"Aren't you ready to go?" Arthur asks because Eames is staring at him with his mouth hanging open stupidly when he comes downstairs.
"I, uh-yeah." Eames nods. "Are you?"
Arthur glances down at his clothes, fingering the hem of his sweatshirt somewhat self-consciously. "Is there something wrong?"
"No," Eames says emphatically. "No, not at all. Let's go."
Eames loves Arthur's suits and his shiny, slicked back hair, make no mistake. He loves his Italian leather shoes and his suspenders. His ties alone were in themselves fodder for Eames' masturbatory fantasies for the first six months of their acquaintance.
But the messy hair and the glasses and the sweatshirt and the jeans and the Converse? Eames isn't used to Arthur dressed like a slob and he thinks that he likes it.
Arthur looks positively indecent.
Eames follows Arthur out the door of his flat into the sunny streets of Notting Hill. Unaccustomed to the deliciousness that is Arthur's ass in a pair of fitted Levi's, Eames hangs back and admires the view-
-and then pulls him into the alley.
The denim of Arthur's jeans is rough against Eames' fingers as he yanks them halfway down his thighs and bends him over. Eames can't be bothered to ready him-there isn't enough bloody time-and the gasp that escapes Arthur's mouth sends a rush of blood straight to his groin.
He tries to go gently for Arthur's sake, but it's harder than he expects it to be because Arthur's hands are reaching back and pulling him deeper.
"God, Eames, please, please," he babbles and any concern Eames may have had-out of concern for Arthur's modest, that is, because everyone knows that Eames has fucked in seedier places than an alley in Notting Hill of all sodding places-dissipates like smoke.
Eames offers Arthur's name to the sky and doesn't care that he is well and truly whipped because in this moment there isn't anything except Arthur and nothing else matters but the beautiful, beautiful man in front of him-wrapped around him. His dignity is a small price to pay for this.
He can barely stop himself from-
"-coming?" Arthur asks, glancing back curiously, jerking Eames back into the present.
"Of course I am, darling." Eames blinks slowly and takes his hand.
: : :
Cobb and Ariadne are already waiting for them at the cafe.
Arthur makes apologies for their lateness and Eames slides into one of the two open seats.
"Domesticity suits you, Arthur," Cobb remarks dryly and Ariadne practically squeals as she jumps to her feet to hug him and ruffle his hair in the process. "You look adorable."
Arthur's dimples flash as he grins and Eames tries to think about anything other than the fact that he looks about twenty years old when they do. Margaret Thatcher, Je ne regrette rien, Yusuf. Yusuf fucking Margaret Thatcher to the tune of Je ne regrette rien. "You think?"
"Don't you agree, Eames?"
Cobb is a bastard, Eames decides and grunts noncommittally.
Arthur's sneakered foot brushes against his calf as he crosses his legs and Eames can feel-
-the rubber soles of Arthur's shoes on his shoulders as he pounds into him. He looks positively angelic against the crisp whiteness of the tablecloth. Eames loves him like this, loves him any way really, but especially on his back, and he is pretty sure that Ariadne is going to wet herself with excitement.
Nobody seems particular surprised that Eames and Arthur are naked and fucking in the middle of the cafe, but that, along with the jealousy written on Cobb's face, only makes it-and him-harder.
The angle must be a good one for Arthur because he is drenched in sweat and moaning softly against Eames' shoulder. Arthur tightens-Christ, Eames can feel him tighten everywhere-and start to come against their stomachs even though both sets of their hands are otherwise occupied, Arthur's on Eames' hips, pulling him deeperdeeperdeeper, and Eames' buried in the softness of Arthur's hair.
He's almost there.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," Arthur is whispering softly into Eames' neck. "I want you to come for me, Eames." Too softly for the others to hear, Eames realises, and the knowledge that these words are for him alone is almost enough.
He's so bloody close that he can-
"Taste it," Arthur is saying, back in his seat, back in his clothes. "It's delicious."
There is a forkful of something in front of his face and the others are looking at him expectantly.
"Delicious," he mumbles through whatever Arthur is feeding him. He scowls at the disproving glance this earns him from Cobb.
: : :
Arthur's favourite bookshop is only just down the way and Eames watches him as he browses, pretending to flip through Architectural Digest.
Eames can't see the cover of the book that Arthur pulls from the shelf, but he knows Arthur's taste, and decides that it's probably something pretentious. Arthur did do his master's in philosophy, after all.
Arthur's glasses slide down his nose while he's reading. He doesn't notice. Having worn glasses as a child, Eames fully understands the futility of such a battle-they're only going to fall down again-but pushes them up anyway.
Arthur looks a little surprised. "Thanks," he says, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to Eames' cheek-
-and dropping to his knees.
Eames doesn't know how the hell Arthur is so fast, but he barely feels the cool dryness of the shop air before Arthur envelopes him with the warmth of his hand. He glances up at Eames over the frame of his glasses and Eames slumps into the shelf of books behind him because he's still soft and the sight of Arthur kneeling in front of him in glasses, the realisation of every dirty librarian fantasy that Eames has ever had, sends a rush of blood to his cock so quickly and forcefully that he feels a bit lightheaded.
Eames takes the Lord's name in vain when Arthur replaces his hand with his mouth and slides his palm reassuringly-sensually-up the plane of Eames' stomach. Eames glances down at the unexpected touch and has to bite back a groan at the sight of Arthur's dark head bobbing between his thighs.
The way that Arthur is rubbing his stomach makes him feel like he's fourteen years old and it's rather appropriate, Eames thinks to himself wryly, because he's about to come all over Arthur's-
"-face," Arthur says, pulling away and turning towards the cashier at the front of the shop. "I should probably go and get them refitted."
: : :
They stop at the market before heading home. Arthur wants to pick up some fresh garlic.
"I'm going to wait here, love," Eames says, plopping himself on a nearby bench, and rooting through his pockets for a cigarette. "You go right ahead."
: : :
Arthur's sweatshirt rides up on his bony hips when he stands on tiptoe to reach their mailbox outside his flat. Eames walks past him and leaves the front door open.
: : :
"Maybe you should go take a nap," Arthur tells him, pulling his sweatshirt over his head after he closes the door behind him. The t-shirt Arthur is wearing underneath is just the icing on the cake, Eames decides, because he doesn't even look remotely legal anymore, though to be honest he rather enjoys the thought of playing Humbert Humbert to Arthur's Lolita. "You've been acting strange all day. Are you sure you aren't coming down with something?"
Eames doesn't say anything.
"You do feel a little warm" Arthur says, feeling his forehead. "Why don't you go and lay down and I'll come check on you in a bit?"
As much as Eames would love to allow Arthur to cluck over him like a mother hen, he doesn't hesitate for even a second about stripping off his clothes and settling himself against the pillows with his raging erection. He's stroking it absently when Arthur comes through the door with a tray.
"Really, Mr. Eames." There is another flash of his dimples as he smirks, after roaring with laughter and setting his care package on the floor. "All of that for this?Because you were horny?"
Eames raises his eyebrows and waits patiently because he thinks the answer to Arthur's question is redundant: what else is there? There certainly isn't any need to gesture.
He almost shoots his load when Arthur climbs over the end of the bed and starts to crawl toward him, eyes crinkled with amusement. He's practically licking his lips, Eames realises, so focussed is his attention on the motion of his hand.
God, it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. Arthur looks like a precocious teenager, except he sure as hell isn't moving like one. His movements are still classically Arthur and he may as well be wearing one of his suits, the way he is crawling up Eames' body like a predator.
Sleek like a panther, Eames thinks, and then laughs.
Arthur smiles at him from behind his glasses and leans away from him for a few seconds and Eames hears a familiar click from the nightstand before Arthur is back and sliding a slippery hand up Eames' thigh, taking over.
Eames wraps his now-free hands around Arthur's waist and starts to work his t-shirt up and over his head. It catches at Arthur's shoulders and Eames waits for him to lift his arms.
Arthur shakes his head and tsks him disapprovingly. "Not now, darling. I'm tired."
Fine, Eames thinks to himself, be that way, and then he isn't thinking anything at all because Arthur is squeezing the head of his cock with a most exquisite pressure. Eames arches back against the pillows and feels Arthur's lips at his throat, kissing it softly at first and then bruising it, drawing the blood to the surface with his mouth.
God, Eames knows that he is never going to hear the end of it from Cobb-or worse, Ariadne-in the morning, but he can't remember why he should even care because Arthur is whispering to him and it's dirty, filthy hot.
Eames is knotting his hands in Arthur's mussed hair-can't believe that he's allowing him to-when Arthur says his name-the real one that he likes to save for when they're in bed together-against his Adam's apple and then it's Eames who is gasping Arthur's name, begging him, as he explodes all over Arthur's t-shirt.
"If you wanted me naked, darling," Arthur says after he wipes his sticky hand on Eames' stomach, at last pulling his soiled-jailbait-t-shirt over his head, "you only had to ask."
A/N: I'm probably going to flunk out of college. But it's okay.
This is probably the most gratuitous thing I have ever written. It hits every. single. one. of my kinks.
Inspired by the way Joseph Gordon-Levitt/Tom Hansen crawls across the bed in Ikea in 500 Days of Summer. YouTube it.
Title is Nabokov's, naturally.