It starts, as many good things start—with a drink. Or at least the idea of a drink.
Arthur slides into Eames’ cab before he can close the door, and rattles off an address. Eames frowns.
“Surely there was another cab, darling.”
“Of course Mr. Eames, but it wouldn’t have suited my purposes.”
Eames cocks an eyebrow.
Arthur groans. “You make everything difficult, don’t you?”
“I certainly try to, dearest.”
“Fine. We are going to have a drink.”
“At a bar.”
“At my house.”
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t,” Arthur replies smugly, leaning back and angling his body towards Eames.
At some point between the baggage claim and Eames’ cab Arthur had lost the jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and undone a single button at his throat. He looks, well, relaxed. His hair is losing its battle with the California heat, but the rest of him looks cool and collected and in charge. Eames shivers, and Arthur bares his teeth in the semblance of a grin that makes Eames a bit more weak kneed than he’d like to admit.
It’s not a terribly long ride, but it’s L.A. and traffic is always a disaster, and it gives Arthur plenty of time to eye Eames up. Eames loses his jacket five minutes in. By 15 minutes his shirt is fastened by only two desperate buttons, and Eames is sweating. Arthur sinks lower in his seat and spreads his legs wide, hands resting on his thighs, and Eames’ mouth goes dry. He’s swallowing, licking his lips, staring out the window—anything to regain a little dignity, or moisture, or both, when Arthur holds an open water bottle under his nose. Eames reaches for it, but Arthur snatches it away.
“Shh,” Arthur croons, cupping Eames’ chin, and sliding his thumb between Eames’ lips. “Open up for me.”
Eames gasps, but does as he’s told, tilting his head back, and his eyes sliding shut. The first gulp is bliss. The second is better.
“Good boy,” Arthur purrs.
And Eames shudders, jostling the water bottle so that it pours down his neck, his chest, down to his trousers.
“Oh no. Would you look at that? You’re all wet.”
“It’s fine, Petal. I was getting a bit hot, anyway.”
Arthur smirks, and drains the rest of the bottle. And then, it appears, the torture is over for the moment. Arthur turns to look out the window, and Eames finally has a chance to catch his breath. He’s managed to calm down considerably when they pull up to Arthur’s building a few moments later. Arthur pays the cabbie, and circles around to Eames’ door, opening it for him.
“What are we doing?” Eames asks, as he follows Arthur into the cool, dark interior of the lobby.
“We’re having a drink, Eames. I should think that was fairly obvious. Don’t worry, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“And if I want you to?”
“Then all you need to do is ask,” Arthur says against his ear.
Then there is a hand on his back, and Eames is being steered into an elevator. It seems to take eons for them to reach their floor, but finally they do. And the hand is back, and Eames is being led down the hall, and into an apartment. Light is streaming in through floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the soft grey, and white interior.
Arthur walks straight into the kitchen and pulls down a bottle of something, and two tumblers.
Eames nods, and follows him into kitchen. He leans his hip against the counter, and watches Arthur pour them each a finger.
“Dare to dream a little bigger, darling,” Eames jokes.
But Arthur is closing the bottle and barreling down on Eames. And he backs up without even thinking about it. He doesn’t really want to get away, but Arthur has this force about him in that moment, and Eames feels completely overtaken. And so he stumbles back and back and back until he’s pressed up against the wall, and Arthur is looming over him. He’s not touching him, but Eames can feel his breath on his face, and he slides down the wall a few inches.
“Dream bigger? How big should I dream Mr. Eames? Do you think you could take everything I could come up with? Do you want to find out?”
Eames is nodding frantically, but his tongue feels swollen in his mouth, and he’s afraid to speak. He doesn’t know if words will even come out, or if he’ll just embarrass himself by moaning helplessly when Arthur hasn’t so much as touched him.
“Tell me,” he commands.
And Eames tries. He really does, but all he manages to force out is “yes—all of… please?”
Arthur is staring at him, and Eames is staring back, pleading. Arthur studies his face for a few moments, and then nods slowly.
“Alright,” he says. “Alright.”
And Eames is gasping out thanks, and sinking to his knees before he can even decide what to do. Arthur is cupping the back of his neck. The touch is gentle, but inexorable, and Eames can finally breathe. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s thighs, and rubs his cheek against Arthur’s cock. Arthur is hard, wonderfully hard in his trousers, and Eames can’t stop himself from rubbing up against him like a cat. But then Arthur is pulling him away, and Eames is whimpering, but Arthur is just unzipping his trousers, and taking out his cock, and that is worth having to wait for. Eames licks his lips, and stares up at Arthur waiting for permission.
“Go on, then.”
