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Eames couldn’t remember whose idea it was, but he supposed it didn’t matter, really. They had talked for ages about taking a holiday, preferably somewhere hot because he was bloody sick of these cold locales. Arthur insisted they go somewhere with a private beach, and Eames agreed, and one day Arthur said “Oh! By the way,” and passed him some printouts of their itinerary before resuming eating his overpriced airport terminal turkey sandwich. Detour, then.
And here they were, on the beach at twilight.
The beach house was right on the water. It was just the right size for the two of them, and they had hired a Jeep to drive out here, over dirt roads surrounded by dense palms.
They had gone fishing before the sun went down, and built a fire out on the beach. Eames rested in the porch hammock as he watched Arthur clean the catch.
This was their third day, and it was well hot and humid. Eames loved it, not least because they both went around in just shorts, at most. They were sunkissed and sweaty, unshaven, and completely alone together. Their time was spent swimming, talking, drinking beer, getting high, having sex, and occasionally reading.
Arthur was engrossed in his task, and eventually Eames got up from his hammock and went over to get a better look. Arthur worked cleanly, efficiently, fish scales and sand speckling his large, capable hands. Eames leaned on the counter, and Arthur glanced at him, cocking a brow, inquiring.
“I like watching you work. You have lovely hands,” Eames said.
Arthur’s mouth quirked, and Eames was rewarded with a flash of dimple.
“I’m good with knives, I guess?” He shrugged. There was sweat on his upper lip, and he swiped it away absently with the side of his thumb, with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife. His hair, ungelled, was damp with sweat and saltwater and falling in his face, curling, but he ignored it as he cut.
“I wonder what that would feel like,” Eames mused, watching the point of the knife score the slick skin of another silver fish.
“Uh, it would hurt,” Arthur said, sounding a bit confused.
“No, no, I mean,” Eames gestured vaguely. “Just the point, on my skin.”
“Would probably draw blood,” Arthur said. “What are you getting at, Eames?”
Eames leaned forward, thinking, and lowered his voice to say conspiratorially, “If I wanted you to cut me, just a bit, would you?”
“Is this a masochist thing, Mister Tattoos?” Arthur asks, the ghost of a faint, tolerant grin appearing on his face.
“Perhaps? Anyway, would you?”
“Are you drunker than I thought you were, because--”
“Arthur.” Eames tilted his head, supplicating, brow raised.
Arthur shrugged. “Sure. Not with these, though, these are dirty.”
“So, sterilize them.”
“All right.” Arthur paused, and nodded. “Sure. After we eat.”
Eames nodded, content, and watched Arthur as he finished the filets. They went out to the fire to cook and eat the fish, and when they were full and relaxing in their chaises, Arthur said into the quiet night, into the breeze and the sound of the waves and the crackle of the fire, “Where do you want to do it?”
Eames thought, looking up at the stars. “Hm. My back.”
“No, I mean--”
“Oh. Well, where’s the best light?”
“Bedroom’s good. You sure you want to do this?”
Eames met Arthur’s gaze. “I am. Are you?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you trust me to do it.” Arthur shrugged.
“Of course I trust you to do it. There’s no one else I’d trust to do it, you know.” He gave Arthur a long look.
Arthur nodded, seeming satisfied. “C’mon,” he said after a few more moments of looking up at the Milky Way. They put out the fire and cleaned the porch, and Arthur collected the knives and went into the kitchen to compare them with the other ones, after he rinsed everything. Eames watched him frown at various blades. After selecting one, he sharpened it, got his lighter and bathed it in a small flame, and then rinsed it.
Eames, naturally, was getting hard watching this. He told himself to be patient.
“To the bedroom,” Arthur pronounced, once he was ready.
Eames sat on the bed, legs in front of him, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He felt Arthur settle in behind him.
“I’m going to use the back of the blade first,” Arthur said, using his explaining tone, sounding absorbed in whatever plans he was making. It was unreasonably sexy.
“Mm.” Eames closed his eyes. Soon enough, he felt the touch of the back of the knife, light but insistent, gliding very slowly down his back. It raised goosebumps on his arms.
“How does that feel?” Arthur murmured.
