"Through the warmthest
Cord of care
Your love was sent to me
"Through the warmthest
I'm not sure
What to do with it
Or where to put it
I'm so close to tear We go to the hidden place Now I have I'll keep it in a hidden place
And so close to
Simply calling you up
And simply suggesting
That we go to the hidden place
We go to the hidden place
We go to a hidden place
Been slightly shy
And I can smell a pinch of hope
To almost have allowed once fingers
The fingers I was given to touch with
But careful, careful
There lies my passion, hidden
There lies my love
I'll hide it under a blanket
Lull it to sleep
I'll keep it in a hidden place
Keep it in a hidden place
Keep it in a hidden place
I'm so close to tear
We go to the hidden place
Now I have
I'll keep it in a hidden place
Dark and divine
And the littleness of his movements
He invents a charm
That makes him invisible
Hides in the air
Can I hide there too?
Hide in the air of him
In that hidden place
In a hidden place
In a hidden place
We'll stay in a hidden place
Ooohh in a hidden place
We'll live in a hidden place
We'll be in a hidden place
In a hidden place..."
-"Hidden Place" by Bjork
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Keep Me in Your Pocket. Take me Out on a Rainy Day or... Keep it in a Hidden Place...
Eames stretches himself over the foggy window. His fingers brush above the sill as he gazes to the flooded world below. Fat drops are leaking from the roof and splattering on his deck. He hears the slight PING noise it makes as it drips incessantly on the metal railing. The sky is rolling- tumultuous and gray.
The streets are like dark rivers as the sky doesn't cease to stop pounding the pavement. His fingers brush the pane. He comes in close and expels hot breath on it, fogging it.
He begins writing: "Today…" but trails off as his letters bleed and run together from the condensation, a sloppy mess. He thinks he wants to write: "Today is the third day I'm cooped up indoors…" but he's not sure.
It's November and his flat is cold.
His studio has high, white arched ceilings, one wall partially covered with glass like a greenhouse and he feels his world is rainy and cold. He picked the studio, his hideaway on the outskirts of London because of how open it feels even though it's so small. He likes it for how cozy it is, tucked away, a place only he knows about and can run to if needed.
He pads around on bare feet only wearing thin drawstring pajama pants. The wooden floor is icy and he curses the heating yet again in the building. The landlord always promises it'll be fixed. Eames doesn't hold his breath.
He circles around to the small kitchenette and puts a kettle on.
The treacherous rain hasn't stopped for two days straight forcing him to stay indoors and it's sinking into his bones. It's tiring and all he wants to do is lounge on the couch stretched out like a cat under a blanket, drink tea and nap. The world is too gray and heavily saturated with rain to do much else.
He's staring transfixed to the wall of windows watching rain drip down them like they're weeping, seeing the poorly written partial message still on the window by the door to the patio. The kettle whistles breaking him out of his reverie. He enjoys watching the steam as he pours a cup. He sticks his face over it, enjoying the warmth coming off the mug tickling his face. He pads over to the worn leather couch, throws the warm fuzzy blanket over himself and picks up the two day old paper.
He drinks tea and scours headlines that maybe he missed the first two times he's read them when he thinks he hears something through the rhythmic noise of the rain drumming against his flat.
He lowers the paper and his ears prick up. He sits motionless and tries not to breathe so he can listen for the sound. He sits for a minute and when he doesn't hear it again he writes it off as the building settling or the pipes creaking when he hears it again-his ears zeroing in. It's a little louder this time and it's the distinct noise of a knock-knuckles rapping wood.
He's whipping the blanket off and is up off the couch in a flash, moving around it as silently as he can. He creeps to the small table by the door and slides open the solitary drawer. He removes his berretta swallowing down flutters of panic. No one knows about this place. He's only used aliases and in the two years he's rented it, only coming to stay sporadically for a few days at a time, he's never had a visitor. He's never around long enough to chat up or befriend any neighbors or for someone to recognize him at all for that matter.
He keeps his gun to his chest, slinks up to door and cautiously peers through peep hole.
He's prepared for assassins. Burly men with concealed weapons, thugs, blokes he owes money to, coming round to collect , hell maybe even past marks coming to seek revenge after he entered their dreams forging loved ones and confidants. He's prepared for any of that or worse. Definitely not a dripping wet, shivering Arthur.
He pulls back from the peep hole, breath caught in his throat and his mind literally splits in two directions and he feels frozen in place.
He wants to dash over to his small wardrobe and throw on some decent clothes or maybe even a robe but the other part of his brain wants to whip the door open and make sure that he indeed has a soaking wet and trembling Arthur behind his door, that his eyes aren't playing tricks on him-consequences of being cooped up alone for too long.
A loud pounding on the door snaps him back to reality like a kick and he's fumbling with the locks and flings the door open.
Arthur looks like something the cat dragged in. He's a drowned rat-his black trench dripping and sticking to him, water pooling at his feet. His normally perfectly coifed and carefully slicked back hair is sodden and dangling in his eyes. His pruney skin looks paler than usual like the rain had sucked out all the color. His hands are in his pockets and he's trembling. Eames' eyes roam all over his frail form looking for injuries. Thankfully he doesn't find any.
A million things grip Eames' heart and mind. Was he in trouble? Why was he here? How did he find him?
Arthur's eyes are lowered and his mouth is a thin set line, lips as white as his alabaster skin.
"The roads are washed out," he breathes, his teeth are chattering slightly.
Eames finds himself nodding like his shoddy declaration explains everything.
He holds the door and motions for Arthur to enter.
Arthur squishes as he walks, leaving behind a heavy trail of water on the floor as he goes.
Eames secures the door and has to fight the urge to run to his nightstand and draw out his totem. He feels Arthur's freezing, wet presence behind him and he thinks it can't possibly be real.
He closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, waiting for something not knowing what.
Arthur makes a sniffling noise and he hears a creak on the floorboards.
Eames turns around to face him. The other man is looking around the small space curiously, pathetically dripping all over the floor.
He meets Eames' eyes for the first time and they're unreadable but not hard like he was expecting. His eyes flick to Eames' bare chest and Eames sees a flicker of something there but then it's buried under blankness again, his dark eyes like a void.
"Towel?" He pushes some dripping hair out of his eyes and blinks at Eames. Eames blinks back because the whole thing it absurd but he finds himself nodding after a time and starts off to the bathroom motioning with his head that Arthur should follow. He hears him squishing and dripping behind him as he flips on the small bathroom's light. He grabs a towel from the rack and hands it to Arthur.
The point man won't meet his eyes and before Eames can speak Arthur is shooing him out and is closing the door in his face. He hears the shower being turned on a few seconds later.
He paces like a fool. A large animal in a too small of a cage and suddenly he's flustered. No one besides himself has stepped foot in this flat, his hideaway, his secret before and it's not exactly tidy. Piles of things are all over. Bits of odds and ends are strewn about. Piles on the kitchen counter and on top of the bar stool. Countless cigarette butts in the ashtray on the coffee table. Dishes in the sink and dying plants by the sill. His bed isn't made since he's been tossing and turning in it for the past three days, barely leaving it, books scattered all over the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and sets about drying the floor, the water Arthur's left, with paper towel and rags and sets about straightening things, flitting around the small space like an idiot.
He's fluffing the throw pillows on the couch (who fluffs throw pillows?) when he hears the shower stop and his heart stops with it. He pauses behind the couch, pillow forgotten and stares straight forward to the bathroom door.
It opens after a time, steam and smells of his body wash wafting out.
Arthur pads out with a white, floral towel wrapped low around his hips. His hair is loose and damp, curling, the tendrils hanging in his eyes. His skin looks like some color has returned. His face is flushed pink and his eyes a little red from rain and the shower stream getting in them. He regards Eames a little bashfully. Eames can only stare, mouth gaping slightly, mouth going dry. He blinks stupidly at the white patterned towel-something that came with the place. Again he's reminded that this was a space only intended for him.
Eames works his mouth, starts many sentences, making noises more than coherent words. After about the fifth failed attempt he smiles, totally defeated. "Tea? Just made some…"
Arthur smiles crookedly and nods a little. They meet at the kitchenette. Eames fumbles around with the tea kettle and rifles through the cabinets for a mug, very aware of a naked, save for the towel, Arthur at his back. He pours, nearly spilling and hands the steaming mug to Arthur. In their close proximity he can smell him, almost overpowering him. He smells like rain, his shampoo, his body wash and he picks up the distinct sharp smell of his Old Spice deodorant and his minty mouth wash. He can't fathom the idea that Arthur was fishing through his drawers and cabinets and using his deodorant stick. Arthur always struck him as a huge germaphobe and OCD about being clean. He watches him take hesitant sips, blowing into the mug, one hand around the towel that slips a little on his narrow hips, revealing more porcelain skin.
Eames' eyes roam over his bare chest that seems to go on for days. The tight skin hiding rippling muscle underneath, the birthmark on his lower neck, his delicate collarbone, the slight dusting of dark hair that makes a trail leading from his lower chest down his stomach and disappears underneath the towel presumably to meet his groin, his surprisingly hair tamed legs. He assumed that since he was a brunette he would have a lot of hair. Eames wondered if he maintained it, getting waxed or shaved. The thoughts made him smile a little. Eames wants to take the mug out of his hands, place it on the counter behind him, wrap his strong arms around him, push him into the counter letting the towel slip off his thin hips and just ravish his body. He wants to run his hands all over his flushed pink skin and see where that teasing trail leads to and mark it all with his hot mouth.
Instead he watches the rain. Watches it pour off his roof, splashing his windows and chances glances to a semi naked Arthur standing in his tiny kitchen.
"I need some clothes," Arthur is staring at him, steaming mug on the counter. Eames can only nod, still flabbergasted and feeling he was hit over the head, moving through slow motion.
He pads over to his bedroom area in the far corner- Arthur right behind. He sees through the open bathroom door that Arthur has placed his shoes by the radiator and has rung his clothes out, hanging them over the shower to dry, out of the way like a good house guest.
Eames' hands shake as he fumbles with the dresser drawers rifling through his meager wares. He never keeps much at the flat as he's never here. He mostly lives out of his suitcases. He searches through pathetic, hole ridden socks and old, worn in t-shirts. Everything he has is going to be too big for the lean point man and nothing his fingers brush is right. Arthur is right at his back, looking over his shoulder. Eames' cheeks burn in their too close of proximity. He's telling himself to just pick something already. He pulls out what he thinks is the smallest yet most scraggly pajama bottoms he owns and an old gray Oxford sweat shirt and hands them to Arthur. He's looking through his underwear drawer for some boxers when he hears Arthur pipe in right over his shoulder. "I am not wearing your underwear. This will do."
Eames shuts his drawers; thankful the stressful task is over and glances over at Arthur. He's pulling on the pajama bottoms under the towel and Eames' cheeks flush again. He's surprised that Arthur didn't retreat into the bathroom or ask him to turn around. He watches him shimmy the thin pajama pants on, adjusting the towel carefully, removing it when the pants are on, tossing it to the floor and shrugs on the oversized sweatshirt. He's swimming in the clothes and Arthur cinches the drawstring around the pants as tight as he can making Eames feel like he's horribly fat which he knows stupidly he isn't-Arthur's just much narrower in the hips.
Arthur bends down to retrieve the towel and Eames tries not to stare at how the pajamas, now tighter around him cling to every part of him leaving little to the imagination. He watches as his perfect arse is molded around the fabric, no type of underwear as a barrier. He watches as it jiggles a little when he pads back to bathroom to hang the towel up. Eames' mouth goes dry again and he feels blood start to rush to his groin. He tries to clear his mind of the perverse thoughts as a loose and relaxed Arthur pads past him back to the kitchen area to retrieve his mug. Eames feels powerless to stand frozen in place and just watch him.
Arthur leans against the counter away from him, gazing out the windows, picking up and looking at this and that, drinking heavily from his mug. He watches him as he takes in the small space.
He turns to Eames after a while. "What were you doing before I got here?"
Eames blinks at him, him wearing his old rumpled, comfy clothes, the baggy sweat shirt falling a bit off his shoulder. All rosy cheeks and loose hair, standing in the middle of his secret studio flat, shooting him inquisitive looks. Eames is convinced it must be a dream but realizes he doesn't care. The question throws him off however as all rational and coherent thoughts have leaked and dripped out of his brain like the rain.
What was he doing before Arthur showed up? Eames figures it doesn't even matter but he does remember after a while.
"I…uh… was sitting, drinking tea and reading the paper." Arthur nods a little like this is an expectable response. Eames wants to ask why but it dies on his tongue. Again it doesn't matter. Arthur is here and he doesn't want him to stop looking relaxed, almost looking like he's at home and slightly amused like he's hiding an inside joke with the rest of the world.
"I won't keep you from it then," his tone is airy and light in the small space with the high ceilings that only reveal gray heavy clouds. He walks around, looking at things curiously and Eames feels bewildered again. Eames internally shrugs and numbly pads back to the worn in couch and sits, throwing the blanket around his bare shoulders and picks up the paper. He tries to read but he doesn't absorb anything. He's too aware of the other man padding around, looking at things but his presence is comforting at the same time.
He's trying so hard to concentrate on the print on the page that he doesn't notice that Arthur is standing right behind him, leaning over him.
He almost jumps when he sees him from the corner of his eye. He jerks his head to his direction, eyes wide.
"Do you not have heat in this place? It's freezing…" he rubs at his thin arms in Eames' old sweatshirt. Then Arthur is maneuvering around the couch, is pulling back the blanket, pushing Eames further into the couch and is moving Eames' legs apart so that he's sitting in between his open legs on the couch. He pulls the blanket over them both and Eames can only rest his head against the couch and feel stunned. He feels Arthur's body press into him. It's light but solid. Arthur motions to the paper that Eames is still feebly holding in one limp hand. "Can I read it with you?" his voice is soothing and warm.
Eames holds the two day old paper out for both of them to read. Arthur wants to read the business section of course and Eames has already read it several times but doesn't mind. He's not reading it anyway, just floating, feeling Arthur pressed into him closely on the worn in leather couch, the warm blanket over them but he can still feel Arthur trembling a bit. "Still cold?" he whispers, rubbing at Arthur's arms a little.
Arthur nods, eyes focused intently on the paper.
"Probably would get warmer with my body heat," it's out of his mouth before he knows what he's saying. And then Arthur is squirming under the blanket and is stripping off the sweatshirt, tossing it over the couch.
Arthur nestles back into Eames' chest sighing softly as they're skin to skin. He lets Arthur hold the paper as he continues to read. Eames lets the close contact with Arthur's skin take over. His skin is smooth and soft. He can feel the taut muscles in his shoulders and back. He tries hard not to think about how close Arthur's arse is to his cock. He rubs at Arthur's thin muscular arms, moving to his torso and Arthur releases some breathy, content sighs that go straight to his groin.
Again he is reminded that this may all be a dream but if it's his or someone's dream of the two of them then he's ok with it. It's a good dream. He's very content; too content with them nestled under the warm blanket, shirtless, drinking tea, reading the old paper, and keeping each other warm as the rain falls endlessly.
He's so worried to move, to do anything to make Arthur want to retreat.
He buries his face into the crook of his neck like his body is moving all on its own-Arthur's pale skin begging to be touched.
His fingers are still ghosting over Arthur's elbows as he inhales deeply-all the scents of his place in Arthur's skin and smelling faintly the scent of himself there too. He shudders a little and Arthur looks over his shoulder at him, mistaking the shudder of pleasure for shudders of cold. He cocks an eyebrow at him, a little smile on his face and then he's nestling back into Eames more, nuzzling Eames' cheek with his own and Eames can't take anymore. He pries the paper out of Arthur's hands and tosses it to the side.
Eames presses a kiss into the back of Arthur's neck feeling him shiver all over and he knows he's swept up with it all now and doesn't care if Arthur bolts off the couch. He has to feel and taste his skin at least a little.
He wraps his arms around Arthur's smooth chest, Arthur meeting his hands and kisses a trail down his neck. Arthur squirms a little but releases a breathy moan and that's all the invitation Eames needs, enough of a "go ahead". He lets his fingers roam slowly all over Arthur's chest feeling him-his pecs, his nipples, his hard stomach all over surprisingly soft, delicate skin.
Arthur's muttering something incoherently under his breath and it's beautiful. They way he's trying to compose himself, so unlike his usual already put together demeanor. Eames twists a nipple as he sucks at the sensitive skin at Arthur's neck giving him a big hickey. Arthur releases a stifled noise and Eames feels some sweat forming at the point man's neck and back.
He nips a little at his neck as he continues to pull and twist at his nipples-now grown hard and pointy.
Arthur is unraveling in his arms, feels him uncoil and relax deeper into him. Eames imagines him melting into him, into the couch, into his skin.
He's sucking at a new spot on his neck, liking the way his skin reddens under his lips and then turns white. He blows on the areas with cool breath when he's done suckling.
And then Arthur shifts, throwing the blanket off of them, turns and is kissing him but its sloppy and like little nips. Eames is almost too stunned to reciprocate but he regains his wits after a few seconds of Arthur's too slow attempts at a kiss. Eames wraps his arms around him again bringing him closer and he's taking over-kissing him deeply and with purpose, sweeping his tongue over his lips and into his mouth making Arthur cling to him, shudder and moan.
He presses Arthur back into the couch so he's lying on it with Eames hovered over him, straddling him. Arthur claws at his back and pulls him down into another needy kiss. It's wet and hot as their tongues glide off each other. Arthur is flicking the roof of his mouth making Eames' head go fuzzy. Eames gently slows them down, kissing his top and then his bottom lip and sweeps his tongue at the corners making Arthur squirm. He wants to enjoy this, stretch it out, they have all night though his heart is racing and he's having trouble thinking, not knowing exactly what to do. Eames pulls up from his warm mouth and brushes adorable damp hair out of Arthur's eyes, sighing. Arthur pouts a little from the loss of contact but smiles when Eames dusts his knuckle to his flushed face. He thinks he looks perfect like this.
Eames again is gripped with unusual feeling he doesn't know what to do. It all happened too fast and he's wanted this, whatever it is they're doing for so long. It's left him breathless and dizzy. And it's Arthur. He shouldn't be nervous but he is.
Arthur brushes his fingertips lightly to Eames' lips, licking his own lips a little, leaving them shiny and moist, regarding him through half lidded eyes. Eames doesn't need to be told what Arthur wants. Eames presses in to his now very warm body, cups his face and kisses him fully. It's soft and warm and Arthur meets his rhythm. They both groan when their tongues meet again and he feels through the thin pajama pants that Arthur is growing hard underneath him. Eames' own cock twitches and stiffens in reaction to it. He breaks away from his lips with a breath and rubs his thumbs into his soft, flushed cheeks. He nuzzles their noses together and Arthur's eyes are still closed he finds when he cracks one of his open briefly. Their breathing is equally matched-breathy and rapid, hot on each other's faces. Eames smiles against him and Arthur sighs, wrapping his arms around his back.
Eames caresses his neck as he kisses his jaw moving down to the side of his sensitive neck and the delicious marks he's already left there. He decides that Arthur needs another one. The hickeys he's left are like continents, like a map he's worked on his skin and one more would look good where Australia should be. He suckles at the warm skin at his lower neck and Arthur clings to him, moaning, cock grower harder. He teases with his tongue and sucks until Arthur hisses in pain and then Eames is murmuring a "sorry" before he kisses the reddened area and blows on it.
He smoothes hair away from his forehead and kisses his cheek making Arthur smile.
Arthur shifts a little and he's again painfully aware of how hard he is for him, how growing hard Eames is in response. He stifles back a groan and focuses his attention to the miles and miles of porcelain skin laid out underneath him.
He starts at his Adam's apple kissing his way down to the nape of his neck and then his delicate collarbone. Arthur's releasing these sounds-half mews of pleasure and half whimpers and Eames is having a hard time concentrating. He reaches his pecs and then moves to his nipples taking one in his mouth and gently sucking. Arthur bucks underneath him releasing a guttural noise that Eames takes as him enjoying it. He represses a grin and continues to suck and lap at it with his tongue, twisting the other in his fingers. Arthur is gripping at Eames' hair and squirming and when Eames flicks a quick look to him in between sucks and pulls, his eyes are closed, cheeks flushed, head to one side, chest moving rapidly and sweat on his brow. It's getting increasingly harder to take his time when Arthur keeps doing irresistible things like that.
He moves past his nipples which are now shiny and wet from his mouth, taut and red and kisses the trail of little dark hair that starts at his chest. He moves down the trail, leaving behind wet, sloppy kisses and Arthur arches his hips slightly, moaning. He kisses past his abdomen to his lower stomach and stops where the trail leads into unchartered territory, disappearing beneath clothing. Eames nudges his nose in the area below his belly button right above the waistband of the pants, inhaling deeply the scents of Arthur and himself mixed together.
Arthur is stroking his head and after a moment he sees Arthur pluck at the waistband of his pajama pants with his thin fingers, pushing them down a little, encouraging him. Eames grins into his skin and kisses him there giving Arthur shivers. He pushes Arthur's fingers away gently, eyeing him. Arthur is breathing hard, eyes partially closed but looks at Eames when he feels his pause. Arthur smiles crookedly and traces the outline of Eames' ear in a gesture that somehow Eames knows how to interpret but also knows they should talk about about it later. Eames returns the small smile and is untying the knot at the front of the pants.
Once they are loose Eames palms Arthur's half hard cock. Arthur moans, twisting and squirming flushed underneath him. "Eames," he breathes.
He feels Arthur's hot length under the thin fabric already stained from pre come. He runs his fingers over him from balls to tip, leans in and mouths him through the fabric. Arthur grunts and releases what sounds like a stifled scream, trembling a little. Eames keeps his hands on either side of his narrow hips to still him, circling the skin there with his thumbs as he takes Arthur in his mouth, dampening the cloth and tugging at him gently. He tastes Arthur faintly through the material-salty, sweat, Eames' body wash. He runs his tongue slowly over the underside of his cock and takes him in a little further. Hands are in his hair again, twisting and pulling when Eames envelops him fully and begins to suckle.
"God…Eames," his voice is broken and he's gasping for breath, his hips moving a little to Eames' gentle sucking. And then all he can hear is the rain drumming against glass, Arthur's breathy moans, their panting and the noises he makes when he sucks him through the fabric.
The suckling turns back into mouthing and licking after a moment and Arthur is struggling for breath. Eames removes his mouth and strokes him with his fingers and Arthur is quivering hard, the pajama pants dripping wet with Eames' saliva and Arthur's pre come. He kisses the bulge in the other man's pants and then he's tugging them down gently. Arthur bites his lip and looks away, a little red in the face as Eames works them down. He throws them over the side of the couch when he frees Arthur of them. Arthur shivers a little and Eames isn't even doing anything yet. He's only letting his eyes roam all over Arthur's naked skin. His cock is red and long- fully erect. It looks a bit moist from the sucking earlier but Eames thinks it's not nearly enough. He runs his fingers over his milky white, almost completely smooth thighs up to the dark curly hair between his legs letting his fingers explore deeply-getting lost in the dark hair. It's soft just like the hair on his head and Eames is glad he doesn't shave it. He thinks he likes it quite a bit. He smiles and begins to straddle Arthur again when the still panting Arthur is sticking a hand out.
Eames stops and eyes him curiously. Arthur plucks at the drawstring at Eames' waistband and Eames leans in closer so Arthur can reach better. Eames' own cock is aching, almost unbearable, wanting to be free and Arthur's fingers so close aren't helping. Arthur's fingers are fumbling with the loose knot but finally gets it undone and then he's sliding them down, freeing him, his cock springing up to greet him and Eames leans in further still. Arthur brushes his fingers to his arse once it's exposed making Eames close his eyes and take in a shuddering breath. Arthur grips his arse more forcefully, spreading his cheeks a little and brushing his fingers at sensitive skin, exploring.
"Arthur…" he shudders, his breath hitching in his throat. And then Arthur's ghosting his fingers around his front and taking him in his hands, stroking him. "I want to feel you completely naked pressed against me," he murmurs and then Eames straddles and catches his filthy mouth and its feverish and needy. Arthur grips his arse again and Eames is becoming undone as he sucks at Arthur's tongue. He feels pre come running down his thighs, leaking on Arthur but if Arthur is put out by it he doesn't show any signs. Arthur breaks the kiss, their foreheads brushing and he's working his pajama bottoms further down. Eames helps him when they get lower and out of reach and Eames throws them to the floor when he works them off. He grabs and presses into Arthur deeply and they're both moaning-catching each other's mouths in almost bruising kisses. Arthur's hard erection is pushing into Eames' stomach as Eames sucks on Arthur's bottom lip. And then Arthur is hooking his ankles around Eames' back increasing their contact as they're now pelvis to pelvis. Eames has to stop, closing his eyes because he thinks he might lose it and come all over them right then and there. He's too pent up, wanting Arthur too much and he has to be careful. He wants to hold out for him.
Their erections glide off each other-both slicked with their pre come and Arthur kisses his ear.
Eames listens to the rain, his blood pounding, their heavy breathing-sucking in air and Arthur is stroking his back and his arse. "I want you," he whispers. And Eames knows Arthur is reassuring him, nudging him, feeling his pause but his statement only makes it harder in every sense of the term. "I want you too," he whispers back kissing his cheek. "I want you in my bed," he whispers in his ear. "I want your sex and smell all over my sheets," he nips his earlobe and he can feel Arthur's cock twitch and his shiver.
He detangles a resistant and hesitant Arthur who is intent on kissing him to distract him and clearly doesn't want to move. Eames knows the feeling but he wants to be able to enjoy Arthur on his bed too-wanting more room. "Please," he whispers gently but Arthur is playfully pulling him back on top of him. Eames ends up scooping him up in his arms when he won't play nice. Arthur laughs a little-all flushed face, damp hair, sweaty, glistening body, red erect, dripping cock and soft curls between his legs.
He lays Arthur down gently on the bed, pushing aside the rumpled comforter.
He's lying next to him and Arthur shoots him a curious, lustful look. Eames turns Arthur towards him so he's lying on his side and wraps his fingers around his pulsing cock. He feels him without the fabric in the way and he's thick and slicked. He feels Arthur tense and then relax at his gentle stroking. Eames positions himself so he can get a good angle and kisses at the soft hair between Arthur's legs, leaving a trail as he makes his way in between his thighs and then up his cock slowly and finally lapping the tip with his tongue.
"Eames…please…" it's a half choked sob.
Eames runs his fingers up his thighs as he takes Arthur in his mouth, moving over him slowly with his lips.
Arthur is gripping his shoulder tightly, digging half moons into his skin and then he's moving him as he works him in his mouth, his cheeks hallowing and molding around him. He swirls his tongue over the head and underside as he takes him deeper and then he's sucking, Arthur fucking back into his mouth and crying out.
"Want…want you inside me…don't get me off," he chokes out after a minute and Eames nearly gags on him upon hearing it, shocked. He wasn't sure if Arthur wanted everything-fully content on just sucking him off. Warmth grows and spreads through his body knowing they'll come with him deep inside him.
Eames releases him from his mouth with a soft PLOP noise and again he has to close his eyes and stop for a moment, to get his aching need under control.
Arthur is dusting his fingertips all over his chest, outlining his tattoos and making his way to his hair, sweeping some to the side.
"Come up here," and he takes Eames' chin and lifts it upward.
Eames smiles, relaxes his aching jaw and opens his eyes to look up at him. Arthur is smiling, face flushed, eyes heavily lidded shooting him a sultry look. Eames scoots so he's lying higher up on the bed, head near a pillow, face to face with Arthur and then Arthur is devouring his mouth, massaging his jaw. He tastes like his tea, the rain and a little of what probably is Arthur's sex.
When the kiss tapers off he gently rolls Arthur onto his stomach and reaches over to the nightstand fishing out his bottle of lube. It's more out of habit that he keeps the lube and condoms in the drawer as he never expected to take anybody home or have unexpected visitors showing up wanting sex.
He dribbles the warming lube over his fingers, slicking them up. He runs his dripping fingers over Arthur's arse, spreading his cheeks. He finds the pink ring of tight muscle and circles it with his lubed finger.
New beads of sweat form at Arthur's back and he's bucking a little under his touch. Eames leans in and kisses his tailbone, rubbing his other hand down his back and arse cheeks reassuringly. He continues to circle his hole slowly and Arthur is moaning after a while. He chances sliding in a finger partially and Arthur is fisting the sheets releasing something between a groan and a cry of pain.
He strokes him and whispers if it's ok and only gets a curt nod from Arthur in response. Arthur is tight but he relaxes a little as he slowly slides the finger in up to the knuckle. He fucks him with his finger only getting low, pained noises from Arthur. Eames is slightly worried and slows but only gets a glare from Arthur when he looks at him over his shoulder and Eames continues. Arthur moves with him a little after a while and Eames feels he's a little more stretched open for him, lube dribbling out of his hole. He removes his finger, kissing and stroking his back and Arthur looks over his shoulder at him totally becoming wrecked, eyes looking black, shooting him pleading looks.
Eames deposits more lube on his fingers and enters Arthur with two fingers. And then Arthur is on his knees, on all fours and it leaves Eames breathless and dizzy again. Arthur is shooting him wanton, lustful looks, cheeks burning red, biting his bruised lips, hair in his eyes, shoulders trembling. Arthur moves with his fingers still inside him breaking Eames out of his frozen trance. He explores his tight muscle going deeper, filling him with warm lube as Arthur is shuddering and moaning. He begins moving and Arthur moves with him, fucking back on his fingers. Eames feels him stretching around his fingers, his own cock aching at how pleasurable it is for Arthur now, all pain subsided. He hits Arthur's prostrate and Arthur gasps and clutches the sheets but continues to move with him after a moment. He gets Arthur good and stretched- his arse leaking lube all over. He catches some lube running down his thigh with his other hand and reaches around to slick up Arthur's cock. Arthur makes broken noises as he slicks him from balls to tip, smearing it all over, stroking him.
He's three fingers deep inside him now and Eames doesn't how long he can hold out, he's literally biting back his own orgasm, wanting to come just by seeing Arthur like this-so utterly wrecked from pleasure just from his fingers.
"Eames…I'm going to come…stop…want you inside me…"
And that's all the warning and invitation Eames needs. He removes his fingers from inside him quickly getting a hiss from the other man. He reaches over to the nightstand drawer and fumbles with slippery fingers to open the condom, his hands shaky. He doesn't know why he's so nervous.
Arthur is still on all fours breathing labored, head hung between his shoulders, sweat beaded on his back, his body shiny and practically covered with lube, all stretched open and trembling for him.
He manages to open it and roll on the condom and then Arthur is lying on his back. Eames hovers over him. Arthur's pupils are dilated but his eyes are demanding. "I want to see you when you do it…"
And then Eames is straddling him and kissing him deeply and Arthur hooks his ankles around his back and he's tracing his cock around his hole slowly and Arthur is arching his hips to meet him, too eager. "Fuck," Eames releases because he knows he won't last, neither of them will but he'll try.
And then Eames is pushing into him slowly, all slick and hot heat and Arthur's eyes go wide and he stops breathing. Eames presses his face into the crook of his neck and fuck he's still not all the way in but fuck it feels so good. "Breathe, sweets. Just breathe," he whispers to Arthur or maybe to remind himself and he hears Arthur take in a little shaky breath. He pushes in a little more, both of them struggling for breath and God Arthur is still tight around him, stretching to accommodate his thick cock. He feels every minuscule amount as he pushes in deeper and deeper. Arthur is clawing at his back, swearing under his breath. Eames pushes in more and he's finally in to the hilt in Arthur's tight little arse. Arthur cries out, closes his eyes and Eames can see a little moisture forming there. Eames lets him get used to how he feels with him inside and Eames feels like he could explode. He kisses Arthur's eyes. "It's been a while for you hasn't it? You're so tight, love…" Arthur nods a little and smiles weakly. "Too long," the words dripping with long ago things, remorse and longing and Arthur's lips tremble slightly.
"Oh, love. I'll fix that. I'll make love to you every day," and he kisses the corners of his mouth.
Arthur's eyes open and they're shiny and wet. He smiles, a more genuine smile. "I'd like that."
Eames chances moving a little inside him and Arthur's eyes roll back in his head, his damp head hitting the pillow. "Fuck. You feel so good inside me, Eames."
And Eames slides in and out, smooth strokes because he can't take any more, he needs him.
"Gentle," Arthur whispers. "Slow."
Eames kisses him and moves slowly inside him, Arthur matching his pace. It's sloppy. Definitely not Eames' best work but he's nervous and he's not used to slow love making especially with Arthur of all people but he would do anything for Arthur if he just asked. He would fuck him slowly on molten lava if that's want he desired.
"That's it, "Arthur breathes in-between thrusts, his moist eyes closed, and his damp head lolling on the pillow, a half smile on his face.
They move slowly, rhythmically and Eames wonders if either of them can get off this way but oh Arthur feels fucking good-his tight, slippery hole, his heat, his lubed up quivering cock begging to be touched and his legs clenched tightly around his back and the way he moves with him, matching his pace.
Eames strokes Arthur's slicked up cock and Arthur shudders. He's only a few strokes in, his cock thrusting slowly in a gentle rhythm when Eames feels he's getting close. He tugs and pulls at Arthur's impossibly hard cock and he's moaning, clutching at the sheets and Eames-anything he can grab onto.
"Kiss me, Eames…I'm going to…" he trails off but Eames knows what he means.
Eames works him a bit faster in his hand, sliding in and out of him slowly and he leans in to capture his lips.
Arthur's kissing and then gasping against his mouth and then Arthur's coming all over his stomach, the bed, Eames, everywhere and Eames is close behind. Arthur arches to meet his downward thrust, Eames' cock pulsing and then he's bruising his lips to Arthur's and uttering his name as he's coming, gripping Arthur tightly, riding out the sweet release.
He buries his sweaty face into Arthur's shoulder, feels the aftershocks of the orgasm, gasps for air and tries to bring himself back down to earth. He tries to reposition himself after a couple moments but Arthur's hand is around his bicep, smiling faintly.
"Don't move. I like you inside me," his cheeks flush hotter and Eames kisses him because he's just too adorable and irresistible like this-needy, awkward and liking Eames' cock.
He holds Arthur close in their awkward position, their bodies sliding a little from sweat, lube and come, liking the feeling of how he's going soft inside Arthur. Arthur kisses his shoulder and murmurs endearments and other praise in his ear making his head feel drowsy and light as air.
Arthur complains of leg cramping after a while and Eames slowly slides out from inside him to the hiss and pout of Arthur. Eames kisses his frown quickly and Arthur moves his head away, trying to hide his smile from the stolen kiss. Eames removes and tosses the condom and his knees are weak, his legs like jelly as he gets up, his body full of sex and Arthur-humming from the pleasure and he's suddenly very tired. He manages to wobble to the bathroom, grab a towel, dampen a portion of it and hobble back to the bed with a sprawled out, naked Arthur still on top of it. He cleans him and Arthur insists on helping clean Eames and then Arthur is dragging Eames back in bed on top of him and he kisses him until they fall asleep in each other's arms.
Eames awakes to wonderful smells hitting his nose and something else he hadn't felt for days-sunlight. He shifts a little towards the direction of the welcoming light and he feels warm rays on his cheeks. He smiles, his eyes still closed and he stretches, thinking he'll brush Arthur in the bed next to him but he doesn't to his disappointment. He frowns and scratches his stomach. He chances cracking his eyes open and he sees a bent over Arthur at the stove, dark red hickies covering one side of his neck wearing the baggy Oxford sweatshirt and nothing else. It just barely covers the swell of his arse and Eames again is struck with it all having to be some impossible, sweet dream.
He dangles himself from the comforter making his way to his dresser. He pulls on new pajama bottoms quickly and he notices the floor doesn't have the same icy sting to it that it had yesterday. His skin isn't breaking out in goose pimples. It's definitely warmer.
He pads to the kitchenette cautiously where Arthur is still busy. He never knows what to do during the morning after. It never happening in his case-him usually sneaking out before it happens.
Warm sunlight filters in through the high windows still dripping a little from the heavy rain from the night before and bathes Arthur in a warm glow. The rays bounce off the bubbles in the sink making little rainbows.
Arthur catches his wrist as he walks past him. Eames sees he's making French toast and his body is consumed with new heat but he knows it isn't from the strange but welcome warmth of his flat. He loves French toast. Arthur apparently knows this too.
Arthur stops him and pulls him close and he's glad that Arthur is deciding what happens during their first morning after like he's reading Eames' direct thoughts.
There's powered sugar and syrup on Arthur's cheek and mouth. Eames winds his fingers in his dark, curling hair and licks into his mouth tasting the sweet that he's left there. Arthur's hands are around his lower back exploring his naked skin. Eames cups Arthur's half covered arse, fingers dusting the smooth milky, sensitive skin. The kiss deepens and Eames wants to lead him back into his bed and have gentle, morning sex with sunlight pouring in through the windows, wants to see how his pale naked body will look with the sunlight hitting it.
Arthur pokes him in the ribs gently with a spatula, breaking their kiss. "They'll burn," he murmurs, kissing Eames' cheek and returning to the stove. Eames keeps his hands on Arthur's hips, head on his shoulder standing right behind him as he watches Arthur work the bread in the frying pan. Arthur only elbows him when Eames tries to distract him by kissing his neck or riding up the sweatshirt to touch the areas beneath it.
When the French toast is finished and Arthur is sprinkling powered sugar on top Eames takes a seat at the counter on the solitary stool facing him, his place setting already laid out for him while Arthur stands on the other side. Arthur pours them coffee and they eat mostly in silence save for scraping of knives and forks on their plates.
"I argued with your landlord on the phone until he agreed to fix the heat," Arthur says through mouthfuls of French toast, eyes on his plate.
Eames can only smile warmly as he swallows buttery, sweet bits, licking powered sugar off his lips.
Eames thinks that Arthur is almost making himself at home-taking pleasure in the small space and all that comes with it.
He watches Arthur with the sunlight in his hair, golden light revealing slowly moving dust, old gray sweatshirt dusted with powdered sugar, his loose hair that curls around his ears.
"How did you find me?" because even if it's a dream Eames needs to know.
He watches Arthur take their crumby plates and deposit them in the soapy sink.
Arthur smiles licking syrup off his long fingers, eyes trained to the sink, a slight blush on his cheeks. "I always know where you are. I'll always find you."
When Arthur is done tiding up they stare at each other from their positions on either side of the counter.
"We should probably talk," Eames finds himself saying. His tone is warm and gentle but he's nervous. He doesn't want Arthur to leave now that the rain has stopped and the heat is fixed. He doesn't need to seek refuge in Eames' place, his arms, his life anymore.
Arthur bites his lip like he's trying to hide a smile and he eyes Eames curiously. "We could but the writing's on the wall…"
His words confuse him, twist inside him and then Arthur is busy with a fresh mug of steaming coffee looking out the windows. Eames feels stupefied and almost hurt by his brush off but he follows Arthur's intense gaze to the windows and Eames spies something there, breath catching in his throat.
He finds himself getting up and padding over to the window above the door to the patio. He sees through the sunlight pouring in that the message that Eames had started the day before has been finished-the smeared words caked on the glass. His heart flutters as he reads:
"Today the rain stops, I stop checking my totem and I accept this is not a dream." And below it in smaller letters: "I love you."
Eames reads it a few more times, feeling lightheaded, pent up relief flooding his system that it isn't a dream after all and knowing selfishly he didn't want it to be. He brushes his fingertips ever so lightly over Arthur's handwriting.
"The writing's on the wall…" or window pane for that matter and Arthur's right. They don't really need to talk about it when it's all so clear just like the morning sky, the words on the pane and the way Arthur found his hidden place, tucked away from the rest of the world and how neither of them are running away. Eames smiles feeling his heart fill up and overflow. He turns to the kitchenette wanting to meet Arthur's eyes but he's not there.
He's leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, facing him, playing with the hem of the sweatshirt, smiling a toothy, boyish smile, dimples flashing. He motions for Eames to join him.
Arthur is stripping off the sweatshirt when Eames is half way there, shooting him an inviting look over his shoulder. Eames shimmies off his pajama bottoms leaving them in the middle of the floor and meets him in the bathroom where the water is already running in the rub, warming up for them.
Eames catches Arthur's wrist, pulling him close as he closes the bathroom door behind him.