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Whatever You Like
Arthur/Eames | NC-17 | ~2300
my [ profile] dream_holiday fic written for [ profile] avidlie who asked for a winter holiday away in a cabin
a big thank you to [ profile] hungerpunch for being an extremely thoughtful and encouraging beta, and a wonderful friend


Eames passes him a mug of hot mulled cider, Arthur brings it to his mouth and inhales, smelling cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, home, and--

“How much rum did you put in this?” Arthur asks.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Eames grins. Arthur rolls his eyes but sips his cider slowly; it’s delicious, the soft spices soothe him and the rum warms his belly, not unlike the warmth that spreads up towards Arthur’s chest when Eames smiles at him like that. You’d think after thirteen years of partnership--companionship--the feeling would fade, but if anything the feeling gets stronger. If Arthur’s grin is goofy, he blames it on the rum.


Around the holidays, Arthur and Eames always arrange to go up to Arthur’s safe-house-turned-winter-getaway. Their first year was really an accident, they both needed a safe place to stay after a job gone wrong, and Arthur had offered this place up. They hadn’t realized that the holiday season was afoot, that spending Christmas together at Arthur’s safe house was much better than spending it drunk and alone.

They spent a month together in Arthur’s cabin. Eames said it was best to assure their safety but Arthur knew better--sexual tension had been through the roof that month, and one thing had led to another. Two bottles of smoky wine and one ruined set of sheets later, Arthur and Eames decided they should just stay an extra month.

A year later Arthur shyly suggested to Eames that they should maybe travel back to Arthur’s cabin. It’s been their holiday tradition for thirteen years now.


Eames is standing at the kitchen counter, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Arthur puts his mug on the coffee table and stands; with wobbly legs he ambles over to Eames and leans into him, wrapping his arms around his waist. He looks over Eames’ shoulder as Eames arranges fresh figs onto a plate. He’s just finished cutting them into halves when Arthur reaches for one, just to taste, but Eames quickly slaps his hand away.

“I’ve got to finish prepping them,” Eames mutters, sprinkling crumbles of tangy goat cheese over the figs. Next, he grabs a jar of honey, dribbling some over the figs and cheese. Finally, he turns around with a slice of fig between his thumb and index finger.

“Now close your eyes and open wide,” Eames orders playfully. Arthur closes his eyes, and Eames’ arm snakes around his waist as he places a piece of fig onto Arthur’s tongue. Arthur closes his mouth, rolls the fig around and bites down; the delightfully tart flavor of the goat cheese paired with sweet figs and the sticky honey are smooth going down. Arthur feels Eames’ thumb against his lips and opens his eyes, he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Eames bites his lip and blushes. Even after all these years Arthur is astounded by the pink tint he still brings to Eames’ cheeks. “You had a bit of honey just there, love,” Eames mutters while pressing his thumb to his lips. Arthur licks his own lips, finding them sticky. The arm around Arthur’s waist tightens and Eames’ eyes darken.

“It’s really not safe for you to be around when I cook dinner is it? Why don’t you set the table or something,” Eames admonishes. Arthur slinks off, hopes of a before-dinner blowjob destroyed.

They will be spending about two months here, so they’ve packed accordingly. There are a few cardboard boxes littered around a small Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Arthur goes over to them and opens the closest box. “Jesus, Eames, did you pack enough candles?” Arthur calls towards the kitchen area. Eames yells something back but Arthur can’t make out what he says. He can only imagine it’s something ridiculous. Arthur smiles.

This is what Arthur’s life has become. It’s filled with candles and delicious food and Eames. Eames who muscled his way into Arthur’s life with mischievous smiles and corny pick-up lines. Arthur places a few scented candles on the mantle. He lights them and throws more logs onto the fire, creating dim light and the faint scent of sandalwood, on top of whatever Eames is cooking in the kitchen.

Arthur sets plates and silverware out on the small wooden table by the window. Outside, snow covers the ground, the trees are bare, and the sky is grey. Arthur remembers their first breakfast together at this table; knees almost touching, speaking softly to one another. Eames’ eyes had grown wide when Arthur thumbed a stray drop of maple syrup at the corner of Eames’ mouth, eyes falling closed as Arthur gripped Eames by the back of the neck, pulling him in to lick his mouth open.

Arthur is fumbling around with the silverware when Eames waltzes in. He places a covered platter on the table, kisses Arthur soundly, and promptly returns to the kitchen, telling Arthur not to peek and that dinner will be ready in three and a half minutes.

Arthur eyes the platter cautiously and continues setting the table. Whatever it is smells delicious and right as Arthur even thinks about getting his hand on the platter cover--

“Don’t you touch anything,” Eames warns, coming back with roasted asparagus in one hand and Arthur’s favorite--rich, creamy, cheesy, scalloped potatoes--in the other. There’s really only one thing that Eames serves with his scalloped potatoes and that’s his grilled, meltingly tender lamb chops. They’re marinated and then encrusted with Dijon mustard, garlic, rosemary flavored bread crumbs, and then seared. Arthur’s mouth waters.

Eames sits him down and removes the cover, and there they are in all their glory. “You’d think your life partner would be the lamb chops, and not me,” Eames grumbles.

Arthur grins while Eames hands him a set of tongs; he places a few chops on their plates while Eames spoons heaps of potatoes and asparagus alongside them. Arthur pours the wine and they both tuck in, their ankles touching underneath the small table.


Arthur is bringing their dirty plates into the kitchen when he eyes a sprig of mistletoe hanging right above the entrance to their bedroom. He spies another by the front door, and one more by the worn wooden bookshelf Arthur had installed years ago.

Eames walks over to the bookshelf to grab something off it. He has the TV on and is moving slow, caught up in some corny Christmas movie about the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future. Arthur wonders if his ghost of Christmas future would look a little like Eames.

Eames has been trying to get Arthur underneath the mistletoe all evening. One would think that Eames is standing there on purpose but he is so caught up in the TV program that he doesn’t hear Arthur sneak up on him. He only notices when Arthur’s arms creep around Eames’ waist. Arthur’s lips brush against the side of Eames’ neck and Arthur looks up at the sprig of mistletoe. “Thank you for dinner,” Arthur whispers.

Eames’ eyes are sparkling dangerously when he turns around. Arthur reaches into his pocket and palms the black velvet pouch that has been in his pocket all evening. “I was going to wait until Christmas to give you your gift,” Arthur admits, “but I’d really like to give this to you now.”

Eames chuckles. “You can never wait ‘till Christmas, can you?” he teases. “You’re just like a little kid, Arthur.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and removes a gold timepiece from the velvet pouch and places it in Eames’ palm. “I know you lost your pocket watch in Barcelona--”

“It’s stunning,” Eames interrupts, his eyes wide as he lifts his hand to touch the grooved roman numerals that surround the face of the watch. The golden cogs of the watch are polished and visible through the shining crystal of the watch face; they contrast magnificently against the thick black band surrounding them. “Thank you,” Eames says, voice low and full of sincerity. Eames places the pocket watch back into the velvet pouch and sets it on table. “I’d put it on right now, but that would defeat the purpose of my plans for the rest of the evening.”

Eames leads Arthur over to the couch and sits him down, mentioning something about fixing Arthur a drink. Eames walks into kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two tumblers filled with Grand Marnier served over ice.

Arthur sips at his drink, enjoying the bitter orange bite that flavors the base of the cognac; the sweet taste of orange and hazelnut creates a subtle nuance that Arthur has always adored. It reminds Arthur of a winter spent off the coast of France drinking Grand Marnier and fucking Eames.

Arthur finds himself leaning against Eames, happily buzzed. Arthur’s hair is falling into his eyes and he’s grinning like a mad man. Eames’ hands wrap around him and Arthur finds himself wedged in between Eames’ thighs with his head lolling around on Eames’ shoulder. He peppers soft kisses up and down Eames’ jaw.

Eames looks down at Arthur fondly. “Are you sloshed?”

“Naah,” Arthur grins, “not even.” Eames snorts but Arthur ignores it, too busy tonguing a patch of stubble Eames missed this morning when he shaved. Eames probably won’t shave the entire time they’re here, and Arthur will end up with beard burn. It’s not like it matters. Eames’ hands grip Arthur’s waist, gliding up towards his chest. Arthur barely feels Eames’ teasing touches on his nipples through his sweater as he mouths at a vein in Eames’ neck.

“This won’t do at all,” Eames groans, pushing Arthur forward and grabbing the hem of Arthur’s sweater, lifting it over his head. Eames throws it somewhere on the floor and Arthur doesn’t really care where it went because he’s being pulled, his back tight up against Eames’ front as Eames’ hands resumes exploring Arthur’s chest, pinching at his nipples through the thin cotton of his undershirt.

Arthur whines, his nipples hardening, back arching and chest pushing out. He catches Eames’ mouth in a filthy kiss, all lips and tongue, no teeth; it’s so fucking sweet, it’s the same kiss that Eames bestowed upon Arthur years ago. A kiss that Arthur can’t get enough of, a kiss that Arthur will never get enough of. Arthur’s hips stutter back against Eames’ and he feels Eames against his ass, hot and hard. He pushes back once, twice, and--

Eames is suddenly slipping out from under him and Arthur finds himself pinned against the couch, Eames’ hands pressing into his hips. He grins at Arthur, “You’re going to be the death of me.” Eames pushes Arthur’s undershirt up and out of the way as he attaches his mouth to one of Arthur’s nipples, tonguing it.

“You’ve been saying that ever since we met,” Arthur says, squirming against Eames’ mouth. Eames’ lips quirk against Arthur’s nipple and he bites down.

“You know I never did properly thank you for my gift,” Eames says thoughtfully, slipping down to his knees between Arthur’s legs. And fuck if Eames doesn’t look sexy between Arthur’s legs, on his knees looking up at Arthur with those heated eyes.

“You’d best remedy that,” Arthur groans, hips lifting up as Eames palms him through his pants. Arthur undoes them and quickly wiggles them down to his knees, leaving him clad in his pristine white briefs.

Eames is shooting smoldering looks up at him, his large hands are spread out along the tops of Arthur’s thighs. Eames lowers his head, mouthing at Arthur’s half-hard cock, soaking through the material of the briefs. Eames lifts his head up and beams, grabbing at the waistline and drawing them down. Eames gets his mouth on the head of Arthur’s cock, sucking lightly while flashing Arthur brazen looks from under his lashes. Eames tongues the tip of Arthur’s dick, licking up the precome collecting there.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur blurts as Eames takes him all the way into his mouth. Arthur’s thighs are spread wide, taut and trembling. His head falls back against the couch, eyes clenched tightly shut, hands bunched up in the fabric of the couch.

Eames pulls off of Arthur’s cock with a wet pop. “Fuck my mouth like you mean it, Arthur,” Eames grunts as he presses the heel of his palm against the hard outline of his own cock through his pants.

Arthur licks at his lips and gets one hand around the base of his cock while he gets the other around the back of Eames’ neck. He rubs his cock against Eames’ lips, breath hitching when Eames’ runs his tongue along Arthur’s slit. Arthur’s hips lift while he shifts his hand up into Eames’ hair, fucking up into Eames’ mouth.

“Ah--” Arthur grits out through his clenched teeth. Heat begins to build up deep in Arthur’s belly--he’s thrusting sloppily into the wet invitation of Eames’ mouth, hoping he’ll last just a little bit longer. He whines out Eames’ name as a warning, but it’s too late because he’s spilling hot and fast down Eames’ throat.

Arthur gently pulls out. “Fuck--just--” Eames sobs, clambering up into Arthur’s lap, straddling his hips, “--please.” Eames scrambles to undo his fly and Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’ cock. Arthur strokes Eames roughly while biting at his lips; it’s not long before Eames is keening into Arthur’s mouth and coming all over Arthur’s hand.

“That was some thank you,” Arthur snickers.

Eames just rests his head against against Arthur’s forehead, panting softly.

Arthur’s smile is tender when he asks, “What’s for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

Eames replies, “Whatever you like, darling, whatever you like.”

dinner: figs, scalloped potatoes, lamb chops

eames' gift

Date: 2011-12-24 07:55 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
oh!! I loved that story! ^=^ it was so adorable and oscar the octopus is the best ever :D thank you so much! \o/


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November 2015

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