Fic: Dick in a Box (Arthur/Eames)
Title: Dick in a Box
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Summary: SNL's 'Dick in a Box', 'Jizz in My Pants', and 'I Threw It On the Ground' inspired three Arthur/Eames drabbles.
Warning: The ridiculousness meter ratcheted up by six billion notches when I wrote this. Beware.
Disclaimer: Yes, because someone WOULD mistake this for a Nolan work. Yes. Indeed.
>Jizz in My Pants<
Waiting is hard.
Eames has anticipated this for years. What Arthur’s face might look like as he touches him, slowly brushes his fingers over the pulse point in his throat, holds him and fucks him until he moans.…
And finally, finally, this is it.
He listens to Arthur’s helpless groans as he pins him against the door of the apartment. Stroking one hand down Arthur’s back, Eames cradles his head with the other. How entrancing Arthur is like this, brown eyes fluttering open and shut, hair wildly tousled, body spasming …
Body spasming?
Eames looks down. The front of Arthur’s trousers is drenched. Sodden. Soaked.
Eames gawks. ‘But, darling, I didn’t even - ‘
‘Yes, you did!’ Arthur shrieks. ‘You patted my ass! Don’t ever do that again!’ Hectic color dances in his cheeks. He’s panting. Eames would jump him this instant if he wasn’t quite so mystified.
‘What do you mean, don’t do that again?’ he demands once he recovers speech. ‘Normal people don’t come in their pants when someone touches their ass!’
‘I’m very sensitive there, alright?’ Arthur mutters, steadily avoiding eye contact. He says it so softly that Eames has to strain to hear him. ‘It was an enormous problem in high school and it would be great if you signed a confidentiality agreement effective immediately- ’
‘A conf - oh, Arthur.’ Outrage and hilarity war in Eames’ brain but he can’t stop the tide of merriment swelling up inside him so he doesn’t.
Arthur stands with a martyred expression during the course of Eames’ hysterical laughter- which, Arthur later informs him, lasts twenty three minutes and five seconds by his watch - before Eames gathers him into a warm, if slightly damp, embrace.
‘You can prepare the agreement tomorrow, love,’ Eames murmurs against Arthur’s ear. ‘But I think you’ve got some making up to do at present, yeah?’
Arthur hums assent, and if his eyes hold relief it’s just a trick of the light.
>Dick in a Box<
‘The night before Christmas, and hearts are a flutter!’ booms the radio jockey. ‘Will Santa be able to tell you’ve been naughty?’
Eames chuckles. He’s tying a big red bow to his present for Arthur. Arthur, who is loyal and hardworking and the essence of every virtue, deserves something special, after all. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Eames meditated considerably on what would serve as a fit token of appreciation. He finally decided on a three step process.
One: Cut a hole in the box….
Two hours later, the clock has chimed six, and it’s Christmas morning.
Eames holds his breath and steals upstairs. Arthur’s asleep on the bed. Very carefully crawling on top of him so as not to damage his present, Eames opens his mouth and bellows into his ear.
‘Merry Christmas, darling!’
Arthur’s eyes fly open. ‘What - Eames, what fricking time is it, do you have any idea - ‘
‘I got you a present!’ Eames proclaims proudly, jutting forward so the box lolls to and fro in front of Arthur. ‘It’s my dick in a box!’
Phillipa nicknames Eames ‘The Pirate’ after he comes to Christmas dinner with the Cobbs with an eye patch.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, he’s still sleeping on the couch, muttering darkly about people with no sense of humor.
>I Threw It on the Ground<
When Arthur is in a bad mood, he’s mean. Mean to everyone. That includes old ladies, little girls, and babies (he once informed a two month old that he had the face of a hippo). And, of course, Eames serves as his favorite punching bag.
But ever since that time Eames burned five of Arthur’s suits as payback for making cruel comments about his spelling, Arthur controls his bad moods a little better. Which doesn’t mean they don’t strike at inconvenient times for unfathomable reasons.
Today, Eames can see he’s simmering. They’re at the birthday party of their neighbor’s six year old son, and Arthur’s inexplicably hot under the collar. He keeps glowering at the balloons and the tinsel, and when Eames nudges him and says, ‘What’s wrong?’ Arthur swivels his head so fast it looks like his neck will snap.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘By the way, I spoke to my mother today. She hung up after thirty seconds. Have you seen photos of the wonderful birthday parties she threw for me when I was a kid?’
Eames’ pet theory is that Arthur dismissed infancy in favor of emerging from his mother’s womb as a grown man in a suit. But perhaps this isn’t the time to mention it.
‘Of course you haven’t,’ Arthur continues, ignoring his silence. ‘Because they never happened, goddamit! My mother scheduled dentist appointments on my birthdays!’
‘That’s terrible, darling,’ Eames says, patting Arthur’s hand in what he hopes is a suitably comforting gesture. I wonder if I can lick the icing off that cake without anybody noticing.
‘I could kill that woman if I put my mind to it, really - ‘
‘Mr. Arder?’
Arthur and Eames look down at the source of the interruption, Arthur frowning and Eames smiling kindly. It’s a little boy, holding the gigantic Peter Pan cake Eames has been lusting after the entire evening.
‘Would you like a piece of cake, Mr. Arder?’
Eames isn’t sure if it’s because of the mispronunciation of his name or the blackness of his mood, but Arthur’s frown deepens until it’s an all out scowl.
He gazes at the cake steadily for a minute, the veins in his neck throbbing, and then something terrible happens.
He loosens his tie.
Eames has lost count of the many awful events that occur after Arthur loosens his tie. They range from bombings to shootings to just plain flailing, but are almost always destructive to the universe in general.
He reaches out to grasp Arthur’s arm and prevent whatever wreckage of human happiness Arthur plans to cause, but it’s too late.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE GROUND!’ Arthur screams, and flings the entire cake on the floor.
It’s midnight when Eames finishes apologizing on Arthur’s behalf to their neighbor, and two a.m. when he manages to haul him off the floor from where he’s curled up in a sulk.
It’s not easy having Arthur for a boyfriend.
*****
A/N: You should definitely, in the interests of humanity, check out SNL's vids if you haven't already. They are much more awesome than any fic I can churn out, and the links to them are:
Jizz in My Pants: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLnWf1sQkjY&ob=av3e
I Threw It On the Ground: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAYL5H46QnQ
Dick in a Box: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Summary: SNL's 'Dick in a Box', 'Jizz in My Pants', and 'I Threw It On the Ground' inspired three Arthur/Eames drabbles.
Warning: The ridiculousness meter ratcheted up by six billion notches when I wrote this. Beware.
Disclaimer: Yes, because someone WOULD mistake this for a Nolan work. Yes. Indeed.
>Jizz in My Pants<
Waiting is hard.
Eames has anticipated this for years. What Arthur’s face might look like as he touches him, slowly brushes his fingers over the pulse point in his throat, holds him and fucks him until he moans.…
And finally, finally, this is it.
He listens to Arthur’s helpless groans as he pins him against the door of the apartment. Stroking one hand down Arthur’s back, Eames cradles his head with the other. How entrancing Arthur is like this, brown eyes fluttering open and shut, hair wildly tousled, body spasming …
Body spasming?
Eames looks down. The front of Arthur’s trousers is drenched. Sodden. Soaked.
Eames gawks. ‘But, darling, I didn’t even - ‘
‘Yes, you did!’ Arthur shrieks. ‘You patted my ass! Don’t ever do that again!’ Hectic color dances in his cheeks. He’s panting. Eames would jump him this instant if he wasn’t quite so mystified.
‘What do you mean, don’t do that again?’ he demands once he recovers speech. ‘Normal people don’t come in their pants when someone touches their ass!’
‘I’m very sensitive there, alright?’ Arthur mutters, steadily avoiding eye contact. He says it so softly that Eames has to strain to hear him. ‘It was an enormous problem in high school and it would be great if you signed a confidentiality agreement effective immediately- ’
‘A conf - oh, Arthur.’ Outrage and hilarity war in Eames’ brain but he can’t stop the tide of merriment swelling up inside him so he doesn’t.
Arthur stands with a martyred expression during the course of Eames’ hysterical laughter- which, Arthur later informs him, lasts twenty three minutes and five seconds by his watch - before Eames gathers him into a warm, if slightly damp, embrace.
‘You can prepare the agreement tomorrow, love,’ Eames murmurs against Arthur’s ear. ‘But I think you’ve got some making up to do at present, yeah?’
