30 x 15
eventual HARD nc-17
pairing: arthur/eames
words: 2.5k (this part)
warnings: (IMAGINED) MINOR/ADULT NON-CON. I CANNOT stress enough: if minor/adult sex or dub-con/rape are triggers for you, please do not proceed. There are two layers of unreality here, but if that is not enough for you or you don't know if that's enough for you, please do us both a favor and choose another story.
explanation: This came to me one night. Has been changed since the original posting.
beta:
eternalsojourn - So much love for you, Rena. You also write non-creepy underage, which, yea... /o\
persephone_il - Thank you so much for giving me your candid thoughts and pointers on this part. I hope I was able to do them at least a little bit of justice.
summary: Eames watches the boy from his window.
There are few things that can pull Eames from bed so early, but the show that goes on across the street has proven to be one of them; during the interminable months Eames has had to camp out in suburbia, this half hour when Eames' neighbor gives himself fully to motion has become Eames’ favorite way to start the day. From the second floor of his Tudor Eames watches, transfixed, as a boy contorts himself into positions in his living room.
Outside the sun awakens their sleepy block slowly, a buzzing light over the treetops and into the houses. It comes through Eames’ window and blankets his sweating body inch by inch, the glass panes in front of him fogging up with his hot breath.
The boy’s legs are spread wide and head pushed deep down with shaggy hair spread out; if only the floor wasn’t there he could dip lower, an ostrich with its skull in the sand. Every position is self-contained beauty, but one of the best is when the boy has finished the real yoga and is simply relaxing. He does the splits, stretches his hands to the sky, then tips forward and exhales, sinking into the floor. In the end his body is splayed out, legs wide and inviting while a pert rear nudges upward, and if those clinging sleep shorts weren’t there it would be quite an invitation. When Eames would run a hand over his ass the boy might shy away but Eames would reel him back in, work a finger in and show the boy how it feels to take.
It seems the neighbors have a Christmas party every year; this year Eames just might go.
.
.
.
The clock chimes 1 AM in the silent house, the hosts fast asleep in their beds and guests long gone home. There is still a light on the living room, though, and it calls Eames back.
The boy opens the door, mouth a red and assailable smudge in his lax face.
“Oh. ‘Ello,” he says. He’s drunk.
“Drank all the eggnog and spiked hot chocolate once the parents went to sleep, I see."
The boy nods and glances up at Eames through thick lashes. He’s shorter than Eames, still, and wearing sleep shorts and a t-shirt that highlight his lean body but also the stubborn baby fat at his thighs, his ass.
“I forgot something.” Eames shivers and blows onto his frigid hands. The boy stares at his mouth and does not answer.
“Going to let me in, darling?” prompts Eames.
As if only just realizing Eames wants to come into the warm house, the boy starts, blushes, and moves aside.
“Thank you.” Eames’ hand raises and ruffles through the long hair, gentle and proprietary.
The boy’s eyes are hazy and wide in his face as they look up at Eames in drunk shock.
“Your hair was messed up,” explains Eames.
“Oh,” the boy whispers.
Eames corrals him into searching for Eames' lost phone in the folds of the living room couch and the boy bends over so nicely to help, thighs taunt with the search. He calls Eames with his own cellphone and they listen futilely for a ring or buzz. Eames fails to mention his own phone is safe in his pocket, silenced: now he has the boy’s number.
They’ve only searched for a few minutes but when Eames offers a break the boy accepts, nodding his head languidly. Eames goes to get extra rum and hot chocolate from the kitchen, careful and silent as a cat in the dark and unknown house.
The boy appears to be dozing on an overstuffed pillow so Eames wakes him, hands him the warm mug. He drinks the alcohol obediently, eyes flicking up to Eames’ in time with the bob of his Adam’s apple. Every gulp of hot chocolate is a string in Eames’ web, a tightening of the trap.
Eames takes the cup, their hands brushing. He leans in close. “Want to come over to my place? I have something to show you.”
“Now?” asks the boy in a puzzled, thick voice.
“Yes. It’ll be worth it,” promises Eames.
They stand in Eames’ foyer, a yawning entrance into his too-large house. The priceless paintings on his walls are old and dour compared to the fresh beauty of his prize, whose mouth goes agape at the opulence.
“You'll be at home here soon enough,” predicts Eames.
“Wha'dya mean?”
“We can talk about that later.” Eames tightens his grip and tugs the boy to his living room, going deeper into insanity with each step. “How old are you again?” Eames’ voice is lazy, his question perfunctory as they walk into the wide room, a matched set of young and old.
“Fifteen. I turn sixteen in -- in three weeks.” The boy fights the alcohol to answer correctly. “Um. Maybe four weeks. I cant -- can’t remember now.”
Eames guides him to the buttermilk couch in the center of the room; he is beautiful sitting with crossed ankles on Eames’ possession, not knowing that Eames intends to add the boy to his collection as well.
“’m cold,” the boy says, pitifully.
“Well that won’t do,” chides Eames, going to grab a drink from his own alcohol cabinet and pouring two tumblers. He has to be careful -- he needs the boy relaxed but not floating away or sleeping. “This will warm you up.” Eames holds the glass to red lips and tips back.
The boy splutters, hand to his mouth. “What is that?”
“Ah. I didn’t think. This is whiskey. You’re probably too young to appreciate it.”
The boys sends a fuzzy glare Eames’ way. “I can drink it,” he asserts, mulish.
Shrugging, Eames leaves the glass on the table and goes to get a comforter from the hallway closet. When he returns the glass is empty.
Good boy.
“Here, blanket.” Eames sits as well and wraps an arm behind the boy’s back to around his slight middle, palm grazing the boy’s side. “So, what do 15-year-olds do for fun these days?” Eames relaxes into the couch and pulls his prize down with him, soft oof the only sign of surprise at the action.
After they’re settled the boy huffs a bitter laugh into the air. “Dunno,” he says, sullen.
“You don’t?” asks Eames in mock surprise.
A sad head-shake follows. “They dun -- don’t like me very much.”
Eames hmms sympathetically and runs his free hand through curling brown hair. This time he lodges it there, cradling, trapping. “Well I like you,” he confides.
The boy perks up. “Really? Um. You do? Why?”
Eames pretends to think for a moment. He lies, “I think it’s because you seem so grown up.”
In front of him a small, private smile blooms. “I think I am. The others are so childish.”
“I’m sure they are compared to you,” says Eames as his hands rove around the boy’s body, thumb sneaking to below his shirt to feel the soft, malleable skin there. Eames knows he has only to knead the boy a bit and he will mold docilely to whatever shape Eames desires. He’s never found this untried type attractive before but the boy is different; Eames’ hands feel like they are coming home when they alight on his skin. “So, I noticed you at the party tonight.”
“Why?” The boy squirms under the new touches but doesn’t move away.
“You were looking at me. My mouth.”
The boy crosses his arms and looks away in embarrassment. “So?”
“So. I know why you were looking. I bet you make-out all the time with your friends.”
Uncrossing his arms, the boy bites his lips and flicks his eyes back to Eames’. “Um. Not really.”
“Oh. What a surprise.” Eames turns the boy’s head using his hair as reins. “Well then. Would you like to try it?”
Obviously mortified the boy objects, “I’ve never.”
Eames’ cock hardens so quickly it's painful, blood absolutely crowding his veins at the word never. Clearing his throat Eames says, “I can kiss you. If you like.” Before the last word of the offer has left his lips he he’s already nosing against the boy’s face, eager to stake his claim and be first everywhere. It’s never been important before, but now it is fucking paramount.
He feels more than sees the unsteady nod and his lips slide over the boy’s. The kiss is soft and Eames takes his time enjoying it, sucking the boy's tongue in lewdly. Gasps and little grunts fill the air and Eames lets his hand, thumb first, go under the boy’s shirt to skim from the bottom of his spine to his neck.
They break the kiss.
“Are you hot?” asks Eames solicitously, hand stuck so far up the boy’s shirt back it’s coming out at the neck to play in downy hair.
“Yeah. ‘Lil.”
“Let’s get rid of this shirt, then.” Eames peels the blue t-shirt off. The boy's head gets stuck at the neckline and Eames helpfully nudges him forward. Now he can see the little pink nipples and delicate collarbones. His hands run up the boy’s back, pulling him closer and closer. “Better?”
