SOOOOOO SMEXY. And, okay, commentfic, since I promised:
****
Eames ducks under the tent flaps and the first thing he hears is quite possibly the most undignified little yelp in the history of undignified sounds. It is certainly a sound he has never heard ARTHUR make, not for all the nights they've spent together, not for all the noises he's already coaxed out of him.
When his eyes adjust to the gloom Arthur is still frozen in the back, near his cot, still in the process of peeling off a sweat-soaked olive-drab shirt. Underneath, tantalizing glimpses of bare skin, the trail of hair that curls down past the waistband of his camo trousers, the sharp white of his vest.
Arthur's hair has finally given up the ghost in the face of all this humidity, and it falls down around his face in unruly waves.
Eames laughs and walks over to him and peels him out of the shirt - and when Arthur huffs and crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, Eames grins even more, at the blush spreading over his cheeks.
"What?!" Arthur says, but it's a quiet "what", and breathy, and the pulse at his neck suddenly jumps.
Eames lays a hand over that rabbiting motion and pulls Arthur in even closer, feels his token resistance and his real assent. He reels him in for a kiss.
When they break up, he looks down and Arthur's hand is closed in a fist, the knuckles showing white through the skin. That fist is closed around the chain of Eames's dog tags, the same old ones he's been wearing from his SAS days.
So Eames grins and bends, ghosts a breath over Arthur's clothed chest, picks up the oval dog tag in his mouth and smiles around it.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2011-04-06 10:32 am (UTC)****
Eames ducks under the tent flaps and the first thing he hears is quite possibly the most undignified little yelp in the history of undignified sounds. It is certainly a sound he has never heard ARTHUR make, not for all the nights they've spent together, not for all the noises he's already coaxed out of him.
When his eyes adjust to the gloom Arthur is still frozen in the back, near his cot, still in the process of peeling off a sweat-soaked olive-drab shirt. Underneath, tantalizing glimpses of bare skin, the trail of hair that curls down past the waistband of his camo trousers, the sharp white of his vest.
Arthur's hair has finally given up the ghost in the face of all this humidity, and it falls down around his face in unruly waves.
Eames laughs and walks over to him and peels him out of the shirt - and when Arthur huffs and crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, Eames grins even more, at the blush spreading over his cheeks.
"What?!" Arthur says, but it's a quiet "what", and breathy, and the pulse at his neck suddenly jumps.
Eames lays a hand over that rabbiting motion and pulls Arthur in even closer, feels his token resistance and his real assent. He reels him in for a kiss.
When they break up, he looks down and Arthur's hand is closed in a fist, the knuckles showing white through the skin. That fist is closed around the chain of Eames's dog tags, the same old ones he's been wearing from his SAS days.
So Eames grins and bends, ghosts a breath over Arthur's clothed chest, picks up the oval dog tag in his mouth and smiles around it.
Arthur laughs back, and kisses him.