Perfection, 1/1
Title: Perfection
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6000
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Arthur's a virgin. Eames is baffled.
Author's Note: Written for this prompt: Arthur is a virgin (it's a cliche and I don't care) and that's why he always shoots Eames down. He's afraid he'll be terrible in bed and ruin his chance for true love. Eames finds out and decides to prove Arthur is perfect anyway. And apparently I'm incapable of writing anything short. And that Broken Toy sequel is in the works! Part one will maybe even be up later today or tomorrow! In the meantime, have some PWP. :D;
Eames is just about to congratulate himself on a job well done when he hears the telltale click of a gun being cocked next to his head.
"Hello, Eames."
"Darling," Eames grins, dropping his disguise at once and turning around. Arthur's expression is perfectly unreadable, though a faint ghost of a cool smile hovers round his lips, and the hand holding the gun doesn't waver a bit. "Fancy meeting you here," says Eames.
"It's my subconscious," says Arthur.
"Oh. Well. How about that, then."
Arthur takes a step forward and Eames flinches just a tiny bit -- he can't quite help it. Then Arthur does smile, and it's not just cool but downright cold, the kind of smile that goes straight to Eames' groin. He twitches the gun toward the line of safety deposit boxes at Eames' back.
"Open it."
Eames regards him suspiciously. It wouldn't be entirely unlike Arthur to shoot him in the back of the head the second he turns around, or to perhaps just toss the gun and grab him in a sleeper hold or something. On the other hand, if Arthur wanted to attack him, surely he would have by now.
"Just because my subconscious isn't militarized anymore doesn't mean my secrets aren't protected," says Arthur calmly. "You would have to go much deeper to find anything of consequence. I think this is what you were looking for, though. So." He quirks the gun again. "Open it."
Militarized anymore? Christ, he does guard his secrets well, Eames thinks grudgingly. And he'd thought accessing this box was tricky enough.
He turns and pulls open the safety deposit box. His hand falters for just a moment before he picks up the thin envelope inside. He'd much rather have done this without Arthur standing right behind him. He slits it open with his thumbnail anyway and starts reading the officious-looking document inside, quickly. What he reads makes him gape momentarily.
"Arth--" he starts.
The gun goes off and even though the bullet lodges itself squarely in Eames' brain, he still swears he can taste metal for a second there before waking up in the warehouse.
+
Eames is fidgety all the next day. He has to wait until Ariadne leaves the warehouse for a coffee run and Arthur goes from her stack of designs back over to his own desk, and then Eames pounces.
"Never?" he says, sliding onto Arthur's desk. "Never?"
"You're sitting on my notebook," says Arthur mildly.
"Darling, there is so much at stake here. Now when you -- your subconscious -- says you've never had sex, define exactly what it means. Inquiring minds are desperate to know."
Arthur gives him that look, that's part exasperation and part amusement, and for some reason it bothers Eames that he's just cool as a fucking cucumber over this. The man's in his late twenties and he's never had sex. Ever. Ever. Eames can't wrap his head around this.
"Never?" Eames says again, with faint desperation. He thinks of himself at Arthur's age, and oh, he's missed out on so much. "Never had a tumble in the backseat of a car? Never experimented at college?"
"Some of us were actually learning things at college," says Arthur. He shrugs. "It just never seemed ... feasible."
Why does that, of all things, send a little punch of arousal into Eames' gut? He groans. "Are you trying to turn me on?"
"I can say with certainty that I'm not." He slides the posh little notebook out from underneath Eames, without so much as brushing him with his fingers. For one wild second Eames has the impulse to reach out and grab his wrist. He refrains. "Go back to your desk, Mr. Eames."
"Just explain to me," Eames persists. "You should be begging me to deflower you, darling. Why wait? Saving yourself for someone special or something?"
"Or something." The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches.
"But you kissed me," says Eames, inexplicably stung all of a sudden. "At the bar, last week. You like me."
Arthur's pen scrawls idly over a page. The notebook is tilted away from Eames. He wonders what it says. 12:47 - Propositioned by forger for the 736th time. Must pencil in a time to shoot him in the groin.
At long last, Arthur answers without looking up from his notebook. "I suppose I was drunk."
Eames has seen Arthur drunk and he knows, when Arthur kissed him last week, that had not been Arthur drunk. Arthur tipsy, perhaps a little. But he'd kissed Eames like he'd been secretly longing to do it for almost as long as Eames has, and it had been perfect and sweet and not rushed.
And then he'd left Eames standing outside the bar with a throbbing erection, not even scrounging up the decency to say goodnight.
"You can't shoot me down forever," he says.
"We'll see," says Arthur flippantly, and then Ariadne's back with drinks, and he doesn't speak to Eames again for the rest of the day.
+
Eames holds out for three days, which he thinks he deserves a medal for, but on the third night Arthur opens the door to his apartment and finds Eames lounging in an armchair like he owns the place.
"How did you get in?" Arthur inquires while tossing his keys into a decorative bowl next to the door, as casually as though he's asking what Eames had for lunch today.
"Thief, remember?" says Eames.
"Of course. Silly me."
Eames watches while he takes off his suit jacket, leaving on the matching waistcoat, collared shirt and tie. Another casual gesture, but it makes Eames want to jump him and tear off all those pretty clothes right there on the floor. Arthur puts his hands in his pockets and waits for Eames' gaze to travel back up to his face.
Then he says, "You know if you try to rape me I'll dislocate both your arms."
"Arthur," says Eames, offended.
"Just as a starter. Then I suppose I'll wing it. We'll see how much imagination I can muster up."
"Don't be ridiculous," says Eames flatly, getting to his feet. "Do you really think I'd do that?"
Arthur shrugs.
"Well, I wouldn't," says Eames, stung that Arthur would doubt his integrity.
"Okay," says Arthur, putting his head to one side. "Then why are you here?"
"Because you won't talk to me at the warehouse," says Eames. "And I think I deserve an explanation."
"What? Why I'm a virgin? Is this really keeping you up at night, Eames?"
"No. Well -- no." He tries to find his footing in this conversation, though he's distracted by the thought, once again, that Arthur has never had sex. Ever. "I just want to know," he goes on wearily. "Why'd you kiss me? You know how long I've wanted you, Arthur. All this time you've been shooting me down I just didn't think you knew I was serious, I had no idea you're a -- some kind of non-sexual being -- and then you let me think I had a chance!"
Arthur sighs. His hands are restless in his pockets. "It isn't that, Eames. And I'm not."
"Well, what is it, then?" Eames demands. "You hate me that much, that you can't stand the thought of me being your first? Why kiss me, then?"
Arthur looks at the floor, and Eames suddenly notices something strange. Arthur is blushing. It's faint, but his cheeks have definitely flushed pink. Eames has never seen Arthur blush before. It's endearing, and quite mystifying.
"Look, Eames," he starts. His tone of voice makes Eames brace himself for the worst, but then Arthur goes on: "I've wanted -- this -- for at least a year, too, alright?" He looks into Eames' eyes, and yes, his cheeks are definitely growing pinker. Almost resentfully, he adds, "Hate and love are flip sides of the same coin, you know."
"Oh," says Eames. He's taken aback for a moment. "Then--"
"I can't have sex with you, Eames."
"Why the bloody hell not?" Eames bursts out, rapidly losing patience. He's aware that he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it; it's as though Arthur is waving a shiny toy above his head, and repeatedly taking it away.
Arthur's looking away again, distractedly. "It wouldn't be professional, for a start ..."
Eames closes the distance between them and takes Arthur by the upper arms. Arthur is staring determinedly aside.
"What are you so scared of?" he asks. "Come on, darling. Nothing scares you. You're Arthur."
"That," says Arthur abruptly, pushing Eames' hands off him. "The way you treat me ... like I'm--"
"The gorgeous, fuckable piece of eye candy that you are?"
"No," says Arthur, lifting his gaze again. His expression is dark and serious. "Like I'm perfect, or something. I know you're joking half the time, but the other half -- I never know what you expect from me. Or what you'd say if I did anything less than ... perfectly."
Somewhere in the dim recesses of Eames' brain, a lightbulb flickers on. "Arthur, wait a moment--"
"I don't know why you've always tried to make me one of your sexual conquests, but I'm not going to do this. You might think it's just a laugh, Eames, but you've done this a hundred times before, and I -- haven't." He swings away to stare out the window, breathing lightly, hiding his expression from Eames. "I don't want you to have ... expectations that I can't meet. I don't want to embarrass myself by disappointing you."
The words are stilted, like every one has been selected carefully, and he sounds very, very out of his depth. Eames almost wants to laugh at him. He doesn't, though.
"Arthur," he starts, and amends, "darling," because he just feels so overwhelmingly fond of him right now. "I wish I were brilliant enough to keep up with you. I wish I looked as put together as you half the time, so that my appearance wouldn't constantly appall and embarrass you. I think the point is that we're not supposed to be perfect. Nobody is. And if you were, you'd have noticed by now that I'm completely mad about you."
Arthur's shoulders twitch, as if in a sob, but when he half turns around the corner of his lip is pulled up in a wry smile. Eames is already right there behind him, taking him by the hips, turning him and kissing him.
Arthur may not have a sexual track record to speak of, but by God, the man can kiss. He can kiss damn well. Eames had wanted to memorize every second of their kiss before; but it was hard when he'd immediately drunk himself stupid to wash the sense of bitterness away. It comes back to him now in a glorious rush, though, the way Arthur tastes and how his mouth feels, fastened to Eames'.
When Eames wraps his arms around Arthur's lower back and pulls their hips flush -- and oh, the always-impeccable point man isn't impervious to arousal after all, because Eames can feel his growing erection pressing into his thigh -- Arthur suddenly pulls away and says in a low gasp, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Come to bed with me, Mr. Eames." He smiles, eyes half closing, and for a second Eames feels like he's the one being helplessly seduced, instead of the other way around.
He finds his voice and says, "Well alright then," hearing how his own voice has just gotten huskier of its own accord, and Arthur leads him backward to the bedroom without taking his eyes off of Eames'. Again, strangely, Eames is the one who feels like a blushing virgin, and thinks perhaps Arthur just has that effect on him.
Eames isn't sure he's ever been harder in his life by the time they reach the bedroom, not even kicking the door shut behind them, and Arthur's kissing him again, trailing his hands up Eames' chest. There's something, something, in the back of Eames' mind -- he sees a glint of silver in the low light from the corner of his eye, the PASIV locked up tight in its suitcase and leaning against the wardrobe, and Eames forcibly parts himself from Arthur's lips and pants against his mouth, "Arthur ... we could do this in the dreamscape ... so it wouldn't hurt afterward?"
Arthur's making that face again, that casual quirk of the eyebrow and upward twitch of the lip, that Eames had formerly pegged as his I'm-better-than-you-in-every-conceivable-way-and-I'm-about-to-prove-it-once again face, but he realizes suddenly that this is Arthur seeking a challenge. "I'd rather it be real," he says simply, and Christ, Eames' gut feels hot enough to kill him.
He can't believe how quickly they've fallen into this, as if all he ever had to do was ask nicely, and he'd be standing here fumbling with the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat and kissing him like his life depends on it. But when he takes a breath to growl his frustration at the stupid fucking buttons and the numerous layers Arthur chooses to wear, he can sense a shift in atmosphere. Eames is a noticer. He almost misses it, he's so distracted, but it's there: the slightest quaking of Arthur's hands when he reaches up to help Eames with the waistcoat.
"No need to be nervous, darling, it's only me," he breathes, pressing his forehead to Arthur's. Arthur's shoulders shake with silent, nervous laughter.
"This isn't what I had planned when I came home this evening," he says.
"Spontaneity is the spice of life," Eames says, finally working the waistcoat off. Arthur catches it before he can toss it aside, steps back a pace so he can fold it primly and set it on the chair in the corner. Eames just pants, watching perplexedly as Arthur starts tugging his shirt free of his trousers and unbuttoning that, too.
"You're not undressing," he points out quietly.
Eames pulls his own shirt over his head and flicks it aside; done. Arthur's gaze travels over his tattoos with interest, his fingers still working at the long line of buttons.
"You're killing me, love," Eames begs him.
"It's an expensive shirt." Arthur finally, finally peels it off and folds it up as well, leaving it on the chair with the waistcoat. With a rush of renewed excitement at the sight of the point man's lean, bare torso, Eames swiftly steps in and grabs him into another tight kiss, hands wandering Arthur's ribcage. Arthur's fingertips graze his skin falteringly, like he isn't sure how much he dares to touch. Eames maneuvers him expertly over to the bed and Arthur must not even notice, because when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he goes down, he momentarily scrambles for a hold as though Eames has just given him a helpful, literal kick in his chair (as Eames is so wont to do).
"Wait," he says suddenly, when Eames drops onto the bed with him, knees on either side of Arthur's hips.
Eames stops. It takes a titanic effort.
"Yes," he says thickly after a second, heart thundering in his ears.
"Just," says Arthur. He licks his bruised lips and swallows, and Eames groans inwardly. "I'm not sure ... the protocol ..."
"Oh," says Eames, not knowing at all what he means. Then, "Oh," when his brain decides to register this. He grins and rolls to the side, landing with a thump onto the mattress at Arthur's side. Less intimidating. "Well, how do you want me, darling?" he drawls. "I'm versatile."
Arthur looks at him sidelong, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I want you inside me," he says, so unabashedly that the jolt sent to Eames' cock is almost painful.
He clears his throat, not grinning anymore. "Alright." His throat, why does it feel so tight? "You could be on top. More control. Might be more comfortable for you."
Arthur closes his eyes and shakes his head. Eames gets it, kind of; he'd rather be the fully receptive party, less pressure on him that way. And more on Eames to do this right. Arthur opens his eyes again and just looks at him, and Eames rolls on top of him again and starts kissing, biting, mouthing at his neck down to his collarbone. His hand is working at Arthur's trousers, and though Arthur has a hand around his wrist, it isn't restraining; more like he just needs to know exactly where Eames' hand is going.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name, darling," Eames murmurs into his ear, pressing a kiss there. His common sense doesn't catch up with him until a few seconds later; he realizes this is a very daunting thing to say to somebody who's never been fucked at all; but Arthur responds with a tightened grip on his wrist and an involuntary jerk of his hips, breath hitching. His reaction sends a little electrical jolt to every nerve ending in Eames' body. It's delicious.
The trousers are much less maddening than the waistcoat and shirt, but they still take far too long in Eames' opinion (that is, longer than immediately) to remove, and when he finally starts to tug them down, Arthur releases his wrist and starts wriggling out of them by himself. A hand on Eames' chest pushes him back a bit so that Arthur can sit up slightly and Jesus H. Christ, Christ, he's folding the pants too. Eames digs his hands into the sheets, screwing his fingers in tight.
"Arthur."
"I just--" Arthur's voice is breathless and apologetic, and Eames just sighs and leans forward to kiss him. When Arthur's done he takes the neatly folded pants out of his hands and hastily slips off the bed to put them onto the chair, too. Whatever, he'll do whatever Arthur wants, anything to do this. Arthur's smile is only the tiniest bit rueful when Eames returns and presses him back down onto the bed again; his expression twists when Eames runs his hand over the front of Arthur's boxers, palming his erection and the spreading damp spot on the material.
"Eames--"
It hits Eames in a heady, intoxicating rush that nobody has ever heard Arthur sound like this -- wrecked like this -- he's going to be the first to tease sounds out of Arthur that he's never made in his life. He's seized with a wicked curiosity and before Arthur can catch onto what he's doing, he ducks down and licks a hard, wet stripe up the line in Arthur's boxers. Arthur's breath catches and the noise he makes in his throat is luscious.
"I'm--" Eames clears his throat again, hearing that weird, extra-heavy huskiness. "I'm gonna take these off, Arthur, alright?"
"Do it," says Arthur. The naked confidence in his voice sends another desperate pang straight to Eames' groin. He isn't bashful, that's for sure, though Eames never really suspected he would be.
He shifts his weight, lifting his hips a fraction so that Eames can slide the boxers down, freeing his cock. Eames swallows hard when he sees it, as his heart seems to have throbbed itself straight into his throat. He can't help himself; he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth, teasing the slit with his tongue. Arthur's entire body seems to jump.
"Fuck, Eames--"
Eames chuckles throatily and slides back. "Nobody's ever done this for you, pet, really?"
"Fuck you," Arthur pants, seeming to misunderstand his intention, but Eames take it in good humour.
"That's the idea," he says blithely, and slides his mouth down over Arthur's cock until it's pressing at the back of his throat, and Eames steels himself because he hasn't done this in awhile -- but he swallows Arthur down first try, and the strangled whine Arthur makes is entirely worth everything Eames has suffered up until this point, the rejections and the clothes-folding and everything. Arthur squirms under his patient hands, his hips hitching involuntarily, and Eames is gracious about this, his tongue dragging firmly along the underside of Arthur's cock.
"Eames ..."
"Mm?" Eames peels away and licks his lips. Arthur's face is flushed. "Is that good, pet?"
"Yes, it's good, it's good ..." Arthur rocks his hips almost unconsciously, trying to find friction, find his way back to Eames' mouth. Eames chuckles again and slides his hand from Arthur's hip down to his thigh, thumbing the crease where his leg meets his torso -- and stops, momentarily struck dumb.
"I," he says, feeling very stupid. "We need--"
Arthur makes a sudden gesture and then he's wriggling out of Eames' hands, crawling up the bed. Eames watches him, his mouth suddenly quite dry, taking him in fully. Arthur is all long limbs and lean, wiry strength and softly defined muscle rolling smoothly under the planes of his skin.
"You're gorgeous, you know," Eames manages to say.
Arthur snorts, but Eames can see the tips of his ears turning pink from here. He's leaning over, yanking open the bedside table drawer, rummaging. He turns and tosses something to Eames, who snaps out of his reverie just in time to catch it.
Lube. Oh, God, Eames loves him.
He looks blankly up at Arthur, who reclines languidly onto the pillow and smiles. "I've thought about this."
And, well, the only response Eames can come up with to that is to crawl up the bed and fit himself snug against Arthur's body and kiss him again, hard, hungrily, greedily. Then he pulls himself away and unsnaps the cap on the bottle of lube. It's never been opened before; his heart squeezes tight for a moment. He's squeezed some out on his fingers and is ducking down when Arthur says quickly, "What are you-- oh--"
Eames freezes, lips a centimetre from Arthur's cock, glistening beautifully in a slick sheen of saliva. His hand is hovering next to Arthur's inner thigh. He needs to slow down, he reminds himself forcibly. "I'm just going to--"
"Okay," Arthur cuts him off, getting it. Eames presses a grateful kiss to the inside of his thigh and slides his other hand under one of Arthur's knees, hiking his leg up. Carefully, he slides his lubed hand behind Arthur's scrotum to the crease there. Arthur makes a compulsive grabbing motion at the sheets when Eames pushes one finger in steadily and runs his tongue up the shaft of Arthur's cock in the same movement.
He doesn't make a sound as Eames slowly, gently, strokes his finger in and out, barely a knuckle deep, Arthur is so tight. He licks and sucks langorously, and tries to coax Arthur open, and can hear the point man dragging in deep, harsh breaths. It's not like the sounds he was making before. These are sounds Eames has heard before, when Arthur's been shot in the dreamscape and doesn't say a damn word, just breathes deep and returns fire with artful control.
"You need to relax," Eames says softly.
Arthur huffs out a shaky breath. "Eames ..."
"Do you want to stop?" Eames asks, and his aching hard-on wails, please God no.
"No," Arthur says, thankfully. Eames lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Then relax." He presses a kiss to Arthur's hip bone. "I'll take good care of you, love."
Arthur's fingers scrunch up the bedsheets when Eames takes him in his mouth again. "How old were you when you did this?" he asks suddenly after a moment, breathless.
"Mmm," says Eames thoughtfully around a mouthful of cock. He slides off and shifts forward so he can rest his chin on Arthur's flat stomach, and slips his finger out. Arthur twitches at this, but keeps a straight face. "When I was in your position? I was fifteen. My partner was an overzealous twenty-three-year-old."
"Did you enjoy it?" Arthur asks, his chest rising and falling quickly.
"No. It hurt. There was blood," says Eames flatly.
"Oh."
"That's why you're so lucky you have me." He kisses Arthur's stomach, then stretches out and trails kisses all the way up his chest, to his collarbone, up to his neck. Arthur winds a hand into his hair like he can't help himself, and Eames can almost hear his racing pulse. Arthur is still so tense. When Eames tilts his head back, he can see Arthur's gaze angled down, below Eames' waist. He can tell that calculating mind is working -- wondering what's hidden in those tight, atrociously-designed tweed trousers -- thinking bleakly to himself, how the hell will it fit?
Eames stops kissing him, stops everything, just plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur's shoulders so he can prop himself up and look him in the face. "Arthur, stop thinking for a moment," he orders. Arthur looks him in the eyes, expressionless but still breathing hard through his nose. He doesn't look like the ice-cold point man Eames has battled through firefights with. He looks very young, and strangely vulnerable, with strands of hair falling out of place. Eames sinks onto one elbow and brushes them back.
"I just don't know what I'm doing," Arthur says, and he almost manages to sound calm, but his voice quavers just the slightest bit.
Eames sighs and leans down, resting his forehead against Arthur's. "Arthur," he says. "This isn't supposed to be about -- just getting it in there."
"No?"
"No." Eames kisses him on the lips, chastely. "It's supposed to be about you relaxing and enjoying yourself. That's all you've got to do, love. We're not in any rush, you know."
Arthur looks at him with those dark eyes, just faintly starting to smile again. "Alright, Mr. Eames," he says quietly, after a long minute in which they just catch their breath and graze lips. "Show me how it's done."
Eames kisses him again and reaches for the lube. He adds more and slips back down the bed to try again, and Arthur hikes one knee up again helpfully. He's almost dizzy with how badly he wants to just shove Arthur over and fuck him open, but he has to be slow, slow. Slow enough to make it good. He pushes his finger in again (slowly) and meets resistance, a tight ring of muscle quite convinced that he isn't supposed to be there. Eames' stubbled cheek grazes Arthur's thigh and he murmurs, "Remember to breathe," and pushes -- and in the same instant, Arthur draws a shuddering breath and manages to relax, a little. Eames praises him, laying kisses on him, and then has to wait for Arthur to adjust before he goes further.
It's more foreplay than he's ever spent time on in his life and it's driving him crazy, unraveling him in an agonizingly sweet way. Now he's got two fingers inside Arthur, stretching him open, and the point man's wrigging a little, starting to groan in a way that indicates less discomfort than pleasure, and Eames knows, if he can just find that spot...
Arthur's whole body clenches and he jumps, eyes flying open. Aha.
Eames grins wolfishly at him and crooks his fingers. He can feel that tight bundle of nerves and he strokes just around it, not wanting Arthur to become oversensitized too quickly; just teasing strokes, pressing down and twisting...
"Eames," Arthur gasps, trying to twist away and push himself back down on Eames' hand at the same time. His hand in Eames' hair grips sharply, the other one gripping a handful of bedsheets white-knuckled. Then he reaches out, leans down and grabs Eames by the belt loop, hauling him forward so that Eames' fingers slide out of him -- Arthur groans again, briefly -- and then he's grabbing at the zip of Eames' pants, fighting to get them off. Eames helps him gladly. In another moment his trousers hit the floor next to the bed, followed by his boxers. Arthur's gaze skates over him quickly, drinking him in, before Eames flattens him to the bed and kisses him till he can't breathe.
"Eames," Arthur gulps, when he can speak again. His hand comes up to cradle Eames' cheek roughly. "You can fuck me now. I need you to -- I'm ready now, please -- just--"
He's babbling; Eames has never heard him babble in all the years they've known each other and it's as much a terrific turn-on as everything else is. He's trying to tell himself to slow the fuck down again, but it's as though somebody's tapped him on the shoulder and said, Hello, old chap. Not to rush you or anything, but if you don't get in there right the fuck now you are going to die.
He rocks back onto his knees and grabs the lube again -- Arthur's scrabbling for something in the bedside table drawer again -- Eames coats his hand in lube again but before he can wrap it around his cock, Arthur's tearing open a condom wrapper (with his teeth, forfuck'ssake). Always prepared, the point man; Eames loves him for it. Arthur starts to lean forward, holding the condom, but then pauses, brow furrowed, and a laugh wells up in Eames when he realizes Arthur just plain has no idea how to put a condom on.
"The public school system failed you, pet," he rasps, taking the condom, and Arthur dips forward to bite at his lower lip.
"Private school, actually ..."
Eames breathes a moan into Arthur's mouth as he slides the condom on and wraps a hand around himself, finally, the relief amazing and still nowhere near as good as it's going to be. He's embarrassingly, achingly hard, and he's liberal with the lube but doesn't drag things out anymore; he pushes Arthur back down onto the mattress and hooks one arm under Arthur's knee for better leverage. And finally, yes, he's guiding himself in, the head of his cock prodding at Arthur's entrance -- "Breathe," he forces out, and Arther's arm is tangled around his and Arthur's eyes are fixed on his and he takes a breath. Eames slides in and they both groan, his head tipping forward and landing on Arthur's shoulder.
"Bear down a bit, love," Eames grunts, when he finds his voice, and he's not sure Arthur knows what he means but at least the point man's making a conscious effort to relax because he's loosening up, just a little; clenching around Eames just a little less painfully.
And oh, God, it's sweet. He's so tight and so, so hot, like a damn furnace inside. Eames sucks in a few deep breaths of his own, feeling like if he so much as moves he might just come instantly -- like it's his first time, too. Arthur is gasping against his shoulder.
"More?" Eames breathes.
"Yes," Arthur pants, and even his voice sounds tight.
Eames shifts in further. Just a bit, and then he drags back, till he's nearly pulled out.
"Hey," Arthur says suddenly, breath catching like he's gone for a step that isn't there.
Eames has to grin at his tone, and he's pushing back in, steadily, confidently, till Arthur's whole body shivers and his fingers scrape down Eames' back, and Eames has to swallow his next moan. And then back out again. He's starting to find a semblance of a rhythm, never burying his length more than halfway deep, badly as he wants to just pound Arthur into the mattress. And it's not that Eames is a gentleman, it's just that this is how fucking bad he wants Arthur, that he's doing this, slow and patient, and actually? It feels good, really fucking good. So good he almost can't believe it, the way Arthur's body grips his cock like a vice as if it never wants him to leave, the breathy, strangled sounds Arthur makes (he's never made before, ever), the fact that this is Arthur, cool and composed and perfect Arthur writhing under him and gripping his shoulders like he'll die if he doesn't.
And then Arthur's lips find his ear, and he growls, "More."
The word becomes a chill that scampers straight down Eames' spine. He doesn't question the point man, because he knows this tone of voice too well for that. Instead, he hitches Arthur's knee up even higher, adjusts, changing the angle of his thrusts, and then snaps his hips forward. Arthur jolts and muffles a cry by biting into Eames' shoulder, and, taken by surprise, Eames thrusts in deeper. Now their rhythm is becoming much smoother, the pace faster as Arthur adjusts to that bewildering sensation of fullness.
"You're so tight, little darling," Eames breathes into his neck. "And you feel so good--"
"More, give me more, Eames, please--"
Eames shifts again, pushes in deeper still. "You've thought about this, Arthur? Thought about riding my cock? Or perhaps just lying here and taking it like you are now -- you look so beautiful like this, darling--"
"Eames, fuck, Eames ..."
"Perfect," Eames says in a shuddering gasp, suddenly hilting himself in Arthur. Arthur bites off a startled sound at that, but can't help a high-pitched moan every time Eames thrusts into him, fucking his prostate every time. He reaches blindly for Eames' face, presses their lips together in a wet and desperate kiss, and Eames shifts his weight and reaches down between them till he finds where Arthur's cock is pressing into his stomach.
Arthur arches off the bed, fingers clutching frantically at Eames, when Eames wraps a hand around him, and it only takes a few quick, jerky pulls and then Arthur's coming, his entire body jolting, his head falls back and a strangled shout escapes him as wet heat pours over Eames' fingers. Inside he clenches around Eames in spasms and then Eames is coming too, thrusting once, twice more before he falls forward and lets his forehead hit the pillow, eyes closing against the starbursts that take over his vision, and he's never been one for cliches but it's fucking fireworks, it really is. It's every good thing he's ever felt and then some.
They're both still for a minute, just catching their breath in great gulps. When Eames finally starts to disentangle himself and pulls out, they both hiss softly. He rolls over and hits the mattress with a thud, feeling all kinds of warm and sated and content.
When he realizes Arthur hasn't said anything for awhile, Eames says, "Well?"
"Well?" Arthur echoes breathlessly.
"How was that?"
Arthur seems to consider the question for a long moment. "That was ..." he says, blinking up at the ceiling dazedly. His entire demeanour has changed, rumpled and dishevelled, and Eames loves this, too. Finally, he manages to finish, "Categorically unprofessional."
Eames lets a rumbling laugh build up in his chest and spill out from his throat, and kisses him again.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6000
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Arthur's a virgin. Eames is baffled.
Author's Note: Written for this prompt: Arthur is a virgin (it's a cliche and I don't care) and that's why he always shoots Eames down. He's afraid he'll be terrible in bed and ruin his chance for true love. Eames finds out and decides to prove Arthur is perfect anyway. And apparently I'm incapable of writing anything short. And that Broken Toy sequel is in the works! Part one will maybe even be up later today or tomorrow! In the meantime, have some PWP. :D;
Eames is just about to congratulate himself on a job well done when he hears the telltale click of a gun being cocked next to his head.
"Hello, Eames."
"Darling," Eames grins, dropping his disguise at once and turning around. Arthur's expression is perfectly unreadable, though a faint ghost of a cool smile hovers round his lips, and the hand holding the gun doesn't waver a bit. "Fancy meeting you here," says Eames.
"It's my subconscious," says Arthur.
"Oh. Well. How about that, then."
Arthur takes a step forward and Eames flinches just a tiny bit -- he can't quite help it. Then Arthur does smile, and it's not just cool but downright cold, the kind of smile that goes straight to Eames' groin. He twitches the gun toward the line of safety deposit boxes at Eames' back.
"Open it."
Eames regards him suspiciously. It wouldn't be entirely unlike Arthur to shoot him in the back of the head the second he turns around, or to perhaps just toss the gun and grab him in a sleeper hold or something. On the other hand, if Arthur wanted to attack him, surely he would have by now.
"Just because my subconscious isn't militarized anymore doesn't mean my secrets aren't protected," says Arthur calmly. "You would have to go much deeper to find anything of consequence. I think this is what you were looking for, though. So." He quirks the gun again. "Open it."
Militarized anymore? Christ, he does guard his secrets well, Eames thinks grudgingly. And he'd thought accessing this box was tricky enough.
He turns and pulls open the safety deposit box. His hand falters for just a moment before he picks up the thin envelope inside. He'd much rather have done this without Arthur standing right behind him. He slits it open with his thumbnail anyway and starts reading the officious-looking document inside, quickly. What he reads makes him gape momentarily.
"Arth--" he starts.
The gun goes off and even though the bullet lodges itself squarely in Eames' brain, he still swears he can taste metal for a second there before waking up in the warehouse.
+
Eames is fidgety all the next day. He has to wait until Ariadne leaves the warehouse for a coffee run and Arthur goes from her stack of designs back over to his own desk, and then Eames pounces.
"Never?" he says, sliding onto Arthur's desk. "Never?"
"You're sitting on my notebook," says Arthur mildly.
"Darling, there is so much at stake here. Now when you -- your subconscious -- says you've never had sex, define exactly what it means. Inquiring minds are desperate to know."
Arthur gives him that look, that's part exasperation and part amusement, and for some reason it bothers Eames that he's just cool as a fucking cucumber over this. The man's in his late twenties and he's never had sex. Ever. Ever. Eames can't wrap his head around this.
"Never?" Eames says again, with faint desperation. He thinks of himself at Arthur's age, and oh, he's missed out on so much. "Never had a tumble in the backseat of a car? Never experimented at college?"
"Some of us were actually learning things at college," says Arthur. He shrugs. "It just never seemed ... feasible."
Why does that, of all things, send a little punch of arousal into Eames' gut? He groans. "Are you trying to turn me on?"
"I can say with certainty that I'm not." He slides the posh little notebook out from underneath Eames, without so much as brushing him with his fingers. For one wild second Eames has the impulse to reach out and grab his wrist. He refrains. "Go back to your desk, Mr. Eames."
"Just explain to me," Eames persists. "You should be begging me to deflower you, darling. Why wait? Saving yourself for someone special or something?"
"Or something." The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches.
"But you kissed me," says Eames, inexplicably stung all of a sudden. "At the bar, last week. You like me."
Arthur's pen scrawls idly over a page. The notebook is tilted away from Eames. He wonders what it says. 12:47 - Propositioned by forger for the 736th time. Must pencil in a time to shoot him in the groin.
At long last, Arthur answers without looking up from his notebook. "I suppose I was drunk."
Eames has seen Arthur drunk and he knows, when Arthur kissed him last week, that had not been Arthur drunk. Arthur tipsy, perhaps a little. But he'd kissed Eames like he'd been secretly longing to do it for almost as long as Eames has, and it had been perfect and sweet and not rushed.
And then he'd left Eames standing outside the bar with a throbbing erection, not even scrounging up the decency to say goodnight.
"You can't shoot me down forever," he says.
"We'll see," says Arthur flippantly, and then Ariadne's back with drinks, and he doesn't speak to Eames again for the rest of the day.
+
Eames holds out for three days, which he thinks he deserves a medal for, but on the third night Arthur opens the door to his apartment and finds Eames lounging in an armchair like he owns the place.
"How did you get in?" Arthur inquires while tossing his keys into a decorative bowl next to the door, as casually as though he's asking what Eames had for lunch today.
"Thief, remember?" says Eames.
"Of course. Silly me."
Eames watches while he takes off his suit jacket, leaving on the matching waistcoat, collared shirt and tie. Another casual gesture, but it makes Eames want to jump him and tear off all those pretty clothes right there on the floor. Arthur puts his hands in his pockets and waits for Eames' gaze to travel back up to his face.
Then he says, "You know if you try to rape me I'll dislocate both your arms."
"Arthur," says Eames, offended.
"Just as a starter. Then I suppose I'll wing it. We'll see how much imagination I can muster up."
"Don't be ridiculous," says Eames flatly, getting to his feet. "Do you really think I'd do that?"
Arthur shrugs.
"Well, I wouldn't," says Eames, stung that Arthur would doubt his integrity.
"Okay," says Arthur, putting his head to one side. "Then why are you here?"
"Because you won't talk to me at the warehouse," says Eames. "And I think I deserve an explanation."
"What? Why I'm a virgin? Is this really keeping you up at night, Eames?"
"No. Well -- no." He tries to find his footing in this conversation, though he's distracted by the thought, once again, that Arthur has never had sex. Ever. "I just want to know," he goes on wearily. "Why'd you kiss me? You know how long I've wanted you, Arthur. All this time you've been shooting me down I just didn't think you knew I was serious, I had no idea you're a -- some kind of non-sexual being -- and then you let me think I had a chance!"
Arthur sighs. His hands are restless in his pockets. "It isn't that, Eames. And I'm not."
"Well, what is it, then?" Eames demands. "You hate me that much, that you can't stand the thought of me being your first? Why kiss me, then?"
Arthur looks at the floor, and Eames suddenly notices something strange. Arthur is blushing. It's faint, but his cheeks have definitely flushed pink. Eames has never seen Arthur blush before. It's endearing, and quite mystifying.
"Look, Eames," he starts. His tone of voice makes Eames brace himself for the worst, but then Arthur goes on: "I've wanted -- this -- for at least a year, too, alright?" He looks into Eames' eyes, and yes, his cheeks are definitely growing pinker. Almost resentfully, he adds, "Hate and love are flip sides of the same coin, you know."
"Oh," says Eames. He's taken aback for a moment. "Then--"
"I can't have sex with you, Eames."
"Why the bloody hell not?" Eames bursts out, rapidly losing patience. He's aware that he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it; it's as though Arthur is waving a shiny toy above his head, and repeatedly taking it away.
Arthur's looking away again, distractedly. "It wouldn't be professional, for a start ..."
Eames closes the distance between them and takes Arthur by the upper arms. Arthur is staring determinedly aside.
"What are you so scared of?" he asks. "Come on, darling. Nothing scares you. You're Arthur."
"That," says Arthur abruptly, pushing Eames' hands off him. "The way you treat me ... like I'm--"
"The gorgeous, fuckable piece of eye candy that you are?"
"No," says Arthur, lifting his gaze again. His expression is dark and serious. "Like I'm perfect, or something. I know you're joking half the time, but the other half -- I never know what you expect from me. Or what you'd say if I did anything less than ... perfectly."
Somewhere in the dim recesses of Eames' brain, a lightbulb flickers on. "Arthur, wait a moment--"
"I don't know why you've always tried to make me one of your sexual conquests, but I'm not going to do this. You might think it's just a laugh, Eames, but you've done this a hundred times before, and I -- haven't." He swings away to stare out the window, breathing lightly, hiding his expression from Eames. "I don't want you to have ... expectations that I can't meet. I don't want to embarrass myself by disappointing you."
The words are stilted, like every one has been selected carefully, and he sounds very, very out of his depth. Eames almost wants to laugh at him. He doesn't, though.
"Arthur," he starts, and amends, "darling," because he just feels so overwhelmingly fond of him right now. "I wish I were brilliant enough to keep up with you. I wish I looked as put together as you half the time, so that my appearance wouldn't constantly appall and embarrass you. I think the point is that we're not supposed to be perfect. Nobody is. And if you were, you'd have noticed by now that I'm completely mad about you."
Arthur's shoulders twitch, as if in a sob, but when he half turns around the corner of his lip is pulled up in a wry smile. Eames is already right there behind him, taking him by the hips, turning him and kissing him.
Arthur may not have a sexual track record to speak of, but by God, the man can kiss. He can kiss damn well. Eames had wanted to memorize every second of their kiss before; but it was hard when he'd immediately drunk himself stupid to wash the sense of bitterness away. It comes back to him now in a glorious rush, though, the way Arthur tastes and how his mouth feels, fastened to Eames'.
When Eames wraps his arms around Arthur's lower back and pulls their hips flush -- and oh, the always-impeccable point man isn't impervious to arousal after all, because Eames can feel his growing erection pressing into his thigh -- Arthur suddenly pulls away and says in a low gasp, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Come to bed with me, Mr. Eames." He smiles, eyes half closing, and for a second Eames feels like he's the one being helplessly seduced, instead of the other way around.
He finds his voice and says, "Well alright then," hearing how his own voice has just gotten huskier of its own accord, and Arthur leads him backward to the bedroom without taking his eyes off of Eames'. Again, strangely, Eames is the one who feels like a blushing virgin, and thinks perhaps Arthur just has that effect on him.
Eames isn't sure he's ever been harder in his life by the time they reach the bedroom, not even kicking the door shut behind them, and Arthur's kissing him again, trailing his hands up Eames' chest. There's something, something, in the back of Eames' mind -- he sees a glint of silver in the low light from the corner of his eye, the PASIV locked up tight in its suitcase and leaning against the wardrobe, and Eames forcibly parts himself from Arthur's lips and pants against his mouth, "Arthur ... we could do this in the dreamscape ... so it wouldn't hurt afterward?"
Arthur's making that face again, that casual quirk of the eyebrow and upward twitch of the lip, that Eames had formerly pegged as his I'm-better-than-you-in-every-conceivable-way-and-I'm-about-to-prove-it-once again face, but he realizes suddenly that this is Arthur seeking a challenge. "I'd rather it be real," he says simply, and Christ, Eames' gut feels hot enough to kill him.
He can't believe how quickly they've fallen into this, as if all he ever had to do was ask nicely, and he'd be standing here fumbling with the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat and kissing him like his life depends on it. But when he takes a breath to growl his frustration at the stupid fucking buttons and the numerous layers Arthur chooses to wear, he can sense a shift in atmosphere. Eames is a noticer. He almost misses it, he's so distracted, but it's there: the slightest quaking of Arthur's hands when he reaches up to help Eames with the waistcoat.
"No need to be nervous, darling, it's only me," he breathes, pressing his forehead to Arthur's. Arthur's shoulders shake with silent, nervous laughter.
"This isn't what I had planned when I came home this evening," he says.
"Spontaneity is the spice of life," Eames says, finally working the waistcoat off. Arthur catches it before he can toss it aside, steps back a pace so he can fold it primly and set it on the chair in the corner. Eames just pants, watching perplexedly as Arthur starts tugging his shirt free of his trousers and unbuttoning that, too.
"You're not undressing," he points out quietly.
Eames pulls his own shirt over his head and flicks it aside; done. Arthur's gaze travels over his tattoos with interest, his fingers still working at the long line of buttons.
"You're killing me, love," Eames begs him.
"It's an expensive shirt." Arthur finally, finally peels it off and folds it up as well, leaving it on the chair with the waistcoat. With a rush of renewed excitement at the sight of the point man's lean, bare torso, Eames swiftly steps in and grabs him into another tight kiss, hands wandering Arthur's ribcage. Arthur's fingertips graze his skin falteringly, like he isn't sure how much he dares to touch. Eames maneuvers him expertly over to the bed and Arthur must not even notice, because when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he goes down, he momentarily scrambles for a hold as though Eames has just given him a helpful, literal kick in his chair (as Eames is so wont to do).
"Wait," he says suddenly, when Eames drops onto the bed with him, knees on either side of Arthur's hips.
Eames stops. It takes a titanic effort.
"Yes," he says thickly after a second, heart thundering in his ears.
"Just," says Arthur. He licks his bruised lips and swallows, and Eames groans inwardly. "I'm not sure ... the protocol ..."
"Oh," says Eames, not knowing at all what he means. Then, "Oh," when his brain decides to register this. He grins and rolls to the side, landing with a thump onto the mattress at Arthur's side. Less intimidating. "Well, how do you want me, darling?" he drawls. "I'm versatile."
Arthur looks at him sidelong, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I want you inside me," he says, so unabashedly that the jolt sent to Eames' cock is almost painful.
He clears his throat, not grinning anymore. "Alright." His throat, why does it feel so tight? "You could be on top. More control. Might be more comfortable for you."
Arthur closes his eyes and shakes his head. Eames gets it, kind of; he'd rather be the fully receptive party, less pressure on him that way. And more on Eames to do this right. Arthur opens his eyes again and just looks at him, and Eames rolls on top of him again and starts kissing, biting, mouthing at his neck down to his collarbone. His hand is working at Arthur's trousers, and though Arthur has a hand around his wrist, it isn't restraining; more like he just needs to know exactly where Eames' hand is going.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name, darling," Eames murmurs into his ear, pressing a kiss there. His common sense doesn't catch up with him until a few seconds later; he realizes this is a very daunting thing to say to somebody who's never been fucked at all; but Arthur responds with a tightened grip on his wrist and an involuntary jerk of his hips, breath hitching. His reaction sends a little electrical jolt to every nerve ending in Eames' body. It's delicious.
The trousers are much less maddening than the waistcoat and shirt, but they still take far too long in Eames' opinion (that is, longer than immediately) to remove, and when he finally starts to tug them down, Arthur releases his wrist and starts wriggling out of them by himself. A hand on Eames' chest pushes him back a bit so that Arthur can sit up slightly and Jesus H. Christ, Christ, he's folding the pants too. Eames digs his hands into the sheets, screwing his fingers in tight.
"Arthur."
"I just--" Arthur's voice is breathless and apologetic, and Eames just sighs and leans forward to kiss him. When Arthur's done he takes the neatly folded pants out of his hands and hastily slips off the bed to put them onto the chair, too. Whatever, he'll do whatever Arthur wants, anything to do this. Arthur's smile is only the tiniest bit rueful when Eames returns and presses him back down onto the bed again; his expression twists when Eames runs his hand over the front of Arthur's boxers, palming his erection and the spreading damp spot on the material.
"Eames--"
It hits Eames in a heady, intoxicating rush that nobody has ever heard Arthur sound like this -- wrecked like this -- he's going to be the first to tease sounds out of Arthur that he's never made in his life. He's seized with a wicked curiosity and before Arthur can catch onto what he's doing, he ducks down and licks a hard, wet stripe up the line in Arthur's boxers. Arthur's breath catches and the noise he makes in his throat is luscious.
"I'm--" Eames clears his throat again, hearing that weird, extra-heavy huskiness. "I'm gonna take these off, Arthur, alright?"
"Do it," says Arthur. The naked confidence in his voice sends another desperate pang straight to Eames' groin. He isn't bashful, that's for sure, though Eames never really suspected he would be.
He shifts his weight, lifting his hips a fraction so that Eames can slide the boxers down, freeing his cock. Eames swallows hard when he sees it, as his heart seems to have throbbed itself straight into his throat. He can't help himself; he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth, teasing the slit with his tongue. Arthur's entire body seems to jump.
"Fuck, Eames--"
Eames chuckles throatily and slides back. "Nobody's ever done this for you, pet, really?"
"Fuck you," Arthur pants, seeming to misunderstand his intention, but Eames take it in good humour.
"That's the idea," he says blithely, and slides his mouth down over Arthur's cock until it's pressing at the back of his throat, and Eames steels himself because he hasn't done this in awhile -- but he swallows Arthur down first try, and the strangled whine Arthur makes is entirely worth everything Eames has suffered up until this point, the rejections and the clothes-folding and everything. Arthur squirms under his patient hands, his hips hitching involuntarily, and Eames is gracious about this, his tongue dragging firmly along the underside of Arthur's cock.
"Eames ..."
"Mm?" Eames peels away and licks his lips. Arthur's face is flushed. "Is that good, pet?"
"Yes, it's good, it's good ..." Arthur rocks his hips almost unconsciously, trying to find friction, find his way back to Eames' mouth. Eames chuckles again and slides his hand from Arthur's hip down to his thigh, thumbing the crease where his leg meets his torso -- and stops, momentarily struck dumb.
"I," he says, feeling very stupid. "We need--"
Arthur makes a sudden gesture and then he's wriggling out of Eames' hands, crawling up the bed. Eames watches him, his mouth suddenly quite dry, taking him in fully. Arthur is all long limbs and lean, wiry strength and softly defined muscle rolling smoothly under the planes of his skin.
"You're gorgeous, you know," Eames manages to say.
Arthur snorts, but Eames can see the tips of his ears turning pink from here. He's leaning over, yanking open the bedside table drawer, rummaging. He turns and tosses something to Eames, who snaps out of his reverie just in time to catch it.
Lube. Oh, God, Eames loves him.
He looks blankly up at Arthur, who reclines languidly onto the pillow and smiles. "I've thought about this."
And, well, the only response Eames can come up with to that is to crawl up the bed and fit himself snug against Arthur's body and kiss him again, hard, hungrily, greedily. Then he pulls himself away and unsnaps the cap on the bottle of lube. It's never been opened before; his heart squeezes tight for a moment. He's squeezed some out on his fingers and is ducking down when Arthur says quickly, "What are you-- oh--"
Eames freezes, lips a centimetre from Arthur's cock, glistening beautifully in a slick sheen of saliva. His hand is hovering next to Arthur's inner thigh. He needs to slow down, he reminds himself forcibly. "I'm just going to--"
"Okay," Arthur cuts him off, getting it. Eames presses a grateful kiss to the inside of his thigh and slides his other hand under one of Arthur's knees, hiking his leg up. Carefully, he slides his lubed hand behind Arthur's scrotum to the crease there. Arthur makes a compulsive grabbing motion at the sheets when Eames pushes one finger in steadily and runs his tongue up the shaft of Arthur's cock in the same movement.
He doesn't make a sound as Eames slowly, gently, strokes his finger in and out, barely a knuckle deep, Arthur is so tight. He licks and sucks langorously, and tries to coax Arthur open, and can hear the point man dragging in deep, harsh breaths. It's not like the sounds he was making before. These are sounds Eames has heard before, when Arthur's been shot in the dreamscape and doesn't say a damn word, just breathes deep and returns fire with artful control.
"You need to relax," Eames says softly.
Arthur huffs out a shaky breath. "Eames ..."
"Do you want to stop?" Eames asks, and his aching hard-on wails, please God no.
"No," Arthur says, thankfully. Eames lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Then relax." He presses a kiss to Arthur's hip bone. "I'll take good care of you, love."
Arthur's fingers scrunch up the bedsheets when Eames takes him in his mouth again. "How old were you when you did this?" he asks suddenly after a moment, breathless.
"Mmm," says Eames thoughtfully around a mouthful of cock. He slides off and shifts forward so he can rest his chin on Arthur's flat stomach, and slips his finger out. Arthur twitches at this, but keeps a straight face. "When I was in your position? I was fifteen. My partner was an overzealous twenty-three-year-old."
"Did you enjoy it?" Arthur asks, his chest rising and falling quickly.
"No. It hurt. There was blood," says Eames flatly.
"Oh."
"That's why you're so lucky you have me." He kisses Arthur's stomach, then stretches out and trails kisses all the way up his chest, to his collarbone, up to his neck. Arthur winds a hand into his hair like he can't help himself, and Eames can almost hear his racing pulse. Arthur is still so tense. When Eames tilts his head back, he can see Arthur's gaze angled down, below Eames' waist. He can tell that calculating mind is working -- wondering what's hidden in those tight, atrociously-designed tweed trousers -- thinking bleakly to himself, how the hell will it fit?
Eames stops kissing him, stops everything, just plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur's shoulders so he can prop himself up and look him in the face. "Arthur, stop thinking for a moment," he orders. Arthur looks him in the eyes, expressionless but still breathing hard through his nose. He doesn't look like the ice-cold point man Eames has battled through firefights with. He looks very young, and strangely vulnerable, with strands of hair falling out of place. Eames sinks onto one elbow and brushes them back.
"I just don't know what I'm doing," Arthur says, and he almost manages to sound calm, but his voice quavers just the slightest bit.
Eames sighs and leans down, resting his forehead against Arthur's. "Arthur," he says. "This isn't supposed to be about -- just getting it in there."
"No?"
"No." Eames kisses him on the lips, chastely. "It's supposed to be about you relaxing and enjoying yourself. That's all you've got to do, love. We're not in any rush, you know."
Arthur looks at him with those dark eyes, just faintly starting to smile again. "Alright, Mr. Eames," he says quietly, after a long minute in which they just catch their breath and graze lips. "Show me how it's done."
