Fic: The Sky that I Fell Through
Title: The Sky that I Fell Through
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames, (Mal / Cobb)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: He opens his mouth to yell at Mal for her antics, to apologize to the guy he’s currently pressed against, to curse at the absolute absurdity of his life, when he realizes he’s practically holding the man from the park bench.
Written for this prompt on inception_kink
inspiration: ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WePNLxbQ9B4 )
A/N: Holy crap. What is this, I don’t even know. Inception porn. Based off Disney’s animated 101 Dalmatians. WTF?
+
Eames honestly has no idea what time it is when Mal nudges his elbow and he blinks and comes back to reality. He's been possessed of an idea for the past several days, spending much more time than is really healthy trying to get it all out on paper, and Mal, his beautiful, two year old Dalmatian, has been growing more and more fed up with him. In fact, she's now sitting on the carpet next to his easel, fairly glaring at him in annoyance, her leash lying in a neat pile in front of her.
He stretches, feeling several vertebrae in his spine realign with audible cracks, and scrubs a hand through his hair, groaning through the stretch. A yawn barrels up on him out of nowhere and he squints around it, trying to read the clock on the mantle.
"Bloody hell!" he yelps, nearly falling out of his chair. "How the hell-- I'm sorry, Mal, darling, honestly, I have no idea where the time's gone, is it really quarter of six?" he babbles out in a rush, launching out of his chair and over to the coat tree by the door. He shoves his arms into a jacket, looking frantically around the room for Mal's leash before realizing she's already gotten it for him.
It wouldn't normally be a problem, him forgetting the time or Mal's walk, but it's been since six that morning that he took her outside, too caught up in his inspiration to remember even feed himself, let alone take care of his dog. Luckily, she's surprisingly well-behaved, considering the lack of initiative he took in training her -- she refuses to soil her living space in any way and generally just takes her annoyance or frustration with his absent-mindedness out by being, by turns, aloof and clingy -- and always at the wrong moments.
They jog down the darkened stairwell together, Mal's claws clicking in delicate counterpoint to Eames' slightly thudding tread. He takes a second to run a fond hand over her warm head, then opens the front door and steps out into the chilly London twilight.
"Well," he says, shivering in the cool air. There's a threat of snow in the air, he can taste it, but the cold is invigorating, especially after spending the day hunched over his easel. "To the park, then, darling?" he asks, looking down at Mal's sleek, spotted head.
She lifts her nose and sniffs delicately at the air and then turns in the direction of the park on her own, Eames following dutifully behind.
+
It's getting colder, Arthur realizes, as the sun dips closer to the horizon. He squints at the page of his book, the deepening shadows making it harder to read. Arthur sighs and turns the page, tucking his nose into the raised collar of his coat to try and fend off the cold. At his feet, Dom lifts his head and glances a question at his owner, deep brown eyes conveying endless skepticism at Arthur's choice to remain on the park bench.
"It's nice out here, isn't it?" Arthur asks, muffled slightly through his coat and scarf. Dom snorts a breath through his nose and lowers his head again, one black-and-white spotted ear swiveling around to catch Arthur's low chuckle. "You're right, it's cold and it’s getting dark, but I've been behind a desk so much recently and the fresh air is nice."
Dom sighs, but lets Arthur get back to his book.
Three pages later, Dom abruptly rises out of his comfortable sprawl, sitting up on his haunches and leaning forward and around Arthur’s knees. Frowning slightly, Arthur lifts his eyes from his book in time to see a tallish man in an old olive-green peacoat walk past, a gorgeous Dalmatian about Dom’s age a step or two ahead of him. They make a striking pair, the way they’re so in tune with each other, and Arthur spends a moment or two just watching them over the top of his book. Dom whines a little when the pair fold themselves down on the ground to stare out across the pond and Arthur turns an amused look on his dog.
“Nice, huh?” he comments and Dom cuts him a glare out of the corner of his eye. Arthur smirks and turns a page in his book.
+
Eames finds himself watching the guy on the bench almost as much as the pond. It’s not entirely unusual -- he’s a people-watcher by nature and the people he sees on the streets tend to appear later in his work. This man, though... There’s something different about him, something noteworthy in an almost understated way, that draws Eames’ attention. And all he’s doing is reading a book. Dressed to the nines in a beautiful suit, shined shoes, and overcoat. With a Dalmatian settled at his feet.
Yeah, it’s not too hard to see what’s got Eames so focused.
Mal seems just as preoccupied, though, staring over her shoulder, her body one smooth arc. Eames smiles and runs a hand down her side, scritching his fingers through the softer fur at her ruff as he goes. She swipes her tongue briefly over his hand in acknowledgement, but doesn’t turn away, intent on watching the Dalmatian across the way.
“See something you like, m’lady?” he leans over to breathe against her ear, chuckling lowly as the appendage twitches against his lips and she leans her head against his face. He rubs her side again, presses a kiss to her cheekbone, and turns back to the pond.
Twenty minutes later, he decides it’s too bloody cold to be sitting on the ground staring aimlessly at a lifeless pond. Groaning at the cold-weather ache in his knees, he rises to his feet, brushing wrinkles and dry grass from his pants as he leans down to reattach Mal’s leash. She flashes a disdainful look up at him and huffs a wheezing breath through her nose but follows willingly enough as Eames decides to take a quick turn around the pond before heading back to the apartment.
He doesn’t look at the man on the bench as he passes. Nope, definitely not.
They’re just at the edge of the pond when Mal stops and turns back the opposite direction, jerking the leash until Eames is forced to turn around. He stumbles and nearly falls into the man behind him, only managing to right himself by planting a hand on the guy’s shoulder. He opens his mouth to yell at Mal for her antics, to apologize to the guy he’s currently pressed against, to curse at the absolute absurdity of his life, when he realizes he’s practically holding the man from the park bench. He’s leaning away a little, meaning to excuse Mal or introduce himself, and that’s when the leash in his hand goes taut, Mal’s body presses tight against the back of his left knee, and his tenuous balance in such a position goes completely to shit.
The splash as they hit the surface of the pond is truly quite spectacular.
+
“Fuck!” Arthur shoots to the surface with a gasp, already shivering as he attempts to shake the water off himself. His hair’s dripping in his eyes, his suit’s ruined, and he’s ankle deep in pond-mud, feels it squish between his toes inside his shoes. Dom’s standing on the bank of the pond, a comical expression of surprise on his face -- eyebrows up, eyes alight, mouth open and tongue lolling. The regal Dalmatian from earlier is seated at Dom’s side, radiating smug satisfaction as she watches Arthur and her owner flounder around in the waist-deep water.
“Mallorie!” the man in the water with Arthur barks and Arthur turns to see his appearance is just as bad as Arthur’s, from the water-darkened hair trailing limply into his eyes to the sodden, visibly heavier wool peacoat sagging around his shoulders. He glares at his dog for a moment, letting the full force of his displeasure sink in, then happens to glance at Arthur out of the corner of his eye and his face goes slack in horror. “Oh, hell, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s got into her, here, let me--” He reaches out to pick a piece of water-weed off Arthur’s shoulder and flings it away, hands brushing at the lapels of Arthur’s coat, as if to wipe away the water’s destruction.
Arthur’s unaccountably amused by the whole thing, a smile starting to stretch across his face. By rights, he should be pissed that his new Zegna suit and favorite winter coat are almost certainly ruined, but the other man’s consternation is making the entire clichéd affair seem more hilarious than anything.
“It’s okay,” Arthur tries to say, lips twitching and jaw shuddering from the cold. The air burns where it finds uncovered skin and his face is going numb and, judging by the blue tint to the guy’s lips, Mallorie’s owner is experiencing the same.
“Christ, the fucking mud is everywhere,” he mumbles, digging into a pocket and producing a handkerchief, which is dripping and limp and obviously no use in this situation. Arthur bites his lip and says, “here, let me,” and digs into his own pocket. The handkerchief he pulls out, while slightly larger, is as wet and useless as the other. “Oh,” Mallorie’s owner says, staring at the wet scraps of fabric with an unreadable expression.
For a second they just stand there, waist deep in the frigid water, their dogs watching them from the bank. Then Arthur’s eyes flick up to meet the light gray-blue of the stranger’s and something clicks.
It starts with a chuckle, Arthur’s, stifled and snatched back as quickly as it breaks from his mouth. Then there’s a snort, the stranger’s, short and impulsive, and that sets them both off, a feedback loop of hilarity and mild hysteria that leaves them gasping for breath and leaning against each other.
“Oh, God,” the guy says, “I needed that.”
“What, a dunking in the filthy duck pond?” Arthur asks, grinning, as they start to make their way out of the water. It’s slow going, what with the mud in Arthur’s shoes, the completely sodden state of their clothing, and the chilly breeze kicking up. Arthur’s pretty sure his knees have gone completely numb and he’s so cold he’s stopped shivering.
“No,” is the vehement answer. “Fuck, it’s cold. No,” the guy turns to glance at him again, eyes speculative, “the laugh. I love my dog, but conversation isn’t one of Mal’s specialties.”
Arthur chuckles agreement and steps up onto the bank. Dom immediately shifts closer, leaning warm against Arthur’s calf, though he keeps his eyes on Mal, who sidles closer, nuzzling her head up under Dom’s jaw. Arthur watches the dogs with a raised eyebrow, then reaches to offer Mal’s owner a hand out of the pond. Despite the water still saturating their clothing and the brisk wind, the hand that wraps around Arthur’s is warm, square, firm, and lightly calloused, and Arthur automatically wraps his free hand around the guy’s upper arm as he stumbles coming out of the water. He pulls back a little, eyes wide as he stares into the blues opposite his own.
“We need to get out of these clothes,” Arthur thinks he says, but even the cold is taking a backseat to the mutual interest and attraction brewing between the two of them.
“Is that an offer?” They’re still standing close enough that the words fan hotly over Arthur’s mouth.
Despite the cold, his dripping clothes, the mud in his shoes, the dog leaning against his leg -- despite all that, there’s only one thing on Arthur’s mind, only one thing he can think to say:
“Yes.”
+
The stairwell up to his flat is pitch black now and the sounds of their footsteps -- human and canine -- echoes strangely off the floorboards, ringing in the darkness. Eames can hear his companion stumble once on the stairs, hears him hiss something, but doesn’t turn to help him -- the sooner he gets up to his door, the sooner he can shed some light on the situation. He jogs up the last few steps, Mal hovering eagerly behind him, and slots his key into the door, flinging it open as soon as the lock disengages.
“Thanks,” the dark-haired man mumbles, sliding past Eames into the flat, tugging his dog after him. Mal dashes in and slinks up to the stranger’s Dalmatian, blinking coyly at Eames as she tries to twine her neck with the other dog’s.
There’s an awkward moment, lasting through the removal of their soaked outer garments and shoes. Then Eames, still standing by the door to the flat, finds himself pressed against its sturdy wood, damp heat radiating from the lithe man plastering himself to Eames’ front. He has half a moment to think I don’t do things like this; I don’t even know his name before there are lips settled firmly over his mouth and thoughts about anything else fly right out of his head.
“God, I never do this,” floats into the air between them and Eames has no idea who said it.
“Okay, okay, wait, wait, wait.” He leans back as far as his position against the door will let him, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling as he tries to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. “Okay,” he says, sliding his tongue over his lips, tasting the other man. It makes his mouth water and he wants more, moremoremore, but he needs a name, can’t do this so impersonally. “Wh--ah!” Eames gasps, as firm hands start working on the buttons of his old button-down and that devilishly intuitive mouth starts nibbling down his neck. “What’s your name?”
“Arthur,” is breathed moist against his ear, seconds before teeth close on his earlobe. Eames’ back arches of its own volition, a gasp straining for freedom in his throat. He barely hears when Arthur asks his own question. “Yours?”
“Eames,” he pants desperately, fingers scrabbling at the cool buttons preventing him from putting his hands directly on Arthur’s skin. The fact that he can’t seem to keep his eyes open is making it more difficult to work the fastenings and, eventually, Arthur knocks his hands out of the way, nimble fingers slipping button after button free from its hole, until he can peel the wet fabric off his shoulders.
With both shirts gone, they press together skin-to-skin and the air turns steamy around them. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, cool fingertips tracing fire across Eames’ skin -- over his shoulders, down his arms, following the path of a tattoo over his heart. And Eames is grateful for the door at his back, supporting his weight, especially as he palms Arthur’s ass through his trousers and pulls him close. The resulting keen makes his stomach drop out and his body flare with heat.
In a quick move, Eames lunges forward and twists, pinning Arthur to the door. It drives a whimpering moan out his throat, his pupils blown wide and dark with lust, mouth open and wet in entreaty. And Eames can’t resist the invitation, dives back in with almost religious fervor, hands working Arthur’s belt open and off as he does his best to eke out every possible sound Arthur has in him.
“Eames,” Arthur pants, hands twining tight in Eames’ short hair. His hips jump as Eames fumbles open the button and zipper of his trousers.
“Can’t have you catching cold in these wet clothes.” He’s no idea where he found the composure necessary to utter the words, but it’s worth it for the absolutely wanton sag of Arthur’s limbs against the door as Eames works his hands into the remainder of Arthur’s clothing and peels it away with meticulous care.
In the hollow of Arthur’s left hipbone, there’s a tiny tattoo. It’s a red die, three-side up, Eames realizes, tracing it with his thumb. He know it’s his imagination, knows it’s sensory overload from all of the beautiful skin laid out for his consumption, but he thinks he can feel the burn of the cherry-red ink under his fingers and his mouth waters for the taste of it on his tongue.
“I was stupid,” Arthur gasps, when he realizes what has Eames so fixated. “Spring Break in college, senior year. Too many whiskey sours and not enough common sense,” he explains.
“And the dice?” Eames asks, dropping to his knees, damp denim blue jeans stretching cold and uncomfortable across his thighs. He curls his hands around Arthur’s hips and pushes, employing his greater breadth and strength to hold the slighter man in place against the door. He risks a quick glance up to see Arthur’s face, eyes wide and face flushed, color spilling down his chest, before leaning forward and taking him into his mouth.
“Hgh--” Arthur chokes, head slamming back against the door. Eames grins and sucks harder, cheeks hollowing, and Arthur’s entire body convulses. “Fuck,” Arthur curses, slapping one hand on the wood at his back, the other clawing into Eames’ hair. Eames pulls back, slurping lewdly as he goes, and smirks up at Arthur, drawing his hand down the length of him.
“The dice, Arthur,” he reminds, because he’s genuinely curious. Plus, he’s drawing wicked pleasure from the killing glare trying to form in Arthur’s glazed, dark eyes.
“Why the fuck not? I was drunk and in Vegas -- it fit,” he snaps, hand tightening in Eames’ hair, trying to pull him closer again. He’s gone all sharp and slightly dangerous, despite the hazy desire still fogging his eyes and his voice, and Eames is so intrigued by this man, wants to take his time, take him apart, learn what makes him tick. It’s unnerving, considering they’ve known each other maybe half an hour. “Eames,” Arthur whines and Eames blinks away his distraction and returns to the matter at hand, so to speak.
“Arthur,” he mocks, hands firm and knowing as they coast over Arthur’s skin, cataloguing what makes him jump and hiss, what pulls more of those delicious sounds out of his mouth, what leaves him sagging breathless against the door.
“I won’t beg, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Arthur growls, tugging on Eames’ shoulders until they’re skin-to-skin again. Eames smirks wickedly again, jeans uncomfortably tight at the look in Arthur’s eyes, and nips at Arthur’s bottom lip, sucking on it until Arthur squirms up against him, his knee stuttering over the damp denim covering Eames’ thighs. “Off,” Arthur commands, plucking fitfully at the fastenings.
It’s no easy thing, peeling himself out of his wet pants while almost painfully aroused. The button and zipper are easy to deal with, of course, and wriggling them down to mid-thigh isn’t a problem, but things get tricky after that. He tries just shoving them down (which doesn’t work) and pulling them off by the cuffs (ditto this). Eventually, after he overbalances and nearly falls on his ass with the damn jeans tangled around his legs, he (with Arthur’s help) works them down his legs inside out, braced with one hand on the door over Arthur’s head.
“Better?” he asks, mouth inches from Arthur’s. At this distance, he can see all of the flecks of color in Arthur’s eyes, dark as they are. It makes something clench in his chest and he doesn’t wait for Arthur to respond to his question to lean in for a kiss.
It’s slow and leisurely for the next little bit, just lazy kisses and hands trailing over skin. Arthur is more than a little fascinated with Eames’ tattoos, his fingers tracing their patterns repeatedly, and each stroke drives Eames a little further up the wall. Finally, just as he thinks he’s going to completely lose it, Arthur wraps his hands around both of their erections.
“Ngh, fuck, Arthur,” Eames groans. He sinks his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder, sucking hard as he relishes the jolt that jerks Arthur’s body against his. By the time he pulls back, there’s a gloriously dark mark forming on his collarbone and Arthur’s desperate against him.
“Eames, please,” he gasps, contrary to all earlier vows against begging. Eames smirks and adds his hands to Arthur’s, pushing their rhythm harder, faster, ‘til they’re both gasping.
Arthur nudges his face against Eames’ and they meet in a sloppy kiss, Eames biting down on Arthur's lower lip. That’s what sets him off -- his body abruptly bowing taut against Eames, hands clenching spastically, and his eyes flashing open, wide with something like surprise. And it’s that look, that vulnerable, almost heartbreaking look, that’s what sends Eames over the edge, Arthur’s name a bitten-off gasp caught deep in his throat.
+
They’re collapsed in a pile by the door when Arthur comes back to himself an indeterminate time later. Eames is slumped over Arthur’s lap, his face pressed to Arthur’s neck.
“We should move,” Arthur says vaguely. He blinks and realizes he’s stroking a hand absently though Eames’ hair. He freezes, not knowing how such an affectionate gesture might be received. Eames, however, murmurs something unintelligible against Arthur’s neck and nuzzles up into Arthur’s hand, blinking hazy eyes at him. “Eames?”
“Yeah, bed, got it.”
It takes them a little bit to actually make it to the bed -- Eames turns and nearly trips over the shoes he’d kicked off earlier and Arthur insists on them cleaning themselves up, what with the pond-scum and other things clinging to their skin. Mal and Dom insinuate themselves into the situation as well, demanding food and attention and generally getting underfoot and annoying, though something about the cant of Dom’s ears tells Arthur he’s just following Mal’s lead. Eventually, though, they do collapse into Eames’ bed, the cool, fairly fresh-smelling sheets more than welcome against Arthur’s skin.
“For what it’s worth, Arthur,” Eames mumbles into the pillow smashed under his face (Arthur doesn’t find this adorable, really), “very nice to meet you, darling.” He squirms around until he frees his left hand from under his body and flops it in front of Arthur’s face, palm up. Blinking at it, Arthur figures out what he means and rolls his eyes, despite the smile he smothers into the pillow.
“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he says, sliding his hand into Eames’ and twining their fingers.
He falls asleep to the unfamiliar cadence of Eames’ breathing, their hands still clasped together.
+
Mal sighs and lays her head across her paws. Dom is curled against her side, taking up half her pillow, and his warm weight is a comfort. Normally, she’d be sprawled on Eames’ bed, graciously allowing her pet to spread himself across the larger portion of the bed but tonight, just like she does, he’s got someone else he’d rather spend the night with. She sighs again, feeling pleased at how her machinations turned out, and tilts her head off her paws until it’s pressed against Dom’s back.
/runs screaming, cowers
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames, (Mal / Cobb)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: He opens his mouth to yell at Mal for her antics, to apologize to the guy he’s currently pressed against, to curse at the absolute absurdity of his life, when he realizes he’s practically holding the man from the park bench.
Written for this prompt on inception_kink
inspiration: ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WePNLxbQ9B4 )
A/N: Holy crap. What is this, I don’t even know. Inception porn. Based off Disney’s animated 101 Dalmatians. WTF?
+
Eames honestly has no idea what time it is when Mal nudges his elbow and he blinks and comes back to reality. He's been possessed of an idea for the past several days, spending much more time than is really healthy trying to get it all out on paper, and Mal, his beautiful, two year old Dalmatian, has been growing more and more fed up with him. In fact, she's now sitting on the carpet next to his easel, fairly glaring at him in annoyance, her leash lying in a neat pile in front of her.
He stretches, feeling several vertebrae in his spine realign with audible cracks, and scrubs a hand through his hair, groaning through the stretch. A yawn barrels up on him out of nowhere and he squints around it, trying to read the clock on the mantle.
"Bloody hell!" he yelps, nearly falling out of his chair. "How the hell-- I'm sorry, Mal, darling, honestly, I have no idea where the time's gone, is it really quarter of six?" he babbles out in a rush, launching out of his chair and over to the coat tree by the door. He shoves his arms into a jacket, looking frantically around the room for Mal's leash before realizing she's already gotten it for him.
It wouldn't normally be a problem, him forgetting the time or Mal's walk, but it's been since six that morning that he took her outside, too caught up in his inspiration to remember even feed himself, let alone take care of his dog. Luckily, she's surprisingly well-behaved, considering the lack of initiative he took in training her -- she refuses to soil her living space in any way and generally just takes her annoyance or frustration with his absent-mindedness out by being, by turns, aloof and clingy -- and always at the wrong moments.
They jog down the darkened stairwell together, Mal's claws clicking in delicate counterpoint to Eames' slightly thudding tread. He takes a second to run a fond hand over her warm head, then opens the front door and steps out into the chilly London twilight.
"Well," he says, shivering in the cool air. There's a threat of snow in the air, he can taste it, but the cold is invigorating, especially after spending the day hunched over his easel. "To the park, then, darling?" he asks, looking down at Mal's sleek, spotted head.
She lifts her nose and sniffs delicately at the air and then turns in the direction of the park on her own, Eames following dutifully behind.
+
It's getting colder, Arthur realizes, as the sun dips closer to the horizon. He squints at the page of his book, the deepening shadows making it harder to read. Arthur sighs and turns the page, tucking his nose into the raised collar of his coat to try and fend off the cold. At his feet, Dom lifts his head and glances a question at his owner, deep brown eyes conveying endless skepticism at Arthur's choice to remain on the park bench.
"It's nice out here, isn't it?" Arthur asks, muffled slightly through his coat and scarf. Dom snorts a breath through his nose and lowers his head again, one black-and-white spotted ear swiveling around to catch Arthur's low chuckle. "You're right, it's cold and it’s getting dark, but I've been behind a desk so much recently and the fresh air is nice."
Dom sighs, but lets Arthur get back to his book.
Three pages later, Dom abruptly rises out of his comfortable sprawl, sitting up on his haunches and leaning forward and around Arthur’s knees. Frowning slightly, Arthur lifts his eyes from his book in time to see a tallish man in an old olive-green peacoat walk past, a gorgeous Dalmatian about Dom’s age a step or two ahead of him. They make a striking pair, the way they’re so in tune with each other, and Arthur spends a moment or two just watching them over the top of his book. Dom whines a little when the pair fold themselves down on the ground to stare out across the pond and Arthur turns an amused look on his dog.
“Nice, huh?” he comments and Dom cuts him a glare out of the corner of his eye. Arthur smirks and turns a page in his book.
+
Eames finds himself watching the guy on the bench almost as much as the pond. It’s not entirely unusual -- he’s a people-watcher by nature and the people he sees on the streets tend to appear later in his work. This man, though... There’s something different about him, something noteworthy in an almost understated way, that draws Eames’ attention. And all he’s doing is reading a book. Dressed to the nines in a beautiful suit, shined shoes, and overcoat. With a Dalmatian settled at his feet.
Yeah, it’s not too hard to see what’s got Eames so focused.
Mal seems just as preoccupied, though, staring over her shoulder, her body one smooth arc. Eames smiles and runs a hand down her side, scritching his fingers through the softer fur at her ruff as he goes. She swipes her tongue briefly over his hand in acknowledgement, but doesn’t turn away, intent on watching the Dalmatian across the way.
“See something you like, m’lady?” he leans over to breathe against her ear, chuckling lowly as the appendage twitches against his lips and she leans her head against his face. He rubs her side again, presses a kiss to her cheekbone, and turns back to the pond.
Twenty minutes later, he decides it’s too bloody cold to be sitting on the ground staring aimlessly at a lifeless pond. Groaning at the cold-weather ache in his knees, he rises to his feet, brushing wrinkles and dry grass from his pants as he leans down to reattach Mal’s leash. She flashes a disdainful look up at him and huffs a wheezing breath through her nose but follows willingly enough as Eames decides to take a quick turn around the pond before heading back to the apartment.
He doesn’t look at the man on the bench as he passes. Nope, definitely not.
They’re just at the edge of the pond when Mal stops and turns back the opposite direction, jerking the leash until Eames is forced to turn around. He stumbles and nearly falls into the man behind him, only managing to right himself by planting a hand on the guy’s shoulder. He opens his mouth to yell at Mal for her antics, to apologize to the guy he’s currently pressed against, to curse at the absolute absurdity of his life, when he realizes he’s practically holding the man from the park bench. He’s leaning away a little, meaning to excuse Mal or introduce himself, and that’s when the leash in his hand goes taut, Mal’s body presses tight against the back of his left knee, and his tenuous balance in such a position goes completely to shit.
The splash as they hit the surface of the pond is truly quite spectacular.
+
“Fuck!” Arthur shoots to the surface with a gasp, already shivering as he attempts to shake the water off himself. His hair’s dripping in his eyes, his suit’s ruined, and he’s ankle deep in pond-mud, feels it squish between his toes inside his shoes. Dom’s standing on the bank of the pond, a comical expression of surprise on his face -- eyebrows up, eyes alight, mouth open and tongue lolling. The regal Dalmatian from earlier is seated at Dom’s side, radiating smug satisfaction as she watches Arthur and her owner flounder around in the waist-deep water.
“Mallorie!” the man in the water with Arthur barks and Arthur turns to see his appearance is just as bad as Arthur’s, from the water-darkened hair trailing limply into his eyes to the sodden, visibly heavier wool peacoat sagging around his shoulders. He glares at his dog for a moment, letting the full force of his displeasure sink in, then happens to glance at Arthur out of the corner of his eye and his face goes slack in horror. “Oh, hell, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s got into her, here, let me--” He reaches out to pick a piece of water-weed off Arthur’s shoulder and flings it away, hands brushing at the lapels of Arthur’s coat, as if to wipe away the water’s destruction.
Arthur’s unaccountably amused by the whole thing, a smile starting to stretch across his face. By rights, he should be pissed that his new Zegna suit and favorite winter coat are almost certainly ruined, but the other man’s consternation is making the entire clichéd affair seem more hilarious than anything.
“It’s okay,” Arthur tries to say, lips twitching and jaw shuddering from the cold. The air burns where it finds uncovered skin and his face is going numb and, judging by the blue tint to the guy’s lips, Mallorie’s owner is experiencing the same.
“Christ, the fucking mud is everywhere,” he mumbles, digging into a pocket and producing a handkerchief, which is dripping and limp and obviously no use in this situation. Arthur bites his lip and says, “here, let me,” and digs into his own pocket. The handkerchief he pulls out, while slightly larger, is as wet and useless as the other. “Oh,” Mallorie’s owner says, staring at the wet scraps of fabric with an unreadable expression.
For a second they just stand there, waist deep in the frigid water, their dogs watching them from the bank. Then Arthur’s eyes flick up to meet the light gray-blue of the stranger’s and something clicks.
It starts with a chuckle, Arthur’s, stifled and snatched back as quickly as it breaks from his mouth. Then there’s a snort, the stranger’s, short and impulsive, and that sets them both off, a feedback loop of hilarity and mild hysteria that leaves them gasping for breath and leaning against each other.
“Oh, God,” the guy says, “I needed that.”
“What, a dunking in the filthy duck pond?” Arthur asks, grinning, as they start to make their way out of the water. It’s slow going, what with the mud in Arthur’s shoes, the completely sodden state of their clothing, and the chilly breeze kicking up. Arthur’s pretty sure his knees have gone completely numb and he’s so cold he’s stopped shivering.
“No,” is the vehement answer. “Fuck, it’s cold. No,” the guy turns to glance at him again, eyes speculative, “the laugh. I love my dog, but conversation isn’t one of Mal’s specialties.”
Arthur chuckles agreement and steps up onto the bank. Dom immediately shifts closer, leaning warm against Arthur’s calf, though he keeps his eyes on Mal, who sidles closer, nuzzling her head up under Dom’s jaw. Arthur watches the dogs with a raised eyebrow, then reaches to offer Mal’s owner a hand out of the pond. Despite the water still saturating their clothing and the brisk wind, the hand that wraps around Arthur’s is warm, square, firm, and lightly calloused, and Arthur automatically wraps his free hand around the guy’s upper arm as he stumbles coming out of the water. He pulls back a little, eyes wide as he stares into the blues opposite his own.
“We need to get out of these clothes,” Arthur thinks he says, but even the cold is taking a backseat to the mutual interest and attraction brewing between the two of them.
“Is that an offer?” They’re still standing close enough that the words fan hotly over Arthur’s mouth.
Despite the cold, his dripping clothes, the mud in his shoes, the dog leaning against his leg -- despite all that, there’s only one thing on Arthur’s mind, only one thing he can think to say:
“Yes.”
+
The stairwell up to his flat is pitch black now and the sounds of their footsteps -- human and canine -- echoes strangely off the floorboards, ringing in the darkness. Eames can hear his companion stumble once on the stairs, hears him hiss something, but doesn’t turn to help him -- the sooner he gets up to his door, the sooner he can shed some light on the situation. He jogs up the last few steps, Mal hovering eagerly behind him, and slots his key into the door, flinging it open as soon as the lock disengages.
“Thanks,” the dark-haired man mumbles, sliding past Eames into the flat, tugging his dog after him. Mal dashes in and slinks up to the stranger’s Dalmatian, blinking coyly at Eames as she tries to twine her neck with the other dog’s.
There’s an awkward moment, lasting through the removal of their soaked outer garments and shoes. Then Eames, still standing by the door to the flat, finds himself pressed against its sturdy wood, damp heat radiating from the lithe man plastering himself to Eames’ front. He has half a moment to think I don’t do things like this; I don’t even know his name before there are lips settled firmly over his mouth and thoughts about anything else fly right out of his head.
“God, I never do this,” floats into the air between them and Eames has no idea who said it.
“Okay, okay, wait, wait, wait.” He leans back as far as his position against the door will let him, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling as he tries to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. “Okay,” he says, sliding his tongue over his lips, tasting the other man. It makes his mouth water and he wants more, moremoremore, but he needs a name, can’t do this so impersonally. “Wh--ah!” Eames gasps, as firm hands start working on the buttons of his old button-down and that devilishly intuitive mouth starts nibbling down his neck. “What’s your name?”
“Arthur,” is breathed moist against his ear, seconds before teeth close on his earlobe. Eames’ back arches of its own volition, a gasp straining for freedom in his throat. He barely hears when Arthur asks his own question. “Yours?”
“Eames,” he pants desperately, fingers scrabbling at the cool buttons preventing him from putting his hands directly on Arthur’s skin. The fact that he can’t seem to keep his eyes open is making it more difficult to work the fastenings and, eventually, Arthur knocks his hands out of the way, nimble fingers slipping button after button free from its hole, until he can peel the wet fabric off his shoulders.
With both shirts gone, they press together skin-to-skin and the air turns steamy around them. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, cool fingertips tracing fire across Eames’ skin -- over his shoulders, down his arms, following the path of a tattoo over his heart. And Eames is grateful for the door at his back, supporting his weight, especially as he palms Arthur’s ass through his trousers and pulls him close. The resulting keen makes his stomach drop out and his body flare with heat.
In a quick move, Eames lunges forward and twists, pinning Arthur to the door. It drives a whimpering moan out his throat, his pupils blown wide and dark with lust, mouth open and wet in entreaty. And Eames can’t resist the invitation, dives back in with almost religious fervor, hands working Arthur’s belt open and off as he does his best to eke out every possible sound Arthur has in him.
“Eames,” Arthur pants, hands twining tight in Eames’ short hair. His hips jump as Eames fumbles open the button and zipper of his trousers.
“Can’t have you catching cold in these wet clothes.” He’s no idea where he found the composure necessary to utter the words, but it’s worth it for the absolutely wanton sag of Arthur’s limbs against the door as Eames works his hands into the remainder of Arthur’s clothing and peels it away with meticulous care.
In the hollow of Arthur’s left hipbone, there’s a tiny tattoo. It’s a red die, three-side up, Eames realizes, tracing it with his thumb. He know it’s his imagination, knows it’s sensory overload from all of the beautiful skin laid out for his consumption, but he thinks he can feel the burn of the cherry-red ink under his fingers and his mouth waters for the taste of it on his tongue.
“I was stupid,” Arthur gasps, when he realizes what has Eames so fixated. “Spring Break in college, senior year. Too many whiskey sours and not enough common sense,” he explains.
“And the dice?” Eames asks, dropping to his knees, damp denim blue jeans stretching cold and uncomfortable across his thighs. He curls his hands around Arthur’s hips and pushes, employing his greater breadth and strength to hold the slighter man in place against the door. He risks a quick glance up to see Arthur’s face, eyes wide and face flushed, color spilling down his chest, before leaning forward and taking him into his mouth.
“Hgh--” Arthur chokes, head slamming back against the door. Eames grins and sucks harder, cheeks hollowing, and Arthur’s entire body convulses. “Fuck,” Arthur curses, slapping one hand on the wood at his back, the other clawing into Eames’ hair. Eames pulls back, slurping lewdly as he goes, and smirks up at Arthur, drawing his hand down the length of him.
“The dice, Arthur,” he reminds, because he’s genuinely curious. Plus, he’s drawing wicked pleasure from the killing glare trying to form in Arthur’s glazed, dark eyes.
“Why the fuck not? I was drunk and in Vegas -- it fit,” he snaps, hand tightening in Eames’ hair, trying to pull him closer again. He’s gone all sharp and slightly dangerous, despite the hazy desire still fogging his eyes and his voice, and Eames is so intrigued by this man, wants to take his time, take him apart, learn what makes him tick. It’s unnerving, considering they’ve known each other maybe half an hour. “Eames,” Arthur whines and Eames blinks away his distraction and returns to the matter at hand, so to speak.
“Arthur,” he mocks, hands firm and knowing as they coast over Arthur’s skin, cataloguing what makes him jump and hiss, what pulls more of those delicious sounds out of his mouth, what leaves him sagging breathless against the door.
“I won’t beg, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Arthur growls, tugging on Eames’ shoulders until they’re skin-to-skin again. Eames smirks wickedly again, jeans uncomfortably tight at the look in Arthur’s eyes, and nips at Arthur’s bottom lip, sucking on it until Arthur squirms up against him, his knee stuttering over the damp denim covering Eames’ thighs. “Off,” Arthur commands, plucking fitfully at the fastenings.
It’s no easy thing, peeling himself out of his wet pants while almost painfully aroused. The button and zipper are easy to deal with, of course, and wriggling them down to mid-thigh isn’t a problem, but things get tricky after that. He tries just shoving them down (which doesn’t work) and pulling them off by the cuffs (ditto this). Eventually, after he overbalances and nearly falls on his ass with the damn jeans tangled around his legs, he (with Arthur’s help) works them down his legs inside out, braced with one hand on the door over Arthur’s head.
“Better?” he asks, mouth inches from Arthur’s. At this distance, he can see all of the flecks of color in Arthur’s eyes, dark as they are. It makes something clench in his chest and he doesn’t wait for Arthur to respond to his question to lean in for a kiss.
It’s slow and leisurely for the next little bit, just lazy kisses and hands trailing over skin. Arthur is more than a little fascinated with Eames’ tattoos, his fingers tracing their patterns repeatedly, and each stroke drives Eames a little further up the wall. Finally, just as he thinks he’s going to completely lose it, Arthur wraps his hands around both of their erections.
“Ngh, fuck, Arthur,” Eames groans. He sinks his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder, sucking hard as he relishes the jolt that jerks Arthur’s body against his. By the time he pulls back, there’s a gloriously dark mark forming on his collarbone and Arthur’s desperate against him.
“Eames, please,” he gasps, contrary to all earlier vows against begging. Eames smirks and adds his hands to Arthur’s, pushing their rhythm harder, faster, ‘til they’re both gasping.
Arthur nudges his face against Eames’ and they meet in a sloppy kiss, Eames biting down on Arthur's lower lip. That’s what sets him off -- his body abruptly bowing taut against Eames, hands clenching spastically, and his eyes flashing open, wide with something like surprise. And it’s that look, that vulnerable, almost heartbreaking look, that’s what sends Eames over the edge, Arthur’s name a bitten-off gasp caught deep in his throat.
+
They’re collapsed in a pile by the door when Arthur comes back to himself an indeterminate time later. Eames is slumped over Arthur’s lap, his face pressed to Arthur’s neck.
“We should move,” Arthur says vaguely. He blinks and realizes he’s stroking a hand absently though Eames’ hair. He freezes, not knowing how such an affectionate gesture might be received. Eames, however, murmurs something unintelligible against Arthur’s neck and nuzzles up into Arthur’s hand, blinking hazy eyes at him. “Eames?”
“Yeah, bed, got it.”
It takes them a little bit to actually make it to the bed -- Eames turns and nearly trips over the shoes he’d kicked off earlier and Arthur insists on them cleaning themselves up, what with the pond-scum and other things clinging to their skin. Mal and Dom insinuate themselves into the situation as well, demanding food and attention and generally getting underfoot and annoying, though something about the cant of Dom’s ears tells Arthur he’s just following Mal’s lead. Eventually, though, they do collapse into Eames’ bed, the cool, fairly fresh-smelling sheets more than welcome against Arthur’s skin.
“For what it’s worth, Arthur,” Eames mumbles into the pillow smashed under his face (Arthur doesn’t find this adorable, really), “very nice to meet you, darling.” He squirms around until he frees his left hand from under his body and flops it in front of Arthur’s face, palm up. Blinking at it, Arthur figures out what he means and rolls his eyes, despite the smile he smothers into the pillow.
“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he says, sliding his hand into Eames’ and twining their fingers.
He falls asleep to the unfamiliar cadence of Eames’ breathing, their hands still clasped together.
+
Mal sighs and lays her head across her paws. Dom is curled against her side, taking up half her pillow, and his warm weight is a comfort. Normally, she’d be sprawled on Eames’ bed, graciously allowing her pet to spread himself across the larger portion of the bed but tonight, just like she does, he’s got someone else he’d rather spend the night with. She sighs again, feeling pleased at how her machinations turned out, and tilts her head off her paws until it’s pressed against Dom’s back.
/runs screaming, cowers