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Entry tags:
saturday morning
Simple Math [WIP]
Arthur/Eames | NC-17 | 3100 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
I...can't remember if I've mentioned Arthur's last name before. /o\ If I have, it's been retconned. Please forgive my senility. Have some porn.
Arthur wakes up slowly and winces as a sliver of early morning sunlight hits him square in the face. His whole body feels like it’s been hit by truck, aching and half-dead.
I’m never drinking again, he thinks, too exhausted to close the blinds the rest of the way. Thank god he’d made it back to his bed somehow; at this rate, he’s never leaving it.
He sighs with a soft moan and turns onto his side--and is abruptly pressed against a solid wall of a warm body.
Arthur sucks in a breath, one eye opening. Eames is fast asleep with his face buried in Arthur’s spare pillow, his hair all tousled and matted and his lips barely parted. His eyelashes are a dark, delicate sweep over his faintly pink cheeks, his bruise from the fight on Thursday starting to fade.
The night before comes back to Arthur in bits and pieces--Brice’s house, a darkened hallway, Eames pushing Arthur into a wall as he mouths at his neck, the two of them tumbling into Ariadne’s car and laughing as she rolls her eyes at them in the rear view mirror...
He remembers unlocking the front door as quietly as possible, Eames whispering, “Maybe I should carry you upstairs,” and Arthur saying, “Shut the fuck up,” before dissolving back into giggles as he punched Eames’ shoulder. They had tiptoed up to his room, and as Arthur stripped down to his boxers without a second thought, Eames had slid up behind him and nuzzled his neck.
“Thanks,” he’d murmured.
Arthur had shivered and tried to laugh it off. “Here,” he’d replied, grabbing a random pair of track shorts off the floor and tossing them at Eames. “Probably too small, but they’re clean. Mostly.”
Eames had held them in his hand for a second, biting his lip, and then wriggled out of his own ruined boxers. Arthur had had enough sense to turn away as he’d changed; the room was beginning to spin, and he’d concentrated on getting cleaned up and falling into bed. His brain had been too overloaded to think about Eames standing naked in the middle of his bedroom, his sticky boxers in a heap on the carpet from having come thirty minutes earlier--because of Arthur.
He’d crawled into bed facing the wall, but when Eames had climbed in after him and asked, “This okay?” in a quiet, slurred voice that sounded a little shy, Arthur grinned.
“Yeah, ‘s fine,” he’d said. “Mom knows I sleep in on Saturdays. You’re good.”
Eames had sighed like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he’d said against Arthur’s cheek.
And Arthur had turned his head at the last minute and let their mouths connect in a soft, quick kiss, not because he’d wanted it, but because it just worked out that way. “You’re welcome,” he’d whispered against Eames’ lips, and even in the dark he could’ve sworn Eames had closed his eyes and smiled.
It had all seemed perfectly natural, like they’d always spent their Friday nights stumbling drunk into Arthur’s room and crawling into bed together.
But now, with garish light streaming in to slap Arthur in the face, it all looked a lot different from the sober end of things. He shifts slightly, painfully aware that Eames is naked save for Arthur’s shorts as their legs slide together. Arthur’s shirtless as well; it’s almost too hot under the covers, combined with Eames’ heat, and the back of his hand rests low against Eames’ bare chest. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Eames’ breathing.
They can’t stay like this, yet Arthur can’t quite bring himself to wake Eames up. He wants the moment to last a little longer, pretend Eames belongs here, that he won’t bolt the second he realizes exactly where he is.
Arthur doesn’t account for the next door neighbor to start up his lawnmower right outside the window with a loud, angry roar.
Eames frowns into the pillow, rubbing his cheek back and forth. He yawns just before his eyebrows knit together in confusion, and eventually his eyes blink open to meet Arthur’s. They’re a sleep-hazy blue, unfocused and soft.
A rush of something deep and affectionate pools in Arthur’s chest. This is what he looks like when he wakes up. This is how he looks at someone first thing in the morning. He swallows hard, not wanting to be the first to speak.