Arthur hums assent, and if his eyes hold relief it’s just a trick of the light.
>Dick in a Box<
‘The night before Christmas, and hearts are a flutter!’ booms the radio jockey. ‘Will Santa be able to tell you’ve been naughty?’
Eames chuckles. He’s tying a big red bow to his present for Arthur. Arthur, who is loyal and hardworking and the essence of every virtue, deserves something special, after all. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Eames meditated considerably on what would serve as a fit token of appreciation. He finally decided on a three step process.
One: Cut a hole in the box….
Two hours later, the clock has chimed six, and it’s Christmas morning.
Eames holds his breath and steals upstairs. Arthur’s asleep on the bed. Very carefully crawling on top of him so as not to damage his present, Eames opens his mouth and bellows into his ear.
‘Merry Christmas, darling!’
Arthur’s eyes fly open. ‘What - Eames, what fricking time is it, do you have any idea - ‘
‘I got you a present!’ Eames proclaims proudly, jutting forward so the box lolls to and fro in front of Arthur. ‘It’s my dick in a box!’
Phillipa nicknames Eames ‘The Pirate’ after he comes to Christmas dinner with the Cobbs with an eye patch.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, he’s still sleeping on the couch, muttering darkly about people with no sense of humor.
>I Threw It on the Ground<
When Arthur is in a bad mood, he’s mean. Mean to everyone. That includes old ladies, little girls, and babies (he once informed a two month old that he had the face of a hippo). And, of course, Eames serves as his favorite punching bag.
But ever since that time Eames burned five of Arthur’s suits as payback for making cruel comments about his spelling, Arthur controls his bad moods a little better. Which doesn’t mean they don’t strike at inconvenient times for unfathomable reasons.
Today, Eames can see he’s simmering. They’re at the birthday party of their neighbor’s six year old son, and Arthur’s inexplicably hot under the collar. He keeps glowering at the balloons and the tinsel, and when Eames nudges him and says, ‘What’s wrong?’ Arthur swivels his head so fast it looks like his neck will snap.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘By the way, I spoke to my mother today. She hung up after thirty seconds. Have you seen photos of the wonderful birthday parties she threw for me when I was a kid?’
Eames’ pet theory is that Arthur dismissed infancy in favor of emerging from his mother’s womb as a grown man in a suit. But perhaps this isn’t the time to mention it.
‘Of course you haven’t,’ Arthur continues, ignoring his silence. ‘Because they never happened, goddamit! My mother scheduled dentist appointments on my birthdays!’
‘That’s terrible, darling,’ Eames says, patting Arthur’s hand in what he hopes is a suitably comforting gesture. I wonder if I can lick the icing off that cake without anybody noticing.
‘I could kill that woman if I put my mind to it, really - ‘
‘Mr. Arder?’
Arthur and Eames look down at the source of the interruption, Arthur frowning and Eames smiling kindly. It’s a little boy, holding the gigantic Peter Pan cake Eames has been lusting after the entire evening.
‘Would you like a piece of cake, Mr. Arder?’
Eames isn’t sure if it’s because of the mispronunciation of his name or the blackness of his mood, but Arthur’s frown deepens until it’s an all out scowl.
He gazes at the cake steadily for a minute, the veins in his neck throbbing, and then something terrible happens.
He loosens his tie.
Eames has lost count of the many awful events that occur after Arthur loosens his tie. They range from bombings to shootings to just plain flailing, but are almost always destructive to the universe in general.
He reaches out to grasp Arthur’s arm and prevent whatever wreckage of human happiness Arthur plans to cause, but it’s too late.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE GROUND!’ Arthur screams, and flings the entire cake on the floor.
It’s midnight when Eames finishes apologizing on Arthur’s behalf to their neighbor, and two a.m. when he manages to haul him off the floor from where he’s curled up in a sulk.
It’s not easy having Arthur for a boyfriend.
*****
A/N: You should definitely, in the interests of humanity, check out SNL's vids if you haven't already. They are much more awesome than any fic I can churn out, and the links to them are:
Jizz in My Pants: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLnWf1sQkjY&ob=av3e
I Threw It On the Ground: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAYL5H46QnQ
Dick in a Box: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg