"I don't know why Brad Pitt is actually hotter when he's wearing those hideous clothes," Arthur is musing, tilting his head as he stares at the television, "It's like it amplifies my desire to get him naked."
Eames takes a slow breath, the way he always has to when Arthur brings up sex like it's so fucking casual, like it doesn't make Eames think a multitude of terribly depraved thoughts. Arthur really is sitting very close to him tonight, in the middle of the couch instead of leaning against the other arm. Sixteen. Sixteen years old. Behave yourself, Eames.
"I guess," Arthur continues, "It could be that he just looks sexier in comparison to his clothes," he says this lightly, but the glance he casts at Eames, flicking his eyes from Eames' shirt to his face, is so far from casual it should be illegal. It sort of is illegal. Eames should care more about that, he's sure.
The movie ploughs on, but Eames has seen it a million times, and he's really a lot more interested in catching the looks Arthur is throwing him, subtle as a brick but probably not intended as sly. He's pushing further every weekend, hinting and flirting, finding excuses to touch Eames for too long or lean too close when they talk. Eames' moral code was never all that strong. Age is just a number. Eleven years is just an age difference. Age difference is just a number.
Arthur inches closer so their thighs are touching, and Eames lets his arm slip down a little from the back of the couch, because he likes the way Arthur shivers every time Eames touches him. The commentary continues.
"No matter how many times I watch this scene, I keep expecting it to end with sex."
"It's a shame she's not actually sleeping with Brad; he'd clearly be the better lay. I mean, the body alone…"
"Actually, you know what, every fight scene seems like it should end in sex. These guys are like two inches away from jerking each other off."
Absorbing the words, along with the heat from Arthur's body, Eames runs through all the possible ways this could go wrong. He starts with the least likely – that he's misreading things, and Arthur really just wants to be pals, which sounds pretty ridiculous in the present context – and ends at the most terrifying – that Arthur's enormous, overprotective father figures out where Arthur really goes every Friday night, and beats Eames into a fine pulp for corrupting his virginal Arthur. Eames spends a long time weighing the negative aspects of this possibility against the unspeakably appealing part about corrupting his virginal Arthur, and eventually realizes that he's lost track of time.
"When's your curfew?" he asks, looking at his watch while Ed Norton experiences mounting emotional turmoil.
Arthur shrugs, not meeting Eames' eyes. "I'm not late," he says, which is a lie, unless Arthur's father has suddenly decided the night is still young at 11:28PM.
"Come on, you'll blame me if you get grounded again, I know how you operate," Eames says, digging in the cushions beside him for the remote.
"I don't have a curfew tonight," Arthur mutters, looking at his lap, then up at Eames, faintly flushed in the low light, "He thinks I'm sleeping at Jeremy's."
Eames stalls, dropping the remote back into the depths of the sofa. "So," he says slowly, "Where were you planning on staying?"
Arthur's cheeks turn pinker, in direct contrast to the sardonic arch of his eyebrow, "Dad'll be in bed in an hour. I can sneak back in, tell him I left early when he wakes up tomorrow."
"That's the plan, is it?" Eames says, aiming to sound mildly amused but achieving something closer to mildly turned on.
"Until I get a better offer," Arthur says, and he's nervous underneath the posturing, and seems to be at least vaguely aware that that line is terrible, so it comes out rushed and a little breathless.
Eames leans closer, narrowing his eyes and studying Arthur's features, taking in that mix of defiance and anxious inexperience that's kept him inviting Arthur over every weekend for months now, addicted to watching Arthur push his own boundaries, reckless like a teenager should be.
"You expecting a better offer?" he asks, proud that his voice comes out steady, like maybe he's still got some composure left.
"Eames," Arthur breathes, shaky and soft, and there goes that thought, because Eames is so fucked.
Later, Eames will assure himself that Arthur kissed first, if only because it makes Eames sound like slightly less of an asshole, if he ever has to recount the experience. At present, though, all he registers is a clash of lips and teeth, frantic and messy and altogether too fast.
Arthur is practically vibrating when Eames brings his hands up, cradling his face and trying to slow the kiss to an easier pace. Arthur's having none of it, though, huffing a frustrated breath through his nose and curling his hands into fists in Eames' shirt, trying to climb on top of him.
"Hey," Eames pulls back and holds Arthur off him, almost as much for his own benefit as for Arthur's buzzing nerves, "Slow down."
Arthur's brow creases in a defiant frown, "Why?"
Eames knows him well enough by now to know that that look has more uncertainty under it than Arthur would ever admit, so he smiles, leaning their foreheads together and stroking his thumb over Arthur's cheekbone. "Because this isn't going to be much fun if it happens too fast to remember it, right?"
Arthur kisses him again, but he pulls back quickly, like it was an impulse he couldn't control. He's still shaking minutely, his hands clenching and releasing in Eames' shirt.
"Come on," Eames says, leaning back against the arm of the couch and nudging Arthur to turn around, pulling him back against his chest, "We've got time, let's just… take it slower, yeah?"
He feels his own heartbeat, hammering against his ribcage as Arthur leans back against him. Eames is grateful for the fact that Arthur can't see him close his eyes, trying to get a handle on quite a few impulses. He lets Arthur settle, biting his lip to stop from hissing as the small of Arthur's back presses against his cock.
Ed Norton is chasing himself around America; they've got some time to get comfortable, and an available distraction for Arthur to focus on while he gets there. Eames doesn't plan on doing a lot of looking at the television. He wraps his arms around Arthur, pressing lips to his neck, intimate in a way he's sure Arthur isn't accustomed to.
"Have you ever done this before?" he asks. He thinks he knows the answer, but he's learned that it's safer not to assume.
"What's this, exactly?" Arthur returns, and Eames has to fight down his smile at the impatience in Arthur's tone.
"Anything," Eames says, "Sex, fooling around." he strokes his fingers across Arthur's belly, feeling the muscles twitch.
Arthur's shoulders tense, "Not really," he says shortly, but when Eames doesn't respond, he continues, "Handjobs, mostly."
"Mostly?" Eames licks at the shell of Arthur's ear, tightening his arms when Arthur shivers.
"Just handjobs, okay?" he says, sounding pained, "Why do you need to know?"
Eames trails his hand lower, hitching up Arthur's t-shirt and touching the soft skin just above the waistband of his jeans, "I just don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with."
Arthur twists in his arms, frowning up at him, "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't comfortable."
"I know," Eames says quickly, flattening his palm against Arthur's stomach, dragging it up to his chest, "But I don't want to move too fast, or—"
"Fuck that," Arthur cuts him off, placing his hand over Eames' and guiding his fingers to brush over Arthur's nipple. He takes a shaky breath, "I know what I want."
Eames shuts his eyes for a second, teasing Arthur's nipple and feeling him squirm and press back, and Eames is getting hard, so hard, against the warm pressure of his body. "So tell me."
"I… I want you to touch me," Arthur whispers, tilting his head for Eames to press a kiss to his neck. "I want to touch you… I want you – to, to suck me."
Eames bites down on a disturbing sort of growl, his hands roaming over Arthur's torso, "Keep going."
"I keep thinking about it, all the time. I want to come in your mouth," he whispers, his hand clenching on Eames' thigh. Eames bites down on a spot low on his neck, groaning when Arthur whimpers. "I'll let you fuck me," he goes on, and for a moment Eames is just bowled over by the words, by the concept, so it takes him a few beats to register the implication.
"You'll let me?" he says, smirking, "Is that a favour?"
Arthur squirms – Eames grits his teeth – and shrugs, "What, you don't want to?" he asks, only half-kidding, craning his neck to meet Eames' eyes. Eames almost laughs.
"You have no fucking idea how much I want to," he says, pressing his lips to that spot under Arthur's ear that's been making him shiver, "But you have to want it, too."
Arthur swallows, "It's not just about me."
Eames nods, trailing his hand down Arthur's belly, barely bypassing the bulge in his jeans in favour of stroking his inner thigh through the worn denim. "It can be a little bit about you, though, yeah?"
"Well – I think I'd like anything you did to me," Arthur says, uncharacteristically candid, inching his legs further apart. Eames kisses his neck and reaches so his fingers brush against Arthur's ass. Breathing heavily, Arthur makes a soft noise.
"You ever try putting your fingers in there?" Eames whispers. He presses a little firmer between Arthur's legs for emphasis.
Arthur stiffens, his breath catching before he speaks, "I tried… Tonight, in the shower, I tried it."
"And it – it was weird. It fucking hurt like hell."
"It doesn't have to," Eames says, trailing his hand back up to cover Arthur's erection, straining against his jeans, "It can feel really, really good if you do it right."
"I know there's, like, the prostate. I mean, I've read about it," Arthur is pressing up against Eames' hand, but Eames isn't giving him much, just light pressure.
"That's only part of it, there's more than that. It feels like…" Eames trails off, casting around for a way to describe it in a way that won't sound terrifying, "Like you're full, and open, in a really good way. Like you can't get enough."
Arthur whines, and Eames is sure he's pressing back with purpose now, wriggling against Eames' cock. "It doesn't hurt?"
"Sometimes," Eames concedes, pressing his lips behind Arthur's ear, "But sometimes that's good, too, a little bit of pain. Makes everything feel sharper."
Arthur is quiet for a while, just breathing shakily, rocking his hips.
"It doesn't have to be someone's cock, either," Eames continues, curving his hand a little and letting Arthur work his hips up into the contact, "Sometimes it's even better when it's just fingers, hitting all the right spots."
Arthur reaches back, curling his hand around Eames' neck and pulling him down for a kiss. This time it's slower, his movements have lost some of the frantic edge from before. He parts his lips when Eames licks at them, moaning around Eames' tongue.
When he pulls back, he looks dazed, cheeks pink and eyes half-lidded like Eames is doing a lot more than just groping him through his jeans.
"I want you to show me."
Eames takes a deep breath, gathering shreds of control. He slides his hand to Arthur's thigh again, and this time Arthur bends his knee, arching into the touch.
"You're sure about this?" Eames whispers, expecting annoyance, needing to ask anyway.
But Arthur just nods, and if Eames didn't know him, he'd call it earnest. "I'm sure."
Eames presses another kiss to the side of his mouth, smiling, "Then we're going to have to change venues." He nudges Arthur up and pulls himself off the couch, holding his hand out to help Arthur stand.
"Your bedroom?" Arthur asks, not able to keep his voice strictly casual, and yes, right, Arthur's never even seen the bedroom before.
Tugging him to his feet, Eames kisses the back of his hand, then leans close to kiss his mouth, because he can't help himself. "I don't think you're a quickie-on-the-sofa kind of guy," he says when he pulls back, and the only reason Arthur's smile doesn't make Eames' heart stop is that he turns then, and leads him down the hall.
Eames intends to give Arthur a moment to center himself – or at least to take in his surroundings – once they reach the bedroom, but Arthur doesn't seem terribly interested in the pattern of the duvet. Hands tug at Eames' shirt buttons the moment they're facing each other, Arthur latching onto his lips again, buzzing with energy, eager to move along.
Being that he's only human, it takes Eames a little longer, this time, to pull up on the reins. Arthur gets his shirt open, running cold, trembling fingers over Eames' chest, breaking the kiss to look down with hitched breath and awestruck gaze, and fuck if that doesn't make Eames feel Goddamn invincible. He lets Arthur shove the shirt to the floor, lets him press his lips to Eames' shoulder, lets him get as far as pulling frantically at Eames' belt before he grabs Arthur's wrists.
"We're back to the start here, aren't we?" he says, and Arthur growls in frustration, his forehead creasing.
"I thought this was about what I want," he challenges, though he tilts his head to the side when Eames moves in to mouth at his neck, holding his wrists steady.
Eames grins and releases him, pleased when Arthur abandons his belt and brings his hands to Eames' shoulders instead. "Just trust me?" he pulls back to watch Arthur's face as he slips his hand around to the small of his back, working fingers under the waistband of his jeans to just brush over the curve of his ass.
Arthur smiles reluctantly, "I can try," he says, touching his lips to Eames' again.
To be embarrassingly honest, Eames would probably kiss Arthur for hours if he thought Arthur would let him. There are quite a few other things he'd like to do for hours, too, but spending some time memorizing the way Arthur sighs and shakes when their tongues touch, and leans into him like he trusts Eames to hold him up, that feels like a good place to start. Arthur's patience only goes so far, though, so Eames pulls back, freeing his hand from Arthur's jeans and tugging his t-shirt up and off.
With Arthur following his lead, Eames gets to take a moment to just look, to appreciate the pale skin and smooth lines of Arthur's torso, young and thin and lanky, because he's grown inches this past year and he's still a little awkward with it. Arthur tenses under the inspection, and Eames realizes too late that Arthur has likely never had anyone see him like this, or look at him the way Eames is right now.
Carding his fingers through Arthur's messy hair, Eames leans their foreheads together. Thoughts like beautiful and lovely and want to fuck you till you cry bounce through his mind, but he lands on, "You're so fucking sexy, do you know that?"
And because Arthur is still Arthur, regardless of inexperience in the current situation, he doesn't disappoint. "Well, I figure there's a reason you invite me over here every weekend."
Eames hums, sliding his hand to Arthur's ass and pressing their hips together, letting him feel how hard Eames is for him. There's a gasp, and Arthur stiffens in his arms, so sensitive already. He rocks into the contact, making soft little noises and clutching hard to Eames' shoulders.
"Alright," Eames says, stilling Arthur's hips and moving to open his jeans, shoving them down then doing the same with his own. He walks backwards until he hits the bed, and sits on the edge, pulling Arthur on top of him, separated by nothing but underwear. Arthur looks instantly comfortable in this position, straddling Eames' lap, which is something he'll have to keep in mind.
Arthur leans down for a kiss, already rocking. Eames lets him move, lets him feel it out and explore, bringing one hand to Arthur's hip when he starts speeding up.
"Keep it slow, that's it," he murmurs, guiding Arthur into an easy rhythm, rubbing himself on Eames' stomach. Eames brings a finger to Arthur's parted lips, and he hesitates, briefly, before flicking his tongue against it. His confidence grows as Eames sucks in a sharp breath, Arthur wrapping his lips around the finger and taking it into his mouth, his hot, wet, gorgeous little fucking mouth – Eames' cock twitches in jealousy.
With effort, he slips free, bringing his hand around to push into the back of Arthur's underwear. Eames palms his ass, spreading him apart to touch his finger to Arthur's hole. Hips stutter and thighs shake, and Arthur goes tense in his arms.
"Are you gonna—" he says, his hair falling over his eyes as he ducks his head, struggling to finish the question.
"Not yet," Eames says, just circling his entrance, getting him used to the feeling of having someone touch him there. Arthur squirms against it, brow creasing, but he starts to adjust, colour on his cheeks and little noises leaving his throat as Eames rubs at him.
"I want to touch you," Arthur says, somewhat abruptly, one hand leaving Eames' shoulder to tug down the waistband of his boxers. Arthur's fingers are cool, nearly uncomfortable, but it's eclipsed by the way he moans when he feels Eames' cock in his hand, the way Eames can feel his hole clenching against the tip of his finger, and he doesn't need to ask about it to know what's on Arthur's mind right now.
Breathing getting sharper, Eames slips his free hand down to return the favour, pulling Arthur's cock from his underwear and stroking. Arthur's grip goes slack, too overwhelmed with it all to keep everything coordinated, so Eames takes over, pushing Arthur's hand off him.
Arthur groans as Eames wraps his fingers around them both. Eames almost feels like he's a teenager again, like everything Arthur feels is so intense, it spills over. He'd forgotten what this was like, how good it is just to have contact, just the feel of someone else's cock against your own, thrilling the way everything about sex is thrilling when you're sixteen and can't think about anything else. Eames kisses him, but Arthur can barely participate, just whining into it, pushing up into Eames' fist.
"Keep moving," Eames whispers as he presses just the tip of his finger into Arthur's body, dry, but not nearly far enough to hurt. Arthur's breath catches sharply, his head falling back as he moans, shoving against the grip Eames has on him just once before he freezes. Eames feels it, warm and wet on his fingers, before he realizes what's happened; Arthur is coming, all over their stomachs, clenching tight on the finger inside him. Eames fights not to lose control while Arthur shudders and gasps in his lap, moaning like he's never felt anything so good.
"Fuck," he finally forces out, burying his face in the crook of Eames' neck, "Fuck, god, I'm sorry, I couldn't…"
Eames kisses the shell of his ear, still reeling, huffing out a laugh, "You're – Christ, Arthur, don't be sorry." He falls back to the mattress, but Arthur is dead weight on his chest, so Eames gently pushes him off, rolling him onto his back. "Come on," Eames maneuvers him into the middle of the bed, loose-limed and sprawling.
"Let's get these off," Eames says, tugging Arthur's underwear down.
"You too," Arthur murmurs, yanking ineffectually until Eames gives him a hand and shoves his own boxers down and off. Arthur hums happily when Eames stretches out on top of him, pressed together everywhere and weighing him down. Eames kisses him, loving this new pliancy, the way Arthur just parts his lips and opens up for it, still in that soft, post-orgasm haze.
Eames pushes a hand between them, brushing his fingers over Arthur's cock, making him gasp, too sensitive. When Eames pulls his mouth away, Arthur looks like – like sex, young and dazed and exhilarated, and Eames feels like he's drunk on it.
"Spread your legs for me," he says, and Arthur does, giving Eames a look like it's the sexiest thing he's ever heard, letting Eames sit back, kneeling between his knees.
Stroking his hand up and down Arthur's thigh, Eames fixes him with the gentlest, least predatory expression he can manage under the current circumstances. "It doesn't have to go any further than this, you know. If you want to stop, or just wait…"
Arthur stares at him with a look of pure exasperation, "Are you fucking serious? I'm naked in your bed, you asshole, do you seriously think I want you to stop?"
Eames grins, reaching over to his nightstand to fetch the lube, "I was sincerely hoping not," he says, flicking open the bottle and pouring some onto his finger, "But you really do have to tell me if you want to take it easy, or slow down, or even stop, if it comes to that. Will you do that?"
Arthur swallows heavily, reaching out; Eames leans over him and lets Arthur pull him into a kiss. "I will," he breathes against Eames' lips.
Sitting up again, Eames touches one slick finger to Arthur's hole, pleased when Arthur just hums, bending one knee slightly and opening his legs further. "Just one right now," Eames says, and presses it in, barely further than before. He waits for a few breaths, then pushes again, past the width of his second knuckle, pausing before the limit for Arthur to adjust, because he's ludicrously tight. He doesn't look scared or like he's in pain, though, and soon he lets out a huff of air, and Eames feels his muscles relax, just slightly.
"How many fingers did you use when you tried this yourself?" Eames asks, pulling out a little, pushing back in slowly, gritting his teeth at the hitch of breath and the barely-there whimper he gets for his efforts.
"Tried for two," Arthur says, "They didn't – I couldn't get very far."
"Well then, tonight's secondary lesson will be concerning the benefit of proper lubrication," Eames smiles, fucking Arthur slowly, carefully with his finger, "How does this feel?"
Arthur's brow creases, like he hadn't thought about the answer. He rolls his hips experimentally, meeting Eames' hand, and gives a lopsided smile, "It's good. It doesn't hurt as much as I thought."
"Good," Eames moves down on the bed, stretching out on his stomach between Arthur's legs. There's come on Arthur's belly, and Eames laps at it, letting Arthur squirm and arch up toward him. He's hard again, already, but Eames isn't going to tempt fate and sixteen-year-old hair triggers by touching him.
Once Arthur's skin is clean, once Arthur is moaning openly and working his hips against Eames' hand, Eames pulls his finger out, slicking another, "Ready for two?"
Arthur licks his lips nervously, but he nods, "Yeah."
Eames is careful, so fucking slow, when he presses his fingers to Arthur's entrance. "Relax," he says, biting down on I'm not going to hurt you, because that is, technically, a lie; it's obviously going to hurt. Eames pushes against the resistance, the muscles like a vice around his fingers when he gets them in halfway. Arthur whines, taking short little breaths through his nose.
"I know it hurts, I know," Eames whispers, hearing his voice shaking, pressing a kiss to Arthur's inner thigh, "I'm not gonna move them yet. You tell me if you need to stop, all right?"
"I'm okay, just – need a second," Arthur says, his eyes screwed up tight.
"You take all the time you need, love," Eames says, pressing kisses to the inside of Arthur's trembling thigh, licking at the soft, pale skin.
Arthur lets out his breath, his fingers touching Eames' head, "That feels good," he says, relaxing minutely. Eames glances up at him, making a quick, possibly absurd decision. He takes Arthur's thigh in his hand, bending his leg up toward his chest, which Arthur takes like it's easy. Eames can't help his groan when he looks down at where Arthur's clenching on him, and has a similar lack of control over how he leans in, touching the tip of his tongue to Arthur's hole.
"Oh – fuck--" Arthur gasps, and that'll do fine for encouragement, so Eames does it again, licking at the skin stretched around his fingers. He's still tight, too tight for comfort, so Eames pulls his fingers free, using his hand to hold Arthur's cheeks apart and drag his tongue across his hole, wriggling the tip inside.
Arthur is absolutely shattered above him, shaking apart and breathing out tight little whimpers, "Ah, ah, ah," at every flick over his sore, sensitive skin. Eames gets him wet, gets him dripping with spit, and while Arthur's keening and begging for more, Eames slips his fingers back in. This time they go easy, as easy as Eames could hope, and Arthur makes a startled sound when they reach as far as they can.
"Eames, Eames," he pants, tugging at the sheets. Eames lifts his head, watching Arthur's face.
"Talk to me, tell me how it feels," he twists his hand a little.
"Fuck, oh, it's – it's like you said, feels full, it's good, don't stop," Arthur babbles.
Eames lets Arthur's leg fall back to the bed, nudging at his hip, "Move a little," he says, his voice shaking and rough, and he's barely been touched, but he doesn't remember the last time he was this turned on, "Move with me, find how you like it."
Arthur nods, arching and rocking his hips onto Eames' hand as Eames presses in. Feeling a little overwhelmed, Eames can't decide between kissing all over Arthur's thighs and stomach, and watching his face as he falls apart. He crooks his fingers, searching, until Arthur cries out.
"There we go," Eames breathes, Arthur working himself up and down frantically, straining for more.
"Is that—" he starts, but his voice dies as Eames rubs against the spot again.
"That would be your prostate," Eames confirms, dizzy and losing restraint, driving his fingers inside.
"God, Eames, oh God," Arthur moans, scratching at his shoulders, "I wish you'd fuck me."
Eames feels something snap in his brain, quieting the voice that's been telling him, all night, to keep his thoughts to himself. He moves up Arthur's body, leaning over him with his fingers still pushing in deep.
"Next time, I'll fuck you," he promises, "I'll get you so fucking wet and loose with my fingers and my tongue, you'll be desperate for it, you'll beg for my cock."
"Yes," Arthur gasps, nodding along, fucking himself on Eames' hand, "Fuck yes." His hand creeps between them, moving to grab his own cock.
"Don't touch yourself," Eames tells him, expecting resistance, but Arthur's hand stops, "I want you to come just like this."
Arthur moans, and he brings his hand to Eames' stomach instead, "Can I touch you?"
Jesus. "Yeah, go – oh," Eames grunts as Arthur's fingers wrap around his cock, smearing precome from the head.
Arthur jerks him with the same demanding pace that Eames has set. Eames' arm shakes with the effort of holding his own weight, still fingering Arthur hard enough to make him feel it in the morning, maybe make him squirm when he sits at his desk, trying to do his homework but too distracted to concentrate—
And with that thought, Eames comes all over him. Arthur's eyes go wide as Eames fucks into his hand, groaning, spilling onto Arthur's stomach, his cock. He shoves his face against Arthur's neck, mouthing inelegantly against his skin, mindlessly crooking his fingers, driving into him brutally.
Arthur shoves down on Eames' hand, positively sobbing, and then he's coming too. He goes impossibly tight, but Eames works him through his orgasm, stroking at his prostate and twisting his fingers until Arthur is spent and quivering from too much stimulation, covered in come and panting like he's run a marathon.
Eames collapses to the side, but just barely, still cradled between Arthur's legs. He moves off him in increments, each time he gets the strength to shift a little more. He ends up flopping over onto his back, tugging Arthur half on top of him, scratching lightly through his hair.
"You can stay, right?" Eames asks sleepily. He opens one eye to find Arthur staring at him, alarmingly lucid.
Eames blinks, then cups Arthur's jaw, tipping his face up to kiss him hard and quick, then again, and again, until the message is clear, "Of course you can."
Arthur smiles, cheeks dimpling, and lays his head on Eames' chest. They're both sweaty and sticky; in a minute, they'll take a shower. Arthur sighs contentedly, fingers stroking up and down Eames' side. Maybe a few minutes.