Title: baby let me blow your mind tonight
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Word Count: 1,845 of pure porn.
Warnings: Unbeta'd, underage sex, barebacking (so unsafe sex). Hammerspace backseat? TENSE CHANGES.
Notes: The beginning is based very loosely off an RP thread I did with a friend. A little bit of a slice of life fic.
Arthur comes home that day with grass and dirt stains on his trousers.
His mother takes one look at at his knees and shins, the ruined black Dunhill, and at his swollen mouth and messed up hair (from where Eames had slid his hands into his gelled-back hair while Arthur sucked him off, under the bleachers, like it was the last thing he'd ever do in his life) and had immediately grounded him, aghast.
“You've got so much potential,” she told him later, over dinner. “I don't know what you see in him.”
Him is Eames, who is wrong in so many ways to his mother and father; English, and cockney, male; he gets good grades but they hate his attitude, his carefree way.
Arthur, when he privately admits it, loves it. Before this he was just another cog in his parent's institution, the baby of the family, destined for great and wonderful things, a wife (though ever since he was 14 and noticing boys more than girls, he had written that one off privately) and a house of his own, a job where he could change the world – as long as it paid well.
Eames came and shook all that up, with his crooked teeth and wide smile, dimples to rival Arthur's, pushing him up against walls and under bleachers and that fucking mouth.
When Eames texts “u wnt 2 see movie 2nite?” Arthur sends back with a “come around the side.”
It's easy enough to sneak out of his room, considering it's a one-story house, even if it sprawls wide. He wears the sweater Eames gave him when they started (one of Eames, too wide in the shoulders but Arthur loves the way it feels used and purposeful), dark Levi jeans, his converse, and the white t-shirt he normally saves for under his oxfords.
Eames has requisitioned his host family's son's car, and he grins when Arthur stumbles out of the rose bushes, cursing under his breath, and lets his boyfriend into the aging but dependable contraption.
“You're looking rather sneaky tonight, darling,” he tells him, pulling him in for a kiss. Arthur goes willingly, feeling his mouth tingle from the brief contact.
'Movie' isn't really code, per se. They go to the drive-in theater that plays old movies, always choose something they do want to see. But more frequently than not, 'movie' means a blanket spread in the backseat of the car, Eames approving of Arthur's contortions to position them in the best way to get at Eames' mouth.
Normally it just means making out. But tonight, Arthur feels hot and on edge, and so even as Eames' tongue pushes into his mouth he's moaning for more, grinding down against the other teen, feeling those hands cup his ass and Eames' groan as Arthur slips his hands up under his horrid yellow shirt.
It's Arthur's nails down his chest, resting on the zipper of his jeans; Eames pushing his hands into Arthur's jeans to cup his ass more firmly, and Arthur biting at his lower lip in encouragement.
“Please,” he groans out when one of those fingers edges into the cleft of his ass, and Eames hesitates, then presses, the pad of one finger over his hole making Arthur's breath hitch, try to spread his legs wider on top of Eames.
“Do you - “ he starts, and Arthur digs his nails into his stomach and growls “Yes” because yes, he really does. Eames doesn't push in, just rubs the finger over him, and Arthur wants more.
“I've got some lotion in the front but – I don't have a condom,” Eames whispers against Arthur's neck, and Arthur feels reckless because he says “I don't care. You're clean, right?” and when Eames nods he continues, “Then do it, I want to feel you.”
It feels like a horrible cliché but Eames kisses him hard, all teeth and tongue before he eases Arthur off, lets go of him to retrieve the lotion. Arthur starts yanking his own pants off, knowing this will make it easier, but gets caught on his shoes. He glowers and starts to undo them, and Eames is back, and laughs gently and helps him.
Eventually his jeans, boxers and shoes are sitting in the front seat, and Eames is pulling him back to sit in his lap. His erection is quite obviously straining the front of his jeans, and the feel of rough denim against his thighs only makes Arthur's dick leak harder.
Eames stretches out in the back seat, pulls Arthur closer so that he's laying on Eames' chest, ass in the air. He kisses Arthur, and at some point he must have used the lotion on his fingers because he feels two slick fingers rubbing over his entrance, and he makes a soft noise before one pushes into him.
He furrows his brow, adjusting to the stretch; it feels different, and Eames noses under his jaw to kiss his throat as he gently moves the finger. It doesn't feel so weird after a bit, which is when Eames adds a second, the stretch more pronounced. But when his fingers hit something inside him Arthur gasps loudly and clutches at Eames' shoulders.
Eames chuckles. “Hello there, love,” he says finally, voice deep and rough, and Arthur pushes back into those fingers, rocking, and Eames kisses him again, sucks his tongue into his mouth and Arthur keeps rolling his hips, into those fingers, cock pressing against soft denim.
