Sinful.

Arthur in bed is completely different from Arthur in everyday life. Arthur in everyday life is always controlled and composed, never a single thing out of place, but Arthur in bed is languid and pliant, bending into Eames’ touch and gasping out profanities as Eames spreads him with three fingers. His hips buck down onto Eames’ fingers and all the rigidity Eames usually sees in him is melting away. Eames trails his lips down Arthur’s neck and bites down at skin just above Arthur’s collarbone just to hear Arthur’s sharp intake of breath, and Arthur’s skin is hot to the touch.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur manages to get out, and his voice sounds strained and simply drenched in sex. “Just… ngh… just fuck me already.”

And god if that isn’t the hottest thing Eames has ever heard. He obliges, of course, not feeling up to teasing Arthur any longer, and pushes into Arthur, watching with complete fascination as Arthur comes undone. His hair is in complete disarray and his pale skin is flushed all over and his vocabulary has been reduced to a string of expletives and please and Eames, and he’s possibly the most beautiful thing Eames has ever seen.

Arthur’s vocal skills fail entirely as his back arches and his eyes fall shut and he comes, a silent scream issuing from parted lips. The sight of Arthur falling completely apart in bliss, the feel of Arthur clenching around him, the thought that he, Eames, has made Arthur come undone so completely and absolutely; it’s all too much, and Eames comes with a shout and he swears his vision blacks out for a moment.

Eames collapses, breathing hard, on the bed next to Arthur, who’s trying to catch his breath and staring up at the ceiling and looking a little dazed. After a moment, breathing a little more normally now, Arthur turns his head to look at Eames, and his eyes are soft and warm and open, his hair curling at the ends around his ears. Eames smiles and reaches over to push Arthur’s hair back.

Arthur makes a sort of playfully disgusted face and says, “I feel kind of filthy.”

Eames laughs. “You are filthy, darling,” he says, and there’s that tone in his voice that Ariadne always claims makes everything he says extremely suggestive.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth turns up into the beginnings of a slight smile that Eames obscures with his lips on Arthur’s, and Arthur makes a sort of quiet, pleased sound at the back of his throat. The two of them clean up a little sloppily and curl up together under the comforter, and Arthur tucks his head into the curve of Eames’ neck.

“You’re never talking me into going to another party ever again,” Arthur mumbles into Eames’ neck.

Eames laughs, a sort of deep rumbling in his chest, and he runs his hand through Arthur’s soft hair. “Not even if I make it up to you afterwards?” Eames asks. “Love you up nice and good?”

Arthur scoffs. “No, Eames,” he says, and he tries to sound firm, but it still sounds like he could still be persuaded otherwise.

Eames chuckles and skates his fingers down Arthur’s spine, grinning when Arthur bends into his touch.

“Whatever you say,” Eames says in a sing-song voice.

Arthur kicks Eames, but Eames can feel Arthur smiling, his lips curving up against the skin of Eames’ neck.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he murmurs.

Eames chuckles at how utterly unthreatening Arthur sounds when he’s tired, but closes his eyes to get some sleep anyways. It’s been quite a night.

-

In a week’s time after the party, Eames has moved out of the house that he’s lived in for the past four years since moving to America. He’s moved into his dorm on campus and his father is in the process of moving back to London. Eames feels like he should be sad, but he was never close to his father and he’s really not all that upset about it and doesn’t really bother pretending otherwise. Classes don’t start for Eames for another week or so and he’s spending the last weekend he has before both Ariadne and Arthur start classes moping around and looking dejected (and Ariadne’s already left and gone to the next city for school, so really, it’s just Arthur left).

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Arthur asks him, twirling his pen around in his fingers as he considers the hint for four down in the crossword puzzle he’s doing (movie poster words, seven letters). He thinks for a moment and jots down T-A-G-L-I-N-E in precise lettering and then looks up at Eames, who’s sprawled out on the floor of Arthur’s apartment, frowning up at Arthur, who’s doing a very good job of not looking too concerned. “It’s not like I can make the school year start later, and before you even think about asking, there’s no way I’m skipping my classes for the entire week just because you’ll be ‘lonely’.”

Eames’ frown grows more pronounced. “But I’m going to be so bored,” he whines.

Arthur rolls his eyes and goes back to his crossword puzzle. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to harass,” he says.

Eames feigns a hurt look. “Oh Arthur, you wound me,” he says dramatically, clapping a hand over his chest. “Are you really so annoyed with me?”

“Like I said before,” Arthur says crisply, signature sarcasm creeping into his voice, “I’m really only in it for the sex.”

Eames kicks at Arthur’s foot and Arthur sighs, placing his pen down and turning on the barstool by the strip of countertop sectioning off the kitchen to properly look at Eames. He leans back against the counter on his elbows and raises his eyebrows at Eames, smirking just a little.

“Alright, what did you want to do?” Arthur asks, and Eames’ face lights up. He’s been waiting for that.

Eames scrambles up to his feet and sits on the barstool next to Arthur’s. “Today’s Sunday,” Eames says, as if this will explain everything.

Arthur looks blankly at Eames for a moment. “I’m not a mind reader, Eames,” he says flatly when Eames doesn’t say anything more.

Eames sighs and elaborates, “The farmer’s market is on Sunday. We’re going.”

Arthur looks at Eames as if Eames is crazy or has two heads or both but hops off the barstool anyways and goes to his closet to find something he deems appropriate enough to wear in a public setting, which means, as always, he’s going to be horribly overdressed, but that’s Arthur for you, and there’s nothing anyone’s going to be able to do about it. Eames tries anyways, just to be a bother, just because he can.

“You look fine,” Eames insists. “It’s a farmer’s market; it’s not bloody church.”

Arthur looks down at what he’s wearing (a pair of faded old jeans and a ratty t-shirt with a hole wearing through the left shoulder) and then looks back up at Eames and just says, “No” before rummaging through his closet for one of his nice, perfectly pressed shirts.

“If you’re going to be so anal about this, could you at least wear that pair of jeans I love so much?” Eames asks.

Arthur doesn’t turn to look at Eames but Eames can imagine Arthur rolling his eyes, which he probably is. “What, so you can stare at my ass for the rest of the day?” Arthur tosses over his shoulder, but he’s already looking for said pair of jeans, the ones that are dark, soft, and well-loved, the ones that hug Arthur’s hips just so.

“Well, that can’t be helped. You do have quite a fantastic arse, darling,” Eames says smoothly, and Arthur snorts.

“Good to know,” Arthur says, and he changes right there in front of Eames and Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur (that tease). Arthur smiles innocently at Eames and says, “Okay, let’s go then.”

On their way out of the apartment, Eames glares half-heartedly at Arthur and mutters, “I hate you” even as his hand reaches to slip into Arthur’s.

Arthur laughs, dimples showing briefly, and says, “Of course you do.”