Fic: Trashy Novel Heroes (Arthur/Eames)
Title: Trashy Novel Heroes
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (could it be anything else I ASK YOU)
Rating: NC 17
Disclaimer: These beautiful men don't belong to me.
Summary: Arthur with one sock off and Eames suckling his finger. Based on an art prompt over at inception_kink. It's a lovely, surreal painting.
The need.
The need, the need terrifies Eames. Getting attached is a phrase that haunts him in his nightmares. He's gone through more lovers than he can count; he loves 'em and leaves 'em with cheery amiability. Usually the parting is without hard feelings; despite all his bravado, Eames doesn't like hurting people. He makes sure to lay out the conditions beforehand: sex, a brief morning after, and then an amicable farewell. Going about it in such a straightforward fashion often leaves Eames with a slammed door or a slap in the face, but Arthur, Arthur...when Eames told him a tad nervously that he wasn't looking for anything serious, Arthur just grinned, said 'You and me both,' and proceeded to divest Eames of his clothing in a swift and efficient manner that was entirely unsurprising.
It was fun at first, something to look forward to when Eames got off work. He'd call Arthur, maybe, invite him over for 'a cup of coffee' and make the point man laugh dryly over the phone lines with the pathetic euphemism. Then Eames would open the door to him, watch Arthur's serious mouth quirk to the side and draw closer to him until Eames couldn't breathe any longer and didn't feel the need to do so.
But now...it's something else.
There's something else in the way Eames tugs off Arthur's clothing tonight, every last bit of it, as though Arthur's bare skin is oxygen. He yanks him out of his suit and flings the tie on the pillow and ignores Arthur's surprise. When Eames gets to his feet he conscientiously pulls off the first sock but then it's too much, he can't endure not touching for one second longer and the second sock stays, snug, around Arthur's ankles. Arthur reaches down to pull it off but Eames cuts off the motion by straddling him.
Arthur lays still, and Eames can sense the point man's wariness. He can't have suspicion stealing into his Arthur's eyes, now can he, and he bends his head to Arthur's forehead instantly. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers, broken. 'I just...I need this. You. You - ' You overwhelm me, he wants to say, but of course he won't because he would die if Arthur mocked him right now and of course he deserves to be mocked, only heroes of trashy novels talk like that.
Arthur smiles slightly, and when he looks up at Eames it's without anger.
'Touch me,' he says succinctly, laughter in his eyes. Arthur so very rarely laughs, and when he does it's like a gift. Eames closes his eyes briefly; this is too much, he can't let this go on, he shouldn't, but getting off this bed and away from this man is not something Eames thinks he's even capable of.
He strokes Arthur's arm to calm himself, finding comfort in the smooth, familiar skin. Arthur is his map, and Eames could live by charting him. One finger of Arthur's right hand is splayed a little apart from the others, and Eames lowers his head and takes it into his mouth. It's little and warm against his tongue, and god is Eames in over his head.
Arthur's eyes are shut. His legs are wrapped around Eames, his left arm has unconsciously reached out to cradle Eames' head, and Eames allows himself to consider for just a minute that perhaps, perhaps, Arthur doesn't just want this - he needs this just as much as Eames does. Miracles exist, don't they? Occasionally, inexplicably?
Eames pins one arm on the bed, rooting himself, and grasps Arthur's cock with the other. He strokes slowly, abandoning his previous haste, simply to revel in the sight of Arthur writhing beneath him. Every time Arthur strains upward towards Eames it's a gift, and every time Eames strokes it's a prayer.
He doesn't let go of Arthur's finger, not once.
When Arthur comes it's with a quiet little ruined moan, and Eames feels a fierce exultation. He holds him and gentles his trembling body with a tenderness that comes easily, even though he's never felt it before. He rubs Arthur's stomach, which is splattered with come, and caresses his neck and kisses his forehead and does all manner of things that he's never done before for fear Arthur would laugh.
But Arthur doesn't laugh. Arthur shuts his eyes and puts his arms around him and murmurs something that sounds incredibly like three words a hero of a trashy novel would say. Eames almost jumps out of his skin.
So miracles do exist, after all. He has tangible proof, splayed out and naked beneath him.
-finis-
P.S. If you'd like to see the artwork, it's here by Sin_Repent: http://i051.radikal.ru/1102/91/857876b7aee4.jpg
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (could it be anything else I ASK YOU)
Rating: NC 17
Disclaimer: These beautiful men don't belong to me.
Summary: Arthur with one sock off and Eames suckling his finger. Based on an art prompt over at inception_kink. It's a lovely, surreal painting.
The need.
The need, the need terrifies Eames. Getting attached is a phrase that haunts him in his nightmares. He's gone through more lovers than he can count; he loves 'em and leaves 'em with cheery amiability. Usually the parting is without hard feelings; despite all his bravado, Eames doesn't like hurting people. He makes sure to lay out the conditions beforehand: sex, a brief morning after, and then an amicable farewell. Going about it in such a straightforward fashion often leaves Eames with a slammed door or a slap in the face, but Arthur, Arthur...when Eames told him a tad nervously that he wasn't looking for anything serious, Arthur just grinned, said 'You and me both,' and proceeded to divest Eames of his clothing in a swift and efficient manner that was entirely unsurprising.
It was fun at first, something to look forward to when Eames got off work. He'd call Arthur, maybe, invite him over for 'a cup of coffee' and make the point man laugh dryly over the phone lines with the pathetic euphemism. Then Eames would open the door to him, watch Arthur's serious mouth quirk to the side and draw closer to him until Eames couldn't breathe any longer and didn't feel the need to do so.
But now...it's something else.
There's something else in the way Eames tugs off Arthur's clothing tonight, every last bit of it, as though Arthur's bare skin is oxygen. He yanks him out of his suit and flings the tie on the pillow and ignores Arthur's surprise. When Eames gets to his feet he conscientiously pulls off the first sock but then it's too much, he can't endure not touching for one second longer and the second sock stays, snug, around Arthur's ankles. Arthur reaches down to pull it off but Eames cuts off the motion by straddling him.
Arthur lays still, and Eames can sense the point man's wariness. He can't have suspicion stealing into his Arthur's eyes, now can he, and he bends his head to Arthur's forehead instantly. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers, broken. 'I just...I need this. You. You - ' You overwhelm me, he wants to say, but of course he won't because he would die if Arthur mocked him right now and of course he deserves to be mocked, only heroes of trashy novels talk like that.
Arthur smiles slightly, and when he looks up at Eames it's without anger.
'Touch me,' he says succinctly, laughter in his eyes. Arthur so very rarely laughs, and when he does it's like a gift. Eames closes his eyes briefly; this is too much, he can't let this go on, he shouldn't, but getting off this bed and away from this man is not something Eames thinks he's even capable of.
He strokes Arthur's arm to calm himself, finding comfort in the smooth, familiar skin. Arthur is his map, and Eames could live by charting him. One finger of Arthur's right hand is splayed a little apart from the others, and Eames lowers his head and takes it into his mouth. It's little and warm against his tongue, and god is Eames in over his head.
Arthur's eyes are shut. His legs are wrapped around Eames, his left arm has unconsciously reached out to cradle Eames' head, and Eames allows himself to consider for just a minute that perhaps, perhaps, Arthur doesn't just want this - he needs this just as much as Eames does. Miracles exist, don't they? Occasionally, inexplicably?
Eames pins one arm on the bed, rooting himself, and grasps Arthur's cock with the other. He strokes slowly, abandoning his previous haste, simply to revel in the sight of Arthur writhing beneath him. Every time Arthur strains upward towards Eames it's a gift, and every time Eames strokes it's a prayer.
He doesn't let go of Arthur's finger, not once.
When Arthur comes it's with a quiet little ruined moan, and Eames feels a fierce exultation. He holds him and gentles his trembling body with a tenderness that comes easily, even though he's never felt it before. He rubs Arthur's stomach, which is splattered with come, and caresses his neck and kisses his forehead and does all manner of things that he's never done before for fear Arthur would laugh.
But Arthur doesn't laugh. Arthur shuts his eyes and puts his arms around him and murmurs something that sounds incredibly like three words a hero of a trashy novel would say. Eames almost jumps out of his skin.
So miracles do exist, after all. He has tangible proof, splayed out and naked beneath him.
-finis-
P.S. If you'd like to see the artwork, it's here by Sin_Repent: http://i051.radikal.ru/1102/91/857876b7aee4.jpg