Eames stretches, a long, slow pull of his body beneath the sheets. His hips bump up against Arthur’s, who realizes with a start that he’s suddenly, instantly hard. Arthur rolls carefully onto his stomach, presses his stupid erection into the mattress.
“What time’s it?” Eames mumbles, and fuck, Arthur doesn’t need to know that Eames sounds like that when he first wakes up, like sex and too many cigarettes.
“I dunno. Eight-thirty or so.” He tucks his arms under his own pillow, afraid he might do something dumb, like blindly try to find Eames’ tattoo with his fingertips.
“Hmm.” Eames rubs his knuckles over his eyes, squinting in the sunlight. He looks startlingly young for a second, and Arthur unfortunately gets harder. “D’you have my mobile?”
“Um. Hang on.” Arthur has no idea where Eames’ phone is; he figures it has to be somewhere in the rumpled pile of messy jeans and underwear. He scrambles out of bed, the air a cool shock to his over-heated skin, and goes to dig around on the floor until he finds the cell sticking out from under Eames’ wrinkled t-shirt.
He throws it on the bed, and Eames grabs for it without really crawling out from under the blankets. He burrows down just as Arthur climbs back in beside him; the bed’s only a double, it’s not like there’s tons of room. He watches Eames check his messages, their knees pressing against each other.
“I can get Ariadne to take you home,” Arthur says. The room feels too quiet and close, his voice too loud.
Eames shrugs one shoulder and shifts closer to Arthur, probably because he’s kind of wedged against the wall. “I just texted Rafe and told him I was at your place. He’ll let our mum know.”
“She won’t be pissed?”
Eames closes the texting keyboard on his phone and shoves it under his pillow. “Naw,” he says, giving Arthur a small, sheepish smile. “It’s you. She won’t mind.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Y’know...she likes you. She likes your mum. It’s not a big deal.” Eames turns his face into the pillow as he talks, muffling his words.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long moment, torn between battling his stupid hangover and watching the way Eames’ hair looks against his pillow case. He yawns and stretches back out onto his stomach so he can’t feel Eames’ bare skin.
He opens his eyes when he feels a thumb skim over his cheek. Eames smirks at him.
“Never seen you with that much stubble,” he says.
Arthur leans away from the touch, but he can feel himself smiling. “It’s a morning thing.”
“I feel like I should have pictorial evidence that Arthur Tatum does indeed grow facial hair.”
“Fuck you, you’re not taking pictures of me in bed.”
Eames grins devilishly as he pulls his phone back out from under the pillow. “No?”
“No, god, Eames--” Arthur reaches out and tries to grab the phone from him, but Eames yanks his arm away too quickly, and somehow this leads to them wrestling underneath blankets, until Arthur pins Eames by his wrists.
He holds the phone up, victorious. “Maybe I need pictorial evidence that I just kicked Eames Hamilton’s ass while half-asleep and hungover, what do you say?”
Eames rolls his eyes. “You didn’t kick my ass, for one, and also, I’m probably more hungover than you.”
“Yeah, likely story.” Arthur turns Eames’ phone camera on and points it at him, making a show of framing the perfect shot while he bites his lower lip. He ignores the part where he’s straddling Eames’ bare thigh while Eames is looking up at him with a slight flush in his cheeks.
“How would you actually title this on Facebook?” Eames sounds like he’s joking, but there’s a hint of something pensive in his voice, something tentative. “I mean, breaking up’s going to be a lot more difficult when you’re posting pictures of me in your bed.”
Arthur’s stomach grows heavy. He lowers the phone. “Whatever, I wasn’t going to actually take them.” He rolls off of Eames, dropping the phone on his chest.
He doesn’t expect Eames to catch him by the elbow. “Hey,” Eames whispers, pulling Arthur close until he’s draped along Eames’ side, their mouths dangerously close. “You can take them if you want.”
Arthur huffs. “No, you’re right, it’s pointless. You shouldn’t even be here, anyway.” He tries to angle his hips away, because his erection doesn’t seem to understand that he’s not in a position to grind against Eames’ leg.
Eames is quiet as he lets Arthur go. “My car’s back at Brice’s,” he says and turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“I can take my mom’s car and drive you back, or--”
“I’ll just text Brice, he’ll come get me.”
