Fic: Bathroom Throat Fuck| Arthur/Eames| R
Title: Bathroom Throat Fuck (not a title, so much as a description)
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC 17
Words: 1917
Warning: Rough sex.
Summary: See title. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own these fictional characters.
Note: I'm trying to get back in the swing of writing.
The sun is fat in the sky. Yellow light drenching the trees, the buildings lining the quiet street as Eames strolls down the cracked sidewalk toward his destination. The fifth house on the block is nearly identical to the houses on either side except for the large oak tree in the yard. An oversized tire, tractor Arthur told him, hangs from the sturdy branches. Eames walks up the path leading to the front door and takes out his key.
Music floats softly on the air as he steps into the house. He stuffs his keys back into his pants, toes off his shoes and pads towards the main bathroom. His bladder is full to the point of painful; he pisses without bothering to close the door. The music shuts off abruptly and the flush of the toilet seems louder than usual in the sudden silence. Eames doesn’t go to investigate. The day was hot, muggy and he wants nothing more than to wash the lingering sticky feel away.
Arthur is leaning in the doorway when Eames steps out the shower. Eames catches the towel Arthur throws at him with one hand. Arthur’s chest is bare and his hair soft, no product. Dark blue boxer briefs cling to his narrow hips. “You’re dripping on the floor,” Arthur says.
“Hello to you, too,” Eames says. He scrubs his hair briefly just to stop it from dripping before running the towel over his neck and chest. Arthur’s watching him with an upward curve to his mouth. His gaze almost palpable, a touch. Arthur steps fully into the bathroom and Eames raises an eyebrow. The smile he gets in return is filthy. Eames’s eyes drop from Arthur’s mouth to the push of his cock against his pants and back up again. He needn’t have bothered because Arthur’s not looking at his face at all.
“I was bored today,” Arthur says, eyes glued firmly to Eames’s cock. “The house is clean and it was too hot to cook anything.”
Eames pushes the towel down his stomach under the guise of drying off until it obscures his cock from view. Arthur’s gaze snaps back up to his. “You were lonely,” Eames says. Arthur steps closer, close enough for Eames to feel the heat coming off his body, and settles his hands on Eames’s hips. His long fingers spread out over the curve of Eames’s ass. Eames’s dick plumps between his thighs.
“I rolled around in bed all day, listening to music and thinking about your cock.” Arthur uses his grip on Eames’s hips to support his weight as he eases down to his knees. Eames sets his towel on the sink and braces his legs apart. Arthur on his knees always gives him a special thrill. For years the only times he’d seen Arthur kneeling was after he’d been shot or someone in their party had taken a grievous wound. Arthur didn’t lower himself lightly.
Arthur glances up at him and gets a hand around his cock. Eames mouth drops open a little at the firm grip and Arthur’s eyes gleam brighter.
His cock is interested, but not fully hard yet, foreskin still hugging the head. Eames shifts a bit when Arthur lips at the thin covering and Arthur hums deep in his throat. He slides his hand toward Eames stomach, pulling Eames’s foreskin back. Arthur touches his tongue to the bared pink head, kitten rough and Eames chokes back a sound. He’s so sensitive there and Arthur’s knows it, regularly takes advantage of it.
Obscene is the only way to describe Arthur as he tongues Eames’s piss hole, licks around the crown of his cock, slicks up the seam. “Yes`,” Eames says softly and Arthur coaxes Eames’s foreskin back over his cockhead and fucks his tongue into it. Wet, nasty-hot sounds fill the bathroom as Arthur thrusts his tongue in and out, in and out before catching the tender skin delicately between his teeth and tugging.
Eames’s knees buckle and he slaps his hands down on the sink counter hard enough to make his palms sting to keep from crumpling to the floor. Arthur stares up at him, smug, teeth still worrying at Eames’s foreskin. Eames gets a hand into the curls at the back of Arthur’s head and yanks. Arthur doesn’t let him go, keeps his teeth closed until Eames is forced to arch his hips to ride the line between pleasure and pain.
“You little fuck,” Eames says admiringly and uses his grip to muscle Arthur back against the sink. Arthur lets go of his dick with a gasp, fingers grasping at Eames’s hips as Arthur tries to maintain his balance. Eames doesn’t stop pulling and shoving until he has Arthur trapped between the sink and the bulk of his body. “Now, now,” Eames says as Arthur’s eyes go from startled wide to vicious little slits, “don’t make any rash decisions.” Or moves.
Arthur’s lips are pressed firmly together, a thin line designed to express his displeasure at Eames’s manhandling, but Arthur’s cock is still obviously hard behind his pants. Eames grins down at him, pushes his hips forward so his cock drags over Arthur’s mouth. He’s sloppy with it, one hand still clutched in Arthur’s curls and the other holding on to a slim wrist.
Precome smears, shiny, across Arthur’s mouth, along his cheekbone and mere seconds go by before Arthur gives. He opens his mouth to lick his lips clean, then to mouth hungrily at Eames cock. “Good boy,” Eames says and releases Arthur’s wrist.
Eames crowds forward until his knees hit the sink’s wooden front. “Open up for me,” he says, voice low. Arthur looks up at him from beneath his lashes and his mouth drops open. Eames places his cock on Arthur’s waiting tongue and hitches his hips to get the angle right. He’s going to fuck Arthur’s throat hoarse.
He starts out shallow because Arthur really does have a talented tongue. Soon, though, Eames is thrusting deep enough to feel the back of Arthur’s throat grasping at his cock. Spit is escaping from the corners of Arthur’s mouth; there’s a small trail down his neck, pooled in the hollow above his collarbone. He’s moaning almost constantly, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering.
On the next stroke in, Eames pushes until the fluttering of Arthur’s eyelashes is matched by the fluttering of his throat around Eames’s cock. Arthur’s hands curve over Eames’s hipbones, but he doesn’t try to push Eames away, simply works on controlling his breathing. Eames can hear him taking deep, ragged breaths through his nose.
“So good for me,” Eames croons and pets the top of Arthur’s head. He pulls back just to press forward again and he’s about to lavish some more praise on the way Arthur’s taking his cock when his reflection in the sink mirror snags his attention.
The edges of the mirror are still fogged up from his shower, but Eames can see his face, chest, stomach, clearly. Eames can’t see Arthur at all; Arthur’s hidden from few on the floor, bracketed by his lower body. His pupils are huge and his bottom lip is red from where he’s been biting down as Arthur tried to destroy him.
Eames jerks his hips and Arthur’s head hits the sink with a crack. Arthur kicks out, surprised, fingers biting into Eames’s skin. “Fuck,” Eames says, staring into his own face. “Fuck,” he says again and goes to fucking town on Arthur’s throat.
Every smack of Arthur’s head against the sink sounds off like a gunshot in the bathroom and the echo of it, the nasty, dirty wrongness of selfishly pushing past all of Arthur’s defenses all but yanks the come right out of him.
He savors the moment, eyes squinched tight, abdominal muscles contracting as he pumps spunk directly down Arthur’s lovely throat. Then, Eames pulls out, muscles Arthur, flailing and gasping for air, up onto the sink top.
Arthur’s perch is precarious; especially, since he continues to writhe about even as Eames tries to situate him as he likes. Eames presses his hand to the middle of Arthur’s chest to keep him from falling off the counter and snarls, “Be the fuck still.” He follows this up with a sharp slap to Arthur’s thigh and Arthur jerks and gasps before settling.
“Thank you,” Eames says, short. Arthur stares up at him with wide eyes. There’s a smear of pink at the corner of his mouth; his bottom lip is bleeding. Eames leans down to lick at the small wound and Arthur grabs at his shoulders.
“Please,” Arthur says. His voice is shot, rough and barely audible. Eames loves it.
“You sound like a well-used whore.” Eames licks his way down Arthur’s neck, smoothes his hand down Arthur’s chest until he’s cupping the heat between Arthur’s thighs. He squeezes short of gently and Arthur’s knees come up, trapping his hand. Eames bites down on his shoulder and Arthur clamps down harder. He’s making loud, pained noises in Eames’s ear. “Stop,” Eames says, and after a moment, Arthur relaxes his legs, lets them fall open until one knee is resting against the mirror and his other leg is dangling off the sink. “You’re so good,” Eames praises him and Arthur bites down on his bottom lip again.
“Let’s get these pants off, shall we?” Eames pulls down the scrap of blue cotton holding Arthur’s cock hostage and makes an appreciative sound when it springs free, curving up toward Arthur’s stomach. “Look at you,” Eames says, “Does it hurt? Are you aching for me?”
Arthur’s cock is flushed, swollen and leaking at the head. Delicious. Eames licks his lips and takes the slick head into his mouth. Arthur shouts, hoarse, and Eames imagines the sound scrapping out of his throat, raw. The image makes him suck harder, pinning Arthur down about the waist, ruthless in his desire to make Arthur come.
The warm rush of fluid coating his tongue and the spastic contractions of Arthur’s muscles beneath Eames’s hands sends a fresh wave of heat through his body. He swallows and keeps licking at Arthur’s cock until Arthur is pushing at his forehead, gearing up to fight his way free of Eames.
Eames lets Arthur’s cock go with one last suck and Arthur releases an exhausted sigh of relief. He hangs limp, half off the sink with only the bulk of Eames’s body keeping him from tumbling to the floor. His hair is sweat and curling around his temple and his mouth is red. The dark fans of Arthur’s eyelashes rest against his flush cheeks and his chest heaves.
He’s beautiful. Eames’s sets Arthur on his feet carefully, steading him as he sways drunkenly. “Arthur,” Eames says, “do you want to take a shower?”
Arthur simply curls his arms around Eames’s shoulder and rests his head against Eames’s collarbone. Eames says, “Well then,” and gets rid of Arthur’s soggy pants and holds him up so Arthur can step free. Eames grabs the towel he used to dry off and pats them both down quickly before swinging Arthur up into his arms.
“You are so ridiculous,” Arthur slurs, but he obligingly tightens his hold around Eames’s neck. Eames makes an indulgent sound and Arthur yawns widely. When they get to the bedroom, Arthur asks,”Stay?” Eames kisses Arthur’s forehead as he settles him on the bed and climbs in behind him, wrapping Arthur up in his arms. Arthur murmurs, “Ridiculous,” again and drifts off to sleep.
Author: ficsoreal
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC 17
Words: 1917
Warning: Rough sex.
Summary: See title. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own these fictional characters.
Note: I'm trying to get back in the swing of writing.
The sun is fat in the sky. Yellow light drenching the trees, the buildings lining the quiet street as Eames strolls down the cracked sidewalk toward his destination. The fifth house on the block is nearly identical to the houses on either side except for the large oak tree in the yard. An oversized tire, tractor Arthur told him, hangs from the sturdy branches. Eames walks up the path leading to the front door and takes out his key.
Music floats softly on the air as he steps into the house. He stuffs his keys back into his pants, toes off his shoes and pads towards the main bathroom. His bladder is full to the point of painful; he pisses without bothering to close the door. The music shuts off abruptly and the flush of the toilet seems louder than usual in the sudden silence. Eames doesn’t go to investigate. The day was hot, muggy and he wants nothing more than to wash the lingering sticky feel away.
Arthur is leaning in the doorway when Eames steps out the shower. Eames catches the towel Arthur throws at him with one hand. Arthur’s chest is bare and his hair soft, no product. Dark blue boxer briefs cling to his narrow hips. “You’re dripping on the floor,” Arthur says.
“Hello to you, too,” Eames says. He scrubs his hair briefly just to stop it from dripping before running the towel over his neck and chest. Arthur’s watching him with an upward curve to his mouth. His gaze almost palpable, a touch. Arthur steps fully into the bathroom and Eames raises an eyebrow. The smile he gets in return is filthy. Eames’s eyes drop from Arthur’s mouth to the push of his cock against his pants and back up again. He needn’t have bothered because Arthur’s not looking at his face at all.
“I was bored today,” Arthur says, eyes glued firmly to Eames’s cock. “The house is clean and it was too hot to cook anything.”
Eames pushes the towel down his stomach under the guise of drying off until it obscures his cock from view. Arthur’s gaze snaps back up to his. “You were lonely,” Eames says. Arthur steps closer, close enough for Eames to feel the heat coming off his body, and settles his hands on Eames’s hips. His long fingers spread out over the curve of Eames’s ass. Eames’s dick plumps between his thighs.
“I rolled around in bed all day, listening to music and thinking about your cock.” Arthur uses his grip on Eames’s hips to support his weight as he eases down to his knees. Eames sets his towel on the sink and braces his legs apart. Arthur on his knees always gives him a special thrill. For years the only times he’d seen Arthur kneeling was after he’d been shot or someone in their party had taken a grievous wound. Arthur didn’t lower himself lightly.
Arthur glances up at him and gets a hand around his cock. Eames mouth drops open a little at the firm grip and Arthur’s eyes gleam brighter.
His cock is interested, but not fully hard yet, foreskin still hugging the head. Eames shifts a bit when Arthur lips at the thin covering and Arthur hums deep in his throat. He slides his hand toward Eames stomach, pulling Eames’s foreskin back. Arthur touches his tongue to the bared pink head, kitten rough and Eames chokes back a sound. He’s so sensitive there and Arthur’s knows it, regularly takes advantage of it.
Obscene is the only way to describe Arthur as he tongues Eames’s piss hole, licks around the crown of his cock, slicks up the seam. “Yes`,” Eames says softly and Arthur coaxes Eames’s foreskin back over his cockhead and fucks his tongue into it. Wet, nasty-hot sounds fill the bathroom as Arthur thrusts his tongue in and out, in and out before catching the tender skin delicately between his teeth and tugging.
Eames’s knees buckle and he slaps his hands down on the sink counter hard enough to make his palms sting to keep from crumpling to the floor. Arthur stares up at him, smug, teeth still worrying at Eames’s foreskin. Eames gets a hand into the curls at the back of Arthur’s head and yanks. Arthur doesn’t let him go, keeps his teeth closed until Eames is forced to arch his hips to ride the line between pleasure and pain.
“You little fuck,” Eames says admiringly and uses his grip to muscle Arthur back against the sink. Arthur lets go of his dick with a gasp, fingers grasping at Eames’s hips as Arthur tries to maintain his balance. Eames doesn’t stop pulling and shoving until he has Arthur trapped between the sink and the bulk of his body. “Now, now,” Eames says as Arthur’s eyes go from startled wide to vicious little slits, “don’t make any rash decisions.” Or moves.
Arthur’s lips are pressed firmly together, a thin line designed to express his displeasure at Eames’s manhandling, but Arthur’s cock is still obviously hard behind his pants. Eames grins down at him, pushes his hips forward so his cock drags over Arthur’s mouth. He’s sloppy with it, one hand still clutched in Arthur’s curls and the other holding on to a slim wrist.
Precome smears, shiny, across Arthur’s mouth, along his cheekbone and mere seconds go by before Arthur gives. He opens his mouth to lick his lips clean, then to mouth hungrily at Eames cock. “Good boy,” Eames says and releases Arthur’s wrist.
Eames crowds forward until his knees hit the sink’s wooden front. “Open up for me,” he says, voice low. Arthur looks up at him from beneath his lashes and his mouth drops open. Eames places his cock on Arthur’s waiting tongue and hitches his hips to get the angle right. He’s going to fuck Arthur’s throat hoarse.
He starts out shallow because Arthur really does have a talented tongue. Soon, though, Eames is thrusting deep enough to feel the back of Arthur’s throat grasping at his cock. Spit is escaping from the corners of Arthur’s mouth; there’s a small trail down his neck, pooled in the hollow above his collarbone. He’s moaning almost constantly, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering.
On the next stroke in, Eames pushes until the fluttering of Arthur’s eyelashes is matched by the fluttering of his throat around Eames’s cock. Arthur’s hands curve over Eames’s hipbones, but he doesn’t try to push Eames away, simply works on controlling his breathing. Eames can hear him taking deep, ragged breaths through his nose.
“So good for me,” Eames croons and pets the top of Arthur’s head. He pulls back just to press forward again and he’s about to lavish some more praise on the way Arthur’s taking his cock when his reflection in the sink mirror snags his attention.
