#12 in a series of one night stands
Title: #12 in a series of one night stands
Author: cmonkatiekatie
Team: romance
Prompt: soft, fear
Word count: 1700
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
part 1, part 2
Arthur's coming off a job in Switzerland, on his way home with a fourteen hour layover. Eames is days away from diving into a long con in Spain that has the potential to go on for months and months.
Two ships passing in the night. Or two ships bumping into each other a lot in the middle of the afternoon.
“We’re not,” Eames says, flopping backwards onto the mattress, “we’re not actually going to fuck for ten hours straight, are we?”
“Why,” Arthur grins, “Not up to it?”
Eames’ calf is right at Arthur’s eye level. He runs his fingers up against the grain of his hair and watches Eames’ leg twitch. Eames hums noncommittally and wiggles his toes.
He’s never come right out and said it, but Arthur knows that Eames is hilariously, unbearably ticklish. His knees, his feet, his ass if the touch is light enough. Arthur likes it about him. But then Arthur likes a lot about Eames.
Eames likes a lot about Arthur, too. Arthur knows this because he has come right out and said it. Arthur believes his exact words were: “Arthur, I like you.” It wasn’t even followed up by a but. “Arthur, I like you and I’d like to see more of you.” Doesn’t leave a whole lot left up for interpretation. “Arthur, I like you and I’d like to see more of you when we’re not running for our lives or exhausted out of our heads or planning an inception.”
Really, he was quite clear about the whole thing.
Arthur’s up at Eames’ knee now, scratching feather-soft with his blunt nails, circling around to the tender underside.
“I will kick you,” Eames says, and his whole leg nudges at Arthur’s face in warning.
Arthur dismisses him with a, “Nah, you like me too much.” He blanches at the poor choice of words, thankful Eames can’t see his face from this angle. He didn’t. He didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean to call attention to it or use it as leverage, not even against playful threats.
Eames hums again. It’s a very familiar sort of hum, the kind Arthur recognizes as conversational, when Eames isn’t feeling much like conversation.
It’s all right. Arthur doesn’t feel much like conversation either.
The moments are long and sun drenched. Arthur may drowse a little. Eames might snore lightly. Arthur may fixate on the light gleaming on the hard line of Eames' shin.
He wakes up, nose pressed to Eames' ankle, and stretches out, thinking vaguely of showers and food, or sex and food, or sex and showers, but he's content to wait a little while before moving. There's something nice about pretending they have all the time in the world. He begins to understand why Eames presses for more, despite Arthur's legitimate protests about practicality, about changing the one thing Arthur's got that works without a whole lot of work.
Arthur feels a flare of arousal and spreads his legs, subtly shifting so Eames' hand, idly stoking his ass, moves closer to the cleft.
Eames laughs, says, "Yeah, all right," and plays a little with purpose, rubs the right way.
Arthur stays close, but curls up to mouth at Eames' thigh, wrap a hand around him and get him hard.
Eames smacks Arthur's ass. "Come on up and do it right, then." He pulls at Arthur's legs until he gets the hint and straddles his chest, feet tucked under Eames' armpits, ass spread.
Arthur sucks at Eames' slowly filling cock while Eames pulls him apart with his hands, circling with his thumb.
Arthur's hands squeeze at Eames’ thighs, then go up, up, or is it down, down, until his fingers find the place where Eames is warm and soft and wet from before, open enough that Arthur can slide two fingers in, just barely, just to the first knuckle.
There's a tiny kitten lick right there, right where Arthur wants it, and Arthur clenches at nothing and gasps. For awhile he can feel nothing but the scratch of Eames stubble and the wet of his tongue flat over him again and again. He pushes his ass into Eames face, then again, and waits out the teasing licks, longs for him inside, feels filthy and spread wide.
Eames shifts his hips and makes a disgruntled noise into Arthur's skin. It reminds Arthur of where he is, what he’s meant to be doing. His hands aren’t even on Eames anymore, they’re on the sheets, spread flat and bracing. Eames is rock hard now, thick and pretty. But just a hair too far away.
He nuzzles in closer and licks, but when he takes Eames in, Arthur's unfocused and messy, lots of tongue, but not nearly enough suction. Arthur's ass is far enough away that it must be hell on Eames’ neck when he licks around his hole again, but fuck, Arthur doesn’t care. He moans and Eames dick drags against his bottom lip on its way out.
Eames mutters something that sounds suspiciously like selfish bastard and Arthur knows, he knows he is.
It’s awkward as hell, but Eames manages to crawl out from under Arthur and Arthur doesn’t help at all, just allows Eames to push him around a little, down into the mattress with a hand at his back. Eames bites at his ass cheek, just above the back of his thigh, and it feels like it might be retaliatory, but it makes Arthur grind into the mattress and angle his legs apart. He wants to let Eames in, he wants him all the way in.
Eames bites again, lighter this time, and then disappears. Arthur strains his neck to watch him retrieve two pillows, and he lifts up for Eames to push them neatly, carefully below his stomach.
“Wider,” Eames says, and hits him hard on the thigh. Arthur doesn’t think he can go much wider but, god, he tries, grasps back at a leg below the knee and tries.
Eames kisses the place he hit, licks over it, and Arthur thinks he might be shaking. He’d ask, he’d ask Eames to get inside if he could, but he can’t, so he swallows and still can’t make himself say anything at all.
It turns out he doesn’t have to. Eames gets around to it in his own time. Arthur’s pushing into the pillows, grinding down and pushing back and grinding down and pushing back, and Eames is sloppy and loose tongued until he isn’t, until he points his tongue and licks in and uses his slippery fingers to spread him wide.
When Eames pulls back again to tease and flick his tongue against him, Arthur whines. He’s reduced to pants, now, pants and low throaty moans. And blurily, he acknowledges that that may be the point. Maybe. “Uh, uh,” he says coherently.
“Mmmm, yes,” Eames answers, sounding clear headed and rational. Like he didn’t just have his tongue in Arthur’s ass. He rubs massaging little spit-slick circles around him, and says, “Want me to fuck you?” just before he darts in and licks over him again, a long, firm stripe from just behind his balls.
And Arthur wanted to come with something of Eames in him, his fingers or his tongue or his thick dick, but he’s twitching against the ruined pillows and trying to catch his breath, and now, now Eames is inside again, so wet, and Arthur plainly has no idea which way to move, or even if he’s capable of moving at all.
“Maybe next time, hmm?” Eames says, and if asked, Arthur’s not even sure he could tell you where he is.
His legs are locked and he can’t straighten them out, can only tilt his head minutely to watch as Eames jerks off behind him, missing the feel of him inside, but loving this just the same. When Eames comes, Arthur feels the splash on his back, on his ass, dripping down the crease, slow and maddening.
Eames reaches out to rub it into his skin, trail it between his legs, and Arthur twitches into the pillows again.
--
“Hey,” Eames says, up close and minty fresh, “Wakey wakey.” He says it as he’s kissing Arthur’s cheek, so it comes out as a mash of vowels and consonants Arthur only recognizes from familiarity.
Arthur’s flat on his back, right way around on the bed. He has no recollection of how he got that way, or even the time. The light is different. There’s less of it.
Arthur watches Eames slip his shirt over his arms and button it from the bottom up, then abandon it half done to find his shoes and socks.
“You’ve time for a shower,” Eames tells him distractedly, and Arthur nods. “Okay.”
He feels good. He feels like shit for sleeping through what can only be their last night for a long stretch of nights, but he feels good.
Eames looks at him from the chair, hunched up to do up his laces. "Not a lot of time," he clarifies.
Arthur nods. He sits. "Come here," he says.
Eames finishes with his shoes first, but before too long, he approaches. He lets Arthur do up the rest of his buttons. He snatches his belt from the side table and lets Arthur thread it through his belt loops.
It's intimate and distant at the same time, Arthur so very naked and Eames so very not.
Eames looks down at him and Arthur can see it when he swallows.
Arthur stands before Eames can say anything. He keeps his fingers at Eames belt.
"Sorry I fell asleep on you," Arthur says.
"Quite literally," Eames says. Arthur doesn't remember that part either. He feels strangely cheated.
"You should go home," Arthur tells him. "No point in waiting. I'll just call down to the lobby for a cab."
Eames is silent for a brief beat. "No point," he repeats. It's not a question, but it reads inquisitively nevertheless.
Rather than dwell on it, Arthur shuffles closer and Eames takes him up on the silent offer of a kiss, more of a goodbye than they'll actually say.
Eames is long gone when Arthur gets out of the shower.
last part
Author: cmonkatiekatie
Team: romance
Prompt: soft, fear
Word count: 1700
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
part 1, part 2
Arthur's coming off a job in Switzerland, on his way home with a fourteen hour layover. Eames is days away from diving into a long con in Spain that has the potential to go on for months and months.
Two ships passing in the night. Or two ships bumping into each other a lot in the middle of the afternoon.
“We’re not,” Eames says, flopping backwards onto the mattress, “we’re not actually going to fuck for ten hours straight, are we?”
“Why,” Arthur grins, “Not up to it?”
Eames’ calf is right at Arthur’s eye level. He runs his fingers up against the grain of his hair and watches Eames’ leg twitch. Eames hums noncommittally and wiggles his toes.
He’s never come right out and said it, but Arthur knows that Eames is hilariously, unbearably ticklish. His knees, his feet, his ass if the touch is light enough. Arthur likes it about him. But then Arthur likes a lot about Eames.
Eames likes a lot about Arthur, too. Arthur knows this because he has come right out and said it. Arthur believes his exact words were: “Arthur, I like you.” It wasn’t even followed up by a but. “Arthur, I like you and I’d like to see more of you.” Doesn’t leave a whole lot left up for interpretation. “Arthur, I like you and I’d like to see more of you when we’re not running for our lives or exhausted out of our heads or planning an inception.”
Really, he was quite clear about the whole thing.
Arthur’s up at Eames’ knee now, scratching feather-soft with his blunt nails, circling around to the tender underside.
“I will kick you,” Eames says, and his whole leg nudges at Arthur’s face in warning.
Arthur dismisses him with a, “Nah, you like me too much.” He blanches at the poor choice of words, thankful Eames can’t see his face from this angle. He didn’t. He didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean to call attention to it or use it as leverage, not even against playful threats.
Eames hums again. It’s a very familiar sort of hum, the kind Arthur recognizes as conversational, when Eames isn’t feeling much like conversation.
It’s all right. Arthur doesn’t feel much like conversation either.
The moments are long and sun drenched. Arthur may drowse a little. Eames might snore lightly. Arthur may fixate on the light gleaming on the hard line of Eames' shin.
He wakes up, nose pressed to Eames' ankle, and stretches out, thinking vaguely of showers and food, or sex and food, or sex and showers, but he's content to wait a little while before moving. There's something nice about pretending they have all the time in the world. He begins to understand why Eames presses for more, despite Arthur's legitimate protests about practicality, about changing the one thing Arthur's got that works without a whole lot of work.
Arthur feels a flare of arousal and spreads his legs, subtly shifting so Eames' hand, idly stoking his ass, moves closer to the cleft.
Eames laughs, says, "Yeah, all right," and plays a little with purpose, rubs the right way.
Arthur stays close, but curls up to mouth at Eames' thigh, wrap a hand around him and get him hard.
Eames smacks Arthur's ass. "Come on up and do it right, then." He pulls at Arthur's legs until he gets the hint and straddles his chest, feet tucked under Eames' armpits, ass spread.
Arthur sucks at Eames' slowly filling cock while Eames pulls him apart with his hands, circling with his thumb.
Arthur's hands squeeze at Eames’ thighs, then go up, up, or is it down, down, until his fingers find the place where Eames is warm and soft and wet from before, open enough that Arthur can slide two fingers in, just barely, just to the first knuckle.
There's a tiny kitten lick right there, right where Arthur wants it, and Arthur clenches at nothing and gasps. For awhile he can feel nothing but the scratch of Eames stubble and the wet of his tongue flat over him again and again. He pushes his ass into Eames face, then again, and waits out the teasing licks, longs for him inside, feels filthy and spread wide.
Eames shifts his hips and makes a disgruntled noise into Arthur's skin. It reminds Arthur of where he is, what he’s meant to be doing. His hands aren’t even on Eames anymore, they’re on the sheets, spread flat and bracing. Eames is rock hard now, thick and pretty. But just a hair too far away.
He nuzzles in closer and licks, but when he takes Eames in, Arthur's unfocused and messy, lots of tongue, but not nearly enough suction. Arthur's ass is far enough away that it must be hell on Eames’ neck when he licks around his hole again, but fuck, Arthur doesn’t care. He moans and Eames dick drags against his bottom lip on its way out.
Eames mutters something that sounds suspiciously like selfish bastard and Arthur knows, he knows he is.
It’s awkward as hell, but Eames manages to crawl out from under Arthur and Arthur doesn’t help at all, just allows Eames to push him around a little, down into the mattress with a hand at his back. Eames bites at his ass cheek, just above the back of his thigh, and it feels like it might be retaliatory, but it makes Arthur grind into the mattress and angle his legs apart. He wants to let Eames in, he wants him all the way in.
Eames bites again, lighter this time, and then disappears. Arthur strains his neck to watch him retrieve two pillows, and he lifts up for Eames to push them neatly, carefully below his stomach.
“Wider,” Eames says, and hits him hard on the thigh. Arthur doesn’t think he can go much wider but, god, he tries, grasps back at a leg below the knee and tries.
Eames kisses the place he hit, licks over it, and Arthur thinks he might be shaking. He’d ask, he’d ask Eames to get inside if he could, but he can’t, so he swallows and still can’t make himself say anything at all.
It turns out he doesn’t have to. Eames gets around to it in his own time. Arthur’s pushing into the pillows, grinding down and pushing back and grinding down and pushing back, and Eames is sloppy and loose tongued until he isn’t, until he points his tongue and licks in and uses his slippery fingers to spread him wide.
When Eames pulls back again to tease and flick his tongue against him, Arthur whines. He’s reduced to pants, now, pants and low throaty moans. And blurily, he acknowledges that that may be the point. Maybe. “Uh, uh,” he says coherently.
“Mmmm, yes,” Eames answers, sounding clear headed and rational. Like he didn’t just have his tongue in Arthur’s ass. He rubs massaging little spit-slick circles around him, and says, “Want me to fuck you?” just before he darts in and licks over him again, a long, firm stripe from just behind his balls.
And Arthur wanted to come with something of Eames in him, his fingers or his tongue or his thick dick, but he’s twitching against the ruined pillows and trying to catch his breath, and now, now Eames is inside again, so wet, and Arthur plainly has no idea which way to move, or even if he’s capable of moving at all.
“Maybe next time, hmm?” Eames says, and if asked, Arthur’s not even sure he could tell you where he is.
His legs are locked and he can’t straighten them out, can only tilt his head minutely to watch as Eames jerks off behind him, missing the feel of him inside, but loving this just the same. When Eames comes, Arthur feels the splash on his back, on his ass, dripping down the crease, slow and maddening.
Eames reaches out to rub it into his skin, trail it between his legs, and Arthur twitches into the pillows again.
--
“Hey,” Eames says, up close and minty fresh, “Wakey wakey.” He says it as he’s kissing Arthur’s cheek, so it comes out as a mash of vowels and consonants Arthur only recognizes from familiarity.
Arthur’s flat on his back, right way around on the bed. He has no recollection of how he got that way, or even the time. The light is different. There’s less of it.
Arthur watches Eames slip his shirt over his arms and button it from the bottom up, then abandon it half done to find his shoes and socks.
“You’ve time for a shower,” Eames tells him distractedly, and Arthur nods. “Okay.”
He feels good. He feels like shit for sleeping through what can only be their last night for a long stretch of nights, but he feels good.
Eames looks at him from the chair, hunched up to do up his laces. "Not a lot of time," he clarifies.
Arthur nods. He sits. "Come here," he says.
Eames finishes with his shoes first, but before too long, he approaches. He lets Arthur do up the rest of his buttons. He snatches his belt from the side table and lets Arthur thread it through his belt loops.
It's intimate and distant at the same time, Arthur so very naked and Eames so very not.
Eames looks down at him and Arthur can see it when he swallows.
Arthur stands before Eames can say anything. He keeps his fingers at Eames belt.
"Sorry I fell asleep on you," Arthur says.
"Quite literally," Eames says. Arthur doesn't remember that part either. He feels strangely cheated.
"You should go home," Arthur tells him. "No point in waiting. I'll just call down to the lobby for a cab."
Eames is silent for a brief beat. "No point," he repeats. It's not a question, but it reads inquisitively nevertheless.
Rather than dwell on it, Arthur shuffles closer and Eames takes him up on the silent offer of a kiss, more of a goodbye than they'll actually say.
Eames is long gone when Arthur gets out of the shower.
last part