Arthur’s jaw clenches. “Seriously, I can take you.”
“Your car’s still there, too. He’ll take us both, it’ll be two birds with one stone.”
He wishes he didn’t remember every little detail Eames told him about Brice. It was a lark, a way to get off, he’d said, and yet Arthur wonders how often Eames crawled, half-naked, into Brice’s bed only to wake up the next morning to talk about break-ups and other stupid shit instead of curling into each other and trading lazy kisses.
He doesn’t want Brice showing up here, at Arthur’s house, to pick up Arthur’s boyfriend. He keeps hearing Brice’s drunk, smug voice in his head, he used quote shit at me after we’d fuck in his room, and goddamn it, Eames isn’t his. Not anymore.
Technically, for two more days, he’s still Arthur’s.
Eames is busy texting, facing the wall with his back to Arthur. The muscles in his shoulders flex with subtle twitches, and Arthur takes a deep breath.
“When’s he coming over?”
“In half an hour or so. I woke him up.” Eames sounds fond, a smile in his voice.
Something breaks inside of Arthur. He closes his eyes and presses forward, ever so gently tucking his face into the warm curve of Eames’ neck. He can hear the soft inhale Eames makes, the way his body goes completely still.
“We should--we should make you look somewhat debauched, right?” Arthur whispers into his skin. “You spent the night.”
Eames doesn’t turn over, but his breathing immediately grows faster, sharper. “I guess, yeah. He thinks we have this, like, epic sex life.”
There’s no reason for that to make Arthur nearly shudder with want. He grits his teeth, carefully lays a hand on Eames’ bicep and trails his fingers down to his elbow. “Did you tell him that?”
Eames snorts, but it’s a little too breathless. “No, he just--I’m pretty sure he’s convinced I’m in love with you or something.” He arches his back slightly, fitting himself perfectly against Arthur’s chest, his ass right up against Arthur’s erection.
Arthur shuts his eyes and swallows, already starting to sweat. “What does love have to do with fucking?” he whispers, because if he speaks he’ll hear the roughness in his voice.
“It doesn’t, but--fuck, Arthur--” Eames turns over, their skin sliding together, his hands curling tightly around Arthur’s waist. He pulls Arthur on top of him, legs spread over Eames’ thighs, shoving his hand into Arthur’s hair.
“I--” Eames starts, a strange helpless look flickering in his eyes before he tugs Arthur down to slam their lips together. Arthur braces his hands on the bed over Eames’ shoulders and kisses him as fast and dirty as he wants, because this is what he’d do if Eames was really his. He’d wake up and kiss the shit out of him and make him come gasping his name and then maybe they’d go get pancakes and coffee. He grinds his cock against the hard line of Eames’ erection through the material of his track shorts that are a size too small for Eames, not hiding anything, and Eames bites at his mouth, growling and shivering beneath him.
“Wait, wait,” Arthur gasps, sitting up. He laughs shakily when Eames glares at him.
“Don’t want to, uh, ruin another set of shorts,” he says sheepishly.
Eames’ glare almost instantly turns into something darker, hotter. “Are you--you saying you want--”
“I’m saying,” Arthur whispers, hands unsteady as he slowly takes his cock out of his boxers, “that we should maybe be a little neater about this.”
Eames squeezes his eyes shut, swearing under his breath like the sight of Arthur’s dick physically hurts him. Arthur starts to make a snippy comment, only it’s forgotten a second later when Eames frantically paws at his shorts for his own cock, gasping, “Fucking hell, oh fuck, you’re gonna--fuck, you’re gonna kill me, jesus--”
He’s already wet, pre-come smeared everywhere. Arthur’s mouth drops open right as Eames wraps his hand around them both and shoves his hips up.
It’s insane, like being hit in the face with a punch of blinding sensation. Arthur can’t--he just can’t hold on, not like this, not when everything is slick and hot and Eames looks like he’s about to die from it all. Arthur tumbles forward, fucking into Eames’ fist with an awkward, uneven rhythm for all of four, five strokes before he comes all over Eames’ stomach, voice breaking as he moans into a weak attempt of a kiss.
“Please--”
“Fuck,” Eames hisses, sucking hard at Arthur’s lower lip, hard enough to break the skin. Arthur feels hot wetness spread over his skin, and jesus christ, that’s hotter than anything, knowing that it’s Eames’ come, that it’s there for him, because of him.
He collapses in a panting, messy heap against Eames, face buried in the hollow of Eames’ throat. Eames’ mouth is open, gasping for breath, but he doesn’t stop touching Arthur; one hand trails up Arthur’s sweaty back while the other nudges at Arthur’s hand until their fingers are threaded together in a loose hold.
Arthur listens to Eames’ breathing even out, bit by bit. His room is going to smell like sex now. Sex and Eames.
“God, I’m a bloody mess,” Eames mutters, voice utterly wrecked. Arthur bites back a moan and presses closer.
“Sorry. But I...don’t think you can get away with using the shower. My mom would--”
“Yeah, I know. Occupational hazard and all that.” He brushes his mouth over Arthur’s forehead, where his bangs are all wet and clumping together.
Arthur sighs and stretches. He could fall asleep again, right here, mess be damned. “I’ve got Kleenexes, don’t worry.”
“Oh, really?” Eames laughs softly. “And what else does darling little Arthur have hidden in his jerk-off stash?”
Arthur bites his chest. “The same shit as you do, asshole. Or do you go the KY route instead of plain old Jergens?”
“I’m a fan of Vaseline, actually. Makes my skin baby soft, did you know?”
Arthur lifts his head, not knowing if Eames is kidding or not, and when he sees Eames staring up at him with wide-eyed innocence, he breaks into giggles. “You are such a fucking douche.”
“Would you want me any other way?” Eames whispers, leaning up to push their noses together. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed, and he’s just opening his mouth to a lazy, deep kiss when Eames’ cell buzzes.
Eames groans, fumbling blindly for the thing without quite breaking the kiss. “Fucking Brice,” he murmurs, and that makes Arthur pull back.
“Is he here already?” he asks, chest growing tight.
Eames squints at the screen and sighs. “He’ll be here in ten.”
A part of Arthur wants to get Eames hard again so he’ll never want to leave. The rest of Arthur--the logical part--knows better. He pushes himself off Eames, wincing at the mess between them.
“Do you still want to come, too?” Eames asks as Arthur throws a box of tissues at him.
The last place Arthur wants to be right now is in Eames’ ex-boyfriend’s car, even if Eames does smell like sex. “That’s okay, I’ll call Ariadne later. I don’t have anywhere to be today.”
Eames wipes absently at his stomach. “I could, I don’t know...come by later? Pick you up?”
“Really, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about it.” It sounds too much like about me. Arthur shakes his head as he pulls a pair of track pants on, refusing to glance over at Eames still naked and spread out on his bed, cleaning come off his skin.
When Brice texts again to say he’s pulling into Arthur’s drive, Eames is dressed in his dirty jeans and wrinkled t-shirt, his hair a disaster and his mouth still pink and swollen. He looks completely debauched, and completely like he belongs to Arthur, who has a desperate and sudden urge to kiss him hard, right where Brice can see.
Instead, he leans against his bedroom door as Eames shoves his wallet and phone in his back pocket and says, “You should call me tonight.”
Eames looks up, startled. He licks over his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, I mean, to talk about Monday. How you want the whole break-up to happen.”
His mouth stops twitching. “Sure.” Eames scrubs a hand through his hair, glancing around the room for a moment as if lost. “I guess I’ll just--go.”
Arthur nods, holds the door open for him. Thankfully, he’s pretty sure his mom’s out for her mid-morning jog; god only knows how that conversation would go down, her seeing Eames leaving his room after sex.
Eames pauses in the doorway, mutters something Arthur can’t hear, then pushes Arthur against the door and kisses him, one hand splayed possessively over Arthur’s cheek.
It’s over a handful of seconds later, and Arthur’s left panting and hard again, watching Eames run down the stairs and out the front door without looking back.
Arthur/Eames | NC-17 | 3100 words [this part]
i.e. The Fake Boyfriends High School AU
|previous chapters|
I...can't remember if I've mentioned Arthur's last name before. /o\ If I have, it's been retconned. Please forgive my senility. Have some porn.
Arthur wakes up slowly and winces as a sliver of early morning sunlight hits him square in the face. His whole body feels like it’s been hit by truck, aching and half-dead.
I’m never drinking again, he thinks, too exhausted to close the blinds the rest of the way. Thank god he’d made it back to his bed somehow; at this rate, he’s never leaving it.
He sighs with a soft moan and turns onto his side--and is abruptly pressed against a solid wall of a warm body.
Arthur sucks in a breath, one eye opening. Eames is fast asleep with his face buried in Arthur’s spare pillow, his hair all tousled and matted and his lips barely parted. His eyelashes are a dark, delicate sweep over his faintly pink cheeks, his bruise from the fight on Thursday starting to fade.
The night before comes back to Arthur in bits and pieces--Brice’s house, a darkened hallway, Eames pushing Arthur into a wall as he mouths at his neck, the two of them tumbling into Ariadne’s car and laughing as she rolls her eyes at them in the rear view mirror...
He remembers unlocking the front door as quietly as possible, Eames whispering, “Maybe I should carry you upstairs,” and Arthur saying, “Shut the fuck up,” before dissolving back into giggles as he punched Eames’ shoulder. They had tiptoed up to his room, and as Arthur stripped down to his boxers without a second thought, Eames had slid up behind him and nuzzled his neck.
“Thanks,” he’d murmured.
Arthur had shivered and tried to laugh it off. “Here,” he’d replied, grabbing a random pair of track shorts off the floor and tossing them at Eames. “Probably too small, but they’re clean. Mostly.”
Eames had held them in his hand for a second, biting his lip, and then wriggled out of his own ruined boxers. Arthur had had enough sense to turn away as he’d changed; the room was beginning to spin, and he’d concentrated on getting cleaned up and falling into bed. His brain had been too overloaded to think about Eames standing naked in the middle of his bedroom, his sticky boxers in a heap on the carpet from having come thirty minutes earlier--because of Arthur.
He’d crawled into bed facing the wall, but when Eames had climbed in after him and asked, “This okay?” in a quiet, slurred voice that sounded a little shy, Arthur grinned.
“Yeah, ‘s fine,” he’d said. “Mom knows I sleep in on Saturdays. You’re good.”
Eames had sighed like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he’d said against Arthur’s cheek.
And Arthur had turned his head at the last minute and let their mouths connect in a soft, quick kiss, not because he’d wanted it, but because it just worked out that way. “You’re welcome,” he’d whispered against Eames’ lips, and even in the dark he could’ve sworn Eames had closed his eyes and smiled.
It had all seemed perfectly natural, like they’d always spent their Friday nights stumbling drunk into Arthur’s room and crawling into bed together.
But now, with garish light streaming in to slap Arthur in the face, it all looked a lot different from the sober end of things. He shifts slightly, painfully aware that Eames is naked save for Arthur’s shorts as their legs slide together. Arthur’s shirtless as well; it’s almost too hot under the covers, combined with Eames’ heat, and the back of his hand rests low against Eames’ bare chest. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Eames’ breathing.
They can’t stay like this, yet Arthur can’t quite bring himself to wake Eames up. He wants the moment to last a little longer, pretend Eames belongs here, that he won’t bolt the second he realizes exactly where he is.
Arthur doesn’t account for the next door neighbor to start up his lawnmower right outside the window with a loud, angry roar.
Eames frowns into the pillow, rubbing his cheek back and forth. He yawns just before his eyebrows knit together in confusion, and eventually his eyes blink open to meet Arthur’s. They’re a sleep-hazy blue, unfocused and soft.
A rush of something deep and affectionate pools in Arthur’s chest. This is what he looks like when he wakes up. This is how he looks at someone first thing in the morning. He swallows hard, not wanting to be the first to speak.
Eames stretches, a long, slow pull of his body beneath the sheets. His hips bump up against Arthur’s, who realizes with a start that he’s suddenly, instantly hard. Arthur rolls carefully onto his stomach, presses his stupid erection into the mattress.
“What time’s it?” Eames mumbles, and fuck, Arthur doesn’t need to know that Eames sounds like that when he first wakes up, like sex and too many cigarettes.
“I dunno. Eight-thirty or so.” He tucks his arms under his own pillow, afraid he might do something dumb, like blindly try to find Eames’ tattoo with his fingertips.
“Hmm.” Eames rubs his knuckles over his eyes, squinting in the sunlight. He looks startlingly young for a second, and Arthur unfortunately gets harder. “D’you have my mobile?”
“Um. Hang on.” Arthur has no idea where Eames’ phone is; he figures it has to be somewhere in the rumpled pile of messy jeans and underwear. He scrambles out of bed, the air a cool shock to his over-heated skin, and goes to dig around on the floor until he finds the cell sticking out from under Eames’ wrinkled t-shirt.
He throws it on the bed, and Eames grabs for it without really crawling out from under the blankets. He burrows down just as Arthur climbs back in beside him; the bed’s only a double, it’s not like there’s tons of room. He watches Eames check his messages, their knees pressing against each other.
“I can get Ariadne to take you home,” Arthur says. The room feels too quiet and close, his voice too loud.
Eames shrugs one shoulder and shifts closer to Arthur, probably because he’s kind of wedged against the wall. “I just texted Rafe and told him I was at your place. He’ll let our mum know.”
“She won’t be pissed?”
Eames closes the texting keyboard on his phone and shoves it under his pillow. “Naw,” he says, giving Arthur a small, sheepish smile. “It’s you. She won’t mind.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Y’know...she likes you. She likes your mum. It’s not a big deal.” Eames turns his face into the pillow as he talks, muffling his words.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long moment, torn between battling his stupid hangover and watching the way Eames’ hair looks against his pillow case. He yawns and stretches back out onto his stomach so he can’t feel Eames’ bare skin.
He opens his eyes when he feels a thumb skim over his cheek. Eames smirks at him.
“Never seen you with that much stubble,” he says.
Arthur leans away from the touch, but he can feel himself smiling. “It’s a morning thing.”
“I feel like I should have pictorial evidence that Arthur Tatum does indeed grow facial hair.”
“Fuck you, you’re not taking pictures of me in bed.”
Eames grins devilishly as he pulls his phone back out from under the pillow. “No?”
“No, god, Eames--” Arthur reaches out and tries to grab the phone from him, but Eames yanks his arm away too quickly, and somehow this leads to them wrestling underneath blankets, until Arthur pins Eames by his wrists.
He holds the phone up, victorious. “Maybe I need pictorial evidence that I just kicked Eames Hamilton’s ass while half-asleep and hungover, what do you say?”
Eames rolls his eyes. “You didn’t kick my ass, for one, and also, I’m probably more hungover than you.”
“Yeah, likely story.” Arthur turns Eames’ phone camera on and points it at him, making a show of framing the perfect shot while he bites his lower lip. He ignores the part where he’s straddling Eames’ bare thigh while Eames is looking up at him with a slight flush in his cheeks.
“How would you actually title this on Facebook?” Eames sounds like he’s joking, but there’s a hint of something pensive in his voice, something tentative. “I mean, breaking up’s going to be a lot more difficult when you’re posting pictures of me in your bed.”
Arthur’s stomach grows heavy. He lowers the phone. “Whatever, I wasn’t going to actually take them.” He rolls off of Eames, dropping the phone on his chest.
He doesn’t expect Eames to catch him by the elbow. “Hey,” Eames whispers, pulling Arthur close until he’s draped along Eames’ side, their mouths dangerously close. “You can take them if you want.”
Arthur huffs. “No, you’re right, it’s pointless. You shouldn’t even be here, anyway.” He tries to angle his hips away, because his erection doesn’t seem to understand that he’s not in a position to grind against Eames’ leg.
Eames is quiet as he lets Arthur go. “My car’s back at Brice’s,” he says and turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“I can take my mom’s car and drive you back, or--”
“I’ll just text Brice, he’ll come get me.”
