[fic post] il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour
Title: il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance/Angst
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Warnings: sex
Word Count: 1,922
Summary: "Does that mean you dream about me at your doorstep often?"
Author Notes: Dedicated to owe, because she is amazing. I may have a kink for Arthur swearing at Eames. I have no idea why or where it came from, but I'm certain I have it. THIS STARTED SO MUCH SHORTER and then erupted and became longer, so I'm not sure it ended where I initially wanted, but at least I manage to finish it.
il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour
It's two in the morning when somebody starts attacking -- it certainly isn't knocking -- Arthur's door. He glares at the digital clock display on the bedside table, almost as if he blames it for the disturbance, before sluggishly kicking off his sheets and stumbling through the dark towards the apartment's front door. Usually when someone is banging on his door at ungodly hours, it's the boyfriend of the girl three doors down, who is almost always too drunk to realize that he is not suddenly living upside down, and is in fact at room '309' not '306'.
This time, though, when Arthur opens the door -- prepared to sigh, "Nick, for the twelfth time, this is not Lucy's apartment," -- he instead finds Eames, leaning against his door frame with a sad smile on his face that Arthur's never seen before.
"Bwuh?" he blinks, wondering if he's dreaming and instinctively reaching for a pocket that isn't there. Eames stands there and says nothing as Arthur rummages around his pajamas until he realizes he doesn't have his loaded die on him. "Is this a dream?" Arthur means to ask himself, but ends up blurting it out to Eames, who chuckles, though not as loudly as he usually would.
"Does that mean you dream about me at your doorstep often?"
"Fuck you, Eames," Arthur spits, though he doesn't deny it, "And you aren't supposed to know where I live. How did you even--"
Eames cuts him off by stepping forward inside the apartment, digging his hands into Arthur's rumpled hair and pulling him into a kiss. He kicks the door shut behind him, plunging the apartment back into darkness, and starts walking, pushing Arthur in front of him. Arthur tries warning him that they're going to trip over furniture if they don't turn on the light soon, but Eames is holding his tongue hostage and he only manages a couple grunts against Eames' mouth.
Without warning, Eames pulls his lips and hands away, and Arthur gets out little more than a confused, "What are you--" when those hands are on his thighs and lifting him up, and suddenly Eames is navigating them through Arthur's living room as if he's been there countless times before. Arthur fights back a shiver as Eames starts sucking at his neck, too distracted by the feeling of hot tongue tracing circles over his skin to protest about being carried like a child. Eames finds Arthur's bedroom with ease, and kicks the door shut behind him again before slowly lowering Arthur onto the bed.
Eames reaches to start tugging Arthur's pajamas off, but Arthur stops him with a foot to his shoulder, holding him in place.
"Why are you here?"
"Arthur--"
"How are you here? I've moved four times since I last spoke to you. I never told Cobb, or Ariadne, or anyone. I'm the one who's supposed to be on top of the details, Eames, not you."
Arthur is glaring at where he expects Eames is staring back at him, though it's too dark to actually see and his eyes still aren't adjusted. There's a warm hand slowly wrapping around his foot and lowering it, allowing Eames to lean down and lay his forehead on the sheets beside Arthur's ear.
"Arthur, darling, do me a favor this time, yeah?"
"What?" he asks impatiently.
"Shut up."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, answer the question--" Arthur starts to protest angrily, but Eames tugs down his pajama pants and boxers in one swift movement and takes his soft cock in his mouth, and in an instant, Arthur is reduced to grunts and hissing.
Eames is good at this -- very good at this -- and he as Arthur hard in seconds. But Arthur notes, somewhat absently, that this is different from those other times Eames has sucked him off. For one, he's going slower. This isn't like their usual frantic encounters, hidden in back hallways, dark corners or hotel rooms, desperately using each other for release and nothing more. Eames is taking his time, being gentle, and Arthur realizes that something is wrong.
"E-Eames," he stutters, caught offguard by a sudden swipe of warm tongue against the head of his cock. He hisses in a breath before trying again, this time louder, "Eames."
