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The house is dark when Arthur arrives, the windows black and quiet. Even the porch light is off, though Arthur hadn't really expected otherwise. The driveway is illuminated by the full moon, though, and the fresh layer of snow makes everything seem brighter than it is. Besides that, Arthur feels like he knows this house by heart, like he could be blindfolded and spun around a dozen times and still find his way up the stairs to the door, slip the key into the lock and make his way down the hall to Eames' study without injuring himself.
Once he gets inside, he can see a glow coming from the hallway, soft and gold, and he smiles, dropping his only bag at the bottom of the stairs. He leaves his pea coat, scarf, and gloves on, though, to ward against the chill in the cabin, and heads for the light. Arthur isn't surprised to discover it's coming from the study, making the room feel cozy and intimate, warm despite the lack of heat.
Arthur quietly approaches the dark tuft of hair that peeks out from over the sofa and feels his smile grow wider with every step. Eames is asleep; head tilted to one side, quietly snoring, with a laptop still open on his thighs and an empty tumbler on the side table, an open bottle of Glenlivet next to it. He toes his shoes off before rounding the sofa, keeping his footsteps light on the creaky floor as he approaches Eames and takes the laptop away. Eames legs shift with the loss of heat.
Eames looks even more ridiculous from this angle, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, chin tucked into the collar so he's huddled in on himself to conserve body heat. There is even a tiny crease between his eyebrows. Arthur thumbs over it to chase it away.
Carefully, Arthur slings a leg over Eames' outstretched ones and eases himself into Eames' lap, knees snug against Eames' hips. Eames murmurs something quiet and sleepy, and behind his thick-framed glasses, his eyes flicker, but don't open. Arthur places a hand on Eames' shoulder for balance and Eames' head rolls toward the weight, tips back to present Arthur with the stubbled column of his throat.
Arthur presses his lips to the hollow at the base, breathes in deep the scent of Eames and the cabin; leather and wood fire and the tang of Eames' sweat. He swipes his tongue over it once, twice, follows the tendon with lips and teeth until he reaches Eames' ear.
"Eames," he sing-songs, voice rough from disuse. "Wake up."
Eames makes a low, rough sound deep in his chest and his breathing shifts a little, but he keeps his eyes closed. In his pocket, his hands stir.
"Ea-ames," Arthur says again, smoother this time, his teeth closing on Eames' earlobe. The arm of Eames' glasses click against his teeth and Arthur lifts them off to set them on the side table.
Eames' legs squirm and his hands finally emerge, settling on Arthur's thighs, right behind the knees. His fingers tighten and pull Arthur closer. "I have the best dreams," he rumbles, lips hinting at a smile.
"M'not a dream," Arthur laughs, nosing at Eames' neck.
Eames hands move to palm Arthur's ass through his jeans. "True, true. I remember my Arthur having a nicer arse than this." There's a hitch of breath in the middle, Arthur scraping his teeth over Eames' Adam's apple.
Arthur huffs. "My arse is just fine, thank you very much." He pulls back from the impressive mark he's left over Eames' pulse to frame Eames' face with his hands, thumb sweeping along his upper lip. "Open your eyes."
Eames' mouth opens instead and he draws Arthur's thumb in, flicks his tongue over it. "Doesn't taste like my Arthur, either."
"That's because I'm wearing gloves, asshole," he grumps, tugging them off. "Now open. Your. Eyes." Arthur punctuates each word with a sharp little nip to Eames' lips. Slots his mouth over Eames' and kisses him, hot and wet and wanting.
Eames pulls him closer still and rolls his hips up, grinding their cocks together, kissing Arthur like he's dying for it. If he feels anything like Arthur, he probably is.
Despite the chill in the air, Eames is warm, his mouth and hands and skin. Warm and real in a way Arthur hadn't been able to think about with finals and work and the holidays keeping him on his toes. Even in sleep, he only ever dreamed about bombing his tests or showing up to his mother's house having missed the festivities. But once the presents were unwrapped and the turkey eaten, Arthur felt the itch burrowing deep in his skin. Even his sister had noticed Arthur's impatience.
Needing oxygen, Eames pulls away, sucking lightly at Arthur's lip, and finally opens his eyes. "Please tell me I haven't passed out on my couch for three days. Last I checked, it was Monday and you weren't going to be here until Wednesday."
The pulse in Eames' neck throbs just under the skin and Arthur can't resist sweeping his thumb over it. "It's still Monday," he says.
"So you're here early, then?"
Arthur hides his smile in the crook of Eames' neck and fights down the urge to tell Eames how adorable he is all sleep-soft and confused. He waits until he can keep a straight face before sitting up straight to look Eames in the eye. "Yes, that's what that would mean."
Eames grin spreads slow, like the sun bleeding over the horizon; Arthur brushes a thumb over the the crinkles at Eames' eye. "You missed me," says Eames, smug.
"In case you haven't heard -- and I know your news-watching habits, so you probably haven't -- there is a snowstorm coming." Arthur attempts a stern look, can feel the slight furrow in his brow, and wraps his hands around Eames' neck, thumbs resting light on his Adam's apple. He can feel each tic, the vibration of Eames' words, even through the leather gloves. It's soothing.