Arthur’s jaw clenches. “Seriously, I can take you.”
“Your car’s still there, too. He’ll take us both, it’ll be two birds with one stone.”
He wishes he didn’t remember every little detail Eames told him about Brice. It was a lark, a way to get off, he’d said, and yet Arthur wonders how often Eames crawled, half-naked, into Brice’s bed only to wake up the next morning to talk about break-ups and other stupid shit instead of curling into each other and trading lazy kisses.
He doesn’t want Brice showing up here, at Arthur’s house, to pick up Arthur’s boyfriend. He keeps hearing Brice’s drunk, smug voice in his head, he used quote shit at me after we’d fuck in his room, and goddamn it, Eames isn’t his. Not anymore.
Technically, for two more days, he’s still Arthur’s.
Eames is busy texting, facing the wall with his back to Arthur. The muscles in his shoulders flex with subtle twitches, and Arthur takes a deep breath.
“When’s he coming over?”
“In half an hour or so. I woke him up.” Eames sounds fond, a smile in his voice.
Something breaks inside of Arthur. He closes his eyes and presses forward, ever so gently tucking his face into the warm curve of Eames’ neck. He can hear the soft inhale Eames makes, the way his body goes completely still.
“We should--we should make you look somewhat debauched, right?” Arthur whispers into his skin. “You spent the night.”
Eames doesn’t turn over, but his breathing immediately grows faster, sharper. “I guess, yeah. He thinks we have this, like, epic sex life.”
There’s no reason for that to make Arthur nearly shudder with want. He grits his teeth, carefully lays a hand on Eames’ bicep and trails his fingers down to his elbow. “Did you tell him that?”
Eames snorts, but it’s a little too breathless. “No, he just--I’m pretty sure he’s convinced I’m in love with you or something.” He arches his back slightly, fitting himself perfectly against Arthur’s chest, his ass right up against Arthur’s erection.
Arthur shuts his eyes and swallows, already starting to sweat. “What does love have to do with fucking?” he whispers, because if he speaks he’ll hear the roughness in his voice.
“It doesn’t, but--fuck, Arthur--” Eames turns over, their skin sliding together, his hands curling tightly around Arthur’s waist. He pulls Arthur on top of him, legs spread over Eames’ thighs, shoving his hand into Arthur’s hair.
“I--” Eames starts, a strange helpless look flickering in his eyes before he tugs Arthur down to slam their lips together. Arthur braces his hands on the bed over Eames’ shoulders and kisses him as fast and dirty as he wants, because this is what he’d do if Eames was really his. He’d wake up and kiss the shit out of him and make him come gasping his name and then maybe they’d go get pancakes and coffee. He grinds his cock against the hard line of Eames’ erection through the material of his track shorts that are a size too small for Eames, not hiding anything, and Eames bites at his mouth, growling and shivering beneath him.
“Wait, wait,” Arthur gasps, sitting up. He laughs shakily when Eames glares at him.
“Don’t want to, uh, ruin another set of shorts,” he says sheepishly.
Eames’ glare almost instantly turns into something darker, hotter. “Are you--you saying you want--”
“I’m saying,” Arthur whispers, hands unsteady as he slowly takes his cock out of his boxers, “that we should maybe be a little neater about this.”
Eames squeezes his eyes shut, swearing under his breath like the sight of Arthur’s dick physically hurts him. Arthur starts to make a snippy comment, only it’s forgotten a second later when Eames frantically paws at his shorts for his own cock, gasping, “Fucking hell, oh fuck, you’re gonna--fuck, you’re gonna kill me, jesus--”
He’s already wet, pre-come smeared everywhere. Arthur’s mouth drops open right as Eames wraps his hand around them both and shoves his hips up.
It’s insane, like being hit in the face with a punch of blinding sensation. Arthur can’t--he just can’t hold on, not like this, not when everything is slick and hot and Eames looks like he’s about to die from it all. Arthur tumbles forward, fucking into Eames’ fist with an awkward, uneven rhythm for all of four, five strokes before he comes all over Eames’ stomach, voice breaking as he moans into a weak attempt of a kiss.