He feels hot, too hot, sweat trickling down his back (his sweater abandoned in the front as well) and Eames' brow is dotted with it, and he's not even doing anything besides fingering Arthur. He adds a third, and this time the stretch is just that edge of too much, and Arthur hisses.
“It's okay, we're going slow,” Eames says against his mouth, fingers drawing out slowly and pushing back in. Arthur whines (but will deny it), and Eames uses his other hand (previously resting on Arthur's hip) to push his white shirt up, leaning down to suck gently at his nipples.
That helps, and between the two points of contact Arthur is gasping for breath in the too-hot car as he gets stretched, stretched, and finally when he feels like his skin is going to melt off his body he goes “I'm ready, okay, come on.”
Eames draws his fingers out and pulls back from his chest, grabbing the lotion where it's stuck in a drink holder and then unzipping his pants with a hiss. His cock is thick and jutting out proudly, foreskin still in place. Arthur's seen it up close plenty of times but it's still fascinating, and he braces an arm on the front seat and the side of the car to watch Eames slick himself up, stroke himself, pulling the foreskin back.
“Come here,” Eames chokes out after tossing the bottle to the floor, and Arthur shuffles back up. He lets Eames position him, straddling his now-bare hips (his jeans pushed down to his thighs). Eames pushes his shirt up again, thumbs stroking over his nipples, and Arthur's breath hitches when he feels Eames pressing into him.
Eames did a good job of stretching him, but it still burns, unfamiliar, and Arthur finds it hard to breath. Eames tells him to, moving one hand to stroke over Arthur's hair, sweat-damp, and Arthur takes deep, slow breaths as he sinks down on Eames.
Eventually he's all the way in, stretching Arthur and Arthur feels like he's filling all of him up, even the parts he can't actually in reality reach. Eames bites at his collarbone, groaning under Arthur when he clenches down experimentally.
His boyfriend pulls them flush again, Arthur's nipples brushing against the yellow cotton of Eames' shirt, and his hands go to his ass, holding him there as he pulls out a bit, then pushes back in.
Arthur groans, low. It feels weird, and different, but fucking amazing even though it burns a little because Eames is inside him and there's nothing separating them. Eames rocks shallowly up into him, breath hot on the side of his face.
It doesn't burn after a little bit, and that's when Eames uses his legs to shift, change the angle. He thrusts deep and hits his prostate, and that punches Arthur's breath out, his hands clutching Eames' head.
Eames says something unintelligible and starts thrusting into Arthur in earnest. Arthur rocks his hips back into the thrusts, loving the way Eames feels inside him, groaning Eames' name, his first one, as he gets fucked.
The space between and around them is overheated, and when Arthur moves to kiss Eames it's less a kiss and more a sharing of mouths, pulling back to share the same air as they both pant harshly. With each thrust Arthur's dick rubs against skin and cotton, and he squirms, needing so badly to come. It's like he's been on edge since the bleachers.
He says, “Eames,” brokenly, and Eames says back, “Arthur,” voice wrecked, letting one hand off his tight hold of Arthur's ass to reach between them and stroke Arthur, his hand still a bit slick with lotion and sweat.
It's only a couple pumps before Arthur is curving his spine and coming with a hoarse shout, which is weird because he wasn't yelling earlier, so he doesn't know why his throat feels like it's going to close up. Eames curses sharply and thrusts up into him, and then he's coming as well.
It's weird, to feel that; the hot mess of Eames' come inside him, like it's branding him, and Arthur squirms and pants in Eames' lap, with Eames' head tucked against his neck, sucking in breath.
They stay that way for a long while until Eames pulls out, limp, and Arthur hisses slightly. Eames reaches down, asking if he's okay, and Arthur nods, but feels the low tingle of arousal at the feel of Eames' fingers over his entrance, getting slick with his own come leaking out of Arthur.
His shirt is a mess, and Eames laughs and strips it off, using it to clean Arthur off. Arthur smiles at all the bare skin on display, stroking his hands over Eames' shoulders. Eames tosses the shirt in the back, helping Arthur back into his underwear and jeans; they leave the shoes in the back too for now. Eames pulls his grey sweater back on to cover his chest.
Then he pulls Arthur into his lap in the drivers seat, brushing his drying hair out of his face. Arthur grins and tucks himself closer, watching the very end of the movie with a warm feeling in his chest.
He might be facing a limp for the foreseeable, an angry mother when he gets home, and the fact that soon, very soon, too soon, Eames will have to go back to his home country. But for now, he feels like he could fly.