“Uh-huh.” The boy awkwardly climbs onto Eames when Eames tugs him up. The lithe arms hang down so Eames places them around his own shoulders, bringing them into orbit around each other. Eames’ cock is huge and hard beneath the boy; it wants to rip through the fabric to destroy the ass teasing it but Eames reins it in with a deep breath. “You gonna kiss me again?” asks the boy, demure.
“You kiss me this time. Show me what you know.”
The boy hesitates but leans in the last few inches to press his lips against Eames. He mimics what Eames did, sweet and untutored. Eames can’t help his hands going up around the boy’s back to lay his palms on the boy’s bare shoulders and pull down, grinding his desperate dick into the curve of ass.
“Oh -- “ huffs the boy. “Is that your -- “ He flushes in the low light.
Eames smiles. “That’s me. It’s how I feel about you.” He slips on a mien of worry. “Are you comfortable? Is this okay?”
The boy resettles on Eames’ lap, his ass happening to come down perfectly and Eames’ iron-hard cock nestles into his cleft, ready to cut the boy in half at the first opportunity. Just as Eames imagined his boy can open his legs as far as Eames can push him, and Eames runs careful hands up clothed thighs, crotch. He's hard, too.
“Is this for me?” asks Eames, reverent.
The boy buries his face in Eames’ neck, only succeeding in bringing their bodies closer. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“I’m flattered pet. Can I see you?” wonders Eames. “You’re so beautiful.” His hands frame the youth's dick in his jeans, not touching but teasing.
“I -- I -- " the boy struggles with the pleasure.
Eames moves his hand to the boy’s head again to give him a respite and a brief kiss.
“You first?” the boy offers tentatively.
Eames holds back his groan. Better than he could hope for. “Of course darling, of course.” The boy starts to move but Eames recaptures him. “No, stay.” He stops and looks down, questioningly. Eames undoes the top button of his gray slacks and unzips. His eager cock pokes through and finally emerges. It feeds on the attention, getting even bigger.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” processes the boy, aghast.
“No,” chuckles Eames. He puts a thumb at the boy’s bottom lip, testing the plump flesh there. “Is this okay?”
The boy is still staring down so Eames rubs his thumb over the silk of his mouth, enjoying its give. “It’s just. You’re so big.” Eames can feel the mouth below his finger shape the words, the little exhalation at the end.
“Don’t be scared,” goads Eames.
“‘m not scared.”
Eames shrugs and drops his hand, feigning disinterest even as his cock aches and aches.
“Can I -- Can I touch it?”
Oh, good boy.
“Yes, pet.” Eames purposefully lets out a moan when he's hesitantly touched. The boy is too unsure for there to be any real pressure but that’s fine -- Eames doesn’t want a hand, anyway. Preoccupied with the sight in front of him, the boy barely notices as Eames sneaks his hands back to the join of the boy’s legs, outlining that cock again. “Would you like out of these pants?” asks Eames into a dainty ear.
“Um. Maybe?”
Pulling back Eames stares into the boy’s eyes. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, assuring.
The boy thinks for a few seconds. “Okay,” he agrees, voice timid.
Eames helps him up and together they work down his pants, his boxers. Eames sits him down again on the couch but not before he grazes a hand over the smooth rear. It’s soft, so soft, but there’s muscle there too. Perfect.
“What’re you doing?” asks the boy when Eames kneels before him. He spreads his legs without prompting, though; his body knows better than his mind.
“Can I give you a blow job?” asks Eames casually, trying to lead by example. He runs his hand through the sparse curls around the dick in front of him and gets another gasp for his efforts.
“S-Sure,” says the boy, breathless like he’s run ten miles. His hands are knots in Eames’ hair and anyone else Eames would punish for the infraction but he only has to put up with it for a minute. The boy is young, after all.
Eames swallows him whole, dick deep down in his gullet. Above him the boy goes wild, bucking and biting his own lip savagely, but it is a simple matter to keep him pinned in place. It’s only a few bobs before the wash of semen is hitting Eames’ throat in a wave. He exaggerates the gulp and the satisfied moan at the end.
Swallowing is a skill Eames intends to instill in the boy early.
~
Part 2
eventual HARD nc-17
pairing: arthur/eames
words: 2.5k (this part)
warnings: (IMAGINED) MINOR/ADULT NON-CON. I CANNOT stress enough: if minor/adult sex or dub-con/rape are triggers for you, please do not proceed. There are two layers of unreality here, but if that is not enough for you or you don't know if that's enough for you, please do us both a favor and choose another story.
explanation: This came to me one night. Has been changed since the original posting.
beta:
eternalsojourn - So much love for you, Rena. You also write non-creepy underage, which, yea... /o\persephone_il - Thank you so much for giving me your candid thoughts and pointers on this part. I hope I was able to do them at least a little bit of justice.summary: Eames watches the boy from his window.
There are few things that can pull Eames from bed so early, but the show that goes on across the street has proven to be one of them; during the interminable months Eames has had to camp out in suburbia, this half hour when Eames' neighbor gives himself fully to motion has become Eames’ favorite way to start the day. From the second floor of his Tudor Eames watches, transfixed, as a boy contorts himself into positions in his living room.
Outside the sun awakens their sleepy block slowly, a buzzing light over the treetops and into the houses. It comes through Eames’ window and blankets his sweating body inch by inch, the glass panes in front of him fogging up with his hot breath.
The boy’s legs are spread wide and head pushed deep down with shaggy hair spread out; if only the floor wasn’t there he could dip lower, an ostrich with its skull in the sand. Every position is self-contained beauty, but one of the best is when the boy has finished the real yoga and is simply relaxing. He does the splits, stretches his hands to the sky, then tips forward and exhales, sinking into the floor. In the end his body is splayed out, legs wide and inviting while a pert rear nudges upward, and if those clinging sleep shorts weren’t there it would be quite an invitation. When Eames would run a hand over his ass the boy might shy away but Eames would reel him back in, work a finger in and show the boy how it feels to take.
It seems the neighbors have a Christmas party every year; this year Eames just might go.
.
.
.
The clock chimes 1 AM in the silent house, the hosts fast asleep in their beds and guests long gone home. There is still a light on the living room, though, and it calls Eames back.
The boy opens the door, mouth a red and assailable smudge in his lax face.
“Oh. ‘Ello,” he says. He’s drunk.
“Drank all the eggnog and spiked hot chocolate once the parents went to sleep, I see."
The boy nods and glances up at Eames through thick lashes. He’s shorter than Eames, still, and wearing sleep shorts and a t-shirt that highlight his lean body but also the stubborn baby fat at his thighs, his ass.
“I forgot something.” Eames shivers and blows onto his frigid hands. The boy stares at his mouth and does not answer.
“Going to let me in, darling?” prompts Eames.
As if only just realizing Eames wants to come into the warm house, the boy starts, blushes, and moves aside.
“Thank you.” Eames’ hand raises and ruffles through the long hair, gentle and proprietary.
The boy’s eyes are hazy and wide in his face as they look up at Eames in drunk shock.
“Your hair was messed up,” explains Eames.
“Oh,” the boy whispers.
Eames corrals him into searching for Eames' lost phone in the folds of the living room couch and the boy bends over so nicely to help, thighs taunt with the search. He calls Eames with his own cellphone and they listen futilely for a ring or buzz. Eames fails to mention his own phone is safe in his pocket, silenced: now he has the boy’s number.
They’ve only searched for a few minutes but when Eames offers a break the boy accepts, nodding his head languidly. Eames goes to get extra rum and hot chocolate from the kitchen, careful and silent as a cat in the dark and unknown house.
The boy appears to be dozing on an overstuffed pillow so Eames wakes him, hands him the warm mug. He drinks the alcohol obediently, eyes flicking up to Eames’ in time with the bob of his Adam’s apple. Every gulp of hot chocolate is a string in Eames’ web, a tightening of the trap.
Eames takes the cup, their hands brushing. He leans in close. “Want to come over to my place? I have something to show you.”
“Now?” asks the boy in a puzzled, thick voice.
“Yes. It’ll be worth it,” promises Eames.
They stand in Eames’ foyer, a yawning entrance into his too-large house. The priceless paintings on his walls are old and dour compared to the fresh beauty of his prize, whose mouth goes agape at the opulence.
“You'll be at home here soon enough,” predicts Eames.
“Wha'dya mean?”
“We can talk about that later.” Eames tightens his grip and tugs the boy to his living room, going deeper into insanity with each step. “How old are you again?” Eames’ voice is lazy, his question perfunctory as they walk into the wide room, a matched set of young and old.
“Fifteen. I turn sixteen in -- in three weeks.” The boy fights the alcohol to answer correctly. “Um. Maybe four weeks. I cant -- can’t remember now.”
Eames guides him to the buttermilk couch in the center of the room; he is beautiful sitting with crossed ankles on Eames’ possession, not knowing that Eames intends to add the boy to his collection as well.
“’m cold,” the boy says, pitifully.
“Well that won’t do,” chides Eames, going to grab a drink from his own alcohol cabinet and pouring two tumblers. He has to be careful -- he needs the boy relaxed but not floating away or sleeping. “This will warm you up.” Eames holds the glass to red lips and tips back.
The boy splutters, hand to his mouth. “What is that?”
“Ah. I didn’t think. This is whiskey. You’re probably too young to appreciate it.”
The boys sends a fuzzy glare Eames’ way. “I can drink it,” he asserts, mulish.
Shrugging, Eames leaves the glass on the table and goes to get a comforter from the hallway closet. When he returns the glass is empty.
Good boy.
“Here, blanket.” Eames sits as well and wraps an arm behind the boy’s back to around his slight middle, palm grazing the boy’s side. “So, what do 15-year-olds do for fun these days?” Eames relaxes into the couch and pulls his prize down with him, soft oof the only sign of surprise at the action.
After they’re settled the boy huffs a bitter laugh into the air. “Dunno,” he says, sullen.
“You don’t?” asks Eames in mock surprise.
A sad head-shake follows. “They dun -- don’t like me very much.”
Eames hmms sympathetically and runs his free hand through curling brown hair. This time he lodges it there, cradling, trapping. “Well I like you,” he confides.
The boy perks up. “Really? Um. You do? Why?”
Eames pretends to think for a moment. He lies, “I think it’s because you seem so grown up.”
In front of him a small, private smile blooms. “I think I am. The others are so childish.”
“I’m sure they are compared to you,” says Eames as his hands rove around the boy’s body, thumb sneaking to below his shirt to feel the soft, malleable skin there. Eames knows he has only to knead the boy a bit and he will mold docilely to whatever shape Eames desires. He’s never found this untried type attractive before but the boy is different; Eames’ hands feel like they are coming home when they alight on his skin. “So, I noticed you at the party tonight.”
“Why?” The boy squirms under the new touches but doesn’t move away.
“You were looking at me. My mouth.”
The boy crosses his arms and looks away in embarrassment. “So?”
“So. I know why you were looking. I bet you make-out all the time with your friends.”
Uncrossing his arms, the boy bites his lips and flicks his eyes back to Eames’. “Um. Not really.”
“Oh. What a surprise.” Eames turns the boy’s head using his hair as reins. “Well then. Would you like to try it?”
Obviously mortified the boy objects, “I’ve never.”
Eames’ cock hardens so quickly it's painful, blood absolutely crowding his veins at the word never. Clearing his throat Eames says, “I can kiss you. If you like.” Before the last word of the offer has left his lips he he’s already nosing against the boy’s face, eager to stake his claim and be first everywhere. It’s never been important before, but now it is fucking paramount.
He feels more than sees the unsteady nod and his lips slide over the boy’s. The kiss is soft and Eames takes his time enjoying it, sucking the boy's tongue in lewdly. Gasps and little grunts fill the air and Eames lets his hand, thumb first, go under the boy’s shirt to skim from the bottom of his spine to his neck.
They break the kiss.
“Are you hot?” asks Eames solicitously, hand stuck so far up the boy’s shirt back it’s coming out at the neck to play in downy hair.
“Yeah. ‘Lil.”
“Let’s get rid of this shirt, then.” Eames peels the blue t-shirt off. The boy's head gets stuck at the neckline and Eames helpfully nudges him forward. Now he can see the little pink nipples and delicate collarbones. His hands run up the boy’s back, pulling him closer and closer. “Better?”