Eames kisses him again and reaches for the lube. He adds more and slips back down the bed to try again, and Arthur hikes one knee up again helpfully. He's almost dizzy with how badly he wants to just shove Arthur over and fuck him open, but he has to be slow, slow. Slow enough to make it good. He pushes his finger in again (slowly) and meets resistance, a tight ring of muscle quite convinced that he isn't supposed to be there. Eames' stubbled cheek grazes Arthur's thigh and he murmurs, "Remember to breathe," and pushes -- and in the same instant, Arthur draws a shuddering breath and manages to relax, a little. Eames praises him, laying kisses on him, and then has to wait for Arthur to adjust before he goes further.
It's more foreplay than he's ever spent time on in his life and it's driving him crazy, unraveling him in an agonizingly sweet way. Now he's got two fingers inside Arthur, stretching him open, and the point man's wrigging a little, starting to groan in a way that indicates less discomfort than pleasure, and Eames knows, if he can just find that spot...
Arthur's whole body clenches and he jumps, eyes flying open. Aha.
Eames grins wolfishly at him and crooks his fingers. He can feel that tight bundle of nerves and he strokes just around it, not wanting Arthur to become oversensitized too quickly; just teasing strokes, pressing down and twisting...
"Eames," Arthur gasps, trying to twist away and push himself back down on Eames' hand at the same time. His hand in Eames' hair grips sharply, the other one gripping a handful of bedsheets white-knuckled. Then he reaches out, leans down and grabs Eames by the belt loop, hauling him forward so that Eames' fingers slide out of him -- Arthur groans again, briefly -- and then he's grabbing at the zip of Eames' pants, fighting to get them off. Eames helps him gladly. In another moment his trousers hit the floor next to the bed, followed by his boxers. Arthur's gaze skates over him quickly, drinking him in, before Eames flattens him to the bed and kisses him till he can't breathe.
"Eames," Arthur gulps, when he can speak again. His hand comes up to cradle Eames' cheek roughly. "You can fuck me now. I need you to -- I'm ready now, please -- just--"
He's babbling; Eames has never heard him babble in all the years they've known each other and it's as much a terrific turn-on as everything else is. He's trying to tell himself to slow the fuck down again, but it's as though somebody's tapped him on the shoulder and said, Hello, old chap. Not to rush you or anything, but if you don't get in there right the fuck now you are going to die.
He rocks back onto his knees and grabs the lube again -- Arthur's scrabbling for something in the bedside table drawer again -- Eames coats his hand in lube again but before he can wrap it around his cock, Arthur's tearing open a condom wrapper (with his teeth, forfuck'ssake). Always prepared, the point man; Eames loves him for it. Arthur starts to lean forward, holding the condom, but then pauses, brow furrowed, and a laugh wells up in Eames when he realizes Arthur just plain has no idea how to put a condom on.
"The public school system failed you, pet," he rasps, taking the condom, and Arthur dips forward to bite at his lower lip.
"Private school, actually ..."
Eames breathes a moan into Arthur's mouth as he slides the condom on and wraps a hand around himself, finally, the relief amazing and still nowhere near as good as it's going to be. He's embarrassingly, achingly hard, and he's liberal with the lube but doesn't drag things out anymore; he pushes Arthur back down onto the mattress and hooks one arm under Arthur's knee for better leverage. And finally, yes, he's guiding himself in, the head of his cock prodding at Arthur's entrance -- "Breathe," he forces out, and Arther's arm is tangled around his and Arthur's eyes are fixed on his and he takes a breath. Eames slides in and they both groan, his head tipping forward and landing on Arthur's shoulder.
"Bear down a bit, love," Eames grunts, when he finds his voice, and he's not sure Arthur knows what he means but at least the point man's making a conscious effort to relax because he's loosening up, just a little; clenching around Eames just a little less painfully.
And oh, God, it's sweet. He's so tight and so, so hot, like a damn furnace inside. Eames sucks in a few deep breaths of his own, feeling like if he so much as moves he might just come instantly -- like it's his first time, too. Arthur is gasping against his shoulder.
"More?" Eames breathes.
"Yes," Arthur pants, and even his voice sounds tight.
Eames shifts in further. Just a bit, and then he drags back, till he's nearly pulled out.
"Hey," Arthur says suddenly, breath catching like he's gone for a step that isn't there.
Eames has to grin at his tone, and he's pushing back in, steadily, confidently, till Arthur's whole body shivers and his fingers scrape down Eames' back, and Eames has to swallow his next moan. And then back out again. He's starting to find a semblance of a rhythm, never burying his length more than halfway deep, badly as he wants to just pound Arthur into the mattress. And it's not that Eames is a gentleman, it's just that this is how fucking bad he wants Arthur, that he's doing this, slow and patient, and actually? It feels good, really fucking good. So good he almost can't believe it, the way Arthur's body grips his cock like a vice as if it never wants him to leave, the breathy, strangled sounds Arthur makes (he's never made before, ever), the fact that this is Arthur, cool and composed and perfect Arthur writhing under him and gripping his shoulders like he'll die if he doesn't.
And then Arthur's lips find his ear, and he growls, "More."
The word becomes a chill that scampers straight down Eames' spine. He doesn't question the point man, because he knows this tone of voice too well for that. Instead, he hitches Arthur's knee up even higher, adjusts, changing the angle of his thrusts, and then snaps his hips forward. Arthur jolts and muffles a cry by biting into Eames' shoulder, and, taken by surprise, Eames thrusts in deeper. Now their rhythm is becoming much smoother, the pace faster as Arthur adjusts to that bewildering sensation of fullness.
"You're so tight, little darling," Eames breathes into his neck. "And you feel so good--"
"More, give me more, Eames, please--"
Eames shifts again, pushes in deeper still. "You've thought about this, Arthur? Thought about riding my cock? Or perhaps just lying here and taking it like you are now -- you look so beautiful like this, darling--"
"Eames, fuck, Eames ..."
"Perfect," Eames says in a shuddering gasp, suddenly hilting himself in Arthur. Arthur bites off a startled sound at that, but can't help a high-pitched moan every time Eames thrusts into him, fucking his prostate every time. He reaches blindly for Eames' face, presses their lips together in a wet and desperate kiss, and Eames shifts his weight and reaches down between them till he finds where Arthur's cock is pressing into his stomach.
Arthur arches off the bed, fingers clutching frantically at Eames, when Eames wraps a hand around him, and it only takes a few quick, jerky pulls and then Arthur's coming, his entire body jolting, his head falls back and a strangled shout escapes him as wet heat pours over Eames' fingers. Inside he clenches around Eames in spasms and then Eames is coming too, thrusting once, twice more before he falls forward and lets his forehead hit the pillow, eyes closing against the starbursts that take over his vision, and he's never been one for cliches but it's fucking fireworks, it really is. It's every good thing he's ever felt and then some.
They're both still for a minute, just catching their breath in great gulps. When Eames finally starts to disentangle himself and pulls out, they both hiss softly. He rolls over and hits the mattress with a thud, feeling all kinds of warm and sated and content.
When he realizes Arthur hasn't said anything for awhile, Eames says, "Well?"
"Well?" Arthur echoes breathlessly.
"How was that?"
Arthur seems to consider the question for a long moment. "That was ..." he says, blinking up at the ceiling dazedly. His entire demeanour has changed, rumpled and dishevelled, and Eames loves this, too. Finally, he manages to finish, "Categorically unprofessional."
Eames lets a rumbling laugh build up in his chest and spill out from his throat, and kisses him again.