand a chance with Eames if the man knew that he was only sixteen.
Oh well, he told himself. That was just an obstacle that he would have to overcome because there was no way in hell he was giving up on Eames. Especially not this early in the game.
After he handed Eames the card, he received a pen in return and bent over the table, making sure his spine was slightly arched and his ass was fixed on display as he did so. He filled out the sheet easily, sighing inwardly as he entered his real birthday.
"Aiden?" Eames asked, as if tasting his name on his tongue. "Aiden Arthur."
"Just Arthur, please," Arthur mumbled as he scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper. "I don't really care for my first name."
A sound of acknowledgement came from Eames' lips.
"You're sixteen," he then said flatly, clearly not looking for confirmation. Arthur pretended that he heard disappointment in the words.
"I am," Arthur murmured in return and kept himself bent over the form as if reading the notes at the bottom carefully, though he was done. "Only for a few more months."
With that, he licked his lower lip and glanced up from beneath his lashes, his dark eyes meeting Eames'. The man stared down at him, his eyes sharp and firm and matching the way his lips pressed together. He didn't look away, not for a long while, long enough for Arthur's eyes to glaze as he slipped briefly into his mind, imagining Eames' strong hold gripping his shoulder and then flipping him over on the table. He imagined the way Eames would settle between his legs, grip his thighs and lean over to kiss and bite at Arthur's neck. He imagined the way Eames' breath would ghost his skin, make him sweat, make him moan, make him tremble and desperate and he would bend his legs up and spread them wide for-
His ID was handed back to him, forcing him to stand and take it as Eames glanced away. He put it back in his wallet before he signed the two documents and then watched as Eames did the same. The man's spine arched in a wonderful curve as he leaned over the table. The sight distracted Arthur for a long moment before he managed to pluck the appropriate amount of cash from his wallet and place it on the table.
"Well," Eames said conclusively and tossed the pen onto the table before turning to face Arthur as the teen put away his wallet again. "That's that. That apartment is yours for twelve months now. Any problems or questions, come to me."
Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying that, oh, he would come to Eames for anything but problems. Well, except perhaps a problem that was sure to grow in his pants. And then he would come for Eames.
The landlord paused a brief moment, watching Arthur before he extended a hand. Arthur immediately slipped his hand into the grasp and was rather pleased at the firm grip that enclosed around his fingers.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Eames mumbled behind the cigarette.
"No," Arthur murmured, smirking very subtly and shifting his hips, "the pleasure is entirely mine."
|.|.|
"I don't believe you," Ariadne replied easily as she set Arthur's last box in his new living room. "There is no way any guy can be that good looking. Unless he's Dominic Cobb."
"No-" Arthur stopped, cocked an eyebrow and glanced up from the box he was rummaging through, "Dominic Cobb? Really? Out of everyone you could choose from?"
"Seriously? Have you taken Introduction to Architecture? He's a man of a deep and low voice, especially when he's lecturing about Ionic Pillars. And then-" she paused for a moment, straightening and sighing blissfully, "-his ass. He's a man of a great ass, especially when he drops a whiteboard marker and bends over to pick it up…"
Arthur's eyebrows rose, an amused grin curling his thin lips as he pulled a box cutter from his jeans pocket. "A great ass? Trust me, Ari, you haven't seen great ass until you see this man. Mr. Cobb's ass has nothing on him."
Ariadne sighed and shook her head as she crossed her arms. "As I said, I don't believe you. I won't believe you until I see him."
"Did I mention he was foreign?" Arthur glanced up and watched as she moved to flop down on the couch that his parents had donated to him. 'Donated' here meant that it had been sitting in the basement, just waiting for this exact moment so that its hideous red and green exterior could be Arthur's problem instead of their's. Luckily, he had bought a classy, black slip cover. Ariadne pursed her lips with obvious interest, her eyebrow cocking in the slightest.
"You didn't. What kind of foreign?"
"English of a sort, I think," he hummed quietly and pulled the cover from the box. "A lovely accent, really. Get up."
She did so and helped him spread the cover across the couch. "Well. Color me interested."
They tucked the edges around those of the couch and then into the cushions. "As you should be," Arthur purred complacently. "Though I'm fishing for excuses to go visit him on a more than regular basis. I have to take up a lot of his time to make up for my age because, if I'm not around, he's not going to bother. But there's a fine line between that and being annoying that I need to be careful of."
Ariadne dove back onto the couch once their task was done, her slight body spreading across the length of the cushions as she folded her arms beneath her chin. Her hazel eyes were light with entertainment. "You are ridiculous. You've thought about this a bit too much for how little time you've spent here."
Arthur chuckled lowly in his throat and rested his chin on the arm of the couch, watching her with his grin still in place. "Trust me, once you see him, you'll understand why I haven't been able to think of anything since."
"Hey, don't you need to go buy a bed frame?" Her words were thoughtful, though they made his eyebrow tilt.
"I do. My one at home is too small and what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well," Ariadne drawled, lifting her feet from the couch and swinging them back and forth as her expression adopted a coy look. It was an expression that Arthur knew meant he would either love the words that followed or loathe them. "A bed frame can be pretty heavy… Say I'm wrapped up in tests and your parents are far too busy to help you move it up that flight of stairs. God knows you can't move it yourself-look at you, for god's sake-"
"Bitch-"
"So who will more than likely be here to help you move it?"
|.|.|
"Yeah, my friend is wrapped up in tests and my parents are far too busy to help me."
Arthur led Eames to his car, a bit disappointed that there was no way to let Eames lead the way without seeming entirely creepy. Arthur had barely seen that ass and those legs in motion and, actually, perhaps this was a good thing if he was about to help Eames carry a piece of heavy furniture up the stairs. God knew that Arthur dropping the frame due to physical weakness caused by the sheer beauty of Eames' body would be something he would never be able to live down.
A quiet grunt of acknowledgement sounded from behind him. "It's no problem," Eames murmured in that perfect cadence of a husky, low voice. When Arthur opened the door, Eames easily bent over and hoisted the heavy box from the seat and, god bless him, easily set it over his shoulder. It took Arthur a moment to register what just happened and that he didn't need to hold his car door open any longer because something about the way Eames' bicep bulged around the box was too distracting. The man's body was in a perfect posture once he straightened, his shoulder blades set and his lower back curved attractively.
"I can help," Arthur managed to say as he eventually shut his door.
"No need," Eames called over his shoulder and began to move back to the apartment complex. Arthur followed, the paradox of relief and anything but relief making his steps shaky. He was relieved because, fuck, at this rate there was no way he'd be able to even help carry the box anyway. He was also anything but relieved, however, because he was well on his way to being the most turned on he had ever been in his life.
But, christ, could he be blamed? Eames' ill-fitted clothing concealed the entirety of the way those muscles protruded, but they hinted at it. They hinted at the way Eames' shoulder blades folded and the way his shoulders swelled near his collar. And that shirt, god damn it, that cursed, red patterned shirt was untucked in some places and not quite long enough to always cover the taught skin across Eames' lower back.
Those pants were arguably the most teasing of all. They fit just around Eames' ass, showing the way those muscles moved with the man's swagger, but they hung loosely around the rest of Eames' legs.
After Eames maneuvered into the doorway as if he had memorized its exact height and width, Arthur nearly tripped. He held tightly to the railing and kept a distance as he followed Eames up the stairs, not because he was afraid of being hit with the box, but because he was afraid of… Well.
"Grab the door for me?" Eames' voice was slightly strained, his words laced with a smoky sound that only served to drive Arthur a bit more insane. However, he managed to slip beneath the box and dart ahead of Eames to do as told, holding the door open for the man. He forgot about the door as Eames bent over again and set the box down in the entry way.
"There you go," Eames said as he straightened and stretched out his arms as he stared briefly at the box as if it was something he was proud of.
Arthur finally let the door close and managed, "Thank you. Not sure I could have done it myself." He even managed a small smile accompanied by a quiet chuckle.
"Again, it's no problem." Eames glanced sideways at him, his lips curled upwards in the very slightest. Something about his gaze made Arthur shift back to find support in the wall. "I need a cigarette," Eames continued, his voice clearly directed towards himself, and ran a hand through his hair.
Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to let this end just yet. "Can I have one?"
Eames' slender eyebrow tilted and he turned fully to face Arthur, crossing his arms and eyeing the teenager doubtfully. "I have several reasons to say no." Arthur didn't respond, only swallowed and held his gaze and really only wanted to spend more time with him, so he continued, "You smoke?"
Arthur weighed the pros and cons of lying.
