Fic + Art: You Stick It In Me
Title: You Stick It In Me
Artist: essouffle Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: A-n-g-s-t !!!
Prompt: Sex
Word count: 1,551
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough Sex, NSFW image
Betas:sneaqui
Summary: Breakup Sex.
___
The moment they kiss is like a car-wreck, somehow painfully slow like Arthur can feel each and every point where they connect, feel everywhere that Eames touches his skin, and yet it’s too fast to keep up with. It’s a whirlwind of movement. Their teeth gnash together painfully. They bite, gasp, growl against each other’s skin. It’s too fast to enjoy. It’s too hard to come away unscathed.
It never used to be this way.
This job is the first. It’s the first they’ve worked together since their relationship ended. Arthur had no choice; he needed the best. Eames is the best. And now weeks of hostility, awkward moments, and angry spats have culminated in this moment that is moving too quickly and not fast enough.
The bitter ball that sits in the pit of Arthur’s stomach grows. It’s been there ever since he watched Eames walk away months ago, when he couldn’t find the words to ask him not to. And now, with Eames’ hands pulling him in, harsh fingers on his skin, it doesn’t disappear. It burns brighter.
Because this isn’t forgiveness.
It’s rough as if they’re trying to hurt each other. They are tearing at each other’s clothes because they can’t rip out hearts. Its biting that isn’t claiming. The marks from fingers that dig into the skin of his arms, through the fabric of his shirt, leaving red crescents, are from desperation. Arthur thinks they are gripping tightly so they don’t do anything worse. Arthur can feel the anger in the way Eames is losing control, the way Eames’ tongue is choking off his breath instead of teasing into his mouth the way it would before.
Arthur wonders whether, if Eames makes him bleed, he’ll feel better or worse. He thinks it would be both.
Eames rips Arthur’s pants down, disregarding the buttons, or the way the fabric catches on his hip bone, leaving a red burn. He doesn’t even bother with Arthur’s shirt or waistcoat, both of which are still fully buttoned. Arthur only manages to pull Eames’ shirt over his head, wanting to feel his skin underneath his fingers again, to cauterize to memory the way it moves across Eames’ broad back.
Eames shoves Arthur forcefully onto the bed. He lands with a huff as the air is temporarily knocked from his lungs and kicks off his shoes and pants quickly before Eames is on top of him, biting at his collarbone. Arthur hisses in pain but Eames only bites harder. There’s no lapping tongue to sooth his nerves, no gentle caress across the mark that will bruise green and violet tomorrow. It’s just the sharp stinging pain of broken skin stretched thinly across his bones.
Eames pushes off to undo his belt, lips red and swollen, possibly stained with blood. Arthur can’t help but think of how beautiful he looks. He remembers how those lips would wrap beautifully around his cock, cherry red from kissing, and the the way Eames would look up at him with playfulness glinting in his eyes. The way Eames would smile, mouth full, and suck him down just to hear Arthur moan his name.
Arthur catches eyes with Eames now as he zips down his fly, and there’s nothing. The humor, the affection, is replaced by darkness. Eames’ eyes are guarded in a way that Arthur has never seen before, even from someone as reserved with honest emotion as Eames. Eames' jaw works underneath his skin, teeth obviously grinding together. He snaps his eyes to the side with what appears to be indecision or hesitation, before he looks back and reaches out to grab Arthur’s hips.
Eames flips him over onto his stomach, then pulls him back with one hand to raise Arthur onto his knees, while the other shoves his shirts up and presses his shoulders into the hotel mattress. Eames doesn’t bother taking his own pants off. Instead he just pulls himself out over the top of his pants.
The sheets smell like cheap detergent.
There’s no preparation. There’s no teasing of fingers and tongue or exploration. There’s no smooth slide of a hand over the curve of his ass, no fingers tracing along his entrance. It’s just a quick spit and then burning as Eames pushes himself inside.
Arthur gasps and forces himself to relax. He bears down until Eames’ hips are pressed against his ass, cock fully seated inside him. Eames doesn’t give him a chance to recover, doesn’t wait for Arthur to adjust. He rocks his hips in and out, picking up speed until he’s snapping them forward on every thrust.
It’s too fast, too much, and not enough. Arthur whimpers because it hurts. It burns. It’s nothing like before but he can’t ask Eames to stop. He wants this. He wants the punishment. He can feel the hatred in every one of Eames’ thrusts, and a sick satisfaction settles over him.
He deserves this.
There’s not enough lube. There’s not enough skin. There’s not enough anything, and there’s too much heat, too much fabric, too many emotions. All Arthur wants is to take everything back so that he can have what they had before. He wants the sly smiles, the knowing glances, the sweep of a hand across his lower back when he’s having a bad day. He wants Eames’ lips ghosting across the pulse of his neck. He wants Eames’ hair between his fingers. He wants to pull Eames in for a clandestine kiss in the corner of a warehouse. He wants to wake up to the warmth of Eames’ body and trace his fingers over Eames’ tattoos in the morning.
He wants to say he’s sorry.
Instead he has Eames’ cock in his ass, pumping in and out with too much force. He has Eames hand between his shoulder blades, holding him down. His own cock is hard, throbbing, dripping onto the sheets beneath him. He can hear Eames’ breath hitch, Eames panting above him and he knows the sounds well enough to know that Eames is close.
He doesn’t want it to end; he doesn’t want Eames to stop. He doesn’t want to have to watch Eames walk away, but he can’t do anything about it. His body involuntarily presses back with each thrust, trying to take it’s own pleasure, giving Eames more. He wants Eames to hit that spot inside him, to make him fall apart, to make him come just from his cock in his ass, the perfect angle, the perfect friction, the perfect harmony they had before.
Eames shudders above him, crying out in a strangled, anguished howl. He collapses down on top of Arthur, pressing the air from his lungs. Eames’ sweat-slicked skin transfers moisture onto Arthur’s shirt.
There’s nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing. Arthur’s cock is still painfully hard, pressed into the mattress from Eames’ weight. For what seems like an eternity they are stuck in this agonizing position. Arthur can’t rut into the mattress, and Eames isn’t moving on top of him. It's a stillness that holds so much tension.
This didn't fix anything. It's just a bookend to their relationship, a painful reminder of Arthur’s failure.
One last fuck.
Arthur whines at the loss when Eames pulls out, shoving his shoulders into the mattress again so that Arthur won't turn around to look at him. Arthur feels exposed and empty, and he doesn't want to look back anyway. He doesn’t want to have to see confirmation in Eames eyes. He already knows this is the end.
Eames’ thumbs press into the crack of Arthur’s ass to spread his cheeks. It’s unexpected and he shudders as Eames probes, checking him for tearing. The considerate nature of it is a complete contrast to what they just did. The bitterness inside of Arthur expands to overwhelming proportions because even in the end Eames is making sure Arthur is uninjured, that he didn’t hurt him too much. Arthur feels so unworthy, because all of this is his fault.
When Eames finds nothing serious, he let’s Arthur’s cheeks go and pulls up his pants up, the zipper loud in the silence of the room. Arthur can hear him gather his shoes and shirt. He doesn't say anything. His cock is still trapped beneath him, Eames’ come is dripping from his ass, and he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.
He doesn’t want to watch as Eames walks away again, but finds that he can help himself. He turns his face to the side when the door handle clicks open. He watches Eames’ naked back as he leaves to go to his own room, bare feet stepping out the door.
Eames doesn’t look back.
Hot, stinging tears gather in the back of Arthur’s eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. The door clicks closed softly, as Eames leaves. Arthur realizes that he will never be able to work with him again. This is the last time he’ll see Eames. The last memory he’ll ever have is the sag of Eames’ shoulders as they exit the hotel room.
Arthur breathes into the sheets, shuddering, strangled, exhales. His throat is tight with unspoken words. His eyes slip closed, and he doesn’t move until he drifts into fretful sleep.