“Uh-huh.” The boy awkwardly climbs onto Eames when Eames tugs him up. The lithe arms hang down so Eames places them around his own shoulders, bringing them into orbit around each other. Eames’ cock is huge and hard beneath the boy; it wants to rip through the fabric to destroy the ass teasing it but Eames reins it in with a deep breath. “You gonna kiss me again?” asks the boy, demure.
“You kiss me this time. Show me what you know.”
The boy hesitates but leans in the last few inches to press his lips against Eames. He mimics what Eames did, sweet and untutored. Eames can’t help his hands going up around the boy’s back to lay his palms on the boy’s bare shoulders and pull down, grinding his desperate dick into the curve of ass.
“Oh -- “ huffs the boy. “Is that your -- “ He flushes in the low light.
Eames smiles. “That’s me. It’s how I feel about you.” He slips on a mien of worry. “Are you comfortable? Is this okay?”
The boy resettles on Eames’ lap, his ass happening to come down perfectly and Eames’ iron-hard cock nestles into his cleft, ready to cut the boy in half at the first opportunity. Just as Eames imagined his boy can open his legs as far as Eames can push him, and Eames runs careful hands up clothed thighs, crotch. He's hard, too.
“Is this for me?” asks Eames, reverent.
The boy buries his face in Eames’ neck, only succeeding in bringing their bodies closer. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“I’m flattered pet. Can I see you?” wonders Eames. “You’re so beautiful.” His hands frame the youth's dick in his jeans, not touching but teasing.
“I -- I -- " the boy struggles with the pleasure.
Eames moves his hand to the boy’s head again to give him a respite and a brief kiss.
“You first?” the boy offers tentatively.
Eames holds back his groan. Better than he could hope for. “Of course darling, of course.” The boy starts to move but Eames recaptures him. “No, stay.” He stops and looks down, questioningly. Eames undoes the top button of his gray slacks and unzips. His eager cock pokes through and finally emerges. It feeds on the attention, getting even bigger.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” processes the boy, aghast.
“No,” chuckles Eames. He puts a thumb at the boy’s bottom lip, testing the plump flesh there. “Is this okay?”
The boy is still staring down so Eames rubs his thumb over the silk of his mouth, enjoying its give. “It’s just. You’re so big.” Eames can feel the mouth below his finger shape the words, the little exhalation at the end.
“Don’t be scared,” goads Eames.
“‘m not scared.”
Eames shrugs and drops his hand, feigning disinterest even as his cock aches and aches.
“Can I -- Can I touch it?”
Oh, good boy.
“Yes, pet.” Eames purposefully lets out a moan when he's hesitantly touched. The boy is too unsure for there to be any real pressure but that’s fine -- Eames doesn’t want a hand, anyway. Preoccupied with the sight in front of him, the boy barely notices as Eames sneaks his hands back to the join of the boy’s legs, outlining that cock again. “Would you like out of these pants?” asks Eames into a dainty ear.
“Um. Maybe?”
Pulling back Eames stares into the boy’s eyes. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, assuring.
The boy thinks for a few seconds. “Okay,” he agrees, voice timid.
Eames helps him up and together they work down his pants, his boxers. Eames sits him down again on the couch but not before he grazes a hand over the smooth rear. It’s soft, so soft, but there’s muscle there too. Perfect.
“What’re you doing?” asks the boy when Eames kneels before him. He spreads his legs without prompting, though; his body knows better than his mind.
“Can I give you a blow job?” asks Eames casually, trying to lead by example. He runs his hand through the sparse curls around the dick in front of him and gets another gasp for his efforts.
“S-Sure,” says the boy, breathless like he’s run ten miles. His hands are knots in Eames’ hair and anyone else Eames would punish for the infraction but he only has to put up with it for a minute. The boy is young, after all.
Eames swallows him whole, dick deep down in his gullet. Above him the boy goes wild, bucking and biting his own lip savagely, but it is a simple matter to keep him pinned in place. It’s only a few bobs before the wash of semen is hitting Eames’ throat in a wave. He exaggerates the gulp and the satisfied moan at the end.
Swallowing is a skill Eames intends to instill in the boy early.
~
Part 2
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