“Please--”
“Fuck,” Eames hisses, sucking hard at Arthur’s lower lip, hard enough to break the skin. Arthur feels hot wetness spread over his skin, and jesus christ, that’s hotter than anything, knowing that it’s Eames’ come, that it’s there for him, because of him.
He collapses in a panting, messy heap against Eames, face buried in the hollow of Eames’ throat. Eames’ mouth is open, gasping for breath, but he doesn’t stop touching Arthur; one hand trails up Arthur’s sweaty back while the other nudges at Arthur’s hand until their fingers are threaded together in a loose hold.
Arthur listens to Eames’ breathing even out, bit by bit. His room is going to smell like sex now. Sex and Eames.
“God, I’m a bloody mess,” Eames mutters, voice utterly wrecked. Arthur bites back a moan and presses closer.
“Sorry. But I...don’t think you can get away with using the shower. My mom would--”
“Yeah, I know. Occupational hazard and all that.” He brushes his mouth over Arthur’s forehead, where his bangs are all wet and clumping together.
Arthur sighs and stretches. He could fall asleep again, right here, mess be damned. “I’ve got Kleenexes, don’t worry.”
“Oh, really?” Eames laughs softly. “And what else does darling little Arthur have hidden in his jerk-off stash?”
Arthur bites his chest. “The same shit as you do, asshole. Or do you go the KY route instead of plain old Jergens?”
“I’m a fan of Vaseline, actually. Makes my skin baby soft, did you know?”
Arthur lifts his head, not knowing if Eames is kidding or not, and when he sees Eames staring up at him with wide-eyed innocence, he breaks into giggles. “You are such a fucking douche.”
“Would you want me any other way?” Eames whispers, leaning up to push their noses together. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed, and he’s just opening his mouth to a lazy, deep kiss when Eames’ cell buzzes.
Eames groans, fumbling blindly for the thing without quite breaking the kiss. “Fucking Brice,” he murmurs, and that makes Arthur pull back.
“Is he here already?” he asks, chest growing tight.
Eames squints at the screen and sighs. “He’ll be here in ten.”
A part of Arthur wants to get Eames hard again so he’ll never want to leave. The rest of Arthur--the logical part--knows better. He pushes himself off Eames, wincing at the mess between them.
“Do you still want to come, too?” Eames asks as Arthur throws a box of tissues at him.
The last place Arthur wants to be right now is in Eames’ ex-boyfriend’s car, even if Eames does smell like sex. “That’s okay, I’ll call Ariadne later. I don’t have anywhere to be today.”
Eames wipes absently at his stomach. “I could, I don’t know...come by later? Pick you up?”
“Really, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about it.” It sounds too much like about me. Arthur shakes his head as he pulls a pair of track pants on, refusing to glance over at Eames still naked and spread out on his bed, cleaning come off his skin.
When Brice texts again to say he’s pulling into Arthur’s drive, Eames is dressed in his dirty jeans and wrinkled t-shirt, his hair a disaster and his mouth still pink and swollen. He looks completely debauched, and completely like he belongs to Arthur, who has a desperate and sudden urge to kiss him hard, right where Brice can see.
Instead, he leans against his bedroom door as Eames shoves his wallet and phone in his back pocket and says, “You should call me tonight.”
Eames looks up, startled. He licks over his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, I mean, to talk about Monday. How you want the whole break-up to happen.”
His mouth stops twitching. “Sure.” Eames scrubs a hand through his hair, glancing around the room for a moment as if lost. “I guess I’ll just--go.”
Arthur nods, holds the door open for him. Thankfully, he’s pretty sure his mom’s out for her mid-morning jog; god only knows how that conversation would go down, her seeing Eames leaving his room after sex.
Eames pauses in the doorway, mutters something Arthur can’t hear, then pushes Arthur against the door and kisses him, one hand splayed possessively over Arthur’s cheek.
It’s over a handful of seconds later, and Arthur’s left panting and hard again, watching Eames run down the stairs and out the front door without looking back.