Rainy Days, Mondays 1/1

[whiskyrunner]

Title: Rainy Days, Mondays
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5400
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Uhh sex :D
Summary: The one where Eames and Arthur FINALLY get around to the sex. And then there's a plot. I am so terrible at this pwp thing.
Author's Note: This is what I worked on when Requiescat was going nowhere. Then today I took it out and brushed it off and finished it because REQUIESCAT IS IMPOSSIBLE, WHY COULDN'T I HAVE WRITTEN A JOVIAL TOMMY SOLOMON BACKGROUND STORY?! And I just kinda love the Wingman-verