Work Text:
Arthur's been hard all fucking morning.
It's his own fault, of course. He'd asked Eames to leave, after, last night, in anticipation of an early morning of which he knew Eames wanted no part. Eames had just kissed his throat and rolled off him, and out of bed. He hadn't even bothered to argue.
In retrospect, it had been a stupid fucking idea, because from the moment Arthur woke up, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. The sheets had smelled like Eames, too -- cologne and sweat and sex, and Arthur had wanted him all over again. It had been five-thirty in the morning and Arthur'd been so achingly hard already that he'd even considered calling Eames -- asking -- but he hadn't.
It hasn't been getting any easier, since.
Thing is -- the thing is that when they'd started, he wouldn't have expected this. The first time, they'd just kissed until they lost track of time, mouths slick with the taste of each other, and then Eames had jacked them both, careful and methodical, and Arthur had liked it, but it was nothing like the next time when Eames had held him down and sucked his cock; or after, when Eames had pulled Arthur on top and pushed into him, holding him open and fucking him as Arthur held on; or later still, when Eames had pushed his head down and slid into him from behind, hard and fast while he shoved Arthur's face into the sheets. Those times, Arthur's skin had prickled hot under Eames' touch, hazy with arousal, and he hadn't been able to stop moaning, his thighs trembling, utterly undone.
He can't stop thinking about any of it.
He really, really should have asked Eames to stay.
Instead, he's spent the morning distracted and impatient and hot, stumbling through phone call after phone call, snapping at Dom, unable to look at anyone for the embarrassment. There are reams of paper in front of him that he can't even read -- he looks at the words and the figures, and his eyes glaze over as though his brain is rebelling against the thought of anything other than Eames. He's felt slow and out of control all morning in a way he hasn't since adolescence, unable even to concentrate on his fucking job for the thrum of lust under his skin.
Eames isn't even there, and Arthur still wants him to distraction.
It's why, when Eames finally shows up, already unaccountably late by eleven o'clock, that Arthur can't even resist hauling him into the back room and locking the door behind them. There are more subtle ways of going about it, but Eames is wearing the same shirt as he was yesterday, wrinkled and smelling just enough like the inside of Arthur's apartment. Arthur watches as Eames slides a thigh onto the corner of his desk, perches there just long enough to say hello, and he already has Eames too far under his skin for that.
"Missed me?" Eames asks, when they're alone. He'd let Arthur walk them backwards until they reached the worktable, and then slid up onto it, legs spreading to let Arthur push against him. His fingers are soft along Arthur's jaw, and it's not enough.
"You have no idea," says Arthur, and hooks his arms around Eames' shoulders.
He doesn't know how to say it -- to tell Eames what he does to him, and it probably doesn't matter anyway. Eames sits there with his pants pulling over his thighs, shirt wrinkled and only partly buttoned, showing off the curve of his collarbones, the smooth lines of tattoos, the dusting of hair on his chest, and it has to be obvious when Arthur touches him.
"I have quite the vivid imagination," says Eames. His mouth quirks in a sort of smile, and Arthur is done. Eames looks too relaxed and too pleased, and that expression had been bad enough before Arthur'd known the taste of Eames' mouth, the slide of his tongue, the bite of his teeth. He's too fucking gorgeous, and Arthur kisses him.
Eames strokes his hands down Arthur's sides, thumbs dragging over his ribcage. His lips open easily under Arthur's, and Arthur bites at them, licking into Eames' mouth. He tastes like his morning coffee -- too much sugar -- and Arthur kisses him blindly, desperate for the pressure of his lips, the brush of his tongue. Eames' mouth is devastating, curving soft and hot over Arthur's, and Arthur curls his fingers around the back of Eames' neck.
He's so fucking hard just thinking about it.
"I want to have sex with you," he says when the kiss ends, the words tumbling out awkwardly. He kisses the corner of Eames' mouth, the point of his chin, the curve of his throat, hot with embarrassment, but Eames just tips his head back and slides his hands down to Arthur's hips. Eames holds him there, thumbs pressing hard against Arthur's hipbones.
"I had gathered as much," Eames says. His skin is warm and vaguely salty where Arthur mouths over it, sucking at Eames' throat. He's very still, but Arthur can feel the steady throb of his pulse under his skin. "What is it you had in mind?" Eames asks.
"You fucking me," Arthur says. He pulls back, and Eames looks way too calm for this, for how ragged Arthur feels. He adds, "Hard," and Eames smiles.
"My way," says Eames, clarifying.
"Yes," says Arthur, and finds Eames' mouth again. It's slow and hot and wet, and Arthur works a hand between them, touching Eames through his pants. His dick is hard, pressing against the fabric, and Eames puts a hand on Arthur's forearm and pushes his hand away.
"I didn't say you could touch me," he says.
Arthur flushes hot all over, again, but this time it's not embarrassment. He puts his hands on Eames' thighs instead. He feels dizzy with it, forgetting to breathe at the heated pressure of Eames' body against his, and his skin prickles hot. They're both wearing too many clothes.
Eames mouths along the slope of Arthur's jaw, then slides his hands under Arthur's sweater, and pulls it off him. He does it carelessly, easily, and when it's on the floor he rucks up Arthur's shirt to drag his fingertips down the line of Arthur's stomach. Arthur sucks in a breath. Eames' touch is hot, deliberate, but he pauses at Arthur's waistband, and Arthur can't bring himself to grab his wrist, to get Eames to touch him the way he wants.
It's not what Eames wants.
Arthur fists a hand in Eames' shirt instead, thrilling at the slide of the fabric against Eames' skin, over the muscles in Eames' chest. Eames is undoing Arthur now -- unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his fly, and Arthur shudders with the anticipation of Eames' hands on his skin, hands on his dick and in his ass.
"I've been thinking about this," Arthur says, "all morning."
"The price of stupidity," says Eames. He's looking up at Arthur, and his eyes are dark and open and Arthur wants. Eames says, "If you wanted me, you should have asked me."
"I didn't realize," Arthur starts. He falters when Eames kisses down his neck, Eames' mouth slick over his racing pulse, teeth scraping over the tendon in his throat.
"You should have," says Eames, and draws his fingers over the seam of Arthur's fly, just shy of his cock. He's teasing, and Arthur can't fucking take it -- wants, right now, for Eames to touch him, to strip him naked, to fuck him open. His skin feels too small, stretched tight and inflamed everywhere Eames touches him. It's overwhelming, the way Eames seems to invade his senses – the scent of his skin, his hair, the sound of his breathing, and Arthur can't even look at him without wanting everything.
"Eames," he says, and can't stop the way it comes out, breathy and uncontrolled. "Don't tease."
Eames kisses him again, sucking over the join of his neck. "You're awfully demanding for someone who's been gagging for my cock all morning," he says. But he's dipped his fingers under the waistband of Arthur's underwear, lingering over the cleft of Arthur's ass, and Arthur angles into it helplessly.
The tip of his finger is hot and blunt as it skims down Arthur's ass, pressing down and over his hole. It's hard -- too hard -- and even as Arthur presses back into it, Eames pauses. There's lube in Arthur's pocket, and Eames doesn't even need to ask before digging it out, stretching Arthur's pants tight across his thighs. Eames' mouth is damp against Arthur's collarbone, and when he touches Arthur again his finger is slick, and Arthur can't keep from moaning when it slides in.
"Aren't you afraid someone will hear," Eames asks, pitched low, but Arthur doesn't care. He tips his head forward, and he can't even -- he presses his face into Eames' shoulder, and it's not enough when Eames crooks a finger inside him. He wants more -- needs more, and he can't help pushing back against Eames when he puts in another finger, slick and hard, and Eames grabs for him with his other hand, palming his ass while he twists inside.
Arthur is so desperately turned on.
Eames fucks him lush and rough, fingers skirting the edge of Arthur's nerves, pressing in and curling, and his entire world has been reduced to fuck and Eames and the sound of his own jagged breathing. The slide of Eames' fingers in his ass is just -- Arthur can't even think over it, just melts against the slick shove of pressure. All he wants is more, and for Eames to put his cock in him, and he can't even help rutting against Eames, seeking friction for his cock even as Eames fucks into him with his fingers.
He's not even paying attention when Eames slides a third finger in, stretching, and Arthur gasps helplessly. His nerves feel frayed everywhere, oversensitive with Eames' touch, and Arthur tightens his fingers, digging into the muscle of Eames' thigh. He wants Eames' cock so fucking badly.
Eames doesn't pull out of Arthur to undo his pants, but instead unbuckles his belt and pushes down his pants and his underwear left-handed. Arthur watches, and it's so close between them, and so fucking hot, watching Eames lift up and push down his pants, baring his cock and the curve of his hips and his thighs. It's hard to forget the shape of Eames' body, but Arthur looks every single time.
Eames looks up and says, "I want you over the table."
Arthur lets him, lets Eames slide his fingers out and turn them around and shove Arthur forward over the edge of the worktable. It catches him round the thighs, and Arthur braces his hands against the lip of the table -- Eames is hot up his back, pressing his cock to Arthur's ass. Eames' cock is heavy and hard against him, blunt and unlubed and fuck. Eames just rubs his cock in the cleft of Arthur's ass, and it's worse now, how he wants Eames -- how much more desperately he wants Eames when there's nothing else. Arthur pushes back against him, and Eames touches his hip, fingers splaying over Arthur's stomach. His mouth is slick on the back of Arthur's neck, and suddenly Arthur's shaking with it.
"Please," he says. It's undignified and it doesn't even matter; he doesn't fucking care so long as it gets Eames to fuck him. He's so fucking hard, and the heat of Eames' body, the pressure of his cock -- it's dizzying.
He watches over his shoulder as Eames fumbles with the lube, slicking himself, and his mouth goes dry when finally Eames pushes in. It's a slow hot sharp burn, and Arthur can't even move, riveted by the slide of Eames' cock in his ass. Eames' breath is coming in short sharp bursts against his neck, his fingers gripping hard at Arthur's hip, and it's such a fucking relief when Eames fucks into him, bringing them flush.
Arthur moans.
Eames isn't gentle about it, the way he fucks. It's hard and fast and rough, and the friction is delicious, and this, this is what Arthur's wanted. He's wanted that sharp flare of heat, the snap of Eames' hips, the vicious pressure of his cock, and Arthur shoves back onto him, seeking more, more. And Eames fucks him, hard enough that Arthur thighs jar against the table, hard enough that his shoulders are burning with the pressure of keeping him upright, that his knuckles are clenching with his grip on the edge of the worktable. It's heavy enough that it doesn't move, and Arthur stretches over it, loving the fucking of Eames' cock, the rhythm of his hips as they move together, but it's unbearable, the way his thighs strain to keep him up.
Eames kisses up the back of his neck as they fuck, open-mouth and biting, and Arthur can't even last. He's wanted too long, and when Eames touches him, hands straying over his stomach, fingers wrapping around his cock, he's just gone. Arthur's orgasm uncurls sharply, vividly, with Eames all around him and in him, and he shudders through it, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and all he can think is god and Eames.
Eames doesn't stop, though, and it's fucking brutal, how each thrust burns with pleasure. Arthur can't stop shaking, and his mouth feels desperately dry, and he reaches behind, blindly, for Eames' thigh, pulling Eames tighter against him. Everything is too tight and too hot, and Eames' skin is sweaty under Arthur's touch. Arthur can feel his shirt sticking to him between them.
"Come on," he whispers, and that's when Eames wraps an arm around him, shoving Arthur's hips down. Arthur grinds down on Eames' cock, and it's so fucking deep, and for one long, ragged moment, Eames goes breathlessly still.
"Fuck," Eames says at last, and then he reaches for Arthur, kissing his neck, behind his ear, his cheek -- and when Arthur turns his head, Eames licks into his mouth, messy and hot. Eames holds onto him, even as he pulls out, and his fingers are careful on Arthur's hipbones, thumbs brushing over and over.
"That was a terrible idea," Eames murmurs against the curve of Arthur's jaw, when Arthur pulls his mouth away. Arthur hesitates, then pushes Eames away.
Eames lets him turn, and when he does, Eames is flushed and his hairline sweaty, but he's hitching up his underwear like he does this all the time, like it's nothing. Arthur looks at him, and Eames' calm is infuriating, and arousing, and Arthur steps out of his way and pulls up his pants.
"Which part?" Arthur asks.
Eames tucks his shirt back in, more wrinkled still than it had been when he'd come in, and his smile is small and devious. Arthur can't even look.
"The part where they'll all know we came in here to shag," Eames says. "For one. For another, the part where you've got another six hours before you can go home and I didn't use a condom."
"Maybe that was part of the plan," Arthur says, and shrugs.
He bends to pick his sweater up off the floor, and he doesn't have to be watching to recognize the moment the realization dawns on Eames.