Fic Fic Ficcity Fic
Con report to come later. For now, two of the three things I wrote while I was away. The blood/knife play + flipflopping will go up on Bina's kinkfest once I get a couple more chunks done.
Title: Yesterday Was Morning Sex, Today Is Spanking, Tomorrow Is Shower Porn, And Waking Up In Vegas Comes Afterwards (aka This Title Is Still Better Than 'Morning Pleasure Fuck')
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: 2100
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Spanking
Summary: Eames like waking Arthur up with sex. Sometimes this leads to more sex. And dirty talk. And spanking. And Arthur agreeing to go case tables in Las Vegas. (Demon!verse)
AN: This one is for Lydia. <3
"Oh, fuck."
Most mornings, Arthur's first words consist of nothing but a moaned curse or an incomprehensible sound. In his defence, most mornings he wakes up to Eames's fingers in his mouth or cock in his ass. Sometimes (most times), it’s both at once, those thick fingers something to suck on and roll his tongue around while Eames spreads him open and fucks into him with sleepy abandon.
This is a typical morning.
Arthur presses back against the warm bulk of Eames's body, fingers clawing into the sheets for better leverage. He's already come, minutes ago, and the rhythmic push and pull of Eames inside him is starting to ride the hard edge between pleasure and pain. "Are you fucking done yet?” he hisses, arching his back to take Eames deeper.
Eames growls and grabs a handful of hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck, shoving his face down into the pillow. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The feral sound that rips out of Eames’s throat is enough to make Arthur groan, tendons pulled tight as Eames stops thrusting and tugs his head back until his neck is a cruel curve. “I don’t have to. You’re mine, so you’ll do it.” Eames leans forward to brace his free hand against the headboard, and Arthur shivers when coarse chest hair brushes his shoulder blades. “You’ll even come again if I tell you,” Eames whispers into his ear, accent layered with filth and certainty.
Arthur grinds back wordlessly, clenching down. He can’t come again, he really fucking can’t, but he knows it’s nothing for Eames to pound him until he does or until he fucking cries he’s so strung tight with tension and pain and unbearable pressure. When he’s in the mood, it’s fucking amazing. But for once Arthur doesn’t particularly feel like being ridden raw so early in the work week, which leaves him with the options of making Eames come fast or saying no.
And Arthur hates saying no to Eames in bed.
He takes a deep breath as Eames slowly pushes in again, building up to rapid thrusts that drive Arthur’s cheek into the weave of the sheets. It takes him a second to match the rhythm, limbs shaky and a little boneless, but it’s worth it for the way Eames tightens his fingers in Arthur’s hair with a pleased grunt.
There’s a thrill that goes with knowing no matter how powerful Eames might really be, Arthur’s capable of reducing him to nothing but animalistic desperation. But it’s not enough this morning, not enough to have Eames’s cock twitching close to orgasm inside him, so he sucks in another breath as he arches his spine even further. “I’m just saying,” he says, words clipped at the edges. “I know I’m fucking tight. Fuck Eames, it feels like you’re ten seconds away from breaking me every time we fuck. Isn’t that enough for you?” He spreads his legs wider, ignoring how the lube feels dripping down his balls. It’s too much right now. “Isn’t it enough that I’m-“
Eames shudders and sinks his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder, and fuck, maybe he can come again. He writhes under the pressure of Eames’s hands and teeth and cock, gasping, but he drags enough composure together to continue. “That I’m soaking wet and spreading my legs for you?” He rocks back and it’s too deep, too much, but he can finally feel the tremors that mean Eames is close. “God, Eames, I can take anything you want to throw at me but fucking hell, don’t you just want to come inside me?”
“Oh, I’m going to, pet,” Eames says, shifting both hands to Arthur’s hips and dragging him back harder onto his cock. “You’re going to be fucking dripping with it.”
Every single word is punctuated with a brutal thrust, and Arthur can’t even put together the glimmer of a coherent sentence anymore. He’s already dripping with lube, fresh precome beading on the head of his cock. All of a sudden he wants to slip a hand down and jerk himself, spread that moisture with his thumb and fuck, fuck, he is going to come again.