There's a wet pop, and Arthur can dimly see Eames' impatient expression as he keeps stroking him with his hand.
"What happened to that favor, darling?"
"I never agreed to that," Arthur points out, and Eames squeezes his cock with sudden pressure and he makes a choking noise. When he can breathe properly again, he glares and growls, "Asshole."
"Do get on with the point, dearest, I'd like to focus on the matter at hand, if you wouldn't mind."
"What's wrong with you?"
The hand around his cock stills, and Arthur can tell he's made a direct hit, though he's relieved when Eames picks up the pace again quickly, trying to recover.
"What are you talking about?" Eames asks, sounding confused, but Arthur knows he's a good actor.
"Hell if I know. You're the one acting weird," Arthur breathes, leaning his head back against the bed as Eames starts stroking him faster. Neither of them say anything more in the darkness, Eames eventually sucking him back into his mouth and working his cock slowly with his tongue.
Arthur quietly tries to convince himself that that's fine, that he doesn't need an answer. Eames can be secretive and difficult, can keep whatever's bothering him to himself and just use Arthur for sexual relief, and he'll be perfectly okay with that. Anything more, and he's changing the game, and while they never actually sat down together and hashed out the rules of this thing -- it's not a relationship; they both know that much -- Arthur's pretty sure there's a boundary here he's not supposed to cross. He can respect that. He can back down and let Eames do whatever he came here to do, and never make it into anything more.
But Arthur isn't as good at lying as Eames.
He pulls himself up into a sitting position, and by now his eyes are used to the dark and he can see Eames hunched over the side of the bed, head buried in his lap. He grabs Eames by the shoulders and pushes at him until he pulls away, this time glaring up at Arthur with frustration.
"What is it now?"
"Strip, you idiot. Lube's in the drawer," Arthur commands, moving to tug his own shirt over his head. Eames blinks up at him, caught off guard, before chuckling quietly.
"You know I love it when you're bossy," Eames whispers and Arthur kicks him softly in the chest until he does as he's told. Arthur's cock jumps a little as Eames kicks off the last of his clothing and goes over to the bedside table, dick hard and bobbing as he walks.
"You've got condoms in here, too. Who exactly are you keeping these for?" Eames teases, and Arthur ignores the growing warmth in his face.
"Fuck off," he grumbles, but Eames shoves him back down to the bed and climbs over him, slicking his fingers with lube and dragging a thumb along his thigh.
"Not yet, love," Eames whispers before pressing into Arthur fast and sudden. Arthur gasps and digs his hands into Eames' skin, grunting as he feels Eames' fingers slowly stretching him wide. It's been a long time since he's had sex with Eames -- and much, much longer since he's had sex with someone other than Eames, though Arthur pushes that little detail to the back of his mind -- but it's always quick, rough and dirty. But just like before, Eames is going almost tauntingly slow, working his fingers inside of Arthur gentle and thorough instead of quick and just enough for it not to hurt.
Eames starts pressing kisses up Arthur's stomach, trailing up his ribs with one free hand and his mouth. Arthur shivers despite the warmth of the room, and his stomach tightens when Eames' tongue reaches his neck.
"Stop wasting my time," Arthur hisses into Eames' ear, and he gets an amused laugh against his skin in return.
Eames slowly slips out his fingers, wiping them dry with Arthur's sheets -- later, he will care about that and how frighteningly unhygienic that is, but at the moment, he doesn't even notice -- before grabbing one of the condoms and ripping the package open with his teeth.
"Is that supposed to be impressive?" Arthur asks, feeling a need to fight off the silence but not entirely sure why.
"Arthur, that favor?" Eames sighs as he finishes pulling the condom on.
"Fine, fine," Arthur grumbles, moving to roll onto his stomach. Eames catches him by the arm and rolls him back, shaking his head in the dark.
"Not like that. Just this once, I want--" Eames doesn't finish his sentence as he thrusts into Arthur, all heat and unrelenting pressure.
Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a choked gasp, hands scrambling to find something to hold onto as Eames presses him deeper and deeper into the bed. He starts to reach for Eames' shoulders, tempted to wrap his arms around his neck, but catches himself and settles for the sheets around his head. The rhythm is slow, just like everything else tonight, and it's almost annoying. The one thing that isn't gentle is Eames' fingers as they dig into Arthur's hips, harder than he ever has before. It starts to hurt, but Arthur keeps quiet, wanting the roughness he's so used to that Eames keeps denying him.
Suddenly, without changing tempo, Eames lets go of Arthur's waist and leans forward, pressing his forehead against his chest while wrapping his arms around Arthur's back. For a moment, Arthur's heart leaps into his throat before dropping down to his stomach.
He knows what this is.
Arthur doesn't say a word about it, though, just burying a hand into Eames' hair and closing his eyes as Eames presses soft kisses against his skin.
~
Arthur wakes up at seven in the morning, alarm blaring and red numbers blinking angrily at him. He sits up slowly and looks down groggily, noticing he's wearing his pajamas again. His stomach makes an uncomfortable flip as he tosses the sheets aside, looking for any sign of what happened last night and finding none. His heart starts to pound in his chest, but when he leaps from the bed he feels a familiar sensation travel through him. His back aches in a way that could only mean one thing, and he settles back on the bed with a sigh.
He smacks his still-ringing alarm clock, silencing it for good, and notices a slip of paper sticking out of the top drawer beneath it. Very carefully, he pulls it out and stares at it. Eames' handwriting is hard to read, the paper is scrunched up and the ink is worn, as if it had been in his pocket for a long time, but Arthur spends his time reading the note over and over.
you've never been very hard to find
sorry it took me so long to come see you
au revoir, darling
Arthur remembers -- somewhere in the dark, with both of them spent and his stomach sticky and wet, as Eames kissed him softly and slowly, teasing his tongue with his own -- thinking 'I know what this is.
'This is goodbye.'
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance/Angst
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Warnings: sex
Word Count: 1,922
Summary: "Does that mean you dream about me at your doorstep often?"
Author Notes: Dedicated to owe, because she is amazing. I may have a kink for Arthur swearing at Eames. I have no idea why or where it came from, but I'm certain I have it. THIS STARTED SO MUCH SHORTER and then erupted and became longer, so I'm not sure it ended where I initially wanted, but at least I manage to finish it.
il n'est rien de réel que le rêve et l'amour
It's two in the morning when somebody starts attacking -- it certainly isn't knocking -- Arthur's door. He glares at the digital clock display on the bedside table, almost as if he blames it for the disturbance, before sluggishly kicking off his sheets and stumbling through the dark towards the apartment's front door. Usually when someone is banging on his door at ungodly hours, it's the boyfriend of the girl three doors down, who is almost always too drunk to realize that he is not suddenly living upside down, and is in fact at room '309' not '306'.
This time, though, when Arthur opens the door -- prepared to sigh, "Nick, for the twelfth time, this is not Lucy's apartment," -- he instead finds Eames, leaning against his door frame with a sad smile on his face that Arthur's never seen before.
"Bwuh?" he blinks, wondering if he's dreaming and instinctively reaching for a pocket that isn't there. Eames stands there and says nothing as Arthur rummages around his pajamas until he realizes he doesn't have his loaded die on him. "Is this a dream?" Arthur means to ask himself, but ends up blurting it out to Eames, who chuckles, though not as loudly as he usually would.
"Does that mean you dream about me at your doorstep often?"
"Fuck you, Eames," Arthur spits, though he doesn't deny it, "And you aren't supposed to know where I live. How did you even--"
Eames cuts him off by stepping forward inside the apartment, digging his hands into Arthur's rumpled hair and pulling him into a kiss. He kicks the door shut behind him, plunging the apartment back into darkness, and starts walking, pushing Arthur in front of him. Arthur tries warning him that they're going to trip over furniture if they don't turn on the light soon, but Eames is holding his tongue hostage and he only manages a couple grunts against Eames' mouth.
Without warning, Eames pulls his lips and hands away, and Arthur gets out little more than a confused, "What are you--" when those hands are on his thighs and lifting him up, and suddenly Eames is navigating them through Arthur's living room as if he's been there countless times before. Arthur fights back a shiver as Eames starts sucking at his neck, too distracted by the feeling of hot tongue tracing circles over his skin to protest about being carried like a child. Eames finds Arthur's bedroom with ease, and kicks the door shut behind him again before slowly lowering Arthur onto the bed.
Eames reaches to start tugging Arthur's pajamas off, but Arthur stops him with a foot to his shoulder, holding him in place.
"Why are you here?"
"Arthur--"
"How are you here? I've moved four times since I last spoke to you. I never told Cobb, or Ariadne, or anyone. I'm the one who's supposed to be on top of the details, Eames, not you."
Arthur is glaring at where he expects Eames is staring back at him, though it's too dark to actually see and his eyes still aren't adjusted. There's a warm hand slowly wrapping around his foot and lowering it, allowing Eames to lean down and lay his forehead on the sheets beside Arthur's ear.
"Arthur, darling, do me a favor this time, yeah?"
"What?" he asks impatiently.
"Shut up."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, answer the question--" Arthur starts to protest angrily, but Eames tugs down his pajama pants and boxers in one swift movement and takes his soft cock in his mouth, and in an instant, Arthur is reduced to grunts and hissing.
Eames is good at this -- very good at this -- and he as Arthur hard in seconds. But Arthur notes, somewhat absently, that this is different from those other times Eames has sucked him off. For one, he's going slower. This isn't like their usual frantic encounters, hidden in back hallways, dark corners or hotel rooms, desperately using each other for release and nothing more. Eames is taking his time, being gentle, and Arthur realizes that something is wrong.
"E-Eames," he stutters, caught offguard by a sudden swipe of warm tongue against the head of his cock. He hisses in a breath before trying again, this time louder, "Eames."
There's a wet pop, and Arthur can dimly see Eames' impatient expression as he keeps stroking him with his hand.
"What happened to that favor, darling?"
"I never agreed to that," Arthur points out, and Eames squeezes his cock with sudden pressure and he makes a choking noise. When he can breathe properly again, he glares and growls, "Asshole."
"Do get on with the point, dearest, I'd like to focus on the matter at hand, if you wouldn't mind."
"What's wrong with you?"
The hand around his cock stills, and Arthur can tell he's made a direct hit, though he's relieved when Eames picks up the pace again quickly, trying to recover.
"What are you talking about?" Eames asks, sounding confused, but Arthur knows he's a good actor.
"Hell if I know. You're the one acting weird," Arthur breathes, leaning his head back against the bed as Eames starts stroking him faster. Neither of them say anything more in the darkness, Eames eventually sucking him back into his mouth and working his cock slowly with his tongue.
Arthur quietly tries to convince himself that that's fine, that he doesn't need an answer. Eames can be secretive and difficult, can keep whatever's bothering him to himself and just use Arthur for sexual relief, and he'll be perfectly okay with that. Anything more, and he's changing the game, and while they never actually sat down together and hashed out the rules of this thing -- it's not a relationship; they both know that much -- Arthur's pretty sure there's a boundary here he's not supposed to cross. He can respect that. He can back down and let Eames do whatever he came here to do, and never make it into anything more.
But Arthur isn't as good at lying as Eames.
He pulls himself up into a sitting position, and by now his eyes are used to the dark and he can see Eames hunched over the side of the bed, head buried in his lap. He grabs Eames by the shoulders and pushes at him until he pulls away, this time glaring up at Arthur with frustration.
"What is it now?"
"Strip, you idiot. Lube's in the drawer," Arthur commands, moving to tug his own shirt over his head. Eames blinks up at him, caught off guard, before chuckling quietly.
"You know I love it when you're bossy," Eames whispers and Arthur kicks him softly in the chest until he does as he's told. Arthur's cock jumps a little as Eames kicks off the last of his clothing and goes over to the bedside table, dick hard and bobbing as he walks.
"You've got condoms in here, too. Who exactly are you keeping these for?" Eames teases, and Arthur ignores the growing warmth in his face.
"Fuck off," he grumbles, but Eames shoves him back down to the bed and climbs over him, slicking his fingers with lube and dragging a thumb along his thigh.
"Not yet, love," Eames whispers before pressing into Arthur fast and sudden. Arthur gasps and digs his hands into Eames' skin, grunting as he feels Eames' fingers slowly stretching him wide. It's been a long time since he's had sex with Eames -- and much, much longer since he's had sex with someone other than Eames, though Arthur pushes that little detail to the back of his mind -- but it's always quick, rough and dirty. But just like before, Eames is going almost tauntingly slow, working his fingers inside of Arthur gentle and thorough instead of quick and just enough for it not to hurt.
Eames starts pressing kisses up Arthur's stomach, trailing up his ribs with one free hand and his mouth. Arthur shivers despite the warmth of the room, and his stomach tightens when Eames' tongue reaches his neck.
"Stop wasting my time," Arthur hisses into Eames' ear, and he gets an amused laugh against his skin in return.
Eames slowly slips out his fingers, wiping them dry with Arthur's sheets -- later, he will care about that and how frighteningly unhygienic that is, but at the moment, he doesn't even notice -- before grabbing one of the condoms and ripping the package open with his teeth.
"Is that supposed to be impressive?" Arthur asks, feeling a need to fight off the silence but not entirely sure why.
"Arthur, that favor?" Eames sighs as he finishes pulling the condom on.
"Fine, fine," Arthur grumbles, moving to roll onto his stomach. Eames catches him by the arm and rolls him back, shaking his head in the dark.
"Not like that. Just this once, I want--" Eames doesn't finish his sentence as he thrusts into Arthur, all heat and unrelenting pressure.
Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a choked gasp, hands scrambling to find something to hold onto as Eames presses him deeper and deeper into the bed. He starts to reach for Eames' shoulders, tempted to wrap his arms around his neck, but catches himself and settles for the sheets around his head. The rhythm is slow, just like everything else tonight, and it's almost annoying. The one thing that isn't gentle is Eames' fingers as they dig into Arthur's hips, harder than he ever has before. It starts to hurt, but Arthur keeps quiet, wanting the roughness he's so used to that Eames keeps denying him.
Suddenly, without changing tempo, Eames lets go of Arthur's waist and leans forward, pressing his forehead against his chest while wrapping his arms around Arthur's back. For a moment, Arthur's heart leaps into his throat before dropping down to his stomach.
He knows what this is.
Arthur doesn't say a word about it, though, just burying a hand into Eames' hair and closing his eyes as Eames presses soft kisses against his skin.
~
Arthur wakes up at seven in the morning, alarm blaring and red numbers blinking angrily at him. He sits up slowly and looks down groggily, noticing he's wearing his pajamas again. His stomach makes an uncomfortable flip as he tosses the sheets aside, looking for any sign of what happened last night and finding none. His heart starts to pound in his chest, but when he leaps from the bed he feels a familiar sensation travel through him. His back aches in a way that could only mean one thing, and he settles back on the bed with a sigh.
He smacks his still-ringing alarm clock, silencing it for good, and notices a slip of paper sticking out of the top drawer beneath it. Very carefully, he pulls it out and stares at it. Eames' handwriting is hard to read, the paper is scrunched up and the ink is worn, as if it had been in his pocket for a long time, but Arthur spends his time reading the note over and over.
you've never been very hard to find
sorry it took me so long to come see you
au revoir, darling
Arthur remembers -- somewhere in the dark, with both of them spent and his stomach sticky and wet, as Eames kissed him softly and slowly, teasing his tongue with his own -- thinking 'I know what this is.
'This is goodbye.'