With a hand hooked behind Arthur's neck, Eames pulls him in for a kiss, soft and short. "You missed me."
Arthur's scowl lessens. "I didn't want to be snowed in with my mother and sisters." This close to Eames, he think he could count each individual eyelash. Memorize the precise shadows they cast on Eames' cheeks. Arthur swallows hard to tamp down on his sentimentality.
"So you choose to be snowed in with me," Eames says, holding back a giggle. He kisses Arthur again, a little longer. A lot deeper.
"Lesser of two evils," Arthur says, panting into Eames' mouth.
Eames leans in for another kiss, wraps his arms entirely around Arthur and pulls him close, pressing them together from groin to chest. Arthur's hands slide from Eames' neck to his hair, grabbing thick fistfuls of it as he fights the urge to grind against Eames. Eventually, they have to make the choice between continuing the kiss or suffocate themselves, and Eames pulls back hardly at all. "I missed you too, love," he says, lips bumping against Arthur's.
Arthur doesn't say it back, only tugs on Eames' hair and sighs into his mouth before kissing him, long and lavish, too intent to relearn the topography of Eames' mouth. The words, though, are stuck in his chest, heavy and warm.
He has missed Eames, he has. More than he cares to admit. It's only for the good grace of Mother Nature that he was able to come up with a plausible enough excuse to leave home early. And still his mother tutted at him, "I get you for all of four days before you have to leave again?"
The thing is, there was a tiny seed of doubt stuck in Arthur's gut, about what to expect with Eames. With the both of them busy -- school, work, and track for Arthur; a cross-country book tour for Eames -- the only line of communication they were able to maintain was trading emails back and forth. A handy thing, to be sure, but not exactly intimate.
But here, now, it almost feels like they were never apart, Eames' body as familiar as it ever was. Thicker with clothes, sure, but still solid and warm underneath. And though his hair may be slightly shaggier, it suits him. Especially when paired with the short winter beard Eames seems to be cultivating. Where before there had been the occasional prickle of stubble, there is now the rougher sandpaper of coarse hair, dry under Arthur's lips, pinking his skin. Arthur is amused to discover he can't stop scratching his nails through it.
They break the kiss once Arthur becomes aware of the the slow grind his hips have fallen into. He looks down to find a wet spot on his pants and blushes. Eames follows Arthur gaze and drags his thumb along the hot, hard length. "Is that a gun in your pocket--"
"Do not," Arthur snaps, tugging at Eames' short hairs, "Finish that sentence." Ignoring Eames' giggling and slick, red lips, Arthur braces a hand on Eames' shoulder and levers himself up. The movement is made awkward by his growing erection and Eames' grabby hands, but he manages to step over Eames' legs and head for the door.
Eames, quicker than he should be for having just woken up, stops him with an arm around the waist. He has overcompensated for the lack of distance, and his weight carries them into the bookshelf, Arthur turning just enough within the embrace to hit the bookshelf with his back instead of his face. Eames is still giggling -- a side effect, Arthur assumes, of the scotch as much as his surprise arrival -- as he leans into Arthur, pressing them together from knee to chest, and kisses a line of warmth along Arthur's cool neck.
Arthur groans quietly, hips thrusting into the pressure on his cock. While Eames is busy sucking a bruise into Arthur's collarbone, Arthur sinks his fingers into Eames' hair, sighing at the softness of it. When Eames nips at his skin, Arthur whimpers, his hips buck, and he whimpers again, cock spilling another pulse of precome into his boxers. Dimly, he knows he doesn't want to come in his pants, that the bed is but a few short steps across the hall, but Eames is right there and they haven't been together for four months. Eames' weight is exquisite, especially after he hooks a hand under Arthur's knee and tugs the leg up to curl around his hip, leaning in further.
With a grunt, Arthur presses even closer, uses Eames shoulder for support and gets his other leg wrapped around Eames' waist, crossing his ankles together. It gives him the height advantage again, which helps him to control the kissing, but the bookshelf digs into his shoulders every time Arthur tries to rub himself against Eames. He growls into Eames' mouth, frustrated, and pulls back enough to grunt, "Bed. Now."
Eames starts to turn and, with the loss of the shelf behind him, Arthur unknots his ankles to drop his feet to the floor, but Eames' hands are still on his ass, kneading, and no amount of Arthur's wriggling seems to get the hint across.
"Eames," Arthur pants, skimming his palms up underneath Eames' hoodie. "Let me down."
Eames grunts, stumbles a little, but his hands tighten their grip.
"You cannot carry me to the bed."
Eames grins at him, then, silent and lethal, shifts his hands, and suddenly Arthur is slung over Eames' shoulder in a fireman's carry. It'd be hilarious if Arthur wasn't so hard and breathless, dizzy with want.
"You are not a goddamn caveman," Arthur says to Eames' ass, but he's sure Eames can't hear him over his own smug giggling. By the time he dumps Arthur onto the bed and cages him in with his thick arms and thighs, Arthur's done scowling. He hooks a hand behind Eames' neck and tugs him down to nip at his lips. "Don't fucking do that again," he warns.
"You know you liked it," Eames counters, nimble fingers flicking open the buttons of Arthur's shirt one after the other.
"I really, really didn't," Arthur lies, arching into the palm Eames skims up his belly and chest. His hand is rough, still, and dry, rasps quietly against Arthur's skin. The drag of it over Arthur's nipple makes him gasp. Eames passes his hand over it again, then leans down to take it into his mouth, swirls his slick, hot tongue around it until Arthur keens, high and thin.
Antsy for the touch of skin on skin, Arthur attempts to reach for the hem of Eames' hoodie, only to find his hands still trapped in his shirtcuffs and coat, tangled above his head by Eames' wandering hands while Eames had distracted him with biting kisses to his chest, his collarbone. He peels out of the coat easily, but his fingers are clumsy with the buttons of his shirt and he spits out a curse, bucks sharply at the wet heat dipping into his belly button. "Eames," he groans, head arched back to see what he's doing. "Eames, get this off."
Eames looks up, chin scratching through the line of hair disappearing into Arthur's pants, and grins. "No."
"Eames," Arthur whines, arching into the light pressure Eames is using on his cock. "I want to feel you." He tries to reach for Eames, to demonstrate his predicament, but between Eames' carelessness and Arthur's restless writhing, the shirt is all twisted up and Arthur may as well be in a pair of handcuffs for how little range of motion he has.
Eames' reply is a low, filthy chuckle. "You'll feel me, love," he rasps, fingers plucking Arthur's jeans open with inordinate care.
Arthur can see the tip of his cock peeking out from his underwear, already glistening with precome, and the sound Eames makes lets Arthur know that Eames sees it too. "You have definitely missed me," says Eames before mouthing at the hard line of him, wet and hot, through Arthur's underwear.
Arthur melts into the bed at the touch, hands fisting in a pillow above his head, as Eames gets reacquainted with Arthur's cock. He reveals it inch by painstaking inch, pulling Arthur's boxer-briefs down so slow, until he reaches the pants bunched around Arthur's knees. Eames gets up then, and pulls off Arthur's shoes and socks, pants and underwear.
Naked, Arthur shivers in the cool air, and Eames' studious gaze. He can feel the blush blaze through him, warming him through to his fingertips. Goosebumps follow in its wake, a tingling rush that makes Arthur hips shift, legs opening for Eames to fit between. And he does, climbing back onto the bed, still fully dressed, and Arthur whines, craving all that tanned, tattooed skin he knows is under there.
Eames sinks down to his elbows, arms slipping under Arthur's thighs, and pulls Arthur closer, takes a loud, deep breath and lets his nose bump against Arthur's balls. His exhale is just as long, gusting hot and humid in the dark space behind. Arthur's hips hitch, pushing him closer, and he feels the slippery softness of Eames' tongue on his perineum, lightly lapping at the skin there. It's a delicious counterpoint to the sharp rasp of Eames' stubble on his thighs; vaguely Arthur wonders if Eames even realizes he's rubbing up against Arthur's skin like a cat, a warm, rhythmic scratch back and forth, back and forth. Eames' mouth sucking gently on Arthur's balls makes the observation moot.
Arthur makes a soft, sad sound when Eames stops to nose at the dark thatch of pubic hair, to lick along the crease of Arthur's thigh until he finds the hip and sucks, hard. He bucks into it and smiles at sharp bite of Eames' teeth. The bruise will be a welcome reminder in the morning.
Slowly, so slowly, Eames mouths his way to Arthur's cock, sucks his way up the length of it to lip gently at the head. The hint of the soft, wet heat that is Eames' mouth is torturous, but no amount of shifting or whimpering will make Eames move any faster. And the thing is, Arthur hasn't had this for four months. Has barely been able to find the time to masturbate like any healthy eighteen year old should be able to. He's already going to come embarrassingly fast, but the longer Eames teases, the faster it will be. Arthur just wants this first one over with so he can get his bearings, maybe get his hands free, and enjoy it the second time.
So Arthur crooks his leg and digs his heel into Eames' back, right between the shoulder blades, and says, "fucking suck me already."
Eames glances up at him, eyes dark and lids heavy, and does. And Arthur can't help but watch Eames plush pink lips, stretched obscenely around Arthur's cock, shimmering with saliva and precome.
It's as good as it was during the summer. Maybe better, but only because it's been so long. Eames makes up for the passed time by taking Arthur to the base right off the bat, the head of his cock following the ridges of the roof of Eames' mouth until it bumps against his throat. Eames keeps his jaws loose and his tongue plush and it's so fucking good, especially when he pulls up slow, growling, and cool air hits Arthur's wet skin. He cries out, hips arching, and thrusts into Eames' mouth on instinct, wanting that heat, that hot, delicious suction.
Eames lets him.
His hands are on Arthur's hips, thumbs digging into the bone, but he doesn't force Arthur to stay still and that's...that would take Arthur's breath away if he wasn't having problems breathing as it is. Splayed out like this, though, with his arms above his head and his legs hooked over Eames' shoulders, he has no leverage to build up a good rhythm. With a glance down his body to see the slight bob of Eames' head, Arthur fingers twitch to sink into the wild tufts of soft hair. And there's no reason he can't, really.
Hands still bound by the shirt, Arthur reaches for Eames' head, keeping his fingers light, careful. Eames moans, loudly, teases the tip of his tongue into Arthur's slit and glances up at Arthur through thick lashes. All of it combined zings along Arthur's spine to make his hair stand on end and his hands clench tight, tugging thick fistfuls of hair.
The rhythm Eames has set up falters, then, but Arthur doesn't care. Sets a new one, instead, by planting his feet flat on the bed and fucking into Eames' mouth. He tries to be gentle, but Eames' nails dig into Arthur's hips and the occasional hint of teeth along his cock is too much. Head thrown back, Arthur's hips stutter and he thrusts once, twice more. Eames meets him on the last one, head dipping down so that the crown of Arthur's cock hits the back of his throat, and it rips a low, broken sound from deep in Arthur's chest.
Arthur comes in hot, thick bursts, pelvis jerking erratically. Eames tries to guide him, even as he's swallowing, but Arthur can't be stilled. Especially when Eames keeps sucking him long after Arthur is spent. The suction is softer, gentler, but rough on sensitive skin. Arthur wriggles underneath the attention, hands still fisted in Eames' hair in a valiant attempt to get him to stop.
He doesn't, not until Arthur is a writhing, gasping mess of sweat and precome smeared all over his belly. Eames doesn't seem to care, licks his way up Arthur's body until he can kiss him wet and lavish. Everywhere Eames' clothes brush sends a shock straight to Arthur's groin and his cock gives a feeble twitch. Arthur feels like he could stay this way forever, Eames' weight pinning him to the bed, warm and solid and there.
Except for the fact that his hands are still bound tight by his shirtsleeves and Eames is ridiculously hard in his jeans, the hot, thick line of him pressed snug against Arthur's hip. Also, Eames won't stop kissing him, and with the mattress under his head, Arthur has nowhere to go.
Giddy from lack of oxygen, and also one spectacular orgasm, Arthur starts to giggle, his foot coming up to dig into Eames' thighs with his heel. Despite Eames caging him in, he feels light and loose, relaxed for the first time since he started school in September. He turns his head to the side, laughing and gasping and snorting at Eames when he nuzzles at one of Arthur's dimples. "You are ridiculous," he gets out between wheezing breaths and struggles to get his arms out from between them.
Eames sits up, thick thighs framing Arthur's hips, and is trying his best not to look like he's just as amused with Arthur as Arthur is with him. Though his face is shadowed, Arthur can still see the quirk of Eames' lips, the sparkle in his eye. With the hoodie on, he looks almost boyish, hair drooping over his forehead. Of course, the beard completely ruins the effect, but Arthur's okay with that.
Now that he can see, if maybe not concentrate, it only takes a few moments to untangle the mess that is his shirt, toss it carelessly to the floor, and slip his fingers underneath Eames' hoodie, skim his palms up Eames' sides. Eames wriggles under the touch, all loose hips and sweat-damp skin, and shucks the sweatshirt off in one smooth movement.
Arthur's gaze snags on each swirl of ink, scanning for anything new, but it's all familiar, from the sprawling script on Eames' collarbone to the gothic letters above his hip. Arthur drags his knuckles down Eames' neck, brushes his fingertips over the comedy/tragedy masks, thumbs at one of Eames' nipples. Eames moans, low, and his eyes drop shut, so Arthur does it again, a third time. Eames' hand on Arthur's waist grows tighter with each one.
Belatedly, Arthur realizes that Eames' has started rocking his hips, small, stilted movements that couldn't possibly give Eames any kind of relief and only send sparks of heat all along Arthur's skin each time denim rasps against his cock. He abandons Eames' chest, then, to open Eames' jeans, his cock a noticable line straining at the fly.
"I guess you're happy to see me," Arthur jokes, breathless. Eames' boxers are sticky-damp under Arthur's fingers, the head of his cock wet and peeking out of the waistband. Arthur slicks a finger over the slit, then his thumb, pressing a little like he knows Eames fucking loves. Predictably, Eames thrusts into the touch, nails digging into Arthur's thighs. It smears precome over Arthur's thumb, which is what he wanted, and he raises the hand to his mouth without a second thought, watches Eames' face through slitted eyes as he sucks himself clean.
"Fucking hell, Arthur," Eames groans, falling forward onto his elbows to kiss Arthur. His tongue is fierce, chasing the taste of himself from Arthur's mouth, and Arthur lets him.
"Get your goddamn pants off," Arthur grits out between ruthless kisses, fingers scrabbling over Eames' hips, his ass, pushing the jeans and boxers down as far as he can reach. Eames tries to help him with one hand, until they get the waist down around Eames' knees and he can shimmy out of them. Eames refuses to stop kissing Arthur, despite the fact that he's fitted himself nicely between Arthur's legs, his cock in the slick groove of Arthur's hip where, mixed with Arthur's come and sweat, each of Eames' subtle thrusts is met with an effortless glide. It's not quite what Arthur wants, but the occasional bump of cock against cock is getting him into the game again.
Eventually, Eames pulls away for cool, fresh air. Arthur noses at his chin, his neck, and murmurs, "Gotta open me up."
Eames looks down at him, dazed. His hips are still moving.
"Your fingers? My ass?" Arthur reminds him, his tone light and teasing.