As if he knows, Eames slides a hand down and squeezes Arthur tight. “I’ll come when you do,” he says, jerking him slowly. “Tell me when you’re close. Tell me, or I’ll go again until you do.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur manages, wrapping his own fingers over Eames’s and trying to force the tempo. It’s hopeless against Eames’s brute strength so Arthur just tightens his fingers and moves with him. Within a few seconds he can feel it, the aching pressure that always comes with a rapid-fire second orgasm. “Nearly,” he gasps. “Nearly… fuck, just a couple more, give me the best you’ve fucking got.”
Eames is nothing if not obliging and he snaps his hips forward, scraping his nails over Arthur’s scalp before pulling his head back by the hair again. Arthur comes as his neck stretches, shuddering all the way down to his bones and spilling wet over their fingers. Eames doesn’t stop, three more thrusts before he comes, curling down over Arthur’s back and holding his hips in place while he fills him up.
Arthur collapses down onto his stomach when Eames pulls out and rolls away, patting Arthur affectionately on the ass before he gets up.
There’s damp spot under Arthur’s stomach and he’s sore, wet from Eames’s come, scalp aching. He stretches, enjoying the easy post coital warmth.
Eames might have his soul, but Arthur never feels more owned than he does like this, fucked open and used.
He smiles softly into his pillow before reaching down to grab a shirt from the bedroom floor.
*
“I’m going to take the Stephenson job,” Arthur says as he spreads peanut butter on his toast.
“Are you?” Eames calls back from the living room. “I was going to get Ellie to watch things for me and take you to Vegas.”
Arthur chews on a bite of his toast as he walks back into the living room, where Eames is sprawled comfortably naked on the couch flicking between channels. Legs spread and arms resting across the back of the couch he’s impressive, all thick muscle dusted with dark hair.
Arthur kind of wants to get down on his knees and lick his thighs, but restrains himself, shrugging to try and get Eames’s yellow button-down to sit right around his shoulders instead of gaping. “I’ve been to Vegas,” he says, contemplating where he can sit, with Eames already taking up most of the couch. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“Don’t see the appeal?” Eames raises his eyebrows. “Think about it, love. Sin city, city of vice and greed and lust.” He reaches out with his foot to stroke Arthur’s ankle as he says lust, lips curling around the word like he wants to eat it. “It’s glorious. I’ll buy you a new suit and you can sit on my lap and smoke and distract the other high rollers with how gorgeous you are.”
Terrifyingly, Arthur’s pretty sure Eames isn’t joking. Worse, the thought isn’t entirely unpalatable. “The fact I can help you case the table has nothing to do with it, obviously.”
“Nor does how much I want your arse rubbing up against my cock through designer menswear,” Eames says, deadpan.
“Mmhmm.” Arthur bends down to put his plate on the coffee table and Eames’s broad hands are under the baggy shirt and gripping his hips before he even has a chance to straighten up. “What?”
“You are such a slut, darling,” Eames purrs behind him.
Arthur knew he should have put something on under Eames’s shirt. Then again, maybe he was kind of hoping he’d be able to get a reaction. Round two wasn’t exactly the reaction he planned on, but… “Work, Eames. We were talking about work.”
“Keeping you satisfied is work.” Thick fingers slide up his thigh, urging them apart. “Fuck Arthur, you didn’t even clean yourself up.”
One of those fingers pushes inside him, easy, and Arthur’s eyes slip closed. So he likes feeling wet and sticky and marked. It’s no big deal. “I’m trying to have breakfast,” he says, squirming in Eames’s grip.
“What you’re trying to do is wear me out. Bending over there in my fucking shirt so I can see how ready you still are…” he slides a second finger in.
Arthur pushes down onto Eames’s hand and he knows this isn’t going to take long, every single nerve still humming from earlier. “I was bending down to-“
“One day I’m going to decide you’re never allowed to leave the house,” Eames interrupts, spreading his fingers until Arthur moans and bites his lip at the stretch. “You’ll stay here, lubed and plugged up so I can just tell you to spread your legs and take it whenever I want you to.”
Arthur shudders. Eames never uses toys on him, ever, and there’s something fascinating about how it might feel to be stretched open by something cold and artificial instead of Eames’s fingers and tongue. “I might like that, right up until I go out of my mind with boredom.”
Eames pulls his fingers out and drags Arthur down by the hips until Arthur can feel the broad head of his cock nudging against him. “You aren’t giving my creativity enough credit, then,” he says, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist and tugging him the rest of the way down.
“Just shut up and fuck me if you’re going to fuck me,” Arthur hisses, shifting against the deep stretch of Eames’s cock inside him.
Warm fingers grip his hip, helping him balance, while Eames’s other hand splays firmly across the small of his back. “So long as you’re quiet, love. I was trying to watch the telly when you interrupted me with your insatiability.”
“You were the one who-fuck,” Arthur swears as Eames tilts his hips up, only a shallow thrust, but the angle and gravity and oversensitive skin all combine to make every muscle in Arthur’s body quiver.
Eames taps the side of Arthur’s ass with the flat of his hand. “Shush. Be a good boy now.”
Arthur growls, pushing back. Two can play that fucking game. He moans louder on the next thrust, and this time Eames smacks him hard enough for it to sting.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Eames warns, holding him down and rocking up into him.
“Maybe I like it when you hurt me,” Arthur says, breathless, and it’s true and they both know it.
Eames smacks him again, harder, and Arthur arches into the sharp pain and soft warmth that spreads across his ass in its wake. He’s too sensitive to enjoy a slow, gentle fucking, but this… this he can take.
He moans on every thrust when Eames starts fucking up into him in earnest, using his feet on the floor for leverage. Arthur can feel the flex of Eames’s powerful thighs beneath his, rippling under his ass, and it just makes him lean forward and moan louder while each blow on his skin gets harder and closer together. His ass must be red by now, the shape of Eames’s hand stained onto his skin.
“Are you done yet?” Eames mocks.
Arthur just groans. He can feel it, the heavy tension of orgasm creeping up his spine but he can’t quite get over the edge, not after being wrung out twice already this morning. His cock is hard and leaking, dripping down the shaft as Eames bounces him on his lap, but he still can’t fucking come. “I can’t,” he says, throat raw.
“Yes you can,” Eames grits out, shaking, thrusting up one last time before coming.
The splash of heat inside him does something to Arthur, feeling that wetness and knowing it’s Eames, and he finally comes with a sharp cry, twisting in Eames’s grip.
He slumps back against Eames’s chest until Eames grabs his waist and lifts him off his softening cock, manhandling him around until they’re chest to chest, Arthur’s knees digging in to the couch on either side of Eames’s hips.
Arthur nuzzles his neck, too tired to even care that his breakfast has gone cold on the coffee table.
“So,” Eames says, cupping Arthur’s stinging ass in both hands gently, soothingly. “Vegas?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “You can’t change my mind with sex,” he murmurs, licking Eames’s sweaty throat.
Even as he says it, Arthur knows they’re definitely going to Vegas.
This one here is just a barn porn ficlet, written in five minutes. In a coffee shop. While being heckled. XD *hearts and hearts for cons*
The rain stared it. If not for the rain Arthur wouldn’t be shoved down in the scratchy hay, water dripping on his face through gaps in the barn roof while Eames pushes his legs further apart and thrusts in.
A convenient peal of thunder covers Arthur’s cry. He’s barely prepared, nothing but makeshift lube and a couple of complimentary fingers, but the burn distracts him from the deeper sting in his shoulder where a stray bullet grazed him earlier.
“This is a terrible idea,” he pants,even as he wraps his legs around Eames’s waist and drags him in closer.
Eames drops down onto his elbows, nuzzling into Arthur’s neck with rain-damp skin. “We’re holed up for the storm. Those arseholes will be too.”
He punctuates the words with a hard thrust and Arthur sucks in a breath, tastes the thick scent of leather and farm animal in the air. “If I get caught with my pants down--” Arthur shudders and groans.
“You won’t, darling,” Eames says, sliding his hand down to lift Arthur’s thigh higher. “You won’t.”
Title: Yesterday Was Morning Sex, Today Is Spanking, Tomorrow Is Shower Porn, And Waking Up In Vegas Comes Afterwards (aka This Title Is Still Better Than 'Morning Pleasure Fuck')
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: 2100
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Spanking
Summary: Eames like waking Arthur up with sex. Sometimes this leads to more sex. And dirty talk. And spanking. And Arthur agreeing to go case tables in Las Vegas. (Demon!verse)
AN: This one is for Lydia. <3
"Oh, fuck."
Most mornings, Arthur's first words consist of nothing but a moaned curse or an incomprehensible sound. In his defence, most mornings he wakes up to Eames's fingers in his mouth or cock in his ass. Sometimes (most times), it’s both at once, those thick fingers something to suck on and roll his tongue around while Eames spreads him open and fucks into him with sleepy abandon.
This is a typical morning.
Arthur presses back against the warm bulk of Eames's body, fingers clawing into the sheets for better leverage. He's already come, minutes ago, and the rhythmic push and pull of Eames inside him is starting to ride the hard edge between pleasure and pain. "Are you fucking done yet?” he hisses, arching his back to take Eames deeper.
Eames growls and grabs a handful of hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck, shoving his face down into the pillow. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The feral sound that rips out of Eames’s throat is enough to make Arthur groan, tendons pulled tight as Eames stops thrusting and tugs his head back until his neck is a cruel curve. “I don’t have to. You’re mine, so you’ll do it.” Eames leans forward to brace his free hand against the headboard, and Arthur shivers when coarse chest hair brushes his shoulder blades. “You’ll even come again if I tell you,” Eames whispers into his ear, accent layered with filth and certainty.
Arthur grinds back wordlessly, clenching down. He can’t come again, he really fucking can’t, but he knows it’s nothing for Eames to pound him until he does or until he fucking cries he’s so strung tight with tension and pain and unbearable pressure. When he’s in the mood, it’s fucking amazing. But for once Arthur doesn’t particularly feel like being ridden raw so early in the work week, which leaves him with the options of making Eames come fast or saying no.
And Arthur hates saying no to Eames in bed.
He takes a deep breath as Eames slowly pushes in again, building up to rapid thrusts that drive Arthur’s cheek into the weave of the sheets. It takes him a second to match the rhythm, limbs shaky and a little boneless, but it’s worth it for the way Eames tightens his fingers in Arthur’s hair with a pleased grunt.
There’s a thrill that goes with knowing no matter how powerful Eames might really be, Arthur’s capable of reducing him to nothing but animalistic desperation. But it’s not enough this morning, not enough to have Eames’s cock twitching close to orgasm inside him, so he sucks in another breath as he arches his spine even further. “I’m just saying,” he says, words clipped at the edges. “I know I’m fucking tight. Fuck Eames, it feels like you’re ten seconds away from breaking me every time we fuck. Isn’t that enough for you?” He spreads his legs wider, ignoring how the lube feels dripping down his balls. It’s too much right now. “Isn’t it enough that I’m-“
Eames shudders and sinks his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder, and fuck, maybe he can come again. He writhes under the pressure of Eames’s hands and teeth and cock, gasping, but he drags enough composure together to continue. “That I’m soaking wet and spreading my legs for you?” He rocks back and it’s too deep, too much, but he can finally feel the tremors that mean Eames is close. “God, Eames, I can take anything you want to throw at me but fucking hell, don’t you just want to come inside me?”
“Oh, I’m going to, pet,” Eames says, shifting both hands to Arthur’s hips and dragging him back harder onto his cock. “You’re going to be fucking dripping with it.”
Every single word is punctuated with a brutal thrust, and Arthur can’t even put together the glimmer of a coherent sentence anymore. He’s already dripping with lube, fresh precome beading on the head of his cock. All of a sudden he wants to slip a hand down and jerk himself, spread that moisture with his thumb and fuck, fuck, he is going to come again.
As if he knows, Eames slides a hand down and squeezes Arthur tight. “I’ll come when you do,” he says, jerking him slowly. “Tell me when you’re close. Tell me, or I’ll go again until you do.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur manages, wrapping his own fingers over Eames’s and trying to force the tempo. It’s hopeless against Eames’s brute strength so Arthur just tightens his fingers and moves with him. Within a few seconds he can feel it, the aching pressure that always comes with a rapid-fire second orgasm. “Nearly,” he gasps. “Nearly… fuck, just a couple more, give me the best you’ve fucking got.”
Eames is nothing if not obliging and he snaps his hips forward, scraping his nails over Arthur’s scalp before pulling his head back by the hair again. Arthur comes as his neck stretches, shuddering all the way down to his bones and spilling wet over their fingers. Eames doesn’t stop, three more thrusts before he comes, curling down over Arthur’s back and holding his hips in place while he fills him up.
Arthur collapses down onto his stomach when Eames pulls out and rolls away, patting Arthur affectionately on the ass before he gets up.
There’s damp spot under Arthur’s stomach and he’s sore, wet from Eames’s come, scalp aching. He stretches, enjoying the easy post coital warmth.
Eames might have his soul, but Arthur never feels more owned than he does like this, fucked open and used.
He smiles softly into his pillow before reaching down to grab a shirt from the bedroom floor.
*
“I’m going to take the Stephenson job,” Arthur says as he spreads peanut butter on his toast.
“Are you?” Eames calls back from the living room. “I was going to get Ellie to watch things for me and take you to Vegas.”
Arthur chews on a bite of his toast as he walks back into the living room, where Eames is sprawled comfortably naked on the couch flicking between channels. Legs spread and arms resting across the back of the couch he’s impressive, all thick muscle dusted with dark hair.
Arthur kind of wants to get down on his knees and lick his thighs, but restrains himself, shrugging to try and get Eames’s yellow button-down to sit right around his shoulders instead of gaping. “I’ve been to Vegas,” he says, contemplating where he can sit, with Eames already taking up most of the couch. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“Don’t see the appeal?” Eames raises his eyebrows. “Think about it, love. Sin city, city of vice and greed and lust.” He reaches out with his foot to stroke Arthur’s ankle as he says lust, lips curling around the word like he wants to eat it. “It’s glorious. I’ll buy you a new suit and you can sit on my lap and smoke and distract the other high rollers with how gorgeous you are.”
Terrifyingly, Arthur’s pretty sure Eames isn’t joking. Worse, the thought isn’t entirely unpalatable. “The fact I can help you case the table has nothing to do with it, obviously.”
“Nor does how much I want your arse rubbing up against my cock through designer menswear,” Eames says, deadpan.
“Mmhmm.” Arthur bends down to put his plate on the coffee table and Eames’s broad hands are under the baggy shirt and gripping his hips before he even has a chance to straighten up. “What?”
“You are such a slut, darling,” Eames purrs behind him.
Arthur knew he should have put something on under Eames’s shirt. Then again, maybe he was kind of hoping he’d be able to get a reaction. Round two wasn’t exactly the reaction he planned on, but… “Work, Eames. We were talking about work.”
“Keeping you satisfied is work.” Thick fingers slide up his thigh, urging them apart. “Fuck Arthur, you didn’t even clean yourself up.”
One of those fingers pushes inside him, easy, and Arthur’s eyes slip closed. So he likes feeling wet and sticky and marked. It’s no big deal. “I’m trying to have breakfast,” he says, squirming in Eames’s grip.
“What you’re trying to do is wear me out. Bending over there in my fucking shirt so I can see how ready you still are…” he slides a second finger in.
Arthur pushes down onto Eames’s hand and he knows this isn’t going to take long, every single nerve still humming from earlier. “I was bending down to-“
“One day I’m going to decide you’re never allowed to leave the house,” Eames interrupts, spreading his fingers until Arthur moans and bites his lip at the stretch. “You’ll stay here, lubed and plugged up so I can just tell you to spread your legs and take it whenever I want you to.”