Artist: essouffle Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: A-n-g-s-t !!!
Prompt: Sex
Word count: 1,551
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough Sex, NSFW image
Betas:sneaqui
Summary: Breakup Sex.
___
The moment they kiss is like a car-wreck, somehow painfully slow like Arthur can feel each and every point where they connect, feel everywhere that Eames touches his skin, and yet it’s too fast to keep up with. It’s a whirlwind of movement. Their teeth gnash together painfully. They bite, gasp, growl against each other’s skin. It’s too fast to enjoy. It’s too hard to come away unscathed.
It never used to be this way.
This job is the first. It’s the first they’ve worked together since their relationship ended. Arthur had no choice; he needed the best. Eames is the best. And now weeks of hostility, awkward moments, and angry spats have culminated in this moment that is moving too quickly and not fast enough.
The bitter ball that sits in the pit of Arthur’s stomach grows. It’s been there ever since he watched Eames walk away months ago, when he couldn’t find the words to ask him not to. And now, with Eames’ hands pulling him in, harsh fingers on his skin, it doesn’t disappear. It burns brighter.
Because this isn’t forgiveness.
It’s rough as if they’re trying to hurt each other. They are tearing at each other’s clothes because they can’t rip out hearts. Its biting that isn’t claiming. The marks from fingers that dig into the skin of his arms, through the fabric of his shirt, leaving red crescents, are from desperation. Arthur thinks they are gripping tightly so they don’t do anything worse. Arthur can feel the anger in the way Eames is losing control, the way Eames’ tongue is choking off his breath instead of teasing into his mouth the way it would before.
Arthur wonders whether, if Eames makes him bleed, he’ll feel better or worse. He thinks it would be both.
Eames rips Arthur’s pants down, disregarding the buttons, or the way the fabric catches on his hip bone, leaving a red burn. He doesn’t even bother with Arthur’s shirt or waistcoat, both of which are still fully buttoned. Arthur only manages to pull Eames’ shirt over his head, wanting to feel his skin underneath his fingers again, to cauterize to memory the way it moves across Eames’ broad back.
Eames shoves Arthur forcefully onto the bed. He lands with a huff as the air is temporarily knocked from his lungs and kicks off his shoes and pants quickly before Eames is on top of him, biting at his collarbone. Arthur hisses in pain but Eames only bites harder. There’s no lapping tongue to sooth his nerves, no gentle caress across the mark that will bruise green and violet tomorrow. It’s just the sharp stinging pain of broken skin stretched thinly across his bones.
Eames pushes off to undo his belt, lips red and swollen, possibly stained with blood. Arthur can’t help but think of how beautiful he looks. He remembers how those lips would wrap beautifully around his cock, cherry red from kissing, and the the way Eames would look up at him with playfulness glinting in his eyes. The way Eames would smile, mouth full, and suck him down just to hear Arthur moan his name.
Arthur catches eyes with Eames now as he zips down his fly, and there’s nothing. The humor, the affection, is replaced by darkness. Eames’ eyes are guarded in a way that Arthur has never seen before, even from someone as reserved with honest emotion as Eames. Eames' jaw works underneath his skin, teeth obviously grinding together. He snaps his eyes to the side with what appears to be indecision or hesitation, before he looks back and reaches out to grab Arthur’s hips.
Eames flips him over onto his stomach, then pulls him back with one hand to raise Arthur onto his knees, while the other shoves his shirts up and presses his shoulders into the hotel mattress. Eames doesn’t bother taking his own pants off. Instead he just pulls himself out over the top of his pants.
The sheets smell like cheap detergent.
There’s no preparation. There’s no teasing of fingers and tongue or exploration. There’s no smooth slide of a hand over the curve of his ass, no fingers tracing along his entrance. It’s just a quick spit and then burning as Eames pushes himself inside.
Arthur gasps and forces himself to relax. He bears down until Eames’ hips are pressed against his ass, cock fully seated inside him. Eames doesn’t give him a chance to recover, doesn’t wait for Arthur to adjust. He rocks his hips in and out, picking up speed until he’s snapping them forward on every thrust.
It’s too fast, too much, and not enough. Arthur whimpers because it hurts. It burns. It’s nothing like before but he can’t ask Eames to stop. He wants this. He wants the punishment. He can feel the hatred in every one of Eames’ thrusts, and a sick satisfaction settles over him.
He deserves this.
There’s not enough lube. There’s not enough skin. There’s not enough anything, and there’s too much heat, too much fabric, too many emotions. All Arthur wants is to take everything back so that he can have what they had before. He wants the sly smiles, the knowing glances, the sweep of a hand across his lower back when he’s having a bad day. He wants Eames’ lips ghosting across the pulse of his neck. He wants Eames’ hair between his fingers. He wants to pull Eames in for a clandestine kiss in the corner of a warehouse. He wants to wake up to the warmth of Eames’ body and trace his fingers over Eames’ tattoos in the morning.
He wants to say he’s sorry.
Instead he has Eames’ cock in his ass, pumping in and out with too much force. He has Eames hand between his shoulder blades, holding him down. His own cock is hard, throbbing, dripping onto the sheets beneath him. He can hear Eames’ breath hitch, Eames panting above him and he knows the sounds well enough to know that Eames is close.
He doesn’t want it to end; he doesn’t want Eames to stop. He doesn’t want to have to watch Eames walk away, but he can’t do anything about it. His body involuntarily presses back with each thrust, trying to take it’s own pleasure, giving Eames more. He wants Eames to hit that spot inside him, to make him fall apart, to make him come just from his cock in his ass, the perfect angle, the perfect friction, the perfect harmony they had before.
Eames shudders above him, crying out in a strangled, anguished howl. He collapses down on top of Arthur, pressing the air from his lungs. Eames’ sweat-slicked skin transfers moisture onto Arthur’s shirt.
There’s nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing. Arthur’s cock is still painfully hard, pressed into the mattress from Eames’ weight. For what seems like an eternity they are stuck in this agonizing position. Arthur can’t rut into the mattress, and Eames isn’t moving on top of him. It's a stillness that holds so much tension.
This didn't fix anything. It's just a bookend to their relationship, a painful reminder of Arthur’s failure.
One last fuck.
Arthur whines at the loss when Eames pulls out, shoving his shoulders into the mattress again so that Arthur won't turn around to look at him. Arthur feels exposed and empty, and he doesn't want to look back anyway. He doesn’t want to have to see confirmation in Eames eyes. He already knows this is the end.
Eames’ thumbs press into the crack of Arthur’s ass to spread his cheeks. It’s unexpected and he shudders as Eames probes, checking him for tearing. The considerate nature of it is a complete contrast to what they just did. The bitterness inside of Arthur expands to overwhelming proportions because even in the end Eames is making sure Arthur is uninjured, that he didn’t hurt him too much. Arthur feels so unworthy, because all of this is his fault.
When Eames finds nothing serious, he let’s Arthur’s cheeks go and pulls up his pants up, the zipper loud in the silence of the room. Arthur can hear him gather his shoes and shirt. He doesn't say anything. His cock is still trapped beneath him, Eames’ come is dripping from his ass, and he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.
He doesn’t want to watch as Eames walks away again, but finds that he can help himself. He turns his face to the side when the door handle clicks open. He watches Eames’ naked back as he leaves to go to his own room, bare feet stepping out the door.
Eames doesn’t look back.
Hot, stinging tears gather in the back of Arthur’s eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. The door clicks closed softly, as Eames leaves. Arthur realizes that he will never be able to work with him again. This is the last time he’ll see Eames. The last memory he’ll ever have is the sag of Eames’ shoulders as they exit the hotel room.
Arthur breathes into the sheets, shuddering, strangled, exhales. His throat is tight with unspoken words. His eyes slip closed, and he doesn’t move until he drifts into fretful sleep.