Eames blinks. "Right. Of course. Yes," but he doesn't reach for the lube in the nightstand, and Arthur laughs, pleased and a little proud.
Arthur squirms out from under Eames' weight, until the drawer knob is within his grasp, and that seems to snap Eames' out of it. He pins Arthur down again, hanging almost half off the bed, and grabs for the bottle as well as a pair of condoms.
"Optimistic much?" Arthur grins, one brow arched.
Eames bites him on the collarbone, hard. "Smart arse me and I'll make you wait."
"No," Arthur says, smug. He wraps a hand around the base of Eames' cock and gives it a firm stroke. "You won't." Eames clenches his teeth to keep from reacting, so Arthur does it again, circling the crown with his thumb.
Before Arthur can start enjoying the novelty of Eames' foreskin again, Eames gives him a healthy smack on the hip and says, "Roll over, you bloody minx."
Arthur does, grinning. He settles into the bed, grinding his hips a little, with his head on his crossed arms, legs spread, but only just. Enough to be a tease and hopefully get him the reaction he's looking for. Eames doesn't disappoint, grabbing Arthur's hips to yank him up on his hands and knees, ass thrust into the air.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," Eames rasps, the words a warm gust of air over his hole. Arthur glances at Eames from over his shoulder, watches Eames lean so close that his beard scratches the gentle undercurve where ass meets thigh. What Arthur is expecting -- hoping for -- is Eames' soft, warm tongue, wicked and teasing. What he gets, however, is a sharp, wet bite to the meat of his ass and one thick, slick finger pushing into him. Arthur groans, long and low, and his back bows, hips pushing into the pressure.
Arthur expects Eames to go slow and gentle, teasing Arthur until he's a sweaty, writhing, begging mess, but he sets a good rhythm fairly quickly, sinking one blunt finger inside in long, deep, massaging strokes, thumb rubbing again and again over Arthur's perineum. Though Arthur has tried, over the course of the semester, when he's had the odd night alone, to finger himself open while imagining it's Eames fingers instead, he could never get the angle quite right, his fingers a touch too slim to fill him up like Eames does. Which means he's tight now, cringing a little at the burn.
Eames, though, is enjoying it. Can't shut up about how gorgeous Arthur looks, how tight and hot and perfect he his. He's leaning over Arthur, a long, sweaty line of heat all along Arthur's back, and his voice is a soft burr in Arthur's ear, an almost physical touch that ripples along Arthur's spine to settle in his groin. Every time Eames' lips brush Arthur's ear, he shivers, thrusts his hips harder.
Arthur's breath falters as Eames adds a second finger, no warning given. The stretch is just as unforgiving as the first, but Arthur's slicker, now. More relaxed. And, god, he wants this. Wants Eames inside him, all around him, drowning Arthur with the woodsy, sweat-tangy scent of him.
"Fuck me," Arthur spits out between clenched teeth.
Eames laughs, nips at the shell of Arthur's ear. "I think you'd do well with a third."
"I think," Arthur gasps, sweat dripping off his nose, making his hair hang in his face, "I know what I can take." He punctuates his point with a particularly ruthless thrust of his hips, taking Eames fingers all the way in.
Eames chuckles, says, "Oh Arthur," like he's sighing. "Do you ever not get what you want?"
"Baby of the family," he pants. "Remember?"
"Too well," Eames says, and his fingers twist a little, knuckles nudging against Arthur's prostate before he pulls out. The loss is incredible, especially when Eames leans up, exposing Arthur's back to the cool air. He starts to shiver and curls in on himself to try to preserve the heat they've created.
The crinkle of the condom wrapper is muffled by Arthur's harsh breathing, the rush of blood in his ears. Then Eames is back, hand firm on Arthur's hip. His cock is hot, the blunt crown a steady, insistent pressure. Arthur almost changes his mind, almost asks for Eames to work him open a little more, but Eames knows what he's doing. Takes his time pressing in, inch by inch, until Arthur can feel the wiry scratch of hair against his ass. He lets out a breath, head dropping to his arms, to steady himself.
Unmoving, Eames drapes himself along Arthur's back, nipping little kisses into the line of Arthur's spine in between murmured words about how amazingly tight Arthur is. The warmth is welcome, as are Eames' fingers tangled with Arthur's. The contrast of their skin, even in the semi-darkness, makes Arthur grin. So, too, does the sound Eames makes when Arthur shifts his hips, clenching around Eames' cock.
Arthur turns his head slightly, so that their noses bump together, and snaps his teeth at Eames' lips. "Move already."
Eames does not have to be told twice.
Kneeling up, Eames' fingers dig into Arthur's hips, strong and thick, and Eames' rhythm matches the one from earlier; long, languid snaps of his hips that Arthur matches thrust for thrust. Arthur's arms tremble, a little, from the strain, but he whines anyway, unconsciously asking for more, for Eames to go harder, deeper. And Eames gives it to him, pulls Arthur up with an arm wrapped tight around his chest, and fucks into him, forehead pressed to Arthur's shoulder.
The position is both similar and different; the last time Arthur rode Eames like this was the first time they ever had sex, and Eames was flat on his back, then. Now, they're as close as they can possibly be.
Though the new angle is brilliant, Eames' cock sinking in deeper with each roll of his hips, Arthur has no leverage to shove himself down and his hands flail for something -- anything -- to hold onto. One lands in Eames' hair and automatically curls into a fist, pulling Eames' face closer for a sloppy, desperate kiss. The other switches between Eames' hip and his ass, nails digging into the skin to spur Eames on or clinging for dear life, Arthur doesn't know which.
His cock is leaking continuously now, orgasm coiling low and lazy in his groin. Arthur wants Eames with him this time and says so, growling it into Eames' ear. Eames moans, tilting back a little bit more, so that Arthur's weight is better supported, and picks up the pace. The shift sets off white hot sparks behind Arthur's eyes.
Eames grunts with exertion, each one a rough exhale that stirs through Arthur's hair. Arthur hopes he's close, because each drag of his cock over Arthur's prostate is exquisite, and he isn't sure he can hold on much longer. Of course, that's when Eames wraps a hand around Arthur's cock. "Fuck, Eames," he spits out in surprise, fingers slotting in between Eames' to slow the movement.
The rhythm breaks down as they stroke Arthur together, Eames' moaning, open-mouthed against Arthur's nape. His teeth are sharp, his tongue wet, and he cries out Arthur's name as he comes. His grip on Arthur's cock tightens in reflex and Arthur comes a second later, weak and a little dazed. Luckily, he has Eames' broad chest to collapse against, breathless. Eames' arm still wrapped around his chest helps, too. But their position, now that Arthur has time to think about it, isn't all that comfortable, and he isn't quite sure how Eames is managing to keep the two of them upright at all.
Carefully, Arthur reaches behind him to ease Eames out of him. It's awkward, but necessary. Especially since he gets to see Eames' face again, blissed out and more than a little sleepy.
Eames reaches for him, trying to wrap a hand around Arthur's wrist, but Eames is still a little clumsy from orgasm and Arthur evades him easily, sneaking off to the bathroom for a wet washcloth and a glass of water.
When Arthur comes back, he's glad to see that Eames at least had enough coordination to get rid of the condom, and keeps his touches gentle as he cleans Eames up, then himself. Eames is greedy with the water, too, but Arthur doesn't mind. He's less forgiving about the pleased little moans Eames makes, snuggling himself into the blankets, and downright scowls at Eames' hand around his wrist, a warm, unforgiving restraint.
"Put the cloth down, Arthur, and come to bed," Eames rumbles, eyes closed.
"If you'd let go of me," says Arthur, giving an experimental tug, "that's what I'm trying to do."
"Arthur," Eames purrs, eyes open now, wide and dark and soft.
"Yeah, yeah. Okay," Arthur sighs, and cringes as the washcloth lands on his shirt.
Eames gathers Arthur close, kisses him slow and sweet, and they fall asleep between one breath and the next.
: : :
Arthur wakes up to find Eames propped up against the headboard, wearing his glasses, with his laptop perched in his lap, sipping a cup of tea. "You're awake," Arthur says, voice scratchy from the night's abuse.
Eames hums in agreement.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asks, blinking blearily at the computer screen. All he can make out is a bunch of colorful items all lined up.
"A bit of shopping." Eames clicks on one of the items, makes a quiet, wet sound through his teeth.
"Shopping for what?" Arthur blinks half a dozen times, until things finally start coming into focus. .
"I'm almost out of tea."
Arthur squints and looks at the screen. "That doesn't look at all like Teavana. Unless they've come out with a new tea strainer."
"Well, no," says Eames, click the back button. "I'm done with the tea."
"Care to tell me what you need with a dildo, then? I'd be happy to fuck you, all you have to do is ask."
Eames chuckles. "It's not for me."
Arthur slips his hand up the leg of Eames' boxer-briefs, knuckles stroking against the grain of the hair there. "I'm perfectly happy with what I've already got. Thanks."
"Of course you are, darling," Eames says, pushing a hand through Arthur's hair to wrap around his nape. It only takes a little bit of pressure to guide Arthur up into a slow, easy kiss. Eames tastes like the tea he's been drinking, with a spark of mint underneath. Arthur winces at the thought of what he must taste like.
"But if we're to go another four months without sex," Eames continues, like he hadn't just been trying to lick Arthur's tonsils, "I insist you use something so I'm not tearing you apart over spring break."
"Who said I was coming here for spring break?" Arthur asks, sitting up fully. The movement makes him stop and catalogue all of his various aches and pains. All of which are very, very good. Including the beard burn on his thighs which, after peeking under the sheet, is a nicely contrasting pink against his pale skin. Arthur ignores Eames' knowing smirk.
"Ariadne and Yusuf and I have plans to go to Daytona. Cliché, I know, but since I missed out on the beach thing this past summer, stuck here with you --"
"Falling madly in love with me, you mean."
"-- I thought I could suck it up this once and do the clichéd thing. I am eighteen after all. I'm pretty sure that's allowed."
Eames studies Arthur's blank face, then says, "You are such an arsehole." Putting the computer to the side, Eames grabs Arthur's hips and pulls Arthur into his lap, a knee on either side of Eames' legs. His warm, rough fingers skim around to the back, softly stroking the cleft of Arthur's ass. Arthur's chin drops to his chest, his eyes falling to his cock, nearly hard already just from this, and gasps when Eames jerks him forward. Arthur tips closer, hands flattening against the wall, one on either side of Eames' head. He tries to sit up, but Eames' feet are flat on the bed, his knees keeping Arthur in place.
