Fucking You By Proxy, Hope You Don't Mind
Nov. 1st, 2012 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournI wrote this a year ago and just found it in my In Progress tag. I’m posting it to clear it out, because I don’t think it’ll become anything. Title (official and the fuller version that titles this post) is a paraphrased version of a lyric from Intermittently by the Barenaked Ladies.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing:Eames/Other (implied unrequited Arthur/Eames)
Word Count: ~570
Warnings: Unsafe anonymous sex
Summary: Eames’s desire for Arthur comes out sideways.
Eames assesses the man; he’s beautiful, dark, lean. He’s wearing fitted jeans and a tight grey tank with a black shirt unbuttoned over top. He’s has a small silver chain around his neck, a tiny crucifix dangling against his pale skin. He says his name is James, but Eames doesn’t care, just thinks of him as “Black Shirt”. The bar is strictly spit and sawdust, and the man is not quite right but 5 whiskies and he'll do.
Eames takes him to a motel around the corner. They kiss roughly for a few seconds until Eames can't, and shoves him down onto his back and fucks him, perpendicular to the bed. Black Shirt tries a little dirty talk, and Eames covers his mouth, then covers his whole face with one hand, then both, and drives into him hard and fast and desperate. He covers the stranger with his body, hands pushing the man’s face to the side, and gasps into his shoulder.
When he can't take that any more he pulls out, tells Black Shirt to turn over, kneel up. Eames takes him like that, gripping his hip and hooking one hand over his shoulder for leverage, fucking him raw until finally, finally Eames comes.
Afterwards Black Shirt lights a cigarette and offers one to Eames, which he accepts. Black Shirt takes this as his opportunity to talk. He says, "So who is he?"
"Who." says Eames, a reflex that doesn’t come out as a question.
"Whoever you were fucking there. It wasn't me." And at the look on Eames's face, Black Shirt holds up one hand, conciliatory. "No, it's fine. Really. I just figured, you know. It wasn't really me you wanted tonight, and I thought you might want to talk about it."
Eames frowns at him, "Are you a psychiatrist or something? Or just a weekend pop psychologist who's read one too many self-help books? Look, I don't mean to be rude, but you should go now."
"Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just thought. I don't know. Fine. Fine, I'll go," and Black Shirt pulls on his briefs and jeans, cigarette hanging from his mouth. The ash is too long and Eames itches to hand him an ashtray. "But whoever he is, I'm thinking you should probably talk to him. Because this wasn't just a fuck."
"Of course it was just a fuck."
"Oh, it was with me, I get that. That's all I was in for tonight anyway. But I got the distinct impression that if I HAD been whoever I was supposed to be for you tonight, it most definitely would not have been just a fuck. And maybe you should talk to him about it. Just sayin'," Black Shirt works on the buttons of his fly, belt buckle clanging softly.
Eames is already halfway to standing, a coiled spring of barely contained rage. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and points with it, each gesture an angry stab at the air.
"Look mate, it's none of your fucking business. I think it's in your best interest to find your way out that door as quickly as possible, don't you?"
Black Shirt doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes, just picks up his t-shirt and jacket in a bundle, and with wide eyes that can't be wrenched from this intense beast of a man, hauls his ass out the door without another word.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing:Eames/Other (implied unrequited Arthur/Eames)
Word Count: ~570
Warnings: Unsafe anonymous sex
Summary: Eames’s desire for Arthur comes out sideways.
Fucking You By Proxy
Eames assesses the man; he’s beautiful, dark, lean. He’s wearing fitted jeans and a tight grey tank with a black shirt unbuttoned over top. He’s has a small silver chain around his neck, a tiny crucifix dangling against his pale skin. He says his name is James, but Eames doesn’t care, just thinks of him as “Black Shirt”. The bar is strictly spit and sawdust, and the man is not quite right but 5 whiskies and he'll do.
Eames takes him to a motel around the corner. They kiss roughly for a few seconds until Eames can't, and shoves him down onto his back and fucks him, perpendicular to the bed. Black Shirt tries a little dirty talk, and Eames covers his mouth, then covers his whole face with one hand, then both, and drives into him hard and fast and desperate. He covers the stranger with his body, hands pushing the man’s face to the side, and gasps into his shoulder.
When he can't take that any more he pulls out, tells Black Shirt to turn over, kneel up. Eames takes him like that, gripping his hip and hooking one hand over his shoulder for leverage, fucking him raw until finally, finally Eames comes.
Afterwards Black Shirt lights a cigarette and offers one to Eames, which he accepts. Black Shirt takes this as his opportunity to talk. He says, "So who is he?"
"Who." says Eames, a reflex that doesn’t come out as a question.
"Whoever you were fucking there. It wasn't me." And at the look on Eames's face, Black Shirt holds up one hand, conciliatory. "No, it's fine. Really. I just figured, you know. It wasn't really me you wanted tonight, and I thought you might want to talk about it."
Eames frowns at him, "Are you a psychiatrist or something? Or just a weekend pop psychologist who's read one too many self-help books? Look, I don't mean to be rude, but you should go now."
"Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just thought. I don't know. Fine. Fine, I'll go," and Black Shirt pulls on his briefs and jeans, cigarette hanging from his mouth. The ash is too long and Eames itches to hand him an ashtray. "But whoever he is, I'm thinking you should probably talk to him. Because this wasn't just a fuck."
"Of course it was just a fuck."
"Oh, it was with me, I get that. That's all I was in for tonight anyway. But I got the distinct impression that if I HAD been whoever I was supposed to be for you tonight, it most definitely would not have been just a fuck. And maybe you should talk to him about it. Just sayin'," Black Shirt works on the buttons of his fly, belt buckle clanging softly.
Eames is already halfway to standing, a coiled spring of barely contained rage. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and points with it, each gesture an angry stab at the air.
"Look mate, it's none of your fucking business. I think it's in your best interest to find your way out that door as quickly as possible, don't you?"
Black Shirt doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes, just picks up his t-shirt and jacket in a bundle, and with wide eyes that can't be wrenched from this intense beast of a man, hauls his ass out the door without another word.
