Inception Fic - Everything's All Right
Title: Everything's All Right
Rating: R
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: watersports, sex, language
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: Arthur and Eames go dancing, but sometimes things don't go exactly as planned...
The loud music in the ballroom floats through his brain in a giddy whirl and Eames is prepared, perhaps, to admit he is drunk. Still pleasantly so, he would say; though he will be hungover in the morning, it will probably dissipate by ten o’clock. A good evening. He draws his attention away from assessing a bottle of Dom Perignon on the red-draped table and is delighted to find Arthur still in his arms, his long and slender hands wrapped tight in Eames’s paisley shirtsleeves.
“Why, hello, darling!” Eames says for the third or fourth time that night, and tries to plant a kiss on Arthur’s forehead. He is thwarted as the slightly taller man tips his head away.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies sternly, or attempts to. His eyes are smiling, even sparkling, and whatever malice he might have intended is swallowed up by his dimples. “You’re drunk.”
“What a fine thing to say!” Eames settles for dropping his nose against Arthur’s neck, breathing in the scent of Arthur’s cologne, his soap, and his sweat. “So are you.” They waltz another minute slightly off the beat and Arthur concedes the point, hiding an errant hiccup behind his hand. Eames laughs and turns him round, and round again until he has Arthur up against the ballroom wall and they both need to catch their breath and balance.
“Eames,” Arthur says, and when that doesn’t seem enough, he says it once more. “Eames.” He smiles crookedly and pulls at the few buttons still hiding Eames’s chest from view. “You know I think you’re handsome.” He confesses this like it is something that should be kept secret, and his eyes widen a little at his audacity. “For a silly person,” he adds as Eames smirks.
“Thank you, Arthur.” Eames presses a sloppy kiss to the man’s jaw, sliding his thigh between Arthur’s own. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He puts his right hand on the wall and his left on Arthur’s hip as he starts to rock gently, eliciting a quiet moan.
Arthur has started to blush now, darker than the excellent alcohol’s ruddy glow, all along his cheeks and ears and throat, and Eames thinks he is lucky to have this colorful Arthur to himself. He brushes his lips against Arthur’s and teases with his tongue. He lets Arthur undo his shirt and he takes off Arthur’s tie. The friction between them is maddening and Eames’s pants are uncomfortably tight. He can feel Arthur’s erection through his Dunhill slacks, rubbing against his leg, and he huffs shortly.
Eames is about to suggest they take it somewhere a little more private when he becomes aware of a peculiar sensation: a spreading of warmth across and down his thigh. His first reaction is visceral, a shocked certainty that one of them has been shot, is bleeding and just hasn’t felt it yet. He pulls off the wall and makes a grab for his hip before remembering he doesn’t carry (well, not tonight) in reality. He hisses in displeasure and checks Arthur for bullet wounds, fighting through the now-unwelcome haze of champagne and hard liquor.
This all takes less than a second.
But there are no marks on his darling. In fact, Arthur is staring at him with a bewildered look, his mouth slightly open in uncertainty, blinking, confused. Eames’s reaction has whitened his face, leaving his blush in stark and rather erratic relief. He fumbles at his shoulder for his own weapon, sliding a Glock out of its holster. He is not drunk enough to ignore his years of training, and he still maintains trigger discipline as he asks “Eames?”
It is then that Eames realizes the source of the alarm; that Arthur has probably had too much wine tonight; that the man is probably too intoxicated to realize it. He first relaxes, letting some of the tension in his shoulders seep away. Only after he thanks his stars that they are both alive does he start to feel some wry embarrassment for Arthur. He closes his hand around the point man’s on the gun, and guides it back into its leather home.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “Look down.”
“Why?” Arthur is starting to sober a little, too, and he frowns at his partner before doing as he’s told. It still takes him a few seconds to work out the meaning of the charcoal stain on his trousers, but when he does, his ears immediately flush a deep scarlet. “No, Eames… No, I didn’t just…” He just gapes and then closes his eyes, dropping his head in defeat to rest on Eames’s shoulder. “Fuck my life.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad, darling,” Eames tries, patting his lover’s arm. “You’re drunk. It happens.” But Arthur refuses to be consoled.
“This is the worst night of my life,” he moans. “And that includes that godforsaken gondola ride when I had the flu.”
“How melodramatic,” Eames says, almost rolling his eyes. “It isn’t that bad at all. You haven’t puked on any royalty tonight. Besides,” and he smirks, “this can be turned to your advantage.”
Arthur scoffs, still hiding his face. “How, Eames? Oh, fuck. I knew I should have worn my navy suit…”
“Everything is always so complicated with you,” Eames sighs, and he cups Arthur through his wet trousers. The cooling material sliding over him is enough to stop Arthur’s mumbled tirade, and he glances up with a half-warning, half-desperate look.
“Eames…”
Then the forger really starts to push, and Arthur gasps and clutches at Eames before they establish an equilibrium. Eames thumbs Arthur gently, feeling the shape of him through expensive cloth, and it doesn’t take much before Arthur is hard again, his nails digging into Eames’s arms.
“Eames, Eames,” and then “Danny,” and Arthur is coming in his slacks, panting and trembling and looking up at his lover through dark eyelashes.
---
They are not stopped on their way to their hotel room, though they do receive some very odd looks from the few people they pass. Arthur, with his supreme self-control, ignores them, and cinches his belt a little tighter to take another size off of Eames’s black jeans. Eames, for his part, is strolling quite calmly beside him in his red silk boxer-briefs, Arthur's ruined slacks thrown unceremoniously over his shoulder. Imperfect as this arrangement is, it is the best one.
Arthur goes commando under his suits.
---
Hope you enjoy it! Comments and criticism are appreciated. :)
Rating: R
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: watersports, sex, language
Wordcount: ~1000
Summary: Arthur and Eames go dancing, but sometimes things don't go exactly as planned...
The loud music in the ballroom floats through his brain in a giddy whirl and Eames is prepared, perhaps, to admit he is drunk. Still pleasantly so, he would say; though he will be hungover in the morning, it will probably dissipate by ten o’clock. A good evening. He draws his attention away from assessing a bottle of Dom Perignon on the red-draped table and is delighted to find Arthur still in his arms, his long and slender hands wrapped tight in Eames’s paisley shirtsleeves.
“Why, hello, darling!” Eames says for the third or fourth time that night, and tries to plant a kiss on Arthur’s forehead. He is thwarted as the slightly taller man tips his head away.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies sternly, or attempts to. His eyes are smiling, even sparkling, and whatever malice he might have intended is swallowed up by his dimples. “You’re drunk.”
“What a fine thing to say!” Eames settles for dropping his nose against Arthur’s neck, breathing in the scent of Arthur’s cologne, his soap, and his sweat. “So are you.” They waltz another minute slightly off the beat and Arthur concedes the point, hiding an errant hiccup behind his hand. Eames laughs and turns him round, and round again until he has Arthur up against the ballroom wall and they both need to catch their breath and balance.
“Eames,” Arthur says, and when that doesn’t seem enough, he says it once more. “Eames.” He smiles crookedly and pulls at the few buttons still hiding Eames’s chest from view. “You know I think you’re handsome.” He confesses this like it is something that should be kept secret, and his eyes widen a little at his audacity. “For a silly person,” he adds as Eames smirks.
“Thank you, Arthur.” Eames presses a sloppy kiss to the man’s jaw, sliding his thigh between Arthur’s own. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He puts his right hand on the wall and his left on Arthur’s hip as he starts to rock gently, eliciting a quiet moan.
Arthur has started to blush now, darker than the excellent alcohol’s ruddy glow, all along his cheeks and ears and throat, and Eames thinks he is lucky to have this colorful Arthur to himself. He brushes his lips against Arthur’s and teases with his tongue. He lets Arthur undo his shirt and he takes off Arthur’s tie. The friction between them is maddening and Eames’s pants are uncomfortably tight. He can feel Arthur’s erection through his Dunhill slacks, rubbing against his leg, and he huffs shortly.
Eames is about to suggest they take it somewhere a little more private when he becomes aware of a peculiar sensation: a spreading of warmth across and down his thigh. His first reaction is visceral, a shocked certainty that one of them has been shot, is bleeding and just hasn’t felt it yet. He pulls off the wall and makes a grab for his hip before remembering he doesn’t carry (well, not tonight) in reality. He hisses in displeasure and checks Arthur for bullet wounds, fighting through the now-unwelcome haze of champagne and hard liquor.
This all takes less than a second.
But there are no marks on his darling. In fact, Arthur is staring at him with a bewildered look, his mouth slightly open in uncertainty, blinking, confused. Eames’s reaction has whitened his face, leaving his blush in stark and rather erratic relief. He fumbles at his shoulder for his own weapon, sliding a Glock out of its holster. He is not drunk enough to ignore his years of training, and he still maintains trigger discipline as he asks “Eames?”
It is then that Eames realizes the source of the alarm; that Arthur has probably had too much wine tonight; that the man is probably too intoxicated to realize it. He first relaxes, letting some of the tension in his shoulders seep away. Only after he thanks his stars that they are both alive does he start to feel some wry embarrassment for Arthur. He closes his hand around the point man’s on the gun, and guides it back into its leather home.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “Look down.”
“Why?” Arthur is starting to sober a little, too, and he frowns at his partner before doing as he’s told. It still takes him a few seconds to work out the meaning of the charcoal stain on his trousers, but when he does, his ears immediately flush a deep scarlet. “No, Eames… No, I didn’t just…” He just gapes and then closes his eyes, dropping his head in defeat to rest on Eames’s shoulder. “Fuck my life.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad, darling,” Eames tries, patting his lover’s arm. “You’re drunk. It happens.” But Arthur refuses to be consoled.
“This is the worst night of my life,” he moans. “And that includes that godforsaken gondola ride when I had the flu.”
“How melodramatic,” Eames says, almost rolling his eyes. “It isn’t that bad at all. You haven’t puked on any royalty tonight. Besides,” and he smirks, “this can be turned to your advantage.”
Arthur scoffs, still hiding his face. “How, Eames? Oh, fuck. I knew I should have worn my navy suit…”
“Everything is always so complicated with you,” Eames sighs, and he cups Arthur through his wet trousers. The cooling material sliding over him is enough to stop Arthur’s mumbled tirade, and he glances up with a half-warning, half-desperate look.
“Eames…”
Then the forger really starts to push, and Arthur gasps and clutches at Eames before they establish an equilibrium. Eames thumbs Arthur gently, feeling the shape of him through expensive cloth, and it doesn’t take much before Arthur is hard again, his nails digging into Eames’s arms.
“Eames, Eames,” and then “Danny,” and Arthur is coming in his slacks, panting and trembling and looking up at his lover through dark eyelashes.
---
They are not stopped on their way to their hotel room, though they do receive some very odd looks from the few people they pass. Arthur, with his supreme self-control, ignores them, and cinches his belt a little tighter to take another size off of Eames’s black jeans. Eames, for his part, is strolling quite calmly beside him in his red silk boxer-briefs, Arthur's ruined slacks thrown unceremoniously over his shoulder. Imperfect as this arrangement is, it is the best one.
Arthur goes commando under his suits.
---
Hope you enjoy it! Comments and criticism are appreciated. :)