Work Text
LAID
There’s sand in Arthur’s shoes and a trickle of sweat sliding slowly his neck. The beer in front of him is room temperature at best and the paddle fans swinging lazily above the bar do nothing to combat the oppressive heat of the Amalfi coast in August. If he weren’t so thoroughly drunk, he’s sure he’d be complaining of impending heatstroke to the rather fit bartender in front of him. Alas, the man hasn’t spared him one glance the entire evening except to deliver terrible Belgian triples to him despite his asking in perfect Italian for Negronis.
Arthur drops his head to the sticky bartop in a very unbecoming gesture for a man as well dressed as he is, but the humidity is doing terrible things to his state of mind and he can’t be held responsible for his slouched posture at present. He feels on edge, uncomfortable in his clothes, and itchy all over. He knows what this is - he needs to get laid.His mouth opens on a soft moan as he remembers the last time had the pleasure of feeling the heat of another man’s body, Eames’ body, against his own. He’s been with only Eames for the better part of a year now. The two of them coming together whenever they can to satisfy an ever growing need to ruin themselves for anyone else. Arthur had hoped
to work the man out of his system after the third, fourth, twenty-seventh time and yet . . .“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.Arthur hates being wrong.He rubs his damp forehead against his bare arm, miserable and pathetic, his feet twitching on the metal rung of his barstool. He shifts his shoulder blades beneath his sweat-soaked shirt and bites his lip hard at the images his brain keeps providing for him. Christ, he feels as if ants are crawling under his skin. He has to do something.Shoving back from the bar, Arthur stands, his hands fisting at his sides, looking for something to grab onto. He spots a guitar on a stand propped up against a small elevated platform at the corner of the café, where the terracotta tiles of the patio give way to the sand of the shoreline. There’s a microphone sitting sentinel next to it, looking lonely, as if it’s hoping for someone to make use of it. Oh, how Arthur can relate.Sympathizing with inanimate objects is a new low. He rubs a hand over his face and tells himself to get a fucking grip as he walks over.
The solid wooden neck of the instrument feels cool and smooth under his palm, and while it’s not the velvet heat of Eames’ deliciously uncut cock, it’s providing him with a much-needed distraction. It was either this or starting a fist fight with the bartender, and he figures the locals would prefer the former to the later. He does have a nice voice, after all.Sitting down at the little three-legged stool next to the stand, he throws the strap over his shoulder and plucks at the strings, checking the tunning. He switches on the mic and taps it, hearing the sound pop through the speaker system - not too loud, not too soft. No feedback. Good.He hasn’t played a guitar in years, but the same sense of calm he’s always felt while playing an instrument washes over him in a soothing wave as he hums out a lazy melody to the chords he’s practicing. Several patrons are looking on now, small smiles curving at their mouths along with the subtle shifting of chairs in his direction. It’s as if they think he’s tonight’s entertainment. Well, best not leave them wanting, he thinks. His hand starts up a familiar rhythm on the strings, easy and slow. Even in his drunken state, the irony of his spur-of-the-moment choice is not lost on him. He grins down at the guitar, laughing at himself.Soon, Arthur’s bobbing his head as he allows the sound of the intro to build with every strum. He’s cutting into the guitar with triple-time speed as he sings out the first lyrics in perfect syncopation.“This bed is on fire with passionate loveThe neighbors complain about the noises aboveBut he only comes when he’s on top . . . “. . .
Eames holds Arthur’s legs by the ankles in one large hand, angling them to side as he looms over him, his hips slamming against Arthur’s thighs, sweat-slicked skin snapping with the sound. Arthur can feel the tell-tale pulse of Eames’ cock right before he comes inside of him, loud and aggressive and so utterly ferocious that it’s all Arthur can do not to scream out his own climax. He bites down hard on the hand covering his mouth, sees Eames’ eyes flash from the sting and bites harder as they ride out their final spasms together.
From a floor below, someone shoves a broom handle repeatedly against the ceiling, hollering about the sound. They hear the shouts drifting in from the open window as a lazy summer breeze causes the curtains to flutter over the sheets.
. . .Arthur closes his eyes, smiling. His hand is moving quickly over the strings, his body starting to sway as he closes out the first verse with a long-held high note. His head tilts back, reveling in the feeling of gulping in a lung full of oxygen before he throws himself into the second stanza.“Caught your hand inside the tillSlammed your fingers in the doorFought with kitchen knives and skewers . . .Dressed me up in women’s clothesMessed around with gender rolesDyed my eyes and called me pretty . . .”He’s standing now as he strums, his feet moving beneath him without thought. His hair has fallen into his eyes, wrecked the from heat and heavy with sweat. He couldn’t care less.
. . .
Arthur shifts back on the bed, his hips moving in a slow circle as Eames walks by him tapping a finger against his full lip, assessing the silk stockings he’d gifted Arthur with that evening. They’re old-fashioned, with a delicate lace pattern at the waist and two dark seams running down the backs of Arthur’s legs. They make him feel vulnerable, almost timid. Eames hums approvingly from where he stands behind him. At the sound, Arthur’s drops his head between his arms, his willpower failing.
“Please,” he says, hating himself a little for it.
“Please, what?”
“Rip them.”
It takes two seconds for Eames to reach him. There’s heat against his skin, savage hands tearing at the expensive fabric, exposing Arthur’s backside to the chill of the room. He grunts at the sharp tug it gives to his erection and sighs when he feels a wet tongue run flat and broad over the crease of his ass.
“Yes,” he hisses, pushing back against Eames’ mouth. “Fuck, yes.”
A low grumble is the only response he hears before a pointed tongue is pressing into him, and Arthur arches his back as he cries out, electricity sparking through him. He ends up coming from Eames’ tongue alone, his body wracked with sensation.
Beneath him, the sheets are smeared with his own mess and what remains of the eyeliner Eames watched Arthur apply earlier. Arthur stares at the fresh stain, mind reeling. He’s amazed at his body’s ability to want more after his latest orgasm - the second of the evening.
“We’re not done yet,” Eames says as he saunters towards the bathroom.
Arthur’s arms give out and he falls to the bed, his anticipation growing even as his kohl-smudged eyelids fall shut against the pillowcase.
. . .Arthur bows low over the guitar, grateful for it covering his hips at that moment as he crashes into the third verse, aching with need and feeling more alive with each passing memory.“Moved out of the house so you moved next door I locked you out you cut a hole in the wallI found you sleeping next to me I thought I was aloneYou’re driving me crazy when are you coming home . . .”
. . .
The blankets are too warm and too heavy for Arthur’s liking. He moves to flip back the duvet, only the find that the offending blanket is no blanket at all but a muscled thigh. Eames is draped over Arthur like a squid, legs and arms curling everywhere. His nose is nuzzled into the back of Arthur’s neck and his breath is hot on his overheated skin. Arthur smiles into his pillow, knowing Eames won’t see. He allows himself a moment to enjoy the wholly wonderful sensation of being held before he’s shifting, pressing himself back against the hardness he feels between Eames’ legs. This is met with an appreciative hum. Arthur rolls his hips, arches his back, coaxing, teasing. The hand resting along Arthur’s rib cage tightens, fingers digging possessively into his skin.
“You’re supposed to be in Paris,” Arthur says.
“Mmhmm.”
It’s the only words exchanged before Eames is slipping his hard cock between Arthur’s sweaty thighs, his hand drifting down to Arthur’s growing erection. Arthur clamps his thighs together allowing Eames to fuck into them as Eames’ hand moves quickly over Arthur’s cock, their breaths filling the damp air with sound.
It’s languid and gentle but not at all how Arthur wants to finish. He turns, pushes Eames onto his back and crawls on top of him. He bites at his bottom lip, a punishment, and a reward because Arthur hates surprises but he loves Eames. They kiss, sleep-sweet and messy.
They’re rocking against each other, slow and slick when Eames’ hands grab hold of Arthur’s hips, hoisting him towards the head of the bed. Arthur goes, feeling weak at the silent invitation. His sudden need to fill that perfect mouth with his cock overwhelms him and he settles across Eames’ shoulders with a sigh.
It’s not long before Arthur’s arching back, crying out Eames’ name into the dark, his hands shaking as they hold onto the headboard. He’s ruined. Utterly ruined for other men. It’s a realization that should leave him panicking, but instead, all he can do is smile.
. . .
Arthur turns from the room, strumming out towards the beach beyond. His throat feels swollen and his eyes are stinging--he needs to pull himself together. His voice almost cracked as he sang the word home. What does that word even mean anymore? A picture of Eames flashes to mind and it does nothing but make Arthur grimace as he plays. He spins back to the waiting crowd and sings out the final notes of the song, his voice lingering on the twice repeated lyric of Laid with an impressive belt. The audience is clapping even before he finishes and he can’t help but feel bolstered by the sound. He feeds off the energy of the room, absorbing it into his skin.Pulling off the guitar strap over his shoulder with a flourish, Arthur bows, flashing the crowd his dimples before he’s placing the guitar back down on its stand. He walks to the bar with a sardonic smirk on his face and his head high. He slams his hand down on the marble and orders ‘a fucking negroni, por favore, ’ from the bartender and beams at the man when he presents Arthur with the correct beverage this time.Arthur shoves fifty Euros across the bar and says, “ Grazie mille, tu tesa di cazzo .” He takes his drink and strides off, shucking his shoes and strutting onto the sandy beach feeling very satisfied with how the last several minutes of his life has gone.Behind him a whistle calls out, echoing through the evening air. He curses under his breath and turns, preparing himself for the punch the bartender no doubt has in store for him. When he looks up, the man before him is not the one he was expecting at all to see.“Fucking hell.”“My, my, what a charming turn of phrase. You Americans are always so . . . what’s the word?” Eames taps his finger against his lip, looking purposefully obtuse.“Eames.”“Yes, darling?”Arthur’s throwing his arms around the man’s shoulders, his hard-won cocktail forgotten in the sand. He buries his face into the crook of Eames’ neck just below the collar of his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and inhales the sweet-scented, sweat-damp skin he finds there. He clings to Eames and is elated when he feels the press of two strong arms wrap tightly around his torso, practically crushing the wind out of Arthur’s lungs. Arthur lets him. Who needs oxygen, anyway.“Fuck,” he breathes, running his lips over Eames’ stubbled jaw. “Fuck, you’re here. You’re really here.”“I wanted to surprise you.”“Asshole. I hate surprises.”Eames laughs, moving Arthur’s head in his large palm, directing his lips towards his own. “Shut up and kiss me.”Arthur does and he doesn’t hold back.
Fin.