"No," Arthur answered truthfully because, if Eames did let him have a cigarette, his lie would have been as transparent as fuck. And he assumed coughing on cigarette smoke was a lot less embarrassing when previously discredited with experience. Eames scoffed.
Eventually, however, he murmured, "Fine."
As Eames led him downstairs and out back, Arthur could not swallow the satisfied smirk on his lips. Not even when his lungs burned with hot nicotine and he choked. Not even as Eames laughed and brought his own cigarette to his lips as a lesson in proper etiquette. Especially not as Eames brought his own cigarette to his lips as a lesson in proper etiquette.
|.|.|
That wasn't the last cigarette they shared. In fact, it was only a week before Eames was offering him a cigarette inside when he knocked on Eames' door, bearing the DVD for Queen live at Wimbley Stadium in 1986.
"I assume your smoke detector is rigged," Arthur mumbled, noting the detector right above their heads. Unlike most smoke detectors, this one didn't flash with a small, red light.
"Not rigged," Eames murmured with a prideful lace stitched to his voice. "It's disconnected entirely. Here." The couch beneath them shifted as Eames leaned closer, lighter between his fingers and at the ready. Arthur positioned the cigarette between his lips and craned his neck towards it, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded with how much the gap between their bodies closed for that brief second.
But that brief second was over soon enough, leaving Arthur shivering in its wake. He took a careful drag of the cigarette, wincing faintly as the smoke burned his lungs before he exhaled slowly. "Is mine disconnected?"
Eames' lips were so fucking beautiful curled around a cigarette. Arthur wanted to see him nurse a pipe. And then a dick. Preferably his own. "You fucking kidding?" His head ducked briefly to the side, elongating the highlight of his neck, before he curled a protective hand around his cigarette's tip as he lit it. Then his jaw tilted up, exposing the expanse of his throat and his adam's apple. He pocketed the lighter before plucking the stick from his lips, his words low, husky, smoky and shudder inducing, "I can't have you smoking in a room that I need to sell."
Arthur fought the urge to say that he would never move out. Ever. Never ever, as long as Eames continued to live here.
Let it be known. Freddie Mercury was not the man to watch when one wanted to avoid adding any sexual tension to an already unbearable lust. Arthur found this out as he watched the man jump and dance around on stage in those ridiculously tight outfits. He couldn't sit still- not that he usually could anyway- but it was worse this time. Like there was an itch in his bones that could never be satisfied, no matter how much he shifted.
He nursed his cigarette rather furiously, taking a couple of drags a minute as he tried to keep his eyes fixed on the screen and his attention fixed on the greatest singer in history. He tried so god damn hard but apparently Eames was smoking faster than he was because the man leaned over and smothered the butt in the ashtray on the cluttered coffee table.
Arthur didn't stand a chance as he flicked his gaze from the television to Eames' hunched back. He was helpless against the way Eames' shoulder blades shifted whenever his arms moved. He was helpless against the way Eames' shirt stretched taught over the slopes of his back. Against the way the shadows fell across the dips between the muscles. Against the way his spine was highlighted from the base of his neck all the way down to the hem of his pants.
Eames sat up. Arthur would have asked the legend of Freddie Mercury for forgiveness for the way he could no longer pay attention to the screen, but he figured that Freddie Mercury, out of anyone, would understand.
|.|.|
Arthur found out a while ago that Eames lived right beneath him but never really understood that concept until one night, about a couple of nights later. He never really understood that he and Eames more or less shared the same ventilation system, not until he was laying in bed one night and heard the echo of a low, unmistakable groan.
His insides hollowed out as he didn't dare to move, just in case he missed another sound or maybe just in case he had imagined it. But no, he didn't, and another sound followed a moment later, though this one was more of a choked cry, higher pitch and very unlike Eames. It was clear, without the harsh texture of nicotine stains and Arthur knew just then what was going on right beneath him.
Eames was fucking someone else.
Another moan and Arthur knew that Eames was fucking another man.
He wanted to kick his sheets and boxers off and get off to the sounds, but he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't because he just needed to listen. He needed to hear Eames grunt and moan and come undone and maybe cry out at his orgasm. He needed to try to hear the slap of skin on skin and he wondered then whether Eames was fucking or being fucked. His stomach knotted itself twice over as he first imagined Eames hovering over another man, pounding in mercilessly, and then imagined Eames's beautiful lips parted as he writhed beneath.
But Eames wasn't loud. The other man was, with crumbling moans and cracked, incoherent curses. But the only thing Arthur heard from Eames was breathless and strained grunts intermingled with the occasional drawn out sound that reminded Arthur of the way smoke poured from his lips.
Arthur's breathing was speeding up as he slowly closed his eyes and visualized. He felt hot, hot beneath Eames and he saw the man above him, between his spread and bent legs. Eames' body was so big compared to his own and Eames smothered him when he leaned over, filling him deeper and deeper. Arthur's breath caught in the ridges of his throat and a choked sound slipped from his lips, much like it would if Eames was actually grunting above him, driving into him, fucking him boneless.
"You fucking like that?"
Eames' voice was rough and fucking demanding, merciless and tight and the way all of the blood in Arthur's body churned was painful. His skin tingled and it wasn't long before he was painfully aware of his aching hard on.
He imagined Eames throwing him onto the bed, pinning his arms down with one hand and scratching lines into his chest with the other, biting blotches into his throat and fucking bruises into his body and he couldn't stop the breathless moan. His legs were shaking as he kicked off his boxers.
The response those god-sent words received was a louder, incoherent sound. Arthur's trembling and hot fingers wrapped around his cock, sending a small tremor through his body and, christ, he already knew he wasn't going to last long.
A loud smack echoed from downstairs. The man groaned Eames' name huskily.
If Arthur could barely breathe before, then he was choking now. Suffocating on the thought of Eames' eyes dark, as merciless as his tone, and hand rising to strike across his skin. Arthur wanted it, god he wanted it, he wanted his skin to feel hot in the aftermath of the sting, he wanted his skin soaked as Eames fucked him hard and roughly, made it so he could barely move.
His hand began to work in time with Eames' husky grunts. They were becoming increasingly breathless and Arthur became increasingly desperate, pumping himself, lathering himself with his own pre-come. His head was spinning, the bed beneath him seemingly unstable as his body jerked and his eyes fluttered and he wanted.
He came about a minute before the noises downstairs ceased. A needy groan fell from his parted lips and, when he opened his glazed eyes, he saw the blinking light of his smoke detector.
Eames was silent when he came.
Arthur knew then, more than ever, that he wanted to be the next man Eames fucked.
|.|.|
And, god damn it, he was going to be no matter how much younger he was. No matter how much Eames wanted to fuck other men, no matter how much fucking effort it took. This was Arthur's prep talk to himself the next morning before he sat up and went to get ready for school. He dressed in the same jeans he wore the first day he had met Eames and in his best-fitting button-up before setting his hair back a bit more than usual.
Arthur passed Eames on the stairs as he headed down. And Arthur thought he was prepared and confident, but Eames was shirtless and in sweatpants and smoking a cigarette with the newspaper in his hand.
He didn't stand a chance. Again. His knees nearly gave out as he saw the ink shift across Eames' muscles as the man moved.
"'Morning," Eames murmured around his cigarette and Arthur swore that those lips were smirking in the slightest. When Eames stopped, his clear eyes glances down Arthur's form, which helped boost Arthur's confidence back up again. He adjusted the messenger bag and folded his shoulders back in the slightest.
"Good morning," he responded, doing his best to keep his eyes from wandering down to the distracting muscles of Eames' stomach. Arthur opened his mouth to keep going, to perhaps invite Eames to do something after he got back from school-fuck, why was he so young?-but he stopped himself.
He needed Eames to start coming to him if this was going to work. He needed Eames to show up at his door without being invited. He needed Eames to seek him out. He needed Eames to want to find him and want to be with him without any persuasion.
Well. Without a lot of persuasion. Arthur dressing in his best clothing was just a little persuasion.
Eames shifted his weight and plucked the cigarette from his lips with his free hand. "Off to school?"
Arthur sighed and nodded, feeling his ears heat up at the attention to just how much younger he was. "Yeah-"
"What time do you get out?"
Arthur swallowed hard at that, though he tried to not let his excitement show. "Two-fifteen."
Eames didn't respond. Not verbally, anyway. He instead nodded, eyed Arthur for a moment more, before slipping past him on the stairs. It was entirely unfair, with the way his body nearly touched Arthur's as he turned sideways upon the staircase and moved past. And with the way he smelt of nicotine and cinnamon and sweat of the night before and Arthur imagined Eames hovering over him in bed, grunting through his gritted teeth and sweat gathering along his hair line as he-
"You're going to be late if you just keep standing there like that."
Arthur jolted and saw that Eames was standing at the top of the stairs, smirking knowingly down at him. He looked like a complacent fuck as he stood there, just watching Arthur with sparking eyes and a glowing cigarette perched between his lips.
That's when it occurred to Arthur that maybe, just maybe, last night had all gone according to Eames' plan.
"Fuck off," Arthur whispered a bit breathlessly and managed a shaking grin in return because, planned or not, it still affected him a ridiculous amount.
Eames chuckled lowly as Arthur turned and continued down the stairs. He moved his hips just a bit more than necessary as payback. What he hoped was payback.
He did not pay attention to anything in school that day.
|.|.|
It was one afternoon after school that Arthur joined Eames for a card game. He had knocked on Eames' door, monthly payment in hand, and had been pleasantly surprised when Eames stepped back, motioning for him to come inside.
"Can we play for my rent?" Arthur had said lightly, holding up his envelope as Eames held up a deck of cards.
Eames had chuckled. "Don't think so. Good try, though."
And only when Arthur was sat across from Eames at his kitchen table, staring down at a full house in his hand did he realize that the man he heard Eames fucking might not just be some man. He realized that perhaps it was Eames' boyfriend. It must have been the way Eames' fingers were splayed over the back of his cards, spread though protective. The spaces between them were wide, wide enough for fingers, but not open, not open for anyone's fingers. Like they reserved, reserved for only that man. Granted, Arthur hadn't heard anything similar since, but the thought still made his own fingers clench around his cards and his jaw tense. It seemed unlikely, absolutely out of the question because, surely, life didn't hate Arthur that much, but Arthur knew it would bother him incessantly.
"Flush," Eames mumbled from around his cigarette and spread his hand across the table, revealing all clubs.
"Full House," Arthur said distractedly and showed his own hand, hesitating only a moment before mumbling, "Eames, can I ask you something?"
Eames cocked his eyebrow, a bit taken aback by the quickness of Arthur's words as he gathered up the cards and began to shuffle. Impressively. Distractedly, fully capturing Arthur's attention with the way his fingers nimbly handled the cards, before Arthur swallowed and glanced up at him again.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" The question was rushed, clear with the urgency that came with him not knowing.
He expected the silence that followed and the way Eames' lips pressed visibly into a firm line. He expected said silence to be unbearable, with his heart pounding with anticipation and his eyes nearly burning because he refused to blink, refused to look away from Eames', refused to give Eames any room to escape him. Because he needed to know. He needed to know.
He had the right to know.
Though he wasn't sure a boyfriend would deter him entirely.
"I don't," Eames said quietly after that long moment.
Arthur almost made him confirm that the man he had fucked was just some random man. He was so close, with his mouth open and words at the ready, but he didn't. There were several reasons that would steer him from asking such a question, but none of them seemed to fit. He just didn't.
His next hand gave him the high card of a king.
|.|.|
Eames was becoming increasingly difficult to figure out. He had shown up at Arthur's door a couple of times over the past several weeks on his own accord, every time with a justified excuse-"Monthly payment?", "Here's the Bad Company CD I promised to lend you" and even, to Arthur's immense delight, "Care for a fag?" But just as many times, Eames had gone out of his way to avoid Arthur's presence. Sometimes, if he did happen to run into Arthur, he'd only give a quick smile and wave before disappearing into his flat. When that happened, Arthur wasn't sure if he should feel angry or disappointed. With each time that happened, he contemplated giving up.
After all, Eames was probably at least ten years older than himself. Did he really stand a chance?
But just whenever he was close to calling it quits, Eames would smile at him again, knock on his door, or catch him for conversation in the hallway, reeling Arthur in like a fish with a hook through his mouth.
Then there was one night-it was always night, wasn't it?-where Arthur, while scrubbing his pan from making macaroni and cheese, caught a glimpse out of his kitchen window of a shadow in the courtyard. The figure was lounging on a brick ledge lining the patios of the bottom apartments and Arthur would recognize those broad shoulders in any lighting.
The last time Eames had seen him, he had been asking to borrow one of Arthur's Queen DVDs, so Arthur figured why not.
He pulled on his light jacket and slipped out of his apartment, down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The night was cooler than it looked, the autumn air crisp against his skin. The moon was high and cast long shadows across the brick of the apartment building and the grass of the yard. He stepped into the tip of Eames' long shadow and if the man noticed his presence, he didn't acknowledge it.
Arthur waited a long moment before he slowly, quietly moved closer, until he was standing right behind the brick ledge that Eames was perched upon. He was beside Eames and he could tell, just from the way Eames was sitting-shoulders hunched forward, one leg folded atop the ledge and the other dangling off-and the way his lips were pressed firmly around his cigarette, that something was wrong.
"Hey," Arthur tried quietly, watching Eames from the corner of his eye. He leaned on his hands against the brick.
"Hey," was the short response and Eames didn't look at him. The outline of his forehead, his nose, his lips were highlighted by the moon and shadows fell low on his cheekbones with the glow of his cigarette. His eyes were black beneath the shadows of his long lashes. Smoke danced before his face and sometimes, when the cool breeze touched it just right, smoke would pass across his jaw line, graying his pale skin.
Arthur swallowed, thinking to himself that Eames was honest to god beautiful.
Eames still didn't look at him but he plucked the box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered one to Arthur. A smile twitched in the corner of Arthur's lips as he took a stick and perched it between his lips as Eames withdrew his lighter.
"You're going to get me arrested," Eames mumbled, holding a flame to the tip of Arthur's cigarette. His voice and face were humorless, though Arthur chuckled quietly as he took a drag.
His words came out on smoke. "I didn't ask for a cigarette this time."
Eames didn't respond. He didn't smile. He just pocketed his lighter and resumed his place on the ledge. Arthur didn't press and looked up towards the violet sky, knowing that if Eames wanted to tell him, he would.
That mindset lasted for about a minute. He grew fidgety in the silence, taking quick drags from the cigarette and he shifted the position of his legs over and over again. He wanted to know what was going on in Eames' head, what was going on in his life, what he could do to help, what he could do in general. He wanted to be a part of Eames' life, he had ever since he met him, and this sort of rejection, with Eames keeping information from him, made his stomach ache.
Finally, "I didn't mean about the cigarettes."
The words were spoken after a five minute silence so Arthur wasn't sure what to make of them. He glanced at Eames from the corner of his eye. "Didn't mean what?"
Eames finally plucked the cigarette from his mouth and let his lips drift open slowly, the smoke drawling out between them. There was another long moment before he spoke. "I meant, cigarettes are not the reason you will get me put away." He looked at Arthur just then, the moonlighting just right so that the clear color of his grey-green eyes seemed to shine in his irises.
The realization fell like lead in Arthur's veins. His organs dropped to his feet and he nearly fell with them, understanding just then what Eames was getting at and he was sure that the sound of his thumping heart wasn't audible to only him. The night was no longer cool, it was hot, too hot and it made him shake, made his ears burn and made him speechless.
Had his mind not been stunned into a void in that moment, he would have thought, Yes.
"Don't think I don't notice," Eames continued after a moment, his voice hoarse with how quiet it was. "I know what you want, Arthur. I know what you're after, but you have to realize just how… Just how." Eames let out a frustrated breath then and turned his head back to the side as he ran his fingers through his hair. A couple of strands fell around his temple in the aftermath.
Arthur found his voice after a long moment, and it scratched against his dry throat when he spoke because he was so close now. "You know what I want. But what do you want?"
A grin curled the corner of Eames' lips then and it looked bitter in the pale lighting. He shook his head faintly and turned his head just enough to eye Arthur, his eyes back to black beneath his lashes. "You're mad," he spoke huskily, cigarette bouncing with his lips' movements.
Arthur smiled very subtly and glanced down momentarily at the brick surface beneath them. When he looked up again at the moon, he could see the cracks of veins pulsing in time with his stomping heart and he inhaled before plucking the cigarette from his lips. "Just a question," he breathed quietly. He watched the tip of Eames' cigarette slowly burn down and he was pleased when he noticed Eames watching him carefully.
He wondered if he looked older with smoke wandering from his lips. He wondered if he looked more acceptable to fuck.
Eames finally moved. He twisted his body back towards the apartments and drew his gaze away from Arthur as he slipped off of the ledge and sauntered back into his apartment through the patio door. He didn't close the glass door behind him, though he didn't look back as he disappeared from Arthur's line of sight.
Arthur barely took a moment to think before he followed, his legs a bit shaky beneath him.
"Close the door and draw the blinds." Eames' voice came from the direction of the living room but Arthur didn't look for him before he immediately did as he was told. The flat of his palm began to sweat once he turned from the door and towards the living room and, sure enough, Eames was sitting on the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. The cigarette was still between his lips and his head was tilted just enough to watch Arthur, who just stared at him for a long moment before carefully stepping forward. He sat beside Eames, leaving a small space between their bodies and he knew where he wanted this to go, where he hoped this would go, but he honestly had no idea where it was actually going.
The television was on before them, producing a low chatter, but Arthur barely noticed, especially as Eames murmured, "What do I want, you ask…" There was a pause and Arthur saw something in Eames' eyes flash, something that made his lungs constrict. Then Eames was reaching up, touching the skin of his jaw and his hands were surprisingly soft, the pads of his fingertips smooth and without calluses. When Eames spoke once more, his voice was barely there and more translucent than the smoke swirling from the end of his cigarette, "Well."
He plucked the cigarette from his lips with his free hand and Arthur did the same, his lengthy fingers shaking. He nearly dropped the joint when Eames leaned in and pieced those full, wonderful lips within his own.
Kissing Eames was everything he hoped it would be. It was nice, made his body cave towards the man, but also bitter with the sharp taste of smoke upon his lips. And then it was hot. Eames tilted his head and took Arthur's lips with a more demanding tone, his own pressing and pulling greedily and Arthur moaned. His head began to spin and he nearly dropped the cigarette as his free hand reached up and curled tightly around Eames' wrist. He kissed back with equal fervor though he was shaking and, in that moment, he wanted anything of Eames, anything, anything he was allowed to have and certainly everything that he wasn't. Eames' tongue licked its way into his mouth and his skin tingled beneath his clothing; he wanted to strip off his jacket-
And Eames pulled away slowly. Their breathing was hot and shallow in the gap between their lips.
When Eames spoke again, his voice was rushed, breathless and the weakest Arthur had ever heard it, "I want that, Arthur, I want that, and I want more-"
"Then do it," Arthur whispered in return, his nerves wired and crying out for more contact. He hated the way Eames shook his head and gave a humorless laugh.
"No," he whispered and then was gone, further away from Arthur. His cheeks were flushed a beautiful color, his lips seemed fuller than usual. "No, you don't understand, I can't. I'm twenty-seven and I shouldn't even have done that-"
"It's okay-"
"No," Eames said again, this time a bit more desperately as if trying to convince himself. "No, it's not, Arthur, you don't understand."
There was a silence in which neither of them knew what to do except take a couple more drags of their cigarettes. The hot smoke burned Arthur's throat more than usual because he was still so breathless.
"Good night, Arthur," Eames whispered quietly after that long moment.
And Arthur wanted to protest. Eames wasn't even looking at him now and he wanted to curl his fingers in the collar of the man's shirt, yank him close and demand that this wasn't over before kissing him hard all over again. But he didn't; he couldn't. He knew he couldn't and he knew he should have been grateful for what he did get and he was, but he wasn't. He was hungry, greedy and in a desperate lust for more of Eames.
His legs were trembling even more beneath him as he slowly stood. He pretended not to see the relief that fell across Eames' shoulders as he breathed shakily, "Good night, Eames."
Arthur put the cigarette out in the ashtray and left.
That night, he came twice. Once with the thought of Eames' lips demanding against his and once with the thought of Eames' lips wrapped around his cock.
He hoped more than anything that, below him, Eames heard the shaking moan that dripped from his lips as he did so.
|.|.|
Arthur didn't see Eames for a couple of days after that and it was an understatement to say it was maddening. He understood, of course he did-he was over ten years younger that Eames, so of course that posed both a moral and legal problem. But the thing about legality was that it was only illegal if one was caught. And the thing about morality was that, under circumstances, there were exceptions.
For example: a twenty-seven year old fucking a sixteen year old. Questionable. Very questionable, frowned upon, morally wrong, etc.
But a twenty-seven year old fucking a sixteen year old who was close to seventeen and who wanted more than anything to be fucked by said twenty-seven year old? That just brought things back up to questionable and could slide.
It was this sort of thinking that forced Arthur to hold onto the situation. He told himself over and over that this was a problem that could be worked out because they both wanted this. They both wanted each other. And, of course, he wasn't going to tell anyone who would turn Eames over to the police. Why would he? If that kiss was anything to go by, Eames would be the best fuck on the planet. Why would he want to get his favorite fuck locked away?
The fact that Eames would be his first and only fuck was information that Arthur was debating keeping to himself forever.
Ariadne was also a factor that forced Arthur to hold onto the situation.
'You cant give up. He kissed you for gods sake'. Arthur's eyes scanned over her text, drawing his attention away from some shitty movie that he had turned on. He may or may not have heard it playing through Eames' vents. No, he wasn't a creeper-well, not right now-Eames just turned up his television really loudly.
'I'm not. But it's a hard to do anything if he won't even acknowledge that I exist.'
'what happened to making it so he COULDNT ignore you?'
Arthur heard the television downstairs de-sync from his own. He eventually sighed and grabbed the remote with his free hand, clicking it off all together.
'What part of he won't look at me do you not understand?'
Ariadne's responses were quick, as if she was waiting eagerly by her phone for Arthur's replies. He somehow doubted that was far from the truth. 'he doesnt have to LOOK at you. try being creative for once'.
He heard the channel change on Eames' television once, twice, three times. And then his heart leapt, his hands began to shake around his cell phone, he swore that he loved Ariadne more than Freddie Mercury and he had an idea.
Part Two
Author: my_0wn_madness
Beta: fuzzyniffler
Overall Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Jailbait!Arthur (Arthur's 16-17 to Eames' 27), toys (vibrator), slight and very brief breath play
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: When the landlord - Eames, a man of British heritage, a sculpted body and approximately 30 years of age - answers the door, Arthur knows his search for an apartment is over.
Word Count: 27,355
Disclaimer: Inception is not mine in any way, shape or form. The title belongs to Queen.
Author's Notes: This is probably the most shameless thing I've ever written and I blame it on fuzzyniffler . She asked me for a jailbait!Arthur fic (yes, I made her edit her own story) and… Well, this monster was born. It's completely finished, but due to its ridiculous length, I'm going to post it in parts. It'll probably be updated every other day. ... God, so shameless. But I hope you enjoy :) <3
The first time Arthur stood face-to-face with his soon-to-be landlord-his beautiful landlord of British heritage, a perfectly sculpted body and approximately 30 years of age-he resisted the urge to say he could pay with a lot more than cash. He resisted the urge to lean close enough to taste the smoke drifting from the cigarette perched between his landlord's full lips. He resisted leaning even closer than that and replacing said cigarette with his tongue.
He instead settled for shifting his hips into a position that he knew to be attractive, briefly grateful that he had chosen to wear his best fitting pair of jeans. He tried not to smirk when the man's gray-green eyes subtly slipped down his posture.
"I can pay the first payment right now, in cash," Arthur said quietly and pushed his hips forward beneath his black, faded jeans, reaching around into his back pocket to grab his wallet.
The man leaned his broad shoulders against the wooden doorframe and crossed his arms. The motion caused the muscles in his biceps to protrude further. "There's a down payment as well-"
"I can pay that too. Right now."
There was a passing skepticism over the man's face as he cocked a light eyebrow. "Don't you at least want to see the place?"
Normally, Arthur would say yes. He would immediately demand to see the apartment and inspect every corner of every room, every edge of every appliance, test said appliances and then stand in the entry way for about five minutes, tapping his index finger against his lips as he made sure that the place gave off an immediately pleasing feeling. It was true that he was eager to finally get out of his parent's house, but he had time. And he had money-or, well, they had money and they were willing to pay. So there was really no rush.
But these weren't normal circumstances.
These were circumstances in which this landlord was the hottest man he had ever seen and he knew right then that he didn't want to live anywhere else.
So Arthur just shook his head. "That's not necessary."
There was a pause, another one that accompanied the doubtful visage that tainted-no, enhanced-those piercing eyes and that sculpted jaw. "You know that the contract is binding for at least a year, yeah?"
Only a year? Arthur wanted to say and scoff before leaning in close to touch the man's chest through that unfortunately pattered and mint-colored shirt. "I'm aware. This isn't my first time buying an apartment."
A lie. But Arthur was prepared to lie about a few things.
The landlord-Arthur wished he'd find out his name soon-finally let out a defeated breath and plucked the smoking cigarette from his lips. Smoke rolled lazily from his lips and Arthur couldn't look away for a long moment. "All right. Come in, I need your signature on a few pieces of paper."
