Title: Flash Point
Author:
epistolic
Fanart:keelain, neomeruru, anonymous.
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 3,201.
Genre: PWP.
Warnings: Jailbait, semi-public sex. Embedded images are NSFW.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Arthur is a pin-up model, and Eames is his biggest fan. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Originally written forkeelain's prompt on cherrybina's Inception Kink Fest. Ignore the fic, okay, my porn is sdfygusifgsui, but have a look at the art, the art is amazing. ♥
--
Flash Point
--
It’s raining outside, a full and pouring rain, when a shadow falls across Eames’ textbook and a body sidles into the seat opposite him.
“Sorry,” a voice says, and Eames looks up briefly. “Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”
“Mmm,” Eames says, disinterestedly. He’s not surprised, since the storm has been going for hours now and the library is packed with other school-kids huddling away from the cold and the wet. Eames himself forgot an umbrella this morning and is waiting for the rain to die down. “Go ahead.”
The guy smiles at him from beneath dripping hair. “Thanks. I’ll try not to get yours things wet.”
Eames goes back to his book. He has an essay due in a week, which he hasn’t started on yet, and the background murmur of the library isn’t helping him concentrate. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as the guy opposite rummages around in a bag. The movement seems familiar to Eames for some reason, and when the guy makes a sharp little flick of the head to get his wet hair out of his eyes, Eames feels his mouth go suddenly slack with recognition.
“Are you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. The guy looks up and, yes, Eames is sure of it now, can’t even believe he missed it the first time round. “I mean, I think – have I seen you before?”
“Maybe?” the guy hazards. He smiles again, quick and certain. “My name’s Arthur, by the way.”
Eames rocks back in his chair and stares.
“Have we met?” Arthur says. “I don’t think we have.”
They haven’t, in the true sense of the word; unless the countless times Eames has jerked himself off to glossy magazine spreads of Arthur counts as met. Arthur, with his dress shirt shrugged down past his shoulders, undoing his cufflinks in front of a mirror – Arthur on his back on the floor of a warehouse, bare hips just peeking past the frame of the page, eating cherries messily with the juice of it smeared over his mouth and past his chin. Eames’ favourite is the one in which Arthur is kneeling on an office desk with pens and papers scattered around him, naked to the waist with a crimson tie stringing his wrists to the ceiling fan; but that’s hardly an appropriate thing to mention while meeting someone for the very first time.
bykeelain and neomeruru ♥
“Er,” Eames says. His briefs are growing too tight and he shifts minutely. “No, I’m – you’re probably right.”
Then Arthur’s eyes brighten and he suddenly leans forward. “Oh! You must’ve seen one of my pictures, then.”
Wanked all over them, more like, Eames thinks, and his face grows hot just remembering it. He clears his throat, darting a nervous glance at the tables around them, but no-one is paying any attention.
“I’m sorry about that,” Arthur says, laughing now. “I keep forgetting that people recognise me sometimes. I guess I haven’t posed for any of the big magazines, so I’m not used to it yet.”
“Right,” Eames says, throat dry.
Arthur smiles at him, warm and open, and nods at the book in front of him. “Busy studying?”
“Yeah,” Eames says, suddenly glad for the excuse. He pulls the book closer and fervently hopes that it blocks any view Arthur might have of his lap. “Essay due. Need to make a start on it.”
“I’ll stop distracting you, then,” Arthur says. He bends back to his bag. “Let you get back to it.”
Eames wants to tell him that it’s already too late, that Arthur’s already blown all chances of Eames getting any study done for the next week, but instead he just bites his lip and stares blankly down at the pages of his textbook. It doesn’t help that he can smell the rain on Arthur’s clothes – that Arthur looks so different to how he looks on paper, all loose, pliant angles and fluidity, that when Arthur puts the end of a pen in his mouth Eames can feel his whole body setting alight. It’s unfair, Eames thinks blindly. Ever since he first found a photo of Arthur hidden underneath his room-mate’s bed, Eames has been imagining all the things he wants to do to him; but now that Arthur is sitting there in his sweater and shirt and rain-soaked hair, apologising when his ankle brushes Eames’ under the table, Eames can barely allow himself to breathe just in case Arthur hears it and calls him out.
Eames manages to sit through a full five minutes before he decides that he simply can’t take any more.
“I have to go find a book,” Eames says, so forcefully that Arthur looks at him in surprise. Arthur’s mouth is pink from where he’s been worrying his pen. Eames drags a shaky breath inward. “I’m going upstairs.”
“Are you coming down later?” Arthur asks.
Eames picks up his textbook. “No, I probably won’t.”
“I’ll come with you, then.” Arthur stands as well, and starts to rake his things together. “I have to find something too, but since you’re not coming back down and there’ll be no-one to watch over my things when I go hunt for it, I might as well just come with you now. I’ll just find another table when I’m finished up there.”
“Oh,” Eames says. “I guess – I guess that’s okay.”
Arthur pauses for a second. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Eames says quickly, then clenches his fists at the demise of his plan to wank off in the bathroom. His skin burns underneath his uniform. “I’m up on the third floor.”
“Great,” Arthur says. “So am I.”
The third floor is almost deadly silent after the babble of the tables on ground floor. The stacks stretch left and right in military-neat rows and the air, undisturbed by the rain-sodden people downstairs, is as dry as the inside of Eames’ mouth. The lights feel too bright. Eames wants nothing more than to crawl into some abandoned corner and hide until Arthur goes back downstairs.
“I’m headed this way,” Arthur says, jerking his head towards the left. “You?”
Relief floods into Eames’ stomach and he nods in the opposite direction.
“Okay,” Arthur says. He gives Eames another grin, sending razor-like shivers down Eames’ spine. “Well, it was good to meet you – Eames,” he says, twisting a little to peek at Eames’ name on the cover of his textbook. “I hope you find the book you’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” Eames says, letting out a breath.
The moment that Arthur has disappeared Eames ploughs his way into the looming stacks. He has hardly any idea where the hell he’s going – he doesn’t come to this library often – but he just needs somewhere, anywhere, preferably as far from where Arthur is as possible. Once he’s decided he’s lost far enough in the rows he drops his textbook, ignoring the loud thud it makes, and braces himself against the nearest shelf to palm his erection through his pants. The groan struggles out from between his teeth – too loud, fuck, he’s being too loud – and he presses his mouth against the meat of his forearm, muffling the noises into it.
He thinks he can still catch the smell of Arthur, the electrifying closeness of him when they’d brushed getting into the elevator. There’d been a magazine spread of that too – Arthur cornered inside a sleek mirrored elevator in a torn-open shirt and leather pants, leaning back with his elbows against the handrails, head turned, mouth pressed to his own reflection. The leather, drawn taut across his thighs, the cut of his hips disappearing into it. Eames bucks forward into the flat of his palm and whimpers into the cotton of his sleeve at the image, too far gone to actually open his pants. Fuck, what wouldn’t he give to sink to his knees in that elevator; to drag his tongue along the flat of Arthur’s stomach, bite bruises up and over his ribs, Arthur’s voice slowly tearing apart as he grits out Eames’ name, just like what he’s doing now, Christ, just like that, exactly like that –
by anonymous. ♥
“Eames!” Arthur says again from the end of the stack and Eames chokes, nearly collapses against the shelves. There’s the sound of Arthur taking a step forward and Eames’ thoughts scatter in a panic immediately. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Eames manages. “I’m fine, just – stay where you are for a sec.”
Arthur pulls up short half a metre away. He looks stunned, lips parted and a book in his hand, staring at Eames with the light spilling across his hair. Eames is leaning on both his forearms now, face hidden, body tilted away from Arthur while he tries unsuccessfully to catch his breath. The back of his neck feels like it’s on fire.
Oh God, please don’t tell me, Eames thinks wildly. Please –
“I was just going to tell you that I think you’re in the wrong section,” says Arthur. “I just – I passed Economics while I was looking for my book, and your textbook – I thought – I thought you were after – ”
“Oh God,” Eames blurts. “I have to go now, my bus – ”
He jumps when he feels Arthur’s hand on his arm. A sound comes out of his mouth before he can stop it, because it’s Arthur, and now that he’s concentrating he can sense Arthur’s body heat just inches to his left, radiating and creeping through the layers of Eames’ clothes. He can’t remember when Arthur closed that distance but then the thought drops out of his mind entirely, replaced by the feel of Arthur’s hand sliding higher, pulling away the arm that’s hiding his face.
To his surprise, when Eames sneaks a quick glance at him, Arthur’s pupils are wide and mahogany-dark. His mouth is still open but now Eames can catch the slight flash of white teeth, a wet sliver of tongue.
Something shudders low in Eames’ stomach, hot and unravelling.
“Wait,” Arthur says.
Eames opens his mouth but then Arthur presses forward and, just like that, Arthur is kissing him. Without even thinking Eames parts his lips. Arthur moans briefly in appreciation before his tongue darts in, quick and ravenous, until Eames can feel the air constricting around him and blackening out the corners of his vision. Arthur’s hand slides upward into Eames’ hair and then he’s slotting into the gap between Eames and the shelf. When he arches his body up, up, up, hot crackles light themselves beneath Eames’ skin.
“I knew it,” Arthur says when they break apart, panting. “I knew it, I saw you watching me downstairs, watching me put that pen in my mouth – God, I knew it. I had a feeling you wanted me, and then when I saw you touching yourself, oh my God, you have no fucking idea – ”
“That’s why you came up here with me?” Eames gets out. His head reels. “You planned for all this?”
“I hadn’t planned to find you so far along,” Arthur admits. He skates a hand over Eames’ chest, down his school tie, further past his belt to curl into Eames’ crotch. Eames bites off a whine. “I thought you’d take a little bit of convincing.”
“Are you kidding me?” Eames says before he can help himself. “I think about fucking you all the time.”
He hadn’t thought Arthur’s eyes could get any darker – but they do, Arthur’s lashes dropping to half-mast and the sight is so hot Eames can barely breathe. Arthur’s hair is still wet and the feel of it when Arthur leans into him shocks against Eames’ fevered skin, a tight spiral heading right into Eames’ groin.
“Do you?” Arthur husks out beside Eames’ ear.
“I – yeah.”
“Tell me about the things you want to do to me.”
Eames feels his breath hitch when Arthur turns his head, bites roughly at the arm Eames still has propped against the shelf. For a second, Arthur’s eyes flick to his face; and then his fingers wrap around Eames’ belt.
“I – that one with you on a motorbike,” Eames says, staring at the deft way Arthur handles the buckle free. “I’ve got one at home, just like that, and I want – to have you on it, not wearing anything and – ”
“ – fuck me with the engine running?” Arthur finishes for him. Eames feels his cock jump and he swallows heavily. “Out in the open, by the road where anyone could see us, bending me over the handlebars while you shove your fingers up and into me – that’s what you want?”
All Eames manages is a choked-off moan, stifling it into Arthur’s neck.
Unexpectedly, Arthur’s fingers still at that. His voice turns gentle and very quiet.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Arthur says. “You’ve never done this before with someone.”
“I’ve had girls,” Eames says, glaring. “I’ve had plenty of girls.”
Something quirks at the side of Arthur’s mouth. “Yes, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m not a girl.”
“I’ve noticed,” Eames mumbles, but his cheeks still heat up. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life and Arthur’s fingers aren’t moving – it’s driving him mad. “I know what I’m doing, this isn’t – it’s not hard, okay? Just don’t stop. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Arthur watches him for what feels like forever, hands hovering on Eames’ waistband.
“Alright,” Arthur says.
Arthur’s touch is dry and it’s not entirely comfortable when he slips a hand into Eames’ briefs. But it’s something, and it’s friction, and Eames has been aching for this from the moment Arthur’s eyes stared up out at him with milk all over his chest, lips dripping with it, white beads on the tips of Arthur’s hair. Briefly, Eames thinks this is a bad idea – they’re in a library, for fuck’s sake, someone could come up at any minute – but then Arthur takes his hand out again and brings his palm up towards his mouth.
“God,” Eames says as Arthur licks his skin free of pre-come, before spitting into it twice for good measure. Arthur smiles at him and drops his hand again. “Jesus, what – oh my fucking God.”
“Better?” Arthur breathes. “Thought I’d get you a little bit wet before I let you fuck me properly.”
Eames doesn’t answer, just squeezes his eyes shut and rides out the feel of Arthur touching him. It’s not the rhythm he usually favours but Arthur knows what he’s doing, twisting his wrist at just the right moments, and when Arthur presses his thumb into the slit of Eames’ cock it’s as if the floor jerks beneath Eames’ feet.
“You ready?” Arthur says, voice cracking a little. He ghosts his nails down the length of Eames’ vein and Eames barely manages to hold in a shout.
I’ve been ready for fucking months, Eames wants to say, but he doesn’t trust his voice so he simply nods.
“Oh, thank God. Here, take this.” Arthur shoves a foil-wrapped condom and a packet of lube into Eames’ hand, dark eyes almost frantic in the glaring light. “Just – make sure you get me nice and slick, I should open right up for you, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Eames swallows hard as Arthur turns around. “I should prep you, right?”
“Don’t need it,” says Arthur.
For some reason, more than anything else, that gets Eames’ heartbeat bolting and the sweat springing out all along his back. Arthur arches himself backward; Eames lets out a hiss as Arthur grinds his clothed ass onto Eames’ cock, slow and taunting, spine dipping obscenely low. Eames lets go of the shelf and seizes Arthur’s hips. Arthur swears, the sound smudged against the bookshelves, and then there’s a rustle. Arthur’s trousers glide down to his knees.
Eames can only stare for a long, full moment. Arthur’s skin is warm underneath his hands.
And then Arthur makes an impatient noise and grabs Eames’ wrists to force them forward. The action pulls his ass cheeks taut, baring his hole.
“Come on,” Arthur snaps.
Things get messy after that. Eames rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth, fingers trembling, and when he presses the head of his cock against Arthur’s hole Arthur gives a strangled whine and bucks his hips back. Arthur’s tight, but his body pulls Eames in like he’s greedy for it, like he can’t get enough. Eames sinks himself in and then holds there for a moment, dizzy, mouth working silently, before Arthur gets a hand onto Eames’ thigh as if trying to pull him deeper yet again. The motion makes Eames lose his balance and his hips rock forward reflexively. It must change the angle, because Arthur tips his head back and fucking keens against the metal shelf.
It’s then that Eames hears the telltale ding and a corresponding whoosh of elevator doors.
He’s mid-rhythm, and there’s not enough air left inside his lungs to say anything, so instead Eames claps a hand over Arthur’s mouth. Arthur shudders at the move and spreads his thighs further to meet every one of Eames’ thrusts. The shelf is starting to creak with each shove, book spines rattling, and through the electric spark of his nerves Eames gets his free arm slanted across the front of Arthur’s hips to yank him backward, onto Eames’ cock, instead of slamming him forward into the shelf. Arthur groans – even muffled, it sounds absolutely deafening – and the silky clutch of him grows tighter as Eames pounds into him over and over again. Eames can feel himself getting lost with it; a deep thrum is building low in his abdomen like a plucked wire on an instrument wound too tight, the feeling matching every noise Arthur smothers filthily into his skin. Somewhere, there’s the thud of a heavy book being put back into its place on a shelf. Eames barely registers the sound before he feels Arthur coming beneath him, hips stuttering and teeth closing on Eames’ palm; and then Eames himself is coming as well, the sharp slice of pain wrenching orgasm right out of him and wracking his body in jolting waves.
For a long moment, fire spreads behind Eames’ eyelids and all he can see is red, red, red.
And then Arthur is pulling away from him, turning to slide down the shelf until he’s there on the floor. His trousers are still pooled about his knees. Eames hesitates, and then sits next to him.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, eyes wide and blown and all the muscles in his jaw gone slack. “I need a smoke.”
“Can’t smoke in a library,” says Eames. He immediately feels ridiculous.
Arthur tips his head to look at him. “You’re still at school, right?”
“Yeah,” Eames says. “For a year.”
Arthur watches him, and then tilts subtly forward to slant his mouth over Eames’ lips. A low, rumbling moan rolls from Eames’ throat as Arthur kisses him, smooth and gentle and deep.
“A year isn’t long,” Arthur says finally, grinning as he licks the spit from his lips. Eames’ palm still stings from where Arthur’s teeth met, and Eames curls his hand into a fist to preserve it. “Call me.”
--
The End.
--
A/N: Still relatively new to writing porn, guys, so hopefully this wasn't terrible. :hides:
Feedback would be absolutely lovely! And, of course, feel free to friend me for future Arthur/Eames, or check out my other Inception fics.
♥
Author:
epistolic Fanart:
keelain, neomeruru, anonymous.Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 3,201.
Genre: PWP.
Warnings: Jailbait, semi-public sex. Embedded images are NSFW.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Arthur is a pin-up model, and Eames is his biggest fan. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Originally written for
keelain's prompt on cherrybina's Inception Kink Fest. Ignore the fic, okay, my porn is sdfygusifgsui, but have a look at the art, the art is amazing. ♥Flash Point
--
It’s raining outside, a full and pouring rain, when a shadow falls across Eames’ textbook and a body sidles into the seat opposite him.
“Sorry,” a voice says, and Eames looks up briefly. “Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”
“Mmm,” Eames says, disinterestedly. He’s not surprised, since the storm has been going for hours now and the library is packed with other school-kids huddling away from the cold and the wet. Eames himself forgot an umbrella this morning and is waiting for the rain to die down. “Go ahead.”
The guy smiles at him from beneath dripping hair. “Thanks. I’ll try not to get yours things wet.”
Eames goes back to his book. He has an essay due in a week, which he hasn’t started on yet, and the background murmur of the library isn’t helping him concentrate. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as the guy opposite rummages around in a bag. The movement seems familiar to Eames for some reason, and when the guy makes a sharp little flick of the head to get his wet hair out of his eyes, Eames feels his mouth go suddenly slack with recognition.
“Are you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. The guy looks up and, yes, Eames is sure of it now, can’t even believe he missed it the first time round. “I mean, I think – have I seen you before?”
“Maybe?” the guy hazards. He smiles again, quick and certain. “My name’s Arthur, by the way.”
Eames rocks back in his chair and stares.
“Have we met?” Arthur says. “I don’t think we have.”
They haven’t, in the true sense of the word; unless the countless times Eames has jerked himself off to glossy magazine spreads of Arthur counts as met. Arthur, with his dress shirt shrugged down past his shoulders, undoing his cufflinks in front of a mirror – Arthur on his back on the floor of a warehouse, bare hips just peeking past the frame of the page, eating cherries messily with the juice of it smeared over his mouth and past his chin. Eames’ favourite is the one in which Arthur is kneeling on an office desk with pens and papers scattered around him, naked to the waist with a crimson tie stringing his wrists to the ceiling fan; but that’s hardly an appropriate thing to mention while meeting someone for the very first time.
by
keelain and neomeruru ♥“Er,” Eames says. His briefs are growing too tight and he shifts minutely. “No, I’m – you’re probably right.”
Then Arthur’s eyes brighten and he suddenly leans forward. “Oh! You must’ve seen one of my pictures, then.”
Wanked all over them, more like, Eames thinks, and his face grows hot just remembering it. He clears his throat, darting a nervous glance at the tables around them, but no-one is paying any attention.
“I’m sorry about that,” Arthur says, laughing now. “I keep forgetting that people recognise me sometimes. I guess I haven’t posed for any of the big magazines, so I’m not used to it yet.”
“Right,” Eames says, throat dry.
Arthur smiles at him, warm and open, and nods at the book in front of him. “Busy studying?”
“Yeah,” Eames says, suddenly glad for the excuse. He pulls the book closer and fervently hopes that it blocks any view Arthur might have of his lap. “Essay due. Need to make a start on it.”
“I’ll stop distracting you, then,” Arthur says. He bends back to his bag. “Let you get back to it.”
Eames wants to tell him that it’s already too late, that Arthur’s already blown all chances of Eames getting any study done for the next week, but instead he just bites his lip and stares blankly down at the pages of his textbook. It doesn’t help that he can smell the rain on Arthur’s clothes – that Arthur looks so different to how he looks on paper, all loose, pliant angles and fluidity, that when Arthur puts the end of a pen in his mouth Eames can feel his whole body setting alight. It’s unfair, Eames thinks blindly. Ever since he first found a photo of Arthur hidden underneath his room-mate’s bed, Eames has been imagining all the things he wants to do to him; but now that Arthur is sitting there in his sweater and shirt and rain-soaked hair, apologising when his ankle brushes Eames’ under the table, Eames can barely allow himself to breathe just in case Arthur hears it and calls him out.
Eames manages to sit through a full five minutes before he decides that he simply can’t take any more.
“I have to go find a book,” Eames says, so forcefully that Arthur looks at him in surprise. Arthur’s mouth is pink from where he’s been worrying his pen. Eames drags a shaky breath inward. “I’m going upstairs.”
“Are you coming down later?” Arthur asks.
Eames picks up his textbook. “No, I probably won’t.”
“I’ll come with you, then.” Arthur stands as well, and starts to rake his things together. “I have to find something too, but since you’re not coming back down and there’ll be no-one to watch over my things when I go hunt for it, I might as well just come with you now. I’ll just find another table when I’m finished up there.”
“Oh,” Eames says. “I guess – I guess that’s okay.”
Arthur pauses for a second. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Eames says quickly, then clenches his fists at the demise of his plan to wank off in the bathroom. His skin burns underneath his uniform. “I’m up on the third floor.”
“Great,” Arthur says. “So am I.”
The third floor is almost deadly silent after the babble of the tables on ground floor. The stacks stretch left and right in military-neat rows and the air, undisturbed by the rain-sodden people downstairs, is as dry as the inside of Eames’ mouth. The lights feel too bright. Eames wants nothing more than to crawl into some abandoned corner and hide until Arthur goes back downstairs.
“I’m headed this way,” Arthur says, jerking his head towards the left. “You?”
Relief floods into Eames’ stomach and he nods in the opposite direction.
“Okay,” Arthur says. He gives Eames another grin, sending razor-like shivers down Eames’ spine. “Well, it was good to meet you – Eames,” he says, twisting a little to peek at Eames’ name on the cover of his textbook. “I hope you find the book you’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” Eames says, letting out a breath.
The moment that Arthur has disappeared Eames ploughs his way into the looming stacks. He has hardly any idea where the hell he’s going – he doesn’t come to this library often – but he just needs somewhere, anywhere, preferably as far from where Arthur is as possible. Once he’s decided he’s lost far enough in the rows he drops his textbook, ignoring the loud thud it makes, and braces himself against the nearest shelf to palm his erection through his pants. The groan struggles out from between his teeth – too loud, fuck, he’s being too loud – and he presses his mouth against the meat of his forearm, muffling the noises into it.
He thinks he can still catch the smell of Arthur, the electrifying closeness of him when they’d brushed getting into the elevator. There’d been a magazine spread of that too – Arthur cornered inside a sleek mirrored elevator in a torn-open shirt and leather pants, leaning back with his elbows against the handrails, head turned, mouth pressed to his own reflection. The leather, drawn taut across his thighs, the cut of his hips disappearing into it. Eames bucks forward into the flat of his palm and whimpers into the cotton of his sleeve at the image, too far gone to actually open his pants. Fuck, what wouldn’t he give to sink to his knees in that elevator; to drag his tongue along the flat of Arthur’s stomach, bite bruises up and over his ribs, Arthur’s voice slowly tearing apart as he grits out Eames’ name, just like what he’s doing now, Christ, just like that, exactly like that –
by anonymous. ♥
“Eames!” Arthur says again from the end of the stack and Eames chokes, nearly collapses against the shelves. There’s the sound of Arthur taking a step forward and Eames’ thoughts scatter in a panic immediately. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Eames manages. “I’m fine, just – stay where you are for a sec.”
Arthur pulls up short half a metre away. He looks stunned, lips parted and a book in his hand, staring at Eames with the light spilling across his hair. Eames is leaning on both his forearms now, face hidden, body tilted away from Arthur while he tries unsuccessfully to catch his breath. The back of his neck feels like it’s on fire.
Oh God, please don’t tell me, Eames thinks wildly. Please –
“I was just going to tell you that I think you’re in the wrong section,” says Arthur. “I just – I passed Economics while I was looking for my book, and your textbook – I thought – I thought you were after – ”
“Oh God,” Eames blurts. “I have to go now, my bus – ”
He jumps when he feels Arthur’s hand on his arm. A sound comes out of his mouth before he can stop it, because it’s Arthur, and now that he’s concentrating he can sense Arthur’s body heat just inches to his left, radiating and creeping through the layers of Eames’ clothes. He can’t remember when Arthur closed that distance but then the thought drops out of his mind entirely, replaced by the feel of Arthur’s hand sliding higher, pulling away the arm that’s hiding his face.
To his surprise, when Eames sneaks a quick glance at him, Arthur’s pupils are wide and mahogany-dark. His mouth is still open but now Eames can catch the slight flash of white teeth, a wet sliver of tongue.
Something shudders low in Eames’ stomach, hot and unravelling.
“Wait,” Arthur says.
Eames opens his mouth but then Arthur presses forward and, just like that, Arthur is kissing him. Without even thinking Eames parts his lips. Arthur moans briefly in appreciation before his tongue darts in, quick and ravenous, until Eames can feel the air constricting around him and blackening out the corners of his vision. Arthur’s hand slides upward into Eames’ hair and then he’s slotting into the gap between Eames and the shelf. When he arches his body up, up, up, hot crackles light themselves beneath Eames’ skin.
“I knew it,” Arthur says when they break apart, panting. “I knew it, I saw you watching me downstairs, watching me put that pen in my mouth – God, I knew it. I had a feeling you wanted me, and then when I saw you touching yourself, oh my God, you have no fucking idea – ”
“That’s why you came up here with me?” Eames gets out. His head reels. “You planned for all this?”
“I hadn’t planned to find you so far along,” Arthur admits. He skates a hand over Eames’ chest, down his school tie, further past his belt to curl into Eames’ crotch. Eames bites off a whine. “I thought you’d take a little bit of convincing.”
“Are you kidding me?” Eames says before he can help himself. “I think about fucking you all the time.”
He hadn’t thought Arthur’s eyes could get any darker – but they do, Arthur’s lashes dropping to half-mast and the sight is so hot Eames can barely breathe. Arthur’s hair is still wet and the feel of it when Arthur leans into him shocks against Eames’ fevered skin, a tight spiral heading right into Eames’ groin.
“Do you?” Arthur husks out beside Eames’ ear.
“I – yeah.”
“Tell me about the things you want to do to me.”
Eames feels his breath hitch when Arthur turns his head, bites roughly at the arm Eames still has propped against the shelf. For a second, Arthur’s eyes flick to his face; and then his fingers wrap around Eames’ belt.
“I – that one with you on a motorbike,” Eames says, staring at the deft way Arthur handles the buckle free. “I’ve got one at home, just like that, and I want – to have you on it, not wearing anything and – ”
“ – fuck me with the engine running?” Arthur finishes for him. Eames feels his cock jump and he swallows heavily. “Out in the open, by the road where anyone could see us, bending me over the handlebars while you shove your fingers up and into me – that’s what you want?”
All Eames manages is a choked-off moan, stifling it into Arthur’s neck.
Unexpectedly, Arthur’s fingers still at that. His voice turns gentle and very quiet.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Arthur says. “You’ve never done this before with someone.”
“I’ve had girls,” Eames says, glaring. “I’ve had plenty of girls.”
Something quirks at the side of Arthur’s mouth. “Yes, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m not a girl.”
“I’ve noticed,” Eames mumbles, but his cheeks still heat up. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life and Arthur’s fingers aren’t moving – it’s driving him mad. “I know what I’m doing, this isn’t – it’s not hard, okay? Just don’t stop. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Arthur watches him for what feels like forever, hands hovering on Eames’ waistband.
“Alright,” Arthur says.
Arthur’s touch is dry and it’s not entirely comfortable when he slips a hand into Eames’ briefs. But it’s something, and it’s friction, and Eames has been aching for this from the moment Arthur’s eyes stared up out at him with milk all over his chest, lips dripping with it, white beads on the tips of Arthur’s hair. Briefly, Eames thinks this is a bad idea – they’re in a library, for fuck’s sake, someone could come up at any minute – but then Arthur takes his hand out again and brings his palm up towards his mouth.
“God,” Eames says as Arthur licks his skin free of pre-come, before spitting into it twice for good measure. Arthur smiles at him and drops his hand again. “Jesus, what – oh my fucking God.”
“Better?” Arthur breathes. “Thought I’d get you a little bit wet before I let you fuck me properly.”
Eames doesn’t answer, just squeezes his eyes shut and rides out the feel of Arthur touching him. It’s not the rhythm he usually favours but Arthur knows what he’s doing, twisting his wrist at just the right moments, and when Arthur presses his thumb into the slit of Eames’ cock it’s as if the floor jerks beneath Eames’ feet.
“You ready?” Arthur says, voice cracking a little. He ghosts his nails down the length of Eames’ vein and Eames barely manages to hold in a shout.
I’ve been ready for fucking months, Eames wants to say, but he doesn’t trust his voice so he simply nods.
“Oh, thank God. Here, take this.” Arthur shoves a foil-wrapped condom and a packet of lube into Eames’ hand, dark eyes almost frantic in the glaring light. “Just – make sure you get me nice and slick, I should open right up for you, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Eames swallows hard as Arthur turns around. “I should prep you, right?”
“Don’t need it,” says Arthur.
For some reason, more than anything else, that gets Eames’ heartbeat bolting and the sweat springing out all along his back. Arthur arches himself backward; Eames lets out a hiss as Arthur grinds his clothed ass onto Eames’ cock, slow and taunting, spine dipping obscenely low. Eames lets go of the shelf and seizes Arthur’s hips. Arthur swears, the sound smudged against the bookshelves, and then there’s a rustle. Arthur’s trousers glide down to his knees.
Eames can only stare for a long, full moment. Arthur’s skin is warm underneath his hands.
And then Arthur makes an impatient noise and grabs Eames’ wrists to force them forward. The action pulls his ass cheeks taut, baring his hole.
“Come on,” Arthur snaps.
Things get messy after that. Eames rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth, fingers trembling, and when he presses the head of his cock against Arthur’s hole Arthur gives a strangled whine and bucks his hips back. Arthur’s tight, but his body pulls Eames in like he’s greedy for it, like he can’t get enough. Eames sinks himself in and then holds there for a moment, dizzy, mouth working silently, before Arthur gets a hand onto Eames’ thigh as if trying to pull him deeper yet again. The motion makes Eames lose his balance and his hips rock forward reflexively. It must change the angle, because Arthur tips his head back and fucking keens against the metal shelf.
It’s then that Eames hears the telltale ding and a corresponding whoosh of elevator doors.
He’s mid-rhythm, and there’s not enough air left inside his lungs to say anything, so instead Eames claps a hand over Arthur’s mouth. Arthur shudders at the move and spreads his thighs further to meet every one of Eames’ thrusts. The shelf is starting to creak with each shove, book spines rattling, and through the electric spark of his nerves Eames gets his free arm slanted across the front of Arthur’s hips to yank him backward, onto Eames’ cock, instead of slamming him forward into the shelf. Arthur groans – even muffled, it sounds absolutely deafening – and the silky clutch of him grows tighter as Eames pounds into him over and over again. Eames can feel himself getting lost with it; a deep thrum is building low in his abdomen like a plucked wire on an instrument wound too tight, the feeling matching every noise Arthur smothers filthily into his skin. Somewhere, there’s the thud of a heavy book being put back into its place on a shelf. Eames barely registers the sound before he feels Arthur coming beneath him, hips stuttering and teeth closing on Eames’ palm; and then Eames himself is coming as well, the sharp slice of pain wrenching orgasm right out of him and wracking his body in jolting waves.
For a long moment, fire spreads behind Eames’ eyelids and all he can see is red, red, red.
And then Arthur is pulling away from him, turning to slide down the shelf until he’s there on the floor. His trousers are still pooled about his knees. Eames hesitates, and then sits next to him.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, eyes wide and blown and all the muscles in his jaw gone slack. “I need a smoke.”
“Can’t smoke in a library,” says Eames. He immediately feels ridiculous.
Arthur tips his head to look at him. “You’re still at school, right?”
“Yeah,” Eames says. “For a year.”
Arthur watches him, and then tilts subtly forward to slant his mouth over Eames’ lips. A low, rumbling moan rolls from Eames’ throat as Arthur kisses him, smooth and gentle and deep.
“A year isn’t long,” Arthur says finally, grinning as he licks the spit from his lips. Eames’ palm still stings from where Arthur’s teeth met, and Eames curls his hand into a fist to preserve it. “Call me.”
The End.
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A/N: Still relatively new to writing porn, guys, so hopefully this wasn't terrible. :hides:
Feedback would be absolutely lovely! And, of course, feel free to friend me for future Arthur/Eames, or check out my other Inception fics.
53 love songs | sing