“Well, I am, as you said, Mister Tattoo. It doesn’t hurt.”
“I don’t think hurting is the point, is it?”
“Not really. Not the main one.”
“I’m going to turn the blade over now.”
“All right, love.” He felt Arthur shift, bracketing his legs around Eames, free hand spreading out with a light touch to steady himself or both of them. The point of the blade traveled in a tiny pinpoint of sensation down Eames’ back. Eames shivered.
“How’s that?”
“Good. I’d like more, please.”
“Certainly. Harder pressure?”
It was remarkable how much of a turn-on it was to hear Arthur’s simple murmured questions. “Harder. Break the skin.”
“Mm.” Arthur took a breath or two, then very carefully pressed the blade to his skin, and moved it downward again. Eames held very still.
“Did it break the skin?” he asked, mouth dry.
“It did,” Arthur murmured in reply. Arthur shifted again, and Eames was surprised to feel Arthur’s breath and then the touch of his lips and tongue, feather light, hot on his skin. Arthur licked at him in a slow, delicate line leading upward. Eames pressed his lips together tightly, stifling a sound in his throat. Arthur’s fingers gentled him.
“How do I taste?” Eames asked, going for a light, teasing tone but finding it lost in how breathless he was.
“Sweet,” Arthur replied with a smile in his voice, which had gone deeper, his body close enough for the sound to reverberate through Eames. Arthur brushed his stubbled chin over Eames’ skin and wrapped an arm around him.
Eames swallowed. “A bit more, please? Carve your name in me like I’m a tree trunk,” he chuckled.
Arthur kissed the back of his neck, his soft laughter rumbling through Eames. “Not quite,” he said. He shifted like he was taking up the knife again, and the arm around Eames moved so that Arthur’s hand was cupping him through his shorts. Eames gasped. “Keep still,” Arthur gently admonished, pressing his hot palm firmly against Eames’ cock.
He kept it there as he methodically drew another long line down Eames’ back, and then another. Then, two more.
Although Eames’ skin was thick, there was a definite sustained sting, as if Arthur were scratching a deep itch. Whenever he finished a line, he paused, and Eames felt a little rush of relief.
Each time Arthur started again, Eames experienced a moment of vertigo at the thought of what Arthur was doing, of what Eames had asked him to do. He wondered if Arthur would ever want Eames to do the same thing to him, and was fairly sure the answer would be yes.
Arthur again bent his head again to lick at Eames’ skin, and Eames couldn’t help but shift his hips, craving the friction. Arthur curled his fingers around him as best he could through the fabric. Eames straightened up and hurriedly undid his flies to guide Arthur’s hand to his bare skin.
Arthur pulled back, though, and before Eames could voice a protest, Arthur was setting the knife on the bedside table and hastily stripping off his own shorts, then clambering onto the bed again to tumble Eames onto his side.
Eames wriggled his hips to get his shorts down as far as he could as Arthur kissed him, his hand working between them to grab both Eames’ cock and his own (unsurprisingly, this experiment had made him hard as well).
Eames gasped his approval into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur squeezed them, their combined slickness easing their way. Arthur nipped at his lips, and jacked their cocks together as they ground against each other. Eames thought of helping Arthur out with a hand of his own, but he barely had time to consider it, because he felt like a teenager all over again, clutching Arthur’s damp back and then pulling at his hair, coming with a strained gasp.
Arthur fell onto his back, pulling Eames on top of him, wrapping long, languid limbs around him. The fan whipped the warm, salt-smelling air above them.
Eames laid there, thinking of nothing but how utterly content he was, the sound of the tide almost rocking him to sleep, until Arthur murmured in his ear, “Don’t go in the water tomorrow morning or it’ll sting your cuts.”
“I don’t care,” Eames sighed. In his endorphin-induced high, the idea almost sounded erotic.
“You will,” Arthur chuckled.
(Eames in fact went in the water the next morning and complained about the stinging, albeit only mildly as the cuts had healed up for the most part. When he groused to Arthur “I don’t know why I let you do these things to me,” Arthur just put his arms around Eames’ neck, pressed his wet, warm bare skin to Eames’, and kissed him, smiling.)