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Arthur snarls at his key chain as he tries to isolate the door key with one hand while holding his bulging grocery bag in the other arm. The job he’s just arrived home from had been totally FUBAR’d from start to finish. The mark turning out to be militarized wasn’t even the worst part. The team being disrespectful and undisciplined wasn’t the worst part.
Eames, as usual, was the worst part.
But it’s over, and it’s his birthday, and he’s going to have some store-bought cheesecake and third-rate wine and a nice long session with his vibrator, god damn it. He’s still in a foul mood even after he manages to fumble the door open.
His grocery bag nearly tumbles from his arm as he takes in the sight in his foyer.
Someone is sitting in his Drop chair. Someone is sitting -- naked-- in his vintage, not reproduction, Arne Jacobsen black Drop chair. Someone is blindfolded, gagged, with arms bound, sitting in the sculptural seat of the ABS plastic chair first made in Denmark 54 years ago. Which cost $15,000 at auction.
“Eames,” he manages to say past the dryness in his mouth. His blood is pounding in his head and his vision goes fuzzy, but it’s not the rage from moments before that clouds his eyes. He shakes his head. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Are you okay?” it suddenly occurs to him to ask. Absurdly, because Eames obviously can’t answer. Then he freezes. Whoever did this could still be in the apartment. His hand goes to his gun and he flattens himself to the wall, listening. A few tense moments pass. He hears nothing but Eames’ rough breathing, which draws his attention back to the man bound naked to his favorite, most treasured modern antique.
Eames’ ankles are tied to the legs of the chair and his cock stands at attention between his spread thighs. Arthur feels clarity trickling through the blaring alarm that had replaced the blank wall of incomprehension. The trickle intensifies to a brisk flow when he walks around the chair to see that Eames hands are restrained by a black silk ribbon done up in preposterously large bow.
He pauses behind Eames and lets himself stare at his--his present?-- as clarity now floods him with the fact that Eames has … How has he even done this? His fingers can’t be nimble enough to tie a bow with his wrists restrained, it’s just not possible. More importantly, when would he have had time? He boarded a flight to Managua at the same time Arthur caught his flight to Chicago. But most importantly, why?
His heart races and he paces slowly back around to face Eames.
Eames looks like everything Arthur could ever have hoped he might. The swell of his muscles under his tanned, inked skin are as gorgeous as anything in the Louvre, but the real hook is the way he’s straining forward with every fiber of his being. Arthur trembles and runs a hand down his arm and Eames presses into it, head cocked for any sounds Arthur might make.
“Is this for me?” he murmurs, voice shaky with disbelief. Eames nods jerkily, eagerly. Arthur can’t help it; he runs his hands over Eames’ face where it’s not bound by the gag or blindfold, and Eames pushes into the touch. The gag is wet, parting Eames’ plush lips but distorting their beauty. He snags one finger in, cock twitching hard in his trousers, and pulls down until the gag is around Eames’ neck, a filthy, slick collar.
Eames swallows convulsively and licks his lips, but his face still glistens. “Happy birthday, Arthur,” he says, voice hoarse and low. Even more than usual, Arthur’s name in his mouth is an obscene purr.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks.
“I wanted to apologize,” Eames replies. Arthur almost laughs, suddenly understanding the game. So often he doesn’t, until it’s too late.
“For your big mouth?” Arthur guesses. Eames’ head drops, a penitent bow. He’s starting to smile. It looks both rueful and hopeful.
“I shouldn’t have outed you about your… predilections.”
“You shouldn’t have been snooping on my laptop.” That’s the thing that irritates Arthur the most. Though he’s starting to be very grateful that Eames took the initiative.
“I--I thought you might like to see how sorry I am. A demonstration, as it were.”
“Ah. A punishment?”
“No. A… penance. Rather, a promise.”
Arthur is smiling now, in spite of how presumptuous Eames is, no matter what he’s up to.
“Keeping the team in line by telling them I might resort to whips and chains was unacceptable.”
“Does this get me back in your good graces?” Eames asks, head tilting back in a good approximation of supplication.
Arthur snorts. Eames looks put out.
“What pissed me off the most was your lack of insight. You’ve gotten the wrong end of the, uh, flogger. Not that I hate seeing you like this.” Arthur’s voice has gone rough and hungry.
“Ah,” Eames says, chagrined and hopeful. Somehow hope always springs eternal, with him. “You’d rather be the one…” he trails off, somehow gesturing to his bound and vulnerable state without being able to move any of his limbs.
“Yes. I’m going to untie you now.” Arthur really doesn’t know what comes next, but he finds that he’s feeling hopeful, too.