"You are coming here on spring break," Eames murmurs, low, nipping kisses into Arthur's lightly stubbled jaw, "for the whole bloody week, and I will do everything in my power to distract you from spending the entire time doing your homework." He kisses Arthur once, a quick press of lips, and then pulls back to look Arthur in the eye. "Even if it means letting you fuck me, if that's what you want." His finger is stroking distracting circles around Arthur's rim, light and teasing, making it hard to concentrate.
Arthur tries to grind down against Eames, but Eames is shoving him off and reaching for the laptop again. "First, though, we are buying you a dildo. For as much as I adore how tight you are, I don't care to watch you wincing and flinching the next day."
Confused and aroused, Arthur can only blink at him.
"Now, what color do you prefer?"
: : :
Eames doesn't let Arthur choose the color or the model, in the end. Deciding instead to distract Arthur with his tongue and fingers. Arthur returns the favor with a blow job. Something he hadn't realized he's missed so much until he had Eames' cock in his mouth, salt-bitter and perfect.
They shower together, after, and Arthur decides he had better start on the work he's been assigned before he gets too distracted by Eames and shows up for spring semester empty-handed. For his part, Eames doesn't bring up the subject again. Arthur isn't sure if he's grateful for that or not.
Three days later, a discretely labelled box appears on the doorstep, small and entirely unassuming.
Arthur sighs.
: : :
"Could we please get to the part where you shove a fake dick inside me?" Arthur asks through clenched teeth from where he's sprawled on the bed, naked and sweat-damp.
Eames looms over Arthur, looking far too pleased with himself. He grins, licking his lips, and gives another twist of his fingers that has Arthur's back arching, hands fisting in the sheets. "But my fingers look so lovely tucked in your arse, darling."
Arthur wants to say something cutting, he really does, but firm, square fingertips drag over his prostate and then he is frustratingly empty, Eames distracting him with a filthy kiss while he reaches for the dildo on the nightstand.
Settling himself on his side next to Arthur, Eames drags it up and down Arthur's thigh first, teasing and more than a little annoying. Arthur slits his eyes and bites hard at the hinge of Eames' jaw. "The sooner you use that," he rasps, "the sooner you get to fuck me."
Eames only smiles, slides his cock along Arthur's slick hip. "I don't understand why you're so dead set against this," he says, nosing at Arthur's cheek, his chin, along his neck. "Think of the possibilities." His breath is hot against Arthur's skin.
"I told you," Arthur grits out, fingers clenching and unclenching with both need and anger. The dildo feels even more fake than he'd feared, cool and plastic and nothing at all like Eames. "All I want is -- ah, fuck -- you!" He gasps the last as Eames finally presses the head of the dildo inside Arthur. It's just the tip, but his body rejects it anyway, foreign and hard and not even close to the familiar silky heat of Eames.
Eames makes a low, pleased sound that vibrates from his chest to Arthur's arm. "I do so love the ego boost, darling, but you must learn to be more adventurous." He circles his thumb around Arthur's rim, helping the muscle to relax so he'll accept the dildo better. It works, mostly; Eames making smooth, tiny thrusts, each one going in a little deeper than the last until, finally, Arthur feels the flat press of the base against his ass. He squirms, then, fingernails digging into Eames' bicep.
The dildo -- The Mustang Eames had called it -- is only a little bit shorter than Eames, but not as big around, the head molded to resemble a circumcised dick. It curves a little; Arthur can feel the slope of it, not quite hitting his prostate. Not that it would make a difference. The dildo is not Eames. It doesn't feel realistic in any way and, more than that, it means Eames isn't on top of him, caging Arthur in with his arms, pinning Arthur down with his weight. This, more than anything is the problem.
Arthur sighs, legs spreading a little wider to give Eames room as he starts to set up a slow rhythm. His eyes are closed, but Arthur can feel Eames watching him, and though it doesn't feel bad, necessarily, Arthur really isn't getting as much out of this as Eames seems to be.
He lets it go on for a bit, though, especially when Eames start mouthing at one of his nipples, dragging his teeth over and around the tip. It pulls soft, quiet sounds from Arthur, one hand falling to the back of Eames' head to hold him in place. His legs shift, restless, needing something to hook around. Arthur sighs at the loss.
Eames must sense Arthur's disappointment, kissing him deep, pressing him into the mattress. He stops fucking Arthur with the dildo only to guide one of Arthur's hands to the base. "You should learn to use this for yourself," he says into the scant space between their mouths. "That is the point, right?"
He looks terribly young, then, with the glint of hope in his eyes, face flushed and lips kiss-bruised. It makes Arthur's chest feel too tight. He knows that Eames only wants to make it good for Arthur when he can't be there himself, but what Eames doesn't know -- what Arthur realizes is too sappy and probably too teenage crush to ever admit out loud -- is nothing could measure up to being with Eames. And he'd rather be celibate than try to use a substitute.
But here and now, with Eames looking at him with those soft eyes, Arthur can only do what is asked of him.