The edges of the mirror are still fogged up from his shower, but Eames can see his face, chest, stomach, clearly. Eames can’t see Arthur at all; Arthur’s hidden from few on the floor, bracketed by his lower body. His pupils are huge and his bottom lip is red from where he’s been biting down as Arthur tried to destroy him.
Eames jerks his hips and Arthur’s head hits the sink with a crack. Arthur kicks out, surprised, fingers biting into Eames’s skin. “Fuck,” Eames says, staring into his own face. “Fuck,” he says again and goes to fucking town on Arthur’s throat.
Every smack of Arthur’s head against the sink sounds off like a gunshot in the bathroom and the echo of it, the nasty, dirty wrongness of selfishly pushing past all of Arthur’s defenses all but yanks the come right out of him.
He savors the moment, eyes squinched tight, abdominal muscles contracting as he pumps spunk directly down Arthur’s lovely throat. Then, Eames pulls out, muscles Arthur, flailing and gasping for air, up onto the sink top.
Arthur’s perch is precarious; especially, since he continues to writhe about even as Eames tries to situate him as he likes. Eames presses his hand to the middle of Arthur’s chest to keep him from falling off the counter and snarls, “Be the fuck still.” He follows this up with a sharp slap to Arthur’s thigh and Arthur jerks and gasps before settling.
“Thank you,” Eames says, short. Arthur stares up at him with wide eyes. There’s a smear of pink at the corner of his mouth; his bottom lip is bleeding. Eames leans down to lick at the small wound and Arthur grabs at his shoulders.
“Please,” Arthur says. His voice is shot, rough and barely audible. Eames loves it.
“You sound like a well-used whore.” Eames licks his way down Arthur’s neck, smoothes his hand down Arthur’s chest until he’s cupping the heat between Arthur’s thighs. He squeezes short of gently and Arthur’s knees come up, trapping his hand. Eames bites down on his shoulder and Arthur clamps down harder. He’s making loud, pained noises in Eames’s ear. “Stop,” Eames says, and after a moment, Arthur relaxes his legs, lets them fall open until one knee is resting against the mirror and his other leg is dangling off the sink. “You’re so good,” Eames praises him and Arthur bites down on his bottom lip again.
“Let’s get these pants off, shall we?” Eames pulls down the scrap of blue cotton holding Arthur’s cock hostage and makes an appreciative sound when it springs free, curving up toward Arthur’s stomach. “Look at you,” Eames says, “Does it hurt? Are you aching for me?”
Arthur’s cock is flushed, swollen and leaking at the head. Delicious. Eames licks his lips and takes the slick head into his mouth. Arthur shouts, hoarse, and Eames imagines the sound scrapping out of his throat, raw. The image makes him suck harder, pinning Arthur down about the waist, ruthless in his desire to make Arthur come.
The warm rush of fluid coating his tongue and the spastic contractions of Arthur’s muscles beneath Eames’s hands sends a fresh wave of heat through his body. He swallows and keeps licking at Arthur’s cock until Arthur is pushing at his forehead, gearing up to fight his way free of Eames.
Eames lets Arthur’s cock go with one last suck and Arthur releases an exhausted sigh of relief. He hangs limp, half off the sink with only the bulk of Eames’s body keeping him from tumbling to the floor. His hair is sweat and curling around his temple and his mouth is red. The dark fans of Arthur’s eyelashes rest against his flush cheeks and his chest heaves.
He’s beautiful. Eames’s sets Arthur on his feet carefully, steading him as he sways drunkenly. “Arthur,” Eames says, “do you want to take a shower?”
Arthur simply curls his arms around Eames’s shoulder and rests his head against Eames’s collarbone. Eames says, “Well then,” and gets rid of Arthur’s soggy pants and holds him up so Arthur can step free. Eames grabs the towel he used to dry off and pats them both down quickly before swinging Arthur up into his arms.
“You are so ridiculous,” Arthur slurs, but he obligingly tightens his hold around Eames’s neck. Eames makes an indulgent sound and Arthur yawns widely. When they get to the bedroom, Arthur asks,”Stay?” Eames kisses Arthur’s forehead as he settles him on the bed and climbs in behind him, wrapping Arthur up in his arms. Arthur murmurs, “Ridiculous,” again and drifts off to sleep.