Gladly.
Arthur pocketed his wallet and followed the other man into the apartment, his eyes immediately darting around the flat. It honestly wasn't the nicest kept of all places, but Arthur was not about to judge this wonderful being who, when he walked, carried himself with such an authority that nearly made Arthur's knees weak. After all, the man could surely do no wrong. Not with those broad shoulders that Arthur wanted to splay his hands over, that taunting neck that he wanted to kiss and those lips that were only the gateway to the most beautifully accented and husky voice that he had ever heard. No, this man was perfect, even with his jackets strewn across the backs of every chair and papers scattered about every table and even portions of the floor.
Normally, things like this would prove to be annoyances for Arthur, but here? They were just quirks.
He was led to the kitchen table and watched as the landlord shoved an open, empty pizza box aside. As the man slipped the cigarette back between his pink lips, he plucked a few papers from a manila folder.
"Ignore the mess," he mumbled belatedly and a bit unnecessarily as he straightened, turning one of the papers towards Arthur. "You can call me Eames and these are the terms to living in my building. No pets except for those you can keep in aquariums or terrariums. No illegal drugs; the last thing I need is the police climbing all over my arse. Be nice to your neighbors, no blasting any music unless it's good-"
"Zeppelin?" Arthur tried.
Eames rolled his eyes. "If I hear Stairway to Heaven one more god damn time-"
"Absolutely," Arthur quickly agreed and immediately revised, "Bad Company? Queen?"
After all, you could do no wrong with Queen.
That made Eames pause, his gray-green eyes twinkling briefly as he tilted his head back and surveyed Arthur. There was a subtle approval laced within his features and it made Arthur smirk complacently, his heart leaping excitedly that he had guessed correctly. Honestly, he just wanted any sort of approval or attention from the man. It didn't really matter what kind, though he was silently proud that he also liked the same type of music.
He filed the information away in his mental folder for excuses to come over to Eames' place.
"That's more like it," Eames murmured lightly, the cigarette shifting between his lips with the words. And the praise was immediately gone from his features as he glanced back down and referred back to the document. He went on to read the rest of the rules though Arthur's mind was still caught with the way that Eames had looked at him just a moment ago.
"Oh, and lastly, no smoking." Just as the last rule was spoken, Arthur cocked an eyebrow and watched as Eames' pulled the cigarette from his lips. When Eames' throat constricted briefly and his lips rounded themselves out as he puffed out a smoke ring, Arthur's mind went momentarily dizzy and he leaned heavily against the table. "Do as I say not as I do, got it?"
"Okay," Arthur breathed shakily, his eyes fixed on those lips that he was sure to fantasize about for the rest of his life.
He didn't miss the small smirk that curled them as Eames glanced back down and turned the other document towards him. "Lastly, I need you to fill this out. It's all your personal information for me to keep on record. And I need an ID to verify it."
Arthur nodded and tried to look casual as he shifted his hips again and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He knew then that he couldn't really lie about his age anymore like he had planned to; previously, he had every intention to tell Eames that he was seventeen. And, honestly, in a few months, that wouldn't be a lie. He just knew that he probably wouldn't stand a chance with Eames if the man knew that he was only sixteen.
Oh well, he told himself. That was just an obstacle that he would have to overcome because there was no way in hell he was giving up on Eames. Especially not this early in the game.
After he handed Eames the card, he received a pen in return and bent over the table, making sure his spine was slightly arched and his ass was fixed on display as he did so. He filled out the sheet easily, sighing inwardly as he entered his real birthday.
"Aiden?" Eames asked, as if tasting his name on his tongue. "Aiden Arthur."
"Just Arthur, please," Arthur mumbled as he scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper. "I don't really care for my first name."
A sound of acknowledgement came from Eames' lips.
"You're sixteen," he then said flatly, clearly not looking for confirmation. Arthur pretended that he heard disappointment in the words.
"I am," Arthur murmured in return and kept himself bent over the form as if reading the notes at the bottom carefully, though he was done. "Only for a few more months."
With that, he licked his lower lip and glanced up from beneath his lashes, his dark eyes meeting Eames'. The man stared down at him, his eyes sharp and firm and matching the way his lips pressed together. He didn't look away, not for a long while, long enough for Arthur's eyes to glaze as he slipped briefly into his mind, imagining Eames' strong hold gripping his shoulder and then flipping him over on the table. He imagined the way Eames would settle between his legs, grip his thighs and lean over to kiss and bite at Arthur's neck. He imagined the way Eames' breath would ghost his skin, make him sweat, make him moan, make him tremble and desperate and he would bend his legs up and spread them wide for-
His ID was handed back to him, forcing him to stand and take it as Eames glanced away. He put it back in his wallet before he signed the two documents and then watched as Eames did the same. The man's spine arched in a wonderful curve as he leaned over the table. The sight distracted Arthur for a long moment before he managed to pluck the appropriate amount of cash from his wallet and place it on the table.
"Well," Eames said conclusively and tossed the pen onto the table before turning to face Arthur as the teen put away his wallet again. "That's that. That apartment is yours for twelve months now. Any problems or questions, come to me."
Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying that, oh, he would come to Eames for anything but problems. Well, except perhaps a problem that was sure to grow in his pants. And then he would come for Eames.
The landlord paused a brief moment, watching Arthur before he extended a hand. Arthur immediately slipped his hand into the grasp and was rather pleased at the firm grip that enclosed around his fingers.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Eames mumbled behind the cigarette.
"No," Arthur murmured, smirking very subtly and shifting his hips, "the pleasure is entirely mine."
|.|.|
"I don't believe you," Ariadne replied easily as she set Arthur's last box in his new living room. "There is no way any guy can be that good looking. Unless he's Dominic Cobb."
"No-" Arthur stopped, cocked an eyebrow and glanced up from the box he was rummaging through, "Dominic Cobb? Really? Out of everyone you could choose from?"
"Seriously? Have you taken Introduction to Architecture? He's a man of a deep and low voice, especially when he's lecturing about Ionic Pillars. And then-" she paused for a moment, straightening and sighing blissfully, "-his ass. He's a man of a great ass, especially when he drops a whiteboard marker and bends over to pick it up…"
Arthur's eyebrows rose, an amused grin curling his thin lips as he pulled a box cutter from his jeans pocket. "A great ass? Trust me, Ari, you haven't seen great ass until you see this man. Mr. Cobb's ass has nothing on him."
Ariadne sighed and shook her head as she crossed her arms. "As I said, I don't believe you. I won't believe you until I see him."
"Did I mention he was foreign?" Arthur glanced up and watched as she moved to flop down on the couch that his parents had donated to him. 'Donated' here meant that it had been sitting in the basement, just waiting for this exact moment so that its hideous red and green exterior could be Arthur's problem instead of their's. Luckily, he had bought a classy, black slip cover. Ariadne pursed her lips with obvious interest, her eyebrow cocking in the slightest.
"You didn't. What kind of foreign?"
"English of a sort, I think," he hummed quietly and pulled the cover from the box. "A lovely accent, really. Get up."
She did so and helped him spread the cover across the couch. "Well. Color me interested."
They tucked the edges around those of the couch and then into the cushions. "As you should be," Arthur purred complacently. "Though I'm fishing for excuses to go visit him on a more than regular basis. I have to take up a lot of his time to make up for my age because, if I'm not around, he's not going to bother. But there's a fine line between that and being annoying that I need to be careful of."
Ariadne dove back onto the couch once their task was done, her slight body spreading across the length of the cushions as she folded her arms beneath her chin. Her hazel eyes were light with entertainment. "You are ridiculous. You've thought about this a bit too much for how little time you've spent here."
Arthur chuckled lowly in his throat and rested his chin on the arm of the couch, watching her with his grin still in place. "Trust me, once you see him, you'll understand why I haven't been able to think of anything since."
"Hey, don't you need to go buy a bed frame?" Her words were thoughtful, though they made his eyebrow tilt.
"I do. My one at home is too small and what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well," Ariadne drawled, lifting her feet from the couch and swinging them back and forth as her expression adopted a coy look. It was an expression that Arthur knew meant he would either love the words that followed or loathe them. "A bed frame can be pretty heavy… Say I'm wrapped up in tests and your parents are far too busy to help you move it up that flight of stairs. God knows you can't move it yourself-look at you, for god's sake-"
"Bitch-"
"So who will more than likely be here to help you move it?"
|.|.|
"Yeah, my friend is wrapped up in tests and my parents are far too busy to help me."
