Everything that anyone needs to know about Arthur’s town can be summed up in one sentence: The museum is easily the most interesting place to visit.
As it happens, Arthur likes museums, because he has more than one functioning brain cell. That doesn’t mean he’s looking forward to being forced to go to the new exhibit with his classmates. They go every year, so he knows what to expect: Mitch will get bored within five minutes and break something of historical importance; Kathryn will get into a screaming match with Melissa, who stole Kathryn’s boyfriend in kindergarten; and the rest of the class will spend more time in the gift shop than in the museum.
But when they arrive, Arthur sees that he was wrong. His mom works in the mayor’s office and he vaguely remembers her talking about a new curator. Looks like the new guy knows what he’s doing.
The exhibit is about the history of disease and is incredibly ghoulish, to the extent that Mrs McLaughin’s lips are so thin as to be non-existent and Arthur just knows she’s going to put in a complaint. There are disgustingly explicit photographs and models, and hands-on examples of old-fashioned remedies like trepanned skulls, and some fake adipocere.
Everyone – other than Mrs McLaughlin – is having a good time. That’s how Brad the Jock’s attempts to pronounce myxomatosis become the soundtrack to Arthur seeing the love of his life for the first time.
An older guy, mid-twenties, walks over and says something to Mrs McLaughlin that makes her laugh and toss her hair like she’s trying to remember what it was like to be a teenager with a crush.
Arthur can tell her exactly what it’s like to be a teenager with a crush, because the guy she’s talking to hits every one of his buttons. Broad-shouldered and muscular, but with a pretty face and a fucking stunning smile that actually, genuinely makes Arthur’s knees a little weak. He wonders if the guy would catch him if Arthur managed to swoon in his direction.
And then the guy turns that smile on Arthur and heads over, and Arthur makes a tiny noise that he hopes to god the guy did not hear.
“Glad to see you’re enjoying the exhibit,” Arthur’s new beloved says, in an English accent that makes Arthur’s mouth drop open and work soundlessly. “I spent quite a bit of time on it.”
“You’re the curator?” Arthur manages, and is very proud of himself for making sense.
“Yes. I’m Eames.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Eames,” Arthur says, and somehow his stupid, stupid voice goes deep and gravelly and makes it sound like a pick-up line, which would be fine if there was any way that this gorgeous guy might be interested in a sixteen-year-old. But then a miracle happens and Eames raises an eyebrow and gives Arthur the sexiest smile in the world.
“And I’m very pleased to meet you, mysterious high schooler.”
“I’m Arthur,” says Arthur breathlessly, managing to compress the words into less than a second.
Eames still looks amused, and sexy, and like he needs to be naked in Arthur’s bed, and says, “I’m running some workshops on Saturday about how forgeries are made, would you like to come?”
“Uh huh,” Arthur says, and despite Arthur’s showing off the very worst parts of himself, Eames does not look horrified when Arthur turns up to the workshop.
Nor does he look horrified when Arthur asks him if he wants to go and get a coffee afterward, and he’s even nice enough to give Arthur a lift home. He does look surprised when Arthur kisses him before getting out of the car; but he kisses back, sucking Arthur’s lower lip into his mouth and biting softly.
“I knew you’d be trouble the minute I saw you,” Eames murmurs, stealing another kiss.
“Sometimes it’s worth getting into trouble,” Arthur whispers, staring at Eames’s lips when he pulls back.
“Sometimes it is,” Eames agrees.
It turns out that Eames doesn’t mind trouble at all, because ten dates and a month later, he is texting half-naked pictures of himself to Arthur.
It’s making Arthur’s attempts to finish his homework extremely half-hearted, and he’s staring at the words in his textbook without reading a single one of them. The next time his phone buzzes, the picture Eames has sent him shows more than a little bit of happy trail and Arthur slams the book shut.
Fuck it; he’s a good student and his teachers always let him off with not doing homework. Jerking off to Eames’s pictures sounds like a much better way to spend a Tuesday evening. He’s just taken his dick in his hand and found his favourite naked-Eames picture when the landline starts to ring.
Cursing under his breath, Arthur zips himself back up and goes into the study to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says, voice tinny through the speaker, and Arthur winces. Having a hard-on and talking to his mom are not things that should ever go together.
“Hi, Mom, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know I’m not going to be home before midnight,” she says. “So get yourself some takeout and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Arthur blinks, and then grins and gives a fist pump as he realises that he can have far more than a solitary wank this evening. “Sure, Mom. Have a good evening.”
“You too. Don’t forget to finish your homework!”
Any thoughts of homework disappeared upon acquiring the knowledge that he’d have the house to himself. By the time Eames picks up the phone Arthur has thought of five different excuses to give his teachers.
“Hello, darling, did you like my last picture?”
“Get over here, now.”
Eames pauses. “Obviously I would love to, but there’s the little matter of your mum. Because as open-minded as you say she is, I’m not sure she’s ready to deal with the fact that her son’s boyfriend is almost ten years older than him.”
“She’s working late, so stop wasting time and get over here.” Arthur hangs up, certain that Eames is already grabbing his coat.
Although Eames lives on the other side of the town, the other side of town is only about five miles away. That gives Arthur just enough time to grab a couple of Hot Pockets and shove his three-Moleskine planning system in the closet so that Eames doesn’t tease him about it again.
He’s pulled on his tightest jeans and has just picked up the red t-shirt that clings to him and distracts Eames to half-finished sentences when the doorbell rings. He puts it on as he runs down the stairs, then stops at the bottom to take a deep, calming breath.
Arthur opens the door and Eames just stares at him for a moment, before his lips curl into an indecent grin. “Arthur, you are far too delicious for my mental health,” and Arthur could say the same about Eames, with ink peeking from under his t-shirt, which is too-tight over his muscular arms; but since Eames pushes him against the wall and shoves his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, there’s not much chance to say anything at all.
With Eames pressed up tight against him Arthur can barely move and he likes that, a lot. Being trapped like this makes him feel like Eames wants him so much that he can’t bear to let Arthur escape; not that Arthur wants to, not even a little bit. Eames nips at Arthur’s neck, and Arthur can tell that Eames wants to leave marks, to show everyone that Arthur is his, and for all that Arthur knows it’s a bad idea, that he’ll have to endure a lecture from his mom, he wants it too.
“Do it,” Arthur murmurs, putting his hands in Eames’s back pockets and whining a little at the combination of their hips grinding together and Eames sucking bruises into his skin. He’s going to have to wear scarves for the next week but it’ll be worth it, it’ll be so worth it.
Eames pulls back slightly to admire his handiwork, ghosts his fingers feather light over the marks he’s made. “Mine,” he growls, and Arthur nods.
“Yours,” he says. “You can prove it further by coming in my ass.”
“You have a bloody filthy mouth,” Eames says, grinning, and picks Arthur up in a princess carry to take him up the stairs.
Arthur half-thinks that he could get used to being carried like this – walking’s for losers who don’t have hunky British boyfriends – but when Eames throws him roughly onto the bed and clambers onto him, he decides he much prefers this. The bed dips under their combined weight, and Arthur is even more trapped than he was against the wall, with Eames’s arms and thighs caging him.
Eames bites at Arthur’s neck again, sucks the bruises darker, and he slides their hips together until Arthur is whimpering uncontrollably. He could come from this – he has, in the back of Eames’s car after their second date.
Since Eames has more experience, he usually leads the way in terms of what they do – Arthur doesn’t care about the details as long as they both come and so far that strategy hasn’t failed him. More to the point, letting Eames take charge means that Arthur gets to just relax and not worry about anything. He just gets to feel; right now, he is feeling Eames’s mouth on his nipple, soft lips and wet tongue, and the occasional sharpness of teeth making Arthur yelp and shiver.
Even if Arthur wanted to have more say in what they do, he’d be useless because he wants everything. When he lies in bed and jerks off, thinking about what he most likes to do with Eames, his thoughts jump from being fucked, to having his dick in Eames’s mouth, to having Eames’s dick in his own mouth; images flash through his head at super-speed until he comes, spurting over his stomach while he bites down on his fist to muffle his cry.
Maybe one day he’ll be able to get it together enough to be more dominant, but right now he’s happy for Eames to be in charge. That doesn’t stop him from giving a disappointed moan when Eames pushes himself up.
“You stopped,” Arthur says, as if that was something that Eames himself had somehow failed to notice. He moves to sit up but Eames pushes him back down, shaking his head.
“Stay where you are,” Eames says, pressing his hand to Arthur’s dick, where it is trapped in the confines of his jeans. His hand massages, slowly, but he just keeps looking down at Arthur, and Arthur can’t look away. Sometimes Eames’s thumb presses behind Arthur’s balls and even through the thick denim it’s still like he’s touched a live wire. Arthur bucks up into Eames’s touch and gives a strangled moan. It’s a weird sort of pleasure that’s almost pain; it’s so intense that it kind of is pain. Still, Arthur pushes up into Eames’s hand, wanting more. Which, of course, is when Eames takes his hand away.
“Bastard,” Arthur gasps, and Eames grins toothily at him.
“Now, now, don’t be such a naughty boy,” Eames purrs, standing and pulling Arthur to unsteady feet. They’ve hardly done anything yet but Arthur’s boxers are already damp with precome; it’s uncomfortable and he wants them off, but before he can do anything, Eames pushes him to the desk.
With one of Eames’s strong hands at his waist and the other on his back, Arthur is easily directed where Eames wants him. Eames bends him in half, so that Arthur’s stomach is resting on the desk, and he presses Arthur’s hands palm-down on the wood. “Keep your hands there.”
Arthur does, quivering with expectation, looking over his shoulder to watch Eames. Eames reaches around Arthur’s waist to unbutton his jeans, then slides both them and his boxers down to midthigh. The feeling of his dick being released into the open air makes Arthur draw in a breath through his teeth, and Eames’s hand stroking the curve of his ass makes the exhale melt into a whine.
Eames leans forward, his jeans rough against Arthur’s ass cheeks, and trails kisses up his spine. When he gets to Arthur’s neck he bites gently and then whispers, “Where do you keep the lube?”
"It's in my sock drawer," Arthur says, pointing. Eames chuckles and Arthur glares at him. Yes, it's lame; but his lube of choice for jerking off is hand cream, which is easily explained away. Cherry-flavoured lube is not, and Arthur isn't quite ready for all the hassle that comes with his mom finding out he has a boyfriend.
Eames returns with the lube and sits down on Arthur's desk chair. It's a huge thing that Arthur inherited from his granddad, well-worn with butter-soft leather and arms full of nicks and scratches, yet somehow Eames makes it look like a throne. It's his posture, Arthur thinks, the way he slumps like he's totally at ease; or maybe it's the expression, confident and in total control. Whatever it is, Arthur likes it. His cock twitches and he can feel another bead of precome dripping down the shaft.
Arthur’s looking over his shoulder, watching Eames, who puts a firm hand on Arthur’s back and pushes him forward. "Back where I put you," Eames says, and Arthur goes, letting his cheek fall to the cool surface of the desk.
Without being able to see Eames, Arthur closes his eyes and listens to the slick sound of lube over – over what? Over Eames’s fingers? His cock? And then there’s Eames’s breath, deep and even, a contrast to Arthur’s breathing, fast in his excitement and anticipation as different conjectures of Eames’s next move fly through his mind. Is Eames going to finger him, or fuck him? Jerk him off or tie him up or something that Arthur can’t even guess?
Come on, he wants to say, but doesn’t; he tries to get control over his breathing but that idea dissolves when he feels one of Eames’s thick fingers slide between his ass cheeks. Arthur gasps and his eyes open wide when the tip of Eames’s finger presses inside him, just a little. His hands scrabble on the desk, wanting to hold something the way he can grab the sheets when they’re on a bed, but there’s nothing so Arthur just curls his hands into fists. Slowly, Eames pushes his finger inside, and Arthur whines at the feel of it, wanting more. Inch by inch Eames pushes into Arthur, before sliding out again and pushing back in.
“Look at you,” Eames says, almost a purr, and his obvious pleasure at seeing Arthur like this makes it all that much hotter. Arthur feels wanted, feels gorgeous and sexy and all those other things Eames says about him. When Eames presses another finger into Arthur’s ass, it drags a moan from him. It hurts, kind of, but this past month Arthur has learned that he loves being stretched; Eames works him open so slowly so that the hurt melts away and it’s just good.
“Fuck me,” Arthur gasps, and Eames puts his free hand on Arthur’s back, stroking it gently while continuing to thrust his fingers into Arthur.
“Don’t be so impatient,” he says. “You like being fingered, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “But it’s just to get me ready for you to fuck me, so do it.”
Eames breathes a laugh. “Is that what you think? That being fingered is only good as preparation for my cock? Oh, Arthur. Being fingered is wonderful all by itself. Can I show you?”
Arthur pauses. He does want to do everything with Eames and learn everything that Eames has to teach him, but he also wants Eames’s dick in his ass tonight. “As long as you fuck me too,” he says, compromising.
“Alright,” Eames purrs. “As if I could ever deny you, darling.”
At first Arthur is slightly disgruntled. He feels like he’s putting up with Eames’s eccentricities; like he’s just putting up with this until Eames does what Arthur wants him to.
It takes less than a minute for Arthur to realise how wrong he was.
Since he’s always viewed this as preparation rather than something to be enjoyed in and of itself, Arthur’s never really paid attention to how it feels -- his mind has always been focused on the future. Now that he’s lying on the desk with his eyes closed, trying to be good and stay where Eames wants him, there’s nothing else to concentrate on. There’s just Eames’s fingers sliding in and out of Arthur’s body, two of them, slimmer and shorter than Eames’s dick. But Eames also has more control over his fingers. He curls them when they’re buried deep and–
Arthur yelps and his eyes fly open. Eames’s fingers continue to stroke that spot and Arthur can’t stop making these pathetic little noises but he can’t bring himself to care. He has just enough mental capacity left to be thankful that he is leaning on the desk because there’s no way his legs would support him right now, and then he can’t think at all. It feels like drowning, like he’s caught in the undertow, but it’s good, and it’s only when Eames moves his fingers away that Arthur can breathe again.
He’s gasping into the wood of his desk, trying to pull some semblance of thoughts together. Eames’s fingers are still sliding into him, slow and even, giving him a chance to recover.
“Did you like that?” Eames asks, a lilting, teasing note in his voice.
“Mmm,” Arthur manages, his head and vision still full of glitter and sparks.
After whatever that was, Arthur’s reached a high that he can’t climb down from. His whole body is buzzing and each stroke of Eames’s fingers makes him whimper. Everything is intensified; even the gentle touch of Eames’s free hand on Arthur’s back makes his dick twitch. Fuck, but Eames was right. This is amazing.
Seeming intent to further prove to Arthur just how good being fingered can be, Eames eases in a third finger. The stretch is a twisted jumble of pain and pleasure, with the hurt rapidly falling away to leave Arthur gasping. His fingers scramble on the desk again, needing something, anything to grab; he ends up tangling one hand in his hair, the other reaches for the far end of the desk top and curls around the edge.
Eames thrusts those three fingers into him and god, it’s just perfect, it’s too perfect. They’re just a little fatter than Eames’s dick would be and that extra stretch chips quickly away at the remains of Arthur’s endurance.
And then Eames curls his fingers again, all three of them, and brushes against that spot, and it’s like an electric shock, or being punched, that kind of jolt. Arthur’s whole body tenses up and he’s coming so hard that he cries out, wordless and loud and he couldn’t care less.
Through the roar of white noise in his ears he can just about make out Eames calling his name, calling him darling. Eames pulls Arthur into his lap, and Arthur is so boneless and weak that he just goes where Eames wants him, completely unable to resist even if he wanted to. But he does want; the comfort of having Eames so close, of having his strong arms around him offsets how shaken he feels, grounds him and makes him feel safe.
Burying his face in Eames’s neck, he listens without comprehending to Eames’s murmurs, and hums softly as strong hands stroke his back. Piece by piece, Arthur comes back to himself and he lifts his head to smile sheepishly at Eames.
“Hi,” he whispers. It’s kind of dumb but he really did feel like he was somewhere else for a minute; in orbit or deep underground, somewhere strange and unknown, scary and exciting.
“Hello,” Eames says. He studies Arthur’s face carefully, and though Arthur has no idea what he is looking for, it’s a good opportunity to enjoy how pretty Eames’s eyes are, and how long his lashes. “How are you feeling? You okay?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, snuggling closer to Eames.
“You seem a little out of it.” Eames strokes his fingers through Arthur’s hair and Arthur sighs at the touch, leaning his head forward to rest against Eames’s shoulder.
“It was... Awesome,” Arthur says again, and he knows he’s still spacey when he doesn’t even care that he can’t come up with a better description.
Eames just chuckles, and Arthur feels it as well as hears it, a deep, rumbling vibration in Eames’s chest like a cat’s purr.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll keep in mind next time that you’re rather sensitive.”
“’m not sensitive,” Arthur says, glaring up at Eames, who just smiles at him and kisses the tip of his nose.
“Most men are sensitive when someone has their fingers in his arse,” Eames says and gives Arthur a wink. “Especially when said someone keeps teasing your prostate.”
Arthur blinks. He’s done research on sex – not just watching porn, though there was a lot of that – and he read that prostate massage was intense, but he had no idea that anything could feel like that.
“So that’s what it was,” Arthur says, and Eames nods.
“That’s what it was.”
“Wow,” Arthur says, and grins at Eames who touches his dimples softly.
“Oh, Arthur, you’re bloody marvellous, do you know that?”
Arthur blinks, then narrows his eyes, searching for any trace that Eames is teasing him. From what Arthur can tell he’s not, not at all. Eames has this smile, soft and crooked, warm and delighted. No-one’s ever looked at Arthur like that before; like he’s special, like he’s something to cherish. It makes something tingle in Arthur's chest, and he presses their lips together so that Eames can’t see his face.
Though it started as a distraction, Arthur loses himself in the kiss. Eames’s lips are so soft, and his mouth so wet and hot. Sitting in his lap is surprisingly comfortable, and they kiss, and kiss, and Arthur thinks he could do this forever.
Only when his thigh brushes against Eames’s dick does Arthur realise that Eames is still hard. That makes him remember that he wanted Eames to fuck him tonight, and he realises that it still sounds like a great idea.
Kicking his jeans and underwear off, Arthur straddles Eames. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but the chair is big enough – and Arthur skinny enough – that he can get his knees either side of Eames’s thighs. Eames raises an eyebrow at him, and Arthur leans in for another kiss. He ups the tempo, licking eagerly into Eames’s mouth. Eames gives a startled but pleased noise before wrapping his arms around Arthur, scratching his nails lightly down Arthur’s back and resting his hands on his waist.
Even though his dick’s only just starting to twitch in interest, Arthur wants more, wants to give Eames more. Luckily he knows just how to bend Eames to his will. It starts with letting every little noise escape, tiny whimpers to drawn-out moans.
“God, Eames, yeah,” Arthur gasps, and is rewarded with Eames’s hands sliding down to his ass and squeezing gently.
Eames gives an almost-growl, deep and rumbling, as his nails dig into the soft skin of Arthur’s ass.
“You’re bloody insatiable,” Eames murmurs and Arthur nods.
“Yes,” Arthur says and leans in to bite Eames’s lips. Arthur’s a bit obsessed with Eames’s lips and no wonder, really – how could he not be? So full and perfect, this wonderful shade of pink that Arthur’s spent hours daydreaming about… Then again, he’s obsessed with many different parts of Eames’s body because they’re all fucking perfect.
“You’re not even hard yet,” Eames says, wrapping a hand gently around Arthur’s dick. It’s too much so soon after coming – especially coming that hard – and he whines, hands scrabbling at Eames’s shirt. It hurts but the pain is good, somehow, and Arthur breathes hard as Eames continues his gentle strokes.
“I’ll get hard when you start fucking me,” Arthur says, but under Eames’ ministrations he’s already getting harder.
“Will you now,” Eames murmurs, and pulls off Arthur’s t-shirt. When Eames’s hands go to his nipples, squeezing gently, Arthur is half-grateful that Eames is leaving his sensitive dick alone, but at the same time he was enjoying that exquisite pain. He soon starts enjoying having his nipples played with too, especially when Eames lowers his head to suck and bite, and he forgets everything but how good it feels. When one of Eames’s hands slide down Arthur’s back to his ass, his fingers gently circling Arthur’s hole, the memory of exactly what Arthur wants from tonight consumes his thoughts.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. “C’mon, Eames. Please, fuck me.” He tries to summon some snark but all he manage is, “Please, please, c’mon, I need it.”
“You need it? What do you need?”
“Come on, Arthur, tell me what you want.” Eames’s voice is so fucking deep and rough, just hearing it makes Arthur shiver. Combined with those eyes fixed on him, so intense and serious and beautiful, Arthur wants to do anything Eames asks him, wants Eames to do everything to him.
“I want you to come inside me. I want you to make me come again, while you’re fucking me.”
Eames sits back so that he can look at Arthur’s face and he grins at whatever he sees there. As far as Arthur can tell, that’s red cheeks and watering eyes, but whatever; if Eames is into that then fine.
With one hand behind Arthur’s neck to help him balance – and maybe also to remind Arthur of how big and strong Eames’s hands are, like he needed a reminder -- Eames pushes him backward so that Arthur can watch him unbutton his fly and pull his dick out. It’s totally unconscious, the way that Arthur licks his lips at the sight of Eames’s hard-on, but just seeing it is enough to get Arthur hard most of the time. Eames wraps his hand around it and starts to jerk off slowly, pulling his foreskin back with each stroke.
“You want this inside you?”
“Oh god yes,” Arthur whispers, staring down, mesmerised. Eames is still fully clothed and Arthur’s naked, and there’s something so hot about that. With just Eames’s dick peeking out from his jeans like that, it’s kind of… lewd, and it just makes Arthur want it even more. “So much, come on, Eames, please.”
“Since you begged so nicely,” Eames says, and pulls Arthur in for a kiss. He pulls away for a moment to pull on a condom and lube himself up. “You think you can take me without being fingered again?” Eames asks, the slick head of his dick pressing against Arthur’s ass.
“I can take anything you give me,” Arthur says, and Eames cocks an eyebrow.
“I’ll remember that,” he says, and presses into Arthur.
It’s more of a stretch than Arthur’s ever felt, since Eames usually fingers him open slowly – but tonight Arthur is finding himself getting off on pain. He makes a choked sound and clutches Eames’s shoulders.
“Jesus Christ, you’re tight,” Eames grunts.
A stab of uncertainty breaks through the storm of pain and pleasure, and Arthur blurts out, “But it’s good, right?”
“Fucking hell, of course it is,” Eames says, and kisses Arthur again, wild and wet, a complete contrast to how slowly and carefully he’s easing into Arthur’s ass.
Arthur moans with every slow inch that Eames presses into him; all he can focus on is how much the stretch hurts, how good the stretch feels, with nothing to spare for what else is going on.
Later, he’ll realise that’s why he didn’t notice the sound of the front door opening, or the footsteps downstairs, but the creak of the first stair does break through his bliss-induced haze.
Arthur pulls away from Eames’s kiss, and Eames blinks at him, as thoroughly distracted as Arthur was.
“Fuck!” Eames pulls out of Arthur as quickly but as gently as he can – which is to say, not very – and Arthur can’t avoid the moan at how empty he suddenly feels. He turns it into a cough and pushes Eames toward his closet.
Images of his mom finding them like this gives Arthur an extra burst of speed, and as he pushes Eames into the closet, he grabs a baggy hoodie that covers his hips – and his half hard-on – and picks up his jeans from the floor, hopping into them as he makes his way back over to his desk.
Just as his mom knocks on his door he swipes the bottle of lube to the floor and kicks it under the desk, wincing when his foot lands in the cold, sticky pool of his own come from earlier.
Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur thinks, horrified, but calls out, “Yeah?” He’s surprised by how cool and not almost-been-caught-with-my-boyfriend’s-dick-in-my-ass he sounds.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says, popping her head around the door. “I got out earlier than expected; Janice wanted some overtime so she came in instead.”
“Oh, okay,” Arthur says, like all of his insides aren’t a massive fireball of panic and horror.
“Dr Coleman gave me that book you were talking to him about,” she says, stepping into the room with the anatomy manual in her hands, and it takes every ounce of Arthur’s willpower not to look guiltily at the closet. As she walks over, out of the corner of his eye he notices the condom wrapper on his desk, bright blue and utterly unmistakable. His arm moves without input from his brain and knocks over his pile of textbooks, hiding the wrapper.
“Careful!” His mom frowns, looking confused, as well she might.
“Yeah, sorry,” Arthur says, piling the books up again on top of the condom wrapper. He turns to take the book she’s offering him, when she says something that makes him feel cold.
“Arthur, what is this?”
His eyes go wide, wondering what she’s seen, and when she tugs at the neck of his hoodie he has to think for a few seconds before he realises what she’s talking about. When it clicks into place that she’s talking about the hickeys Eames left earlier, he almost laughs in his relief.
“Arthur, you can’t just--” She stops herself, takes a deep breath and gently pushes his jaw up so that she can see all the marks that Eames made. She sighs and steps back, folding her arms.
“It’s just a hickey,” he says, shrugging. “It’s really not that big a deal.”
She fixes another stare on him, as though trying to understand her teenage son – something that she’s said many times is impossible – then gives a wry smile. “I guess I came home with a few hickeys of my own when I was your age.”
“TMI, Mom,” Arthur says, and when she laughs it breaks the tension.
“So-- Are you seeing someone?”
“Kind of.” Admitting that is going to make sneaking around more difficult, but he can’t outright lie to her.
His mom cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. “Am I going to get to meet him?”
“Maybe. I-- We’re not quite there yet.” It’s not a matter of him not being serious about Eames – he’s more serious about Eames than he has been about anyone – but he’s not sure if he’ll ever be ready for his mom to meet Eames.
After a moment she nods and hands over the book. “Just tell him to ease off, okay? No marks. And nothing you’re not comfortable with.”
“I know, Mom – he does anything I don’t like and doesn’t stop when I tell him to, I knee him where it hurts.”
“Good to know that you’ve been listening to some of my advice,” she says, laughing and patting his arm. “You finished your homework?”
“Sure,” Arthur says, because why not add another half-truth to the list?
“Then come help me move my files,” she says, waving him towards her study. Arthur gives the closet a guilty look but follows his mom, unable to do anything else.
As they rearrange the box files in the study, Arthur’s mind works overtime trying to figure out how to get Eames out of here, and comes up blank.
“Thanks, Arthur,” Mom says, putting her hands on her hips and giving a satisfied smile as she looks at her newly organised files. “I think I’m going to finish up some paperwork and then have an early night.”
Arthur nods and then turns to go, hoping that early night means nine at the latest, because he has a man in his closet for god’s sake.
The thought occurs to him that Eames is probably getting pretty pissed off, and fuck, what if he’s thinking that Arthur’s not worth this hassle? Arthur wouldn’t blame him – he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit if he wasn’t dating a high schooler. And Eames is so gorgeous, he could have anyone he wanted. Arthur knows he’s not bad looking – in fact he even sometimes thinks he’s kinda hot, and Eames tells him that he is all the time – but this has to knock some points off.
Shutting his door behind him, Arthur goes straight to the closet and has to steel himself for opening the doors, sure that Eames is going to be angry.
Eames is settled on the floor of Arthur’s closet, on a nest he’s made for himself with the winter blanket, and is dicking around on his phone. His eyes widen and his shoulder are tense when the door first opens, but he quickly relaxes and grins when he sees that it’s Arthur.
“Hello, love. Do me a favour and throw this away, will you?” He hands Arthur a tissue, and Arthur stares at him.
“What is it?”
“The condom. I’m afraid your mum showing up didn’t do much for my hard on.”
Arthur’s mouth works, but he can’t think of a single thing to say to that. He drops the tissue in the trash and then returns to the closet, dropping to his knees by Eames’s side.
“You’re awfully calm for someone who nearly got caught fucking someone ten years younger than him.”
“You’re nine years younger than me,” Eames murmurs, leaning over to kiss Arthur. “Don’t make me sound like even more of a pervert than I am.”
“Not sure that’s possible,” Arthur says, then wraps his arms around Eames in a tight hug, smothered by relief that Eames isn’t going to dump him or yell at him. “I thought you were going to be mad at me.”
“I was kind of pissed off – and more than a bit worried that your mum was going to find me. I have no idea what I would have done if she did.” He pauses, tapping his fingers on the floor and frowning. But then the cloud of worry breaks and he grins. “But you’ve been gone half an hour. It’s awfully boring, being angry while locked in a closet.”
The grin chips away a little of Arthur’s fear, but he knows Eames too well to think that his expression can be taken at face value. Even when he’s at his most pissed off – like when that asshole bad-mouthed his exhibit in the local paper last week – Eames puts up a deceptively calm front. “Sorry--”
Eames shakes his head and squeezes Arthur’s waist. “I wasn’t pissed off at you, love – I know it’s not your fault.”
“Still-- This wouldn’t happen if you weren’t-- If I wasn’t just a kid.” Arthur doesn’t want to say any of that – if Eames had somehow missed that point Arthur sure as hell doesn’t want to clue him in – but the words come out anyway.
“You’re a lot more than ‘just a kid’, and half the time you’re more mature than I am.”
“More than half the time,” Arthur says automatically, and the comforting hands on his waist pinch him in retaliation. Arthur only just manages to swallow down his yelp.
“Besides,” Eames says, hands sneaking under Arthur’s t-shirt to roam his skin, “you’re ridiculously hot and you let me fuck you. That’s good enough for me.”
“Good enough, huh?” Arthur’s about to say something like I seem to remember you saying it was more than just ‘good’ when you were fucking my mouth last weekend when he hears his name being called.
Despite his posturing, Eames pales at the reminder of his predicament – as if sitting on the floor of a closet wasn’t enough of a reminder – and Arthur jumps to his feet, hurrying to his mom’s office to see what she wants. She’s just asking him to proofread her blog post, and the relief makes his head swim so much that he has to read the first line four times before he actually takes it in. Once he’s done, Arthur offers to make cocoa because goddamn it, anything to get her to go to bed earlier so that Eames can get out of here.
“That’s sweet of you,” she says and grins. “Do I need to go and check my good china? Have you broken one of my Tiki mugs?”
“Ha ha,” Arthur says, injecting just enough snark to make it sound like sarcasm instead of relief. “Can’t a guy just make cocoa for his mom without there being an ulterior motive? Jeez.”
She chuckles and pats his arm. “You know I’m teasing. I’m going to head off to bed after I’ve finished this, so that would be great. You’ve got good timing.”
“Sure,” Arthur says, thinking she has terrible timing – tonight would have been much improved if she’d gone out for a drink after work, or caught her late yoga class like she normally does on Wednesdays.
He runs downstairs, jumping the last few steps. Instead of half-assing it like he normally does, he heats the milk up in a pan, hoping it’ll win him some brownie points – like having enough of those will make any difference if his mom finds Eames.
Jesus. He’s fucking lucky that Eames is so understanding. While Eames is right and the situation isn’t Arthur’s fault, that doesn’t change the fact that this wouldn’t have happened if Arthur were older. Guilt and self-pity settle on Arthur’s shoulders for a moment, but he shrugs them off with a scowl. If Eames doesn’t blame him, then why should he blame himself?
Ignoring the lingering doubts, he pours the cocoa into three mugs, putting two on his desk before taking one to his mom.
“This smells lovely,” Mom says, breathing in and smiling. Arthur feels a twinge of guilt that he’s only doing something nice for her for selfish reasons, and promises himself that he’ll be a better son from now on. It’s not like it’s hard to make cocoa properly. Just as soon as Eames gets out of here without anyone noticing, he’ll be a better son – and he’ll make more of an effort to not get caught.
He mumbles something about reading and retreats to his room. This time when he opens the door to his closet, Eames doesn’t even look worried.
“I could’ve been my mom,” Arthur says, handing Eames a mug of cocoa and settling onto the blanket next to him.
“I recognised your footsteps.”
“My footsteps…? What are you, James Bond?”
Eames chuckles and then leans over to kiss Arthur, taking him by surprise. But hell; if hiding in a closet isn’t affecting Eames’s spirits, why should it affect Arthur’s? Putting his mug down he twists, putting one leg over Eames’s thigh to get a better angle. Their teeth knock together as Arthur returns to the kiss, then he gets into the rhythm of it, sliding their lips together. Eames’s tongue presses into his mouth, and when Eames’s hands squeeze his ass he can’t stop a whimper escaping.
Both of them freeze, listening carefully for any indication that Arthur’s mom heard them; but after long seconds pass without event Arthur relaxes, letting his head fall forward onto Eames’s shoulder.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Eames says, and gently pushes Arthur off him so that they’re sitting side by side. “I need to find a way to become immune to your charms.”
“Good luck,” Arthur says, giving a grin full of cockiness that he doesn’t really feel.
“I’ve certainly not found anything so far,” Eames agrees, and Arthur could say the same thing.
They sit in silence, drinking their cocoa, until Eames says, “Did you really think I’d break up with you because of this?”
“I dunno,” Arthur says. The seriousness in Eames’s eyes makes him uncomfortable so he stares at his cocoa instead. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and eventually Arthur looks up to see Eames’s expression, to try and figure out what he’s thinking. He looks kind of like he does when he wants to ravish Arthur, but it’s softer; there’s a sweet little smile there too. Eames lifts a hand and strokes his fingers down Arthur’s cheek, and even though they’re warm from holding the mug, the touch makes Arthur shiver.
“I couldn’t do that,” Eames says quietly. “I like you far too much.”
For all that Arthur feels frustratingly young and inexperienced sometimes, he can tell that this means something, something serious.
It makes him feel a little breathless, excited and scared and happy; little pieces of so many emotions that he feels like he’s in a snowglobe that’s been shaken, and these emotions are swirling around him. “I like you too,” Arthur whispers, meaning it so much more than when he said it to his last boyfriend. Reaching for Eames’s hand, he slots their fingers together.
They stare at each other, but the moment’s broken when Eames bites his lip and chuckles. “But from now on we do this at my place, okay?”
A snort of laughter escapes before Arthur can rein it in. “I don’t know about only your place. What about your car? Or when I sucked you off in the park -- that was pretty hot.”
Eames’s mouth works wordlessly for a moment, and then he shakes his head with a light breath of laughter. “Let’s just say that we’ll be more careful.”
They stay sitting in the closet for half an hour, before Arthur’s mom finally knocks on his door to say goodnight, and then they stay in there for another half an hour just to be sure.
“I once thought it might be funny to have to hide in a closet from some bloke’s wife,” Eames says. “You know – as a metaphor and all that.”
“Yeah. When you’re actually doing it…. Not so fun.”
Arthur turns to look at Eames, feeling an undercurrent of panic and needing reassurance. “Worth it, though?”
“Every second. Preferred the bit before she came home though.”
Biting down on his laughter, Arthur creeps out to the hallway to check that his mom’s light is off. Fortunately her room is at the other end of the house and across the hall so there shouldn’t be any problem with Eames getting out.
“Okay,” Arthur says, going back to the closet. “I think she’s asleep. Just be careful of the bottom step, it creaks, and--”
Before Arthur can quite compute what’s happening, Eames is kissing him, pushing him up against the wall and boxing him in. Arthur’s mind flails for a couple of seconds as he tries to catch up – a minute ago he was planning Eames’s escape and now Eames is kissing him, biting at his lips and grinding their hips together like he doesn’t have any intention of going anywhere. One coherent thought manages to form in Arthur’s mind: after almost being caught Eames still wants to fuck him?
One last thought follows before Arthur’s lost to his raging hormones: that’s more than okay with him.
Wrapping his arms around Eames’s waist and feeling how solid he is always manages to get Arthur’s dick interested. Even after the intense orgasm earlier and the boner-killer that was his mom’s unexpected presence, it still works. After a few minutes of kissing and grinding Arthur is hard and whimpering, grasping at Eames’s shoulders and feeling how strong they are, digging his nails into the thin material of his t-shirt.
“So bloody gorgeous,” Eames murmurs as he alternates between kisses and nibbling on Arthur’s jawline.
“I know,” Arthur whispers, giving a breathy laugh and grinning at him. “So’re you. We’re pretty well suited, huh?”
Eames’s smile softens, every bit as sexy but with a hint of sweetness that makes Arthur’s heart flutter pathetically. “I think we are, yeah.” He leans in again and kisses Arthur, sliding his tongue between Arthur’s lips and making him rein in a moan. He pushes at Eames, herding him toward the bed while trying to keep kissing him, not entirely successfully. But when Eames pushes him down to the mattress he makes up for it, ravishing his mouth until Arthur is breathing heavily, biting at Eames’s lips to give himself a chance to catch his breath.
“And you’re--” Eames stops abruptly and drops to a faint whisper. “Is your mum going to hear us?”
“We can talk as long as we’re quiet,” Arthur says, experience gained from late-night calls with Ariadne about how awful/awesome boys are.
“Wonderful,” Eames says, and leans back in for a kiss. “It’s testament to how gorgeous you are that you look so good even though you’re wearing this awful hoodie,” Eames says as he pulls back enough to whip it off. “Much better,” he adds as he presses his thumb to one of Arthur’s nipples, moving in little circles that make Arthur gasp. He throws his head back, pushing his chest into Eames’s hands, making him chuckle and bend his head down to lap at each nipple in turn. Arthur covers his mouth with a hand to muffle the whines that keep trying to escape from him.
After the amazing orgasm earlier and the stress of nearly being found out, he’s a strange mix of tired and horny, and he melts into Eames’s touch without even the pretence of snark or squabbling.
“Eames,” he whispers, and when Eames looks up Arthur’s hit by how gorgeous he is, like a physical slap; and a fresh wave of amazement that Eames wants him. Seeing that Arthur isn’t asking him to stop, Eames kisses his way down Arthur’s body and unbuttons his jeans.
“As nice as they make your arse look, these jeans are a bloody pain to get off,” he mutters as Arthur lifts his hips to wriggle out of them.
“Oh? Would you prefer it if I wore sweatpants with no underwear like you do? Easy access but looking like a slob?”
“From the way that you got down on your knees the instant you saw me in those sweatpants, they can’t’ve looked that bad.”
Arthur bites his lip and looks thoughtful. “The way that they showed off your hard-on was pretty hot.”
“Exactly,” Eames says, and ducks his head to lap at Arthur’s dick. The unexpected contact makes Arthur start to cry out, but one of Eames’s hands covers Arthur’s mouth before he gives them away. He doesn’t even bother pulling back to tease Arthur about it, just gets on with business. Something about having Eames’s big, strong hand over his mouth is ridiculously hot, almost as hot as having those lips wrapped around his dick. There’s something – controlling – about it, but in a good way; a way Arthur likes a lot.
“You’re noisy tonight,” Eames says when he pulls both his mouth and his hand away, leaving Arthur making embarrassing little mewling sounds. “And much as I love that, tonight really isn’t a good time for it.” Eames taps a finger against the mattress. “Do you think you can be quieter? Because we can’t risk your mum coming in, wondering what’s wrong with you.”
“I can be quiet,” Arthur sits up, grabbing Eames’s t-shirt. “Don’t even think about leaving me like this! You’ve fucked me and now you’ve sucked me, and you’re going to leave without making me come? No fucking way!”
“But I have made you come,” Eames says, looking amused. “And darling, I can assure you that I’m not happy about the idea of giving myself blue balls either, but it’s better than being caught.”
“I can be quiet,” Arthur says again, hands tightening in Eames’s t-shirt. “I can. You could do me from behind and any noises I make’ll be muffled by the pillow.”
Eames chuckles, but any offence Arthur might have taken is softened by the fire in his eyes. “You’re a horny little bugger, aren’t you?”
“You know I am,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’s hand and guiding it to his dick, humming when Eames strokes him gently; for all his words about stopping, it’s proof that he wants this every bit as much as Arthur does. “Come on; finish what you started.”
For a moment Eames doesn’t answer, but the fact that he continues to jerk Arthur off can only be a good sign. “Alright,” Eames says eventually and Arthur only just suppresses the desire to fist pump. “You’ve not done it this way before, have you?”
“No,” Arthur says, feeling a flash of frustration at his own lack of experience, “Since you’re the only one I’ve been with you know I haven’t.”
“Alright, love,” Eames says softly, and leans in to kiss Arthur gently. “It might be a bit different, is all; I’ll be deeper inside you than you’ve felt before, so if it hurts you have to tell me.”
Arthur nods, but the idea of Eames as deep inside him as possible sounds fucking awesome. “I will.”
Eames gets up off the bed to strip and grab the lube. Once he’s topless Arthur gawks at him, eyes skimming over his tattoos and muscles. He itches to touch -- and then thinks what the hell, why not? Eames is his boyfriend and he can touch all he wants. He stands and runs his fingers over Eames’s arms, feels how hard and strong they are, and the thought that Eames is all his makes him so hard. He feels a trickle of precome slide down his dick and he needs Eames inside him, deeper than he’s ever felt before, claiming him.
He watches as Eames kicks off his jeans and rolls on a new condom, then drops to his knees and starts to lick at him. The taste of the latex makes him wince slightly but mostly he’s just hungry for Eames’s dick. Yes, he wants to be very thoroughly fucked but he wants Eames in his mouth, too: he wants everything.
“Christ,” Eames gasps, and pulls at Arthur’s hair. “You need to stop that or any notion of fucking you is going out the window.”
“Yeah?” Arthur looks up at him with his best cocky grin. “I’m that good?”
“There’s nothing good about you, you’re pure evil,” Eames whispers and pulls Arthur to his feet. “Sent to tempt and torment me.”
“Funny, ‘cause I’m fairly sure it was me that was innocent and virginal at the start of this.”
“You might have been a virgin but there was nothing innocent about you.”
That sounds like a challenge; one that gives Arthur an idea. He takes the lube from Eames and goes to the bed, getting on all fours and smearing some lube onto his fingers. Reaching back, he presses one into his ass. It’s easier than usual – he guesses he’s still stretched out from earlier – but it’s kind of awkward and it never feels as good when he does this to himself. It’s worth it though for the expression on Eames’s face as he watches, rapt. It gives Arthur the confidence to slip in another finger, feeling a stretch and letting his eyes fall shut.
“Bloody hell,” Eames whispers, and Arthur feels the bed dip. Looking over his shoulder he sees Eames kneeling behind him, picking up the lube. He drips a little onto his own finger and slides it in alongside Arthur’s. He can definitely feel the stretch now and it’s so good.
Eames matches his speed to Arthur’s, and their fingers slide in and out of Arthur’s body, making him whimper and bury his face in the cushion before he can make any more embarrassing noises.
“Every time I think you can’t get any more wonderful, you manage it,” Eames whispers, leaning over Arthur and kissing his shoulder blades.
Arthur would love to come up with something smart or snarky but right now he can’t think of a single thing other than how good he feels.
Turning his head to the side, he whispers, “Please fuck me.”
“Delighted to,” Eames says, his voice strained and hoarse. Another kiss is planted on Arthur’s back and then Eames pulls away, his finger sliding out of Arthur. Despite his moan, Arthur doesn’t feel too empty, not with his own fingers still in his ass; but they don’t fill him nearly as much as Eames’s dick is going to.
The bed shifts as Eames gets in position and Arthur turns his head to the pillow, wanting to feel instead of see, wanting what comes next to be experienced, completely out of his control and entirely in Eames’s.
Gently, Eames’s fingers wrap around Arthur’s wrist and pull his hand away. Arthur gasps at the sudden emptiness, but almost immediately his fingers are replaced by the tip of Eames’s cock nudging at his ass.
“You want this?”
“God, yes, so much, please,” Arthur gasps, and then Eames starts to push in and Arthur is glad that the pillow is there to muffle his whine. In one smooth motion, Eames pushes all the way in, something he’s never done before, and fuck. Not quite pain but it’s different, it’s a whole new kind of stretch, one that makes Arthur shiver and mewl.
“Feels so good, Christ, Arthur, you’re perfect,” Eames says as he slowly starts thrusting. Arthur’s hands curl into fists in the bedsheets, and he lets the pillow smother all of the whimpers and cries that spill out of him.
Arthur can tell that Eames is trying to stay in control, take this slow and let Arthur get used to the new sensations. Whispered curses and stuttering thrusts suggest that he’s not having an easy time of it, and Arthur gives of a soft breath of laughter, half amazed at the idea that he can make Eames lose control. Eames, with his beautiful eyes and ridiculously sexy lips, that body, that wonderful, inventive mind... God. It makes Arthur’s heart twist in his chest, and then Eames thrusts so deep, so fucking deep that Arthur cries out, biting down on his lip to stop himself.
The pleasure-pain overloads Arthur’s mind and all he can do is take what Eames is giving to him. All semblance of control seems to have abandoned Eames as well, and he thrusts so hard that Arthur’s forced down onto the bed, so that his chest and stomach are pressed against the mattress, his thighs splayed wide enough to hurt. Not that Arthur gives a damn about that, not when Eames’s movements are making his dick rub against the sheets, the friction threatening to overload his already fried brain.
One of Eames’s hands goes to Arthur’s shoulders and somehow he fucks into Arthur even deeper, leaving Arthur a shaking, whimpering wreck. Tears leak from his eyes as Eames keeps up the pace, fucking deep, deeper into Arthur with every thrust. He didn’t even know it was possible to be fucked this deep, and it does hurt but it hurts like nothing Arthur’s felt before, hurts in a way that makes him want to come, kind of feels like coming.
He knows that if Eames hadn’t already made him come tonight he’d be long gone already; even now, he’s not far off. He wants Eames to come in him first, if he can hold off that long. The thought makes him whimper even more, and vaguely he notices that the pillow is wet, a combination of tears and saliva. He has barely a second to digest that before he’s captured on another wave of intense pleasure, pulling him away from the realm of intelligent thought and to a place where there’s nothing but Eames thrusting into him and the starlight that flashes behind his eyes with each slide of his dick against the sheets.
His orgasm screams through him, a wave taking everything with it and leaving him utterly weak, happy and content. He feels like he’s glowing, and he smiles as Eames’s last, increasingly erratic thrusts rock his body.
“Fuck, Arthur, I’m coming,” Eames groans, and with one last, deep thrust, he gives a muffled cry and his fingernails dig deep into Arthur’s skin at his shoulder and hip. Arthur hums, shivering, finding something deeply satisfying about Eames coming deep inside him. He wishes they weren’t using a condom, wants to feel the come dripping out of his ass.
Eames goes still and then collapses onto Arthur, breathing ragged in Arthur’s ear. And then the endearments start, each one making Arthur smile a little wider, until he’s grinning so wide it hurts.
“I love you,” Eames whispers.
It draws Arthur out of his daze and he turns to look over his shoulder just in time to see the panic splash onto Eames’s face.
“I--” he starts, and Arthur doesn’t want to hear any excuses, doesn’t want to hear Eames take it back.
“I love you too,” Arthur whispers, and after a moment where Eames looks conflicted, he smiles; half relief and half something Arthur can’t identify.
Eames pulls away just enough so that he can manoeuvre Arthur onto his back and kiss him thoroughly. Arthur manages to throw an arm around Eames’s neck and kiss back, breathing his air and feeling like the glow he felt after coming is expanding, consuming them both. Never in his life has Arthur felt this happy. It’s more than happy. Arthur doesn’t know how to describe it and doesn’t really care. Eames loves him and right now, that’s all that matters.
They kiss, and they kiss, and when they eventually have to breathe Eames holds Arthur in the cage of his arms, like he never wants to let him go.
“Stay,” Arthur whispers.
“You know I can’t,” Eames says, pulling back to look down at him with the softest, most beautiful smile Arthur has ever seen. “But I want to. Fucking hell, I want to.”
“You tell me you love me and then leave me? Harsh.”
“Oh yes, terribly. But I’m pretty sure that your mum’s reaction to seeing me at the breakfast table would be far worse.”
Arthur thinks about that and accepts that Eames is probably right. “I still don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go either.” Eames kisses him, soft little butterfly kisses that tickle, and then pulls back. “Maybe you could stay at my place this weekend. Convince your mum you’re staying with a friend.”
With a laugh that is warm and relaxed, Arthur says, “You’re asking me to lie to my mom?” and then kisses the frown that appears on Eames’s face. “I’m joking.”
“Well don’t,” Eames says, and leans in to kiss Arthur again. “I feel bad enough about corrupting a minor already.”
They lie there until Arthur’s cooling come is kind of disgusting, and Eames cleans him up as well as he can with a towel dipped into a glass of water. After disposing of the condom, Eames gets dressed but it’s slow because he can’t seem to stop looking at Arthur.
“I think I’d better put some clothes on, or you’re never going to get out of here,” Arthur says, and puts on his pyjama pants slowly, amused by the way that Eames follows his every move.
“Bloody hell, Arthur, you’re so fucking distracting,” Eames says and pulls Arthur into a tight hug. “You okay?”
“I’m awesome,” Arthur says, snuggling into Eames’s hug. “You’re awesome. We’re awesome.”
Eames grins down at him and then steps back, somewhat exaggerated. “I really have to get out of here before you seduce me again.”
Eventually they get downstairs, avoiding the creaky bottom step, and Arthur opens the door silently, a technique he developed while sneaking out to watch R-rated movies.
“You’re coming to the late night at the museum on Thursday?” Eames whispers, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s cheek.
“You know I am,” Arthur promises, and grabs Eames’s t-shirt to pull him in for one last kiss. The golden glow of his orgasm, of hearing Eames say he loves him, is still warm in his belly, and his smile is still uncontrollable.
“Good night, darling,” Eames says, stroking a finger down Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur realises that he’s delaying his leaving; that he wants to stay as much as Arthur wants him to. A selfish urge rushes through Arthur, to ask Eames to stay – it wouldn’t take much, he thinks, to break Eames’s willpower on this matter. But if he did – if they got caught – Eames has a lot more to lose than Arthur does.
“Go,” Arthur says. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“And in your dreams,” Eames says with a wink. With one last kiss, this time pressed to the back of Arthur’s hand, Eames turns and jogs over to his car.
As he watches Eames pull away and turn out of the street, Arthur thinks that while dreams are all well and good – and they are good, very good – having Eames in reality is so much better because Eames can make all Arthur’s dreams come true.
Even the one about being tied down to the bed, blindfolded and made to come again and again until he just can’t any more.
Especially that one.
The museum’s Late Night Thursdays have become a lot more popular since Eames became the curator. Arthur used to come once a month and he was usually one of about five people. Now the place is on the verge of being crowded: kids Arthur’s age, younger kids with their parents, couples on dates. The museum’s become an important place in town, and that’s because of Eames. Arthur is ridiculously proud of him.
As always, for the first part of the evening Eames does a walk-around, chatting to people and explaining the exhibits. Arthur goes with him, demonstrating the hands-on displays. He also gets glared at by the girls who’ve been coming every week since Eames started, and Arthur always smiles widely at them. He tries to make it look innocent but he’s sure that some smugness creeps in. Well, they are staring at his boyfriend. They’re lucky he’s not the jealous type.
The second part of the evening is Arthur’s favourite, since they spend it alone in Eames’s office. Right now Eames is bending over, examining the model of his new exhibit. Thoughts of anything museum-related are swept from Arthur’s mind at the magnificent sight of Eames’s ass. As soon as Eames sits down, Arthur immediately sits on his knee.
“I’m supposed to be working,” Eames says, but his voice has gone deep and playful.
“You’re due a break,” Arthur counters, leaning in for a kiss.
“You’re a bad boy,” Eames says between kisses. “You deserve a spanking.”
The image of Eames’s hand coming down on his ass hard enough to bruise make Arthur’s dick jerk in his jeans, halfway to hard in an instant, and he kisses Eames harder this time, forcing his tongue into Eames’s mouth.
“We could try that this weekend,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’s hand and putting it to his hard-on. Feeling it, Eames gives a low little growl and squeezes.
“Yeah? You’d like that?”
“I’d like to try,” Arthur says. “I want to try everything with you.”
They kiss and kiss, losing themselves in each other. Arthur shifts so that he’s straddling Eames and rubs up against him until they’re both breathless and hard. So far they haven’t fucked in Eames’s office, and Arthur thinks it’s about time they christened it.
Eames whispers his name and unbuttons Arthur’s jeans, sliding his hand in to brush against Arthur’s dick. Arthur has to bite down on a cry, and kisses Eames again to muffle the noise. Eames tugs Arthur out of his boxers, and the feel of the cool air over the sensitive skin of his dick makes him shiver, followed by a gasp when Eames starts to stroke him.
“Does that feel good, darling?”
“You know it does,” Arthur whispers. “You know how much I fucking love--”
A knock at the door is so out of place that both of them freeze, and it takes a moment for either of them to move. Arthur scrambles to his feet, zips himself up and sits on the other side of Eames’s desk. Eames grabs a tissue and wipes his hand clean of pre-come, opens a book in front of Arthur and calls out, “Yes?”
Arthur looks studiously at the book, trying to will his hard-on away. As the door swings open, Arthur glances up at Eames to see horror flash across his face, just for a millisecond, before he settles into an easy smile.
“Hello there,” he says. “Can I help?”
“Sorry to interrupt,” says Arthur’s mom’s voice and Oh my god, seriously? Turning around, Arthur sees that it is indeed his mom, smiling at the two of them.
“Mom,” Arthur says, his voice strangled despite his attempts to keep it steady. “What are you doing here?”
“The nice young gentleman out in the museum said it would be okay to come through,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being a nuisance to Mr Eames.”
“God, Mom,” Arthur says, and after glancing at Eames and seeing that the smile is still in place, still looking as perfectly natural, decides he hates him, just a little bit.
“From Arthur’s outburst, I think I’m right in guessing you’re his mother?”
She laughs, charmed – of course she is. “I’m Sarah,” she says, and offers a hand, which Eames takes without getting up, since getting up would show that he has an erection while in the same room as her son. It’s slightly awkward, and Arthur smirks. At least Eames isn’t cool about everything.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” he says. “And you don’t need to worry about Arthur being a nuisance. He’s a great help. Just now he’s helping me plan my new exhibition.”
Mom looks over Arthur’s shoulder at the coffee table book of Dali paintings. “I really appreciate you taking the time out to help Arthur. It’s a great extracurricular activity and it’ll look great on his college applications.”
“No worries at all. I’d be happy to write a reference for him.”
“That would be wonderful,” Mom says, and smiles at him in a way that Arthur has seen her smile at her boyfriends. Which on the one hand, yes, Eames is gorgeous and of course everyone wants him. On the other hand, he’s Arthur’s.
“Anyway, we really need to get this finished,” Arthur says quickly, tapping at the book. “I promised Eames I’d have it done tonight.”
“Alright, Arthur,” she says, chuckling. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of Mr Eames.”
“Well you are,” Arthur says, meaning to sound authoritative but sounding whiny, which only makes them both chuckle at him.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” she says to Eames. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Oh, certainly,” Eames says. “I’ll send you a VIP invitation to the exhibit Arthur’s helping me with.”
“Wonderful,” she says, and eventually after even more small talk, she’s gone.
Arthur and Eames look at each other, then burst into laughter.
“Jesus, your mum has the worst timing in the world.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arthur says, a last giggle escaping before he can smother it. They smile at each other and fondness uncurls in Arthur’s chest. He stands and turns to lock Eames’s door. “Now, weren’t we in the middle of something?”
“Something that I should probably reconsider,” Eames agrees, but he doesn’t stop Arthur from scrambling onto his lap again. They smile at each other, the fondness that Arthur feels reflected in Eames’s eyes. Their kiss is softer this time, less desperate, and Arthur sinks into it with a sigh. He can sense that that Eames isn’t quite with him and he pulls back to see if he can read anything in his expression. He can’t, of course; Eames is too good at keeping his thoughts hidden.
In the end, he settles for asking, “What’s wrong?”
Eames smiles wryly, like he knows he’s been caught out. “I was just thinking about what your mum said, about you going to college.”
“Well don’t,” Arthur says, frowning. “It’s a long time off. Anything could happen between now and then – you might even decide to come with me and finish your PhD,” he adds in a moment of inspiration.
That makes Eames laugh, and Arthur relaxes. As long as he can make Eames laugh, things will work out.
“Maybe I will,” Eames says. “And you’re right. It is ages off. We should just enjoy the moments we have. Especially the ones where your mum isn’t walking in on us.”
“Especially those,” Arthur agrees, giggling and leaning in for a kiss. Whatever’s going to happen in the future, neither of them can tell. But for right now they have each other, and they have smoking hot kisses, and that’s more than enough.