Arthur shudders. Eames never uses toys on him, ever, and there’s something fascinating about how it might feel to be stretched open by something cold and artificial instead of Eames’s fingers and tongue. “I might like that, right up until I go out of my mind with boredom.”
Eames pulls his fingers out and drags Arthur down by the hips until Arthur can feel the broad head of his cock nudging against him. “You aren’t giving my creativity enough credit, then,” he says, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist and tugging him the rest of the way down.
“Just shut up and fuck me if you’re going to fuck me,” Arthur hisses, shifting against the deep stretch of Eames’s cock inside him.
Warm fingers grip his hip, helping him balance, while Eames’s other hand splays firmly across the small of his back. “So long as you’re quiet, love. I was trying to watch the telly when you interrupted me with your insatiability.”
“You were the one who-fuck,” Arthur swears as Eames tilts his hips up, only a shallow thrust, but the angle and gravity and oversensitive skin all combine to make every muscle in Arthur’s body quiver.
Eames taps the side of Arthur’s ass with the flat of his hand. “Shush. Be a good boy now.”
Arthur growls, pushing back. Two can play that fucking game. He moans louder on the next thrust, and this time Eames smacks him hard enough for it to sting.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Eames warns, holding him down and rocking up into him.
“Maybe I like it when you hurt me,” Arthur says, breathless, and it’s true and they both know it.
Eames smacks him again, harder, and Arthur arches into the sharp pain and soft warmth that spreads across his ass in its wake. He’s too sensitive to enjoy a slow, gentle fucking, but this… this he can take.
He moans on every thrust when Eames starts fucking up into him in earnest, using his feet on the floor for leverage. Arthur can feel the flex of Eames’s powerful thighs beneath his, rippling under his ass, and it just makes him lean forward and moan louder while each blow on his skin gets harder and closer together. His ass must be red by now, the shape of Eames’s hand stained onto his skin.
“Are you done yet?” Eames mocks.
Arthur just groans. He can feel it, the heavy tension of orgasm creeping up his spine but he can’t quite get over the edge, not after being wrung out twice already this morning. His cock is hard and leaking, dripping down the shaft as Eames bounces him on his lap, but he still can’t fucking come. “I can’t,” he says, throat raw.
“Yes you can,” Eames grits out, shaking, thrusting up one last time before coming.
The splash of heat inside him does something to Arthur, feeling that wetness and knowing it’s Eames, and he finally comes with a sharp cry, twisting in Eames’s grip.
He slumps back against Eames’s chest until Eames grabs his waist and lifts him off his softening cock, manhandling him around until they’re chest to chest, Arthur’s knees digging in to the couch on either side of Eames’s hips.
Arthur nuzzles his neck, too tired to even care that his breakfast has gone cold on the coffee table.
“So,” Eames says, cupping Arthur’s stinging ass in both hands gently, soothingly. “Vegas?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “You can’t change my mind with sex,” he murmurs, licking Eames’s sweaty throat.
Even as he says it, Arthur knows they’re definitely going to Vegas.
This one here is just a barn porn ficlet, written in five minutes. In a coffee shop. While being heckled. XD *hearts and hearts for cons*
The rain stared it. If not for the rain Arthur wouldn’t be shoved down in the scratchy hay, water dripping on his face through gaps in the barn roof while Eames pushes his legs further apart and thrusts in.
A convenient peal of thunder covers Arthur’s cry. He’s barely prepared, nothing but makeshift lube and a couple of complimentary fingers, but the burn distracts him from the deeper sting in his shoulder where a stray bullet grazed him earlier.
“This is a terrible idea,” he pants,even as he wraps his legs around Eames’s waist and drags him in closer.
Eames drops down onto his elbows, nuzzling into Arthur’s neck with rain-damp skin. “We’re holed up for the storm. Those arseholes will be too.”
He punctuates the words with a hard thrust and Arthur sucks in a breath, tastes the thick scent of leather and farm animal in the air. “If I get caught with my pants down--” Arthur shudders and groans.
“You won’t, darling,” Eames says, sliding his hand down to lift Arthur’s thigh higher. “You won’t.”