The angle of his wrist is awkward and only a little painful, but it's not the worst thing he's ever felt. The curve of the dildo feels like an awful tease, never quite reaching what Arthur is looking for until he gives it a slight twist. The change in angle already makes him feel fuller, a drag out hits its target and Arthur gasps, sharp. Does it twice more, back arching off the bed.
"There you are," Eames purrs, propping himself up on one forearm to look down at Arthur. Arthur smiles at him, lips tight as he works the dildo in and out. He keeps his pace slow, not wanting to come until Eames is inside of him, but Eames has other ideas, tangles his fingers with Arthur's to try and speed things along.
"Do-- don't," Arthur pants, eyes squeezing shut. Eames angles the dildo a little, making it press harder against Arthur's prostate and Arthur has to bite his lip, concentrating hard to hold off his orgasm.
"Want you," he tries again, breathless. His fingers slip from Eames' to wrap around his wrist. The grip is weak; Arthur can only hope it conveys what he means.
"Yeah, all right," says Eames, voice thick and rough. The slick, obscene pop of him pulling the dildo out sounds so bad even Eames winces.
Eames' fingers are slippery with lube, so Arthur opens the condom packet, taking his time to roll it down Eames' cock. He gives the base an affectionate squeeze, strokes him a few times while Eames settles himself on his knees between Arthur's thighs. Arthur's legs go up automatically, ankles hooking together in the small of Eames' back. He tilts his pelvis up, too, wanton and eager and Eames' hands automatically fall to his hips and pull, dragging Arthur to him. The move brings Arthur's ass off the bed, putting a strain on his back and abs, but Arthur only rolls into it, trusting in Eames' to keep him up.
Between Eames' fingers, the dildo, and the thick, familiar heat of Eames' cock, he has very little problem sliding into Arthur. His thighs are hot against Arthur's ass, the muscles trembling from the strain. The angle is new, deeper, and Arthur wants to thrust down on it, but with his hips in the air, he doesn't have the strength or the energy to do so.
Then again, it's not necessarily a burden to be at Eames' mercy.
Eames starts slow, one hand gripping tight to Arthur's hip, the other dragging fingertips through the mess of precome on Arthur's belly. Knuckles brush along his cock, warm and rough, and Arthur groans. Groans it again when a nail flicks at his slit.
Arthur's eyes slip shut automatically, head tossed back into the pillow. This is what he knows, what he loves, and he has to bite his lip to keep from saying it out loud, hands fisting in the pillowcase.
Eames' hands are warm, splayed wide over Arthur's ass, pulling him into each thrust with a quiet intensity. As he slides them up along Arthur's sides, the rasp of Eames' dry skin tickles, making Arthur's muscles shiver. He tips his head forward, expecting lush lips and a wicked tongue, but the hands stop somewhere around Arthur's shoulder blades and Arthur's eyes open a second before the world tilts and he's upright, knees falling to either side of Eames' powerful thighs.
Eames swallows Arthur's gasp of surprise, chuckling. "Can't do all the work, now," he gasps into Arthur's mouth, smiling. "Not a man of my age."
They're pressed together from groin to chest, wet, open mouths bumping against each other. Arthur's arms wrap around Eames' neck on instinct, holding on as he rides Eames' cock, little rolls of his hips at first, until he figures out how to use Eames' shoulders for leverage.
At this angle, Arthur sits higher than Eames, and he rests his forehead against Eames' while he tries not to focus on the orgasm tightening low in his gut, thanks to the drag of his cock along Eames' belly.
Eames' murmured words of obscene encouragement don't help, though, nor is Eames' ability to hit Arthur's prostate more often than not, and soon Arthur's rhythm is faltering, his hands skating over sweat-slick skin, desperate for something to cling to. Hands tighten on Arthur's hips in an attempt to help calm him, but the tingle marches its way up Arthur's spine until he's whimpering Eames' name into Eames' open mouth.
Eames lets him tumble into the sheets, then, limp and sated and sticky with come. He keeps his strokes languid, pelvis grinding against Arthur's sensitive cock enough that he twitches. His vision whites out and he chokes back a sob when Eames hits his prostate again, fingers curling in the air. Eames whispers apologizes into Arthur's hair, but he does it again, and Arthur clenches around him, whispers, "Come already, jesus," and that finally tips Eames over into his own orgasm.
He falls onto Arthur, all solid muscle and warm skin, and Arthur grins, arms wrapping around broad shoulders to keep him close. Arthur tucks his face into the damp space where neck meets shoulder and breathes, smiling and pleased and feeling luckier than he could've ever thought possible. He presses his lips to Eames' collarbone to keep from saying anything and revealing his inner sentimentalist.
Too soon, Eames is pulling away and limping toward the bathroom, comes back with a glass of water and a damp rag for Arthur. After the clean up, he crawls into the bed with none of his usual grace and pulls Arthur to him, kisses him soft and slow and achingly sweet, hand cupping Arthur's face like he's something precious and breakable.
"Go to sleep," Arthur says, the words halfway toward an order, hoping to cover up the way he can feel his face going soft, fond. Eames thumbs at his cheek, though, where one of the dimples would be. Probably is, if Arthur is honest with himself.
Eames smiles, winks, and pulls Arthur closer.