comme une flèche

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comme une flèche
by templemarker

For this prompt on inception_kink: As much as I love dirty talk, I’d love to see Arthur and Eames having completely wordless sex. They speak with their bodies and understand each other perfectly. (moans and gasps etc. are ok though.)

Thank you to Tiriel for indulging me and my wanderings.


Eames slips in and out of Arthur’s life like a memory, weeks or months or occasionally years between the times they have together. Arthur doesn’t think of his own life as routine, but he has built a base in Los Angeles and defends it well. It would be inconvenient to leave. Eames always comes to him, perhaps because of this, though Arthur has no doubt Eames could find him when Arthur goes on any one of the dozens of trips he does a year.

Eames never does. Eames only ever comes here.

There are no spare keys to Arthur’s apartment, but that has never stopped Eames from entering; tonight, Arthur has fallen asleep at his drafting table, half-empty wine glass resting atop a half-dozen books, socked feet dangling inelegantly to the floor, hair freshly washed falling over his forearm. He’s awake instantly at the soft click of the door, his security system not registering Eames’ approach. Arthur is never sure whether to refine the system or not.

He rubs a hand over his face, eyes peeking through fingers to monitor Eames’ entrance. Eames looks awful: clothes baggier than usual, dark circles cresting below his eyes, a slight frown marring his lips. He stands at the door looking out the window at the end of the corridor, releasing the door from his hand to click once more against the frame. He has no bags, but then, he rarely does.

Arthur knows he’s been somewhere in Pakistan recently, but had only done the most cursory examinations; he’d been engaged in drafting plans for a dream-state pitch only a scant few weeks away and hadn’t been as diligent as he usually was in keeping a bead on Eames. Looking at him now, Arthur knows he ought to have paid more attention. Arthur knows a lot of things.

Eames’ head slowly turns to face Arthur, and his shoulders sag slightly; as if by walking through Arthur’s door he’s allowed to release some of his own tension. Arthur will not disabuse him of that notion; he would rather believe it to be true whether it was so or not.

The scrape of his chair across the floor sounds overloud in the quiet thrum of the apartment, only the appliances generating white noise. Arthur’s walk is muted by his socks against the wood flooring, and when he reaches Eames, he raises a steady hand to the thinned curve of Eames’ jaw.

Eames leans into the touch, breathing harshly; his eyes slam shut, making him look more bruised, and Arthur quickly reaches an arm around his torso to keep him from collapsing. He pushes Eames back against the door to balance him.

Arthur moves closer, steadies his mouth over Eames’, and their breath mingles harshly in the soundless foyer. A beat, and Arthur kisses him.

There is a moment where Arthur thinks the kiss is all Eames can handle, that he will strip Eames slowly of his unpleasant, vaguely odorous clothing and tuck Eames into Arthur’s bed. Perhaps over a pot of tea in the morning, Eames will unravel the story of whatever clearly went wrong, and Arthur will leave a towel for him in the bathroom and blow him on the couch later on.

But Eames has reserves of energy Arthur does not expect, and so when he surges up into their kiss as if he didn’t just walk into Arthur’s apartment like he’d just walked eight miles of bad road Arthur makes a surprised noise and nearly stumbles.

Eames has wrapped his arms around Arthur, as if they are one person, or he wishes they were so; either way, Arthur doesn’t budge from his position. Eames is kissing him desperately, wantonly, as though Arthur is the only source of oxygen. Arthur lets himself be kissed, threads fingers into Eames’ shirt, nails scraping the polyester.

They push off from the door and nearly fall twice on the way to Arthur’s bedroom. Eames directs them there, toeing out of his shoes and shedding clothing as they go. Arthur tries to help him, but he keeps getting distracted by the whorls Eames’ tongue is making within the confines of thier mouths. He manages to strip his sweater and shirt, not caring in that moment that the cashmere is touching the carpet in an ungainly pile. His knees hit the bed and he lets himself fall backwards, the bed unprotesting as Eames climbs over him, pants half-opened and shirt hanging open.

Arthur pushes the shirt off Eames’ shoulders, running fingers over familiar skin and ink; he arches when Eames’ hands scrabble at his waist, drawing his sweatpants down, thumbs pressing briefly into Arthur’s ankles; a moment of air, and then Eames is above him again, wholly naked with some look on his face Arthur can’t define. It’s halfway between pain and the cessation thereof, and he draws Eames’ mouth back to his own before he can consider it, or it’s origin, further.

Whatever strength Eames has been drawing on to get them this far seems to flag slightly, something in the set of his shoulders giving, and Arthur makes the tactical decision to flip them. Eames lands with a soft noise on his back, hands never leaving Arthur’s skin, and Arthur kisses him, hard, fingers rolling Eames’ nipples in the way that makes him shudder. Arthur uses his knees to push Eames’ own apart, and rests the weight of his pelvis on Eames. Arthur’s cock pushes up against Eames’ chest, and Arthur clamps his knees together, one hand resting firm on Eames’ breastbone, the other grasping Eames’ flushed cock and threading it between Arthur’s thighs.

The hands resting on Arthur’s ass clench there, and Arthur holds his knees together as tightly as he can. This would probably be better with some lubrication, but Eames looks ready to drop into dreamless sleep at any moment and Arthur knows so very well Eames’ pleasure in the vice grip. He fucks himself down on Eames’ cock once, twice, his own dick wetly painting Eames’ bellybutton, and then Eames seems to get the trick of it. He digs fingers into Arthur, making Arthur arch up with a breathy noise, and pulls Arthur down and pushes him up again and again, Arthur’s hand still centered on Eames.

It doesn’t take more more than that, a simple push and pull and belabored breathing, before Eames makes a sound that seems wrenched out of him, halfway between a moan and a whine. He collapses then, strings cut, and Arthur’s shoulders heave a moment before he leverages himself off the bed and finishes himself off in the bathroom.

He leaves the door open as he fists his cock.

Arthur wipes himself and Eames down, pulls on a pair of boxer-briefs and sets the thermostat to enter its night cycle early. He maneouvers Eames beneath the comforter, and crawls in beside him. As he sets the shades on the windows to roll down until morning in silence, he watches the lights of LA disappear with one arm tucked over Eames’ chest, the other drawing the pillow beneath his head closer.

Arthur dreams of desert heat.

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