And Eames does. Eames practically falls forward, choking on Arthur’s cock. And what a lovely way to suffocate, Eames thinks hazily. It’s not a terribly long cock by anyone’s standards, but it’s about average, and it’s thick, and Arthur smells amazing, and Eames has to stretch his mouth so wide to get it around Arthur’s cock that it starts to ache almost right away. But it’s a good ache, and Arthur is gasping.
“Good boy,” he whispers, and Eames groans around his cock. “Ah, so you really do like that. You want to be good for me, then? You want to please me?”
Eames is trying to nod his assent, but it just stretches his mouth further, and that hurts. So he pulls off of Arthur’s cock for a moment.
“Please, darling. I need—“
“I know exactly what you need,” Arthur murmurs.
And the hand is sliding up from his neck to the base of his skull, and the fingers are in his hair, and they’re tugging. And it hurts. It stings, and his head is wrenched back. Arthur is staring down at him, and Eames can only gape up at him. So he waits.
“I don’t need to hear any more words from you unless you’re asking me to stop, is that understood?”
“Yes, dar—“ Eames yelps, as Arthur tugs harder on his hair.
Eames bites his lip to keep from speaking, and nods as carefully as he can. Arthur nods back, and loosens his grip on Eames’ hair, instead rubbing at his burning scalp. Eames sighs, eyes drifting closed, and then Arthur is pulling him back in, and rubbing his cock against Eames’ lips. Eames squints up at Arthur lazily, and opens his mouth wide, letting Arthur thrust deep inside.
“Do you see now? I know what you need. Let me.”
Eames moans helplessly, hips flexing against nothing.
“Shhh, let me,” Arthur whispers.
Then Arthur is fucking his mouth. He’s taking his mouth in smooth, slow strokes, pausing for a moment each time Eames’ face is pressed against his pelvis. And Eames feels as though he’s getting fucked. He feels completely taken over, and he is so hard it hurts. He whimpers, fingers scrabbling at his trousers.
“Alright. You can touch yourself. You’re being so good for me. Just through your pants, though. You don’t need anything else. You just need my cock in your mouth, and your hand on your prick. I want you to make a complete mess of your pants.”
Eames whimpers, rutting against his palm.
“Yes,” hisses Arthur. “I’m going to fuck your mouth, and come down your throat. And you are going to rub your hard prick against your palm until you come all inside your pants. Do you understand?”
Eames nods frantically, one arm still wrapped around Arthur’s thigh. His fingers spasm, digging into Arthur’s muscle, and Arthur yelps. And then Arthur has both hands in Eames’ hair, and he’s speeding up—fucking Eames’ face so furiously he doesn’t have time for more than little sips of air.
“Fuck, you take my cock so well. You look—fuck you look perfect with my cock in your mouth. This is just where you should be.”
And that is the pronouncement that tips Eames over the edge. Eames is gripping his prick through his trousers, and he’s shaking, and these high pitched little moans are escaping his mouth. He’s coming. He’s coming, and coming and it seems to go on forever. His come is dripping down his balls, down his thighs, just coating the inside of his pants. Arthur sees the rapidly darkening crotch of his pants, and he chokes.
“Oh, Eames. You’re incredible,” he groans.
And then Arthur, too, is coming. But he’s filling Eames’ mouth, and Eames is still gasping for air, and choking a bit on Arthur’s cock. Eames manages to swallow some of Arthur’s come, but most of it is dripping down his chin, and coating the outside of his trousers just as thoroughly as his own come is coating the inside. Eames whimpers, desperately trying to lick at Arthur’s still sensitive cock, until Arthur leans down, hooks one hand under his armpit and drags him to his feet.
And Arthur is pinning him against the wall, propping him up with his thigh, and an arm under his shoulders, and he’s mauling his mouth. And Eames takes and takes, and melts against Arthur, soaking up the attention, and all the whispered praise.
Finally Arthur pulls back enough to rest his forehead against Eames’ and catch his breath. After a couple of minutes, Arthur nuzzles against Eames’ cheek happily.
“Bed?” he asks.
“At least long enough for me to clean my trousers. You appear to have left me without any clean clothing, darling.”
Arthur laughs. “You figured out my dastardly plan.”
“I’d assumed as much,” Eames says, pouting.
But he follows dazedly in Arthur’s wake, shedding his clothing as he goes. Arthur undresses, and tucks them both under the covers. After a few minutes Arthur stirs.
“I really wanted to get your clothes dirty.”
“So I would stay, I know.”
“Mostly, I just hate those pants, actually.”
Eames huffs out a laugh in response.
“And yes,” Arthur whispers, pulling Eames close to rest against his chest. “So that you would stay.”
“Always, darling,” Eames murmurs to Arthur’s chest hair. “Always.”