Arthur led Eames to his car, a bit disappointed that there was no way to let Eames lead the way without seeming entirely creepy. Arthur had barely seen that ass and those legs in motion and, actually, perhaps this was a good thing if he was about to help Eames carry a piece of heavy furniture up the stairs. God knew that Arthur dropping the frame due to physical weakness caused by the sheer beauty of Eames' body would be something he would never be able to live down.
A quiet grunt of acknowledgement sounded from behind him. "It's no problem," Eames murmured in that perfect cadence of a husky, low voice. When Arthur opened the door, Eames easily bent over and hoisted the heavy box from the seat and, god bless him, easily set it over his shoulder. It took Arthur a moment to register what just happened and that he didn't need to hold his car door open any longer because something about the way Eames' bicep bulged around the box was too distracting. The man's body was in a perfect posture once he straightened, his shoulder blades set and his lower back curved attractively.
"I can help," Arthur managed to say as he eventually shut his door.
"No need," Eames called over his shoulder and began to move back to the apartment complex. Arthur followed, the paradox of relief and anything but relief making his steps shaky. He was relieved because, fuck, at this rate there was no way he'd be able to even help carry the box anyway. He was also anything but relieved, however, because he was well on his way to being the most turned on he had ever been in his life.
But, christ, could he be blamed? Eames' ill-fitted clothing concealed the entirety of the way those muscles protruded, but they hinted at it. They hinted at the way Eames' shoulder blades folded and the way his shoulders swelled near his collar. And that shirt, god damn it, that cursed, red patterned shirt was untucked in some places and not quite long enough to always cover the taught skin across Eames' lower back.
Those pants were arguably the most teasing of all. They fit just around Eames' ass, showing the way those muscles moved with the man's swagger, but they hung loosely around the rest of Eames' legs.
After Eames maneuvered into the doorway as if he had memorized its exact height and width, Arthur nearly tripped. He held tightly to the railing and kept a distance as he followed Eames up the stairs, not because he was afraid of being hit with the box, but because he was afraid of… Well.
"Grab the door for me?" Eames' voice was slightly strained, his words laced with a smoky sound that only served to drive Arthur a bit more insane. However, he managed to slip beneath the box and dart ahead of Eames to do as told, holding the door open for the man. He forgot about the door as Eames bent over again and set the box down in the entry way.
"There you go," Eames said as he straightened and stretched out his arms as he stared briefly at the box as if it was something he was proud of.
Arthur finally let the door close and managed, "Thank you. Not sure I could have done it myself." He even managed a small smile accompanied by a quiet chuckle.
"Again, it's no problem." Eames glanced sideways at him, his lips curled upwards in the very slightest. Something about his gaze made Arthur shift back to find support in the wall. "I need a cigarette," Eames continued, his voice clearly directed towards himself, and ran a hand through his hair.
Arthur wasn't sure he was ready to let this end just yet. "Can I have one?"
Eames' slender eyebrow tilted and he turned fully to face Arthur, crossing his arms and eyeing the teenager doubtfully. "I have several reasons to say no." Arthur didn't respond, only swallowed and held his gaze and really only wanted to spend more time with him, so he continued, "You smoke?"
Arthur weighed the pros and cons of lying.
"No," Arthur answered truthfully because, if Eames did let him have a cigarette, his lie would have been as transparent as fuck. And he assumed coughing on cigarette smoke was a lot less embarrassing when previously discredited with experience. Eames scoffed.
Eventually, however, he murmured, "Fine."
As Eames led him downstairs and out back, Arthur could not swallow the satisfied smirk on his lips. Not even when his lungs burned with hot nicotine and he choked. Not even as Eames laughed and brought his own cigarette to his lips as a lesson in proper etiquette. Especially not as Eames brought his own cigarette to his lips as a lesson in proper etiquette.
|.|.|
That wasn't the last cigarette they shared. In fact, it was only a week before Eames was offering him a cigarette inside when he knocked on Eames' door, bearing the DVD for Queen live at Wimbley Stadium in 1986.
"I assume your smoke detector is rigged," Arthur mumbled, noting the detector right above their heads. Unlike most smoke detectors, this one didn't flash with a small, red light.
"Not rigged," Eames murmured with a prideful lace stitched to his voice. "It's disconnected entirely. Here." The couch beneath them shifted as Eames leaned closer, lighter between his fingers and at the ready. Arthur positioned the cigarette between his lips and craned his neck towards it, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded with how much the gap between their bodies closed for that brief second.
But that brief second was over soon enough, leaving Arthur shivering in its wake. He took a careful drag of the cigarette, wincing faintly as the smoke burned his lungs before he exhaled slowly. "Is mine disconnected?"
Eames' lips were so fucking beautiful curled around a cigarette. Arthur wanted to see him nurse a pipe. And then a dick. Preferably his own. "You fucking kidding?" His head ducked briefly to the side, elongating the highlight of his neck, before he curled a protective hand around his cigarette's tip as he lit it. Then his jaw tilted up, exposing the expanse of his throat and his adam's apple. He pocketed the lighter before plucking the stick from his lips, his words low, husky, smoky and shudder inducing, "I can't have you smoking in a room that I need to sell."
Arthur fought the urge to say that he would never move out. Ever. Never ever, as long as Eames continued to live here.
Let it be known. Freddie Mercury was not the man to watch when one wanted to avoid adding any sexual tension to an already unbearable lust. Arthur found this out as he watched the man jump and dance around on stage in those ridiculously tight outfits. He couldn't sit still- not that he usually could anyway- but it was worse this time. Like there was an itch in his bones that could never be satisfied, no matter how much he shifted.
He nursed his cigarette rather furiously, taking a couple of drags a minute as he tried to keep his eyes fixed on the screen and his attention fixed on the greatest singer in history. He tried so god damn hard but apparently Eames was smoking faster than he was because the man leaned over and smothered the butt in the ashtray on the cluttered coffee table.
Arthur didn't stand a chance as he flicked his gaze from the television to Eames' hunched back. He was helpless against the way Eames' shoulder blades shifted whenever his arms moved. He was helpless against the way Eames' shirt stretched taught over the slopes of his back. Against the way the shadows fell across the dips between the muscles. Against the way his spine was highlighted from the base of his neck all the way down to the hem of his pants.
Eames sat up. Arthur would have asked the legend of Freddie Mercury for forgiveness for the way he could no longer pay attention to the screen, but he figured that Freddie Mercury, out of anyone, would understand.
|.|.|
Arthur found out a while ago that Eames lived right beneath him but never really understood that concept until one night, about a couple of nights later. He never really understood that he and Eames more or less shared the same ventilation system, not until he was laying in bed one night and heard the echo of a low, unmistakable groan.
His insides hollowed out as he didn't dare to move, just in case he missed another sound or maybe just in case he had imagined it. But no, he didn't, and another sound followed a moment later, though this one was more of a choked cry, higher pitch and very unlike Eames. It was clear, without the harsh texture of nicotine stains and Arthur knew just then what was going on right beneath him.
Eames was fucking someone else.
Another moan and Arthur knew that Eames was fucking another man.
He wanted to kick his sheets and boxers off and get off to the sounds, but he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't because he just needed to listen. He needed to hear Eames grunt and moan and come undone and maybe cry out at his orgasm. He needed to try to hear the slap of skin on skin and he wondered then whether Eames was fucking or being fucked. His stomach knotted itself twice over as he first imagined Eames hovering over another man, pounding in mercilessly, and then imagined Eames's beautiful lips parted as he writhed beneath.
But Eames wasn't loud. The other man was, with crumbling moans and cracked, incoherent curses. But the only thing Arthur heard from Eames was breathless and strained grunts intermingled with the occasional drawn out sound that reminded Arthur of the way smoke poured from his lips.
Arthur's breathing was speeding up as he slowly closed his eyes and visualized. He felt hot, hot beneath Eames and he saw the man above him, between his spread and bent legs. Eames' body was so big compared to his own and Eames smothered him when he leaned over, filling him deeper and deeper. Arthur's breath caught in the ridges of his throat and a choked sound slipped from his lips, much like it would if Eames was actually grunting above him, driving into him, fucking him boneless.
"You fucking like that?"
Eames' voice was rough and fucking demanding, merciless and tight and the way all of the blood in Arthur's body churned was painful. His skin tingled and it wasn't long before he was painfully aware of his aching hard on.
He imagined Eames throwing him onto the bed, pinning his arms down with one hand and scratching lines into his chest with the other, biting blotches into his throat and fucking bruises into his body and he couldn't stop the breathless moan. His legs were shaking as he kicked off his boxers.
The response those god-sent words received was a louder, incoherent sound. Arthur's trembling and hot fingers wrapped around his cock, sending a small tremor through his body and, christ, he already knew he wasn't going to last long.
A loud smack echoed from downstairs. The man groaned Eames' name huskily.
If Arthur could barely breathe before, then he was choking now. Suffocating on the thought of Eames' eyes dark, as merciless as his tone, and hand rising to strike across his skin. Arthur wanted it, god he wanted it, he wanted his skin to feel hot in the aftermath of the sting, he wanted his skin soaked as Eames fucked him hard and roughly, made it so he could barely move.
His hand began to work in time with Eames' husky grunts. They were becoming increasingly breathless and Arthur became increasingly desperate, pumping himself, lathering himself with his own pre-come. His head was spinning, the bed beneath him seemingly unstable as his body jerked and his eyes fluttered and he wanted.
He came about a minute before the noises downstairs ceased. A needy groan fell from his parted lips and, when he opened his glazed eyes, he saw the blinking light of his smoke detector.
Eames was silent when he came.
Arthur knew then, more than ever, that he wanted to be the next man Eames fucked.
|.|.|
And, god damn it, he was going to be no matter how much younger he was. No matter how much Eames wanted to fuck other men, no matter how much fucking effort it took. This was Arthur's prep talk to himself the next morning before he sat up and went to get ready for school. He dressed in the same jeans he wore the first day he had met Eames and in his best-fitting button-up before setting his hair back a bit more than usual.
Arthur passed Eames on the stairs as he headed down. And Arthur thought he was prepared and confident, but Eames was shirtless and in sweatpants and smoking a cigarette with the newspaper in his hand.
He didn't stand a chance. Again. His knees nearly gave out as he saw the ink shift across Eames' muscles as the man moved.
"'Morning," Eames murmured around his cigarette and Arthur swore that those lips were smirking in the slightest. When Eames stopped, his clear eyes glances down Arthur's form, which helped boost Arthur's confidence back up again. He adjusted the messenger bag and folded his shoulders back in the slightest.
"Good morning," he responded, doing his best to keep his eyes from wandering down to the distracting muscles of Eames' stomach. Arthur opened his mouth to keep going, to perhaps invite Eames to do something after he got back from school-fuck, why was he so young?-but he stopped himself.
He needed Eames to start coming to him if this was going to work. He needed Eames to show up at his door without being invited. He needed Eames to seek him out. He needed Eames to want to find him and want to be with him without any persuasion.
Well. Without a lot of persuasion. Arthur dressing in his best clothing was just a little persuasion.
Eames shifted his weight and plucked the cigarette from his lips with his free hand. "Off to school?"
Arthur sighed and nodded, feeling his ears heat up at the attention to just how much younger he was. "Yeah-"
"What time do you get out?"
Arthur swallowed hard at that, though he tried to not let his excitement show. "Two-fifteen."
Eames didn't respond. Not verbally, anyway. He instead nodded, eyed Arthur for a moment more, before slipping past him on the stairs. It was entirely unfair, with the way his body nearly touched Arthur's as he turned sideways upon the staircase and moved past. And with the way he smelt of nicotine and cinnamon and sweat of the night before and Arthur imagined Eames hovering over him in bed, grunting through his gritted teeth and sweat gathering along his hair line as he-
"You're going to be late if you just keep standing there like that."
Arthur jolted and saw that Eames was standing at the top of the stairs, smirking knowingly down at him. He looked like a complacent fuck as he stood there, just watching Arthur with sparking eyes and a glowing cigarette perched between his lips.
That's when it occurred to Arthur that maybe, just maybe, last night had all gone according to Eames' plan.
"Fuck off," Arthur whispered a bit breathlessly and managed a shaking grin in return because, planned or not, it still affected him a ridiculous amount.
Eames chuckled lowly as Arthur turned and continued down the stairs. He moved his hips just a bit more than necessary as payback. What he hoped was payback.
He did not pay attention to anything in school that day.
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It was one afternoon after school that Arthur joined Eames for a card game. He had knocked on Eames' door, monthly payment in hand, and had been pleasantly surprised when Eames stepped back, motioning for him to come inside.
"Can we play for my rent?" Arthur had said lightly, holding up his envelope as Eames held up a deck of cards.
Eames had chuckled. "Don't think so. Good try, though."
And only when Arthur was sat across from Eames at his kitchen table, staring down at a full house in his hand did he realize that the man he heard Eames fucking might not just be some man. He realized that perhaps it was Eames' boyfriend. It must have been the way Eames' fingers were splayed over the back of his cards, spread though protective. The spaces between them were wide, wide enough for fingers, but not open, not open for anyone's fingers. Like they reserved, reserved for only that man. Granted, Arthur hadn't heard anything similar since, but the thought still made his own fingers clench around his cards and his jaw tense. It seemed unlikely, absolutely out of the question because, surely, life didn't hate Arthur that much, but Arthur knew it would bother him incessantly.
"Flush," Eames mumbled from around his cigarette and spread his hand across the table, revealing all clubs.
"Full House," Arthur said distractedly and showed his own hand, hesitating only a moment before mumbling, "Eames, can I ask you something?"
Eames cocked his eyebrow, a bit taken aback by the quickness of Arthur's words as he gathered up the cards and began to shuffle. Impressively. Distractedly, fully capturing Arthur's attention with the way his fingers nimbly handled the cards, before Arthur swallowed and glanced up at him again.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" The question was rushed, clear with the urgency that came with him not knowing.
He expected the silence that followed and the way Eames' lips pressed visibly into a firm line. He expected said silence to be unbearable, with his heart pounding with anticipation and his eyes nearly burning because he refused to blink, refused to look away from Eames', refused to give Eames any room to escape him. Because he needed to know. He needed to know.
He had the right to know.
Though he wasn't sure a boyfriend would deter him entirely.
"I don't," Eames said quietly after that long moment.
Arthur almost made him confirm that the man he had fucked was just some random man. He was so close, with his mouth open and words at the ready, but he didn't. There were several reasons that would steer him from asking such a question, but none of them seemed to fit. He just didn't.
His next hand gave him the high card of a king.
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Eames was becoming increasingly difficult to figure out. He had shown up at Arthur's door a couple of times over the past several weeks on his own accord, every time with a justified excuse-"Monthly payment?", "Here's the Bad Company CD I promised to lend you" and even, to Arthur's immense delight, "Care for a fag?" But just as many times, Eames had gone out of his way to avoid Arthur's presence. Sometimes, if he did happen to run into Arthur, he'd only give a quick smile and wave before disappearing into his flat. When that happened, Arthur wasn't sure if he should feel angry or disappointed. With each time that happened, he contemplated giving up.
After all, Eames was probably at least ten years older than himself. Did he really stand a chance?
But just whenever he was close to calling it quits, Eames would smile at him again, knock on his door, or catch him for conversation in the hallway, reeling Arthur in like a fish with a hook through his mouth.
Then there was one night-it was always night, wasn't it?-where Arthur, while scrubbing his pan from making macaroni and cheese, caught a glimpse out of his kitchen window of a shadow in the courtyard. The figure was lounging on a brick ledge lining the patios of the bottom apartments and Arthur would recognize those broad shoulders in any lighting.
The last time Eames had seen him, he had been asking to borrow one of Arthur's Queen DVDs, so Arthur figured why not.
He pulled on his light jacket and slipped out of his apartment, down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The night was cooler than it looked, the autumn air crisp against his skin. The moon was high and cast long shadows across the brick of the apartment building and the grass of the yard. He stepped into the tip of Eames' long shadow and if the man noticed his presence, he didn't acknowledge it.
Arthur waited a long moment before he slowly, quietly moved closer, until he was standing right behind the brick ledge that Eames was perched upon. He was beside Eames and he could tell, just from the way Eames was sitting-shoulders hunched forward, one leg folded atop the ledge and the other dangling off-and the way his lips were pressed firmly around his cigarette, that something was wrong.
"Hey," Arthur tried quietly, watching Eames from the corner of his eye. He leaned on his hands against the brick.
"Hey," was the short response and Eames didn't look at him. The outline of his forehead, his nose, his lips were highlighted by the moon and shadows fell low on his cheekbones with the glow of his cigarette. His eyes were black beneath the shadows of his long lashes. Smoke danced before his face and sometimes, when the cool breeze touched it just right, smoke would pass across his jaw line, graying his pale skin.
Arthur swallowed, thinking to himself that Eames was honest to god beautiful.
Eames still didn't look at him but he plucked the box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered one to Arthur. A smile twitched in the corner of Arthur's lips as he took a stick and perched it between his lips as Eames withdrew his lighter.
"You're going to get me arrested," Eames mumbled, holding a flame to the tip of Arthur's cigarette. His voice and face were humorless, though Arthur chuckled quietly as he took a drag.
His words came out on smoke. "I didn't ask for a cigarette this time."
Eames didn't respond. He didn't smile. He just pocketed his lighter and resumed his place on the ledge. Arthur didn't press and looked up towards the violet sky, knowing that if Eames wanted to tell him, he would.
That mindset lasted for about a minute. He grew fidgety in the silence, taking quick drags from the cigarette and he shifted the position of his legs over and over again. He wanted to know what was going on in Eames' head, what was going on in his life, what he could do to help, what he could do in general. He wanted to be a part of Eames' life, he had ever since he met him, and this sort of rejection, with Eames keeping information from him, made his stomach ache.
Finally, "I didn't mean about the cigarettes."
The words were spoken after a five minute silence so Arthur wasn't sure what to make of them. He glanced at Eames from the corner of his eye. "Didn't mean what?"
Eames finally plucked the cigarette from his mouth and let his lips drift open slowly, the smoke drawling out between them. There was another long moment before he spoke. "I meant, cigarettes are not the reason you will get me put away." He looked at Arthur just then, the moonlighting just right so that the clear color of his grey-green eyes seemed to shine in his irises.
The realization fell like lead in Arthur's veins. His organs dropped to his feet and he nearly fell with them, understanding just then what Eames was getting at and he was sure that the sound of his thumping heart wasn't audible to only him. The night was no longer cool, it was hot, too hot and it made him shake, made his ears burn and made him speechless.
Had his mind not been stunned into a void in that moment, he would have thought, Yes.
"Don't think I don't notice," Eames continued after a moment, his voice hoarse with how quiet it was. "I know what you want, Arthur. I know what you're after, but you have to realize just how… Just how." Eames let out a frustrated breath then and turned his head back to the side as he ran his fingers through his hair. A couple of strands fell around his temple in the aftermath.
Arthur found his voice after a long moment, and it scratched against his dry throat when he spoke because he was so close now. "You know what I want. But what do you want?"
A grin curled the corner of Eames' lips then and it looked bitter in the pale lighting. He shook his head faintly and turned his head just enough to eye Arthur, his eyes back to black beneath his lashes. "You're mad," he spoke huskily, cigarette bouncing with his lips' movements.
Arthur smiled very subtly and glanced down momentarily at the brick surface beneath them. When he looked up again at the moon, he could see the cracks of veins pulsing in time with his stomping heart and he inhaled before plucking the cigarette from his lips. "Just a question," he breathed quietly. He watched the tip of Eames' cigarette slowly burn down and he was pleased when he noticed Eames watching him carefully.
He wondered if he looked older with smoke wandering from his lips. He wondered if he looked more acceptable to fuck.
Eames finally moved. He twisted his body back towards the apartments and drew his gaze away from Arthur as he slipped off of the ledge and sauntered back into his apartment through the patio door. He didn't close the glass door behind him, though he didn't look back as he disappeared from Arthur's line of sight.
Arthur barely took a moment to think before he followed, his legs a bit shaky beneath him.
"Close the door and draw the blinds." Eames' voice came from the direction of the living room but Arthur didn't look for him before he immediately did as he was told. The flat of his palm began to sweat once he turned from the door and towards the living room and, sure enough, Eames was sitting on the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. The cigarette was still between his lips and his head was tilted just enough to watch Arthur, who just stared at him for a long moment before carefully stepping forward. He sat beside Eames, leaving a small space between their bodies and he knew where he wanted this to go, where he hoped this would go, but he honestly had no idea where it was actually going.
The television was on before them, producing a low chatter, but Arthur barely noticed, especially as Eames murmured, "What do I want, you ask…" There was a pause and Arthur saw something in Eames' eyes flash, something that made his lungs constrict. Then Eames was reaching up, touching the skin of his jaw and his hands were surprisingly soft, the pads of his fingertips smooth and without calluses. When Eames spoke once more, his voice was barely there and more translucent than the smoke swirling from the end of his cigarette, "Well."
He plucked the cigarette from his lips with his free hand and Arthur did the same, his lengthy fingers shaking. He nearly dropped the joint when Eames leaned in and pieced those full, wonderful lips within his own.
Kissing Eames was everything he hoped it would be. It was nice, made his body cave towards the man, but also bitter with the sharp taste of smoke upon his lips. And then it was hot. Eames tilted his head and took Arthur's lips with a more demanding tone, his own pressing and pulling greedily and Arthur moaned. His head began to spin and he nearly dropped the cigarette as his free hand reached up and curled tightly around Eames' wrist. He kissed back with equal fervor though he was shaking and, in that moment, he wanted anything of Eames, anything, anything he was allowed to have and certainly everything that he wasn't. Eames' tongue licked its way into his mouth and his skin tingled beneath his clothing; he wanted to strip off his jacket-
And Eames pulled away slowly. Their breathing was hot and shallow in the gap between their lips.
When Eames spoke again, his voice was rushed, breathless and the weakest Arthur had ever heard it, "I want that, Arthur, I want that, and I want more-"
"Then do it," Arthur whispered in return, his nerves wired and crying out for more contact. He hated the way Eames shook his head and gave a humorless laugh.
"No," he whispered and then was gone, further away from Arthur. His cheeks were flushed a beautiful color, his lips seemed fuller than usual. "No, you don't understand, I can't. I'm twenty-seven and I shouldn't even have done that-"
"It's okay-"
"No," Eames said again, this time a bit more desperately as if trying to convince himself. "No, it's not, Arthur, you don't understand."
There was a silence in which neither of them knew what to do except take a couple more drags of their cigarettes. The hot smoke burned Arthur's throat more than usual because he was still so breathless.
"Good night, Arthur," Eames whispered quietly after that long moment.
And Arthur wanted to protest. Eames wasn't even looking at him now and he wanted to curl his fingers in the collar of the man's shirt, yank him close and demand that this wasn't over before kissing him hard all over again. But he didn't; he couldn't. He knew he couldn't and he knew he should have been grateful for what he did get and he was, but he wasn't. He was hungry, greedy and in a desperate lust for more of Eames.
His legs were trembling even more beneath him as he slowly stood. He pretended not to see the relief that fell across Eames' shoulders as he breathed shakily, "Good night, Eames."
Arthur put the cigarette out in the ashtray and left.
That night, he came twice. Once with the thought of Eames' lips demanding against his and once with the thought of Eames' lips wrapped around his cock.
He hoped more than anything that, below him, Eames heard the shaking moan that dripped from his lips as he did so.
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Arthur didn't see Eames for a couple of days after that and it was an understatement to say it was maddening. He understood, of course he did-he was over ten years younger that Eames, so of course that posed both a moral and legal problem. But the thing about legality was that it was only illegal if one was caught. And the thing about morality was that, under circumstances, there were exceptions.
For example: a twenty-seven year old fucking a sixteen year old. Questionable. Very questionable, frowned upon, morally wrong, etc.
But a twenty-seven year old fucking a sixteen year old who was close to seventeen and who wanted more than anything to be fucked by said twenty-seven year old? That just brought things back up to questionable and could slide.
It was this sort of thinking that forced Arthur to hold onto the situation. He told himself over and over that this was a problem that could be worked out because they both wanted this. They both wanted each other. And, of course, he wasn't going to tell anyone who would turn Eames over to the police. Why would he? If that kiss was anything to go by, Eames would be the best fuck on the planet. Why would he want to get his favorite fuck locked away?
The fact that Eames would be his first and only fuck was information that Arthur was debating keeping to himself forever.
Ariadne was also a factor that forced Arthur to hold onto the situation.
'You cant give up. He kissed you for gods sake'. Arthur's eyes scanned over her text, drawing his attention away from some shitty movie that he had turned on. He may or may not have heard it playing through Eames' vents. No, he wasn't a creeper-well, not right now-Eames just turned up his television really loudly.
'I'm not. But it's a hard to do anything if he won't even acknowledge that I exist.'
'what happened to making it so he COULDNT ignore you?'
Arthur heard the television downstairs de-sync from his own. He eventually sighed and grabbed the remote with his free hand, clicking it off all together.
'What part of he won't look at me do you not understand?'
Ariadne's responses were quick, as if she was waiting eagerly by her phone for Arthur's replies. He somehow doubted that was far from the truth. 'he doesnt have to LOOK at you. try being creative for once'.
He heard the channel change on Eames' television once, twice, three times. And then his heart leapt, his hands began to shake around his cell phone, he swore that he loved Ariadne more than Freddie Mercury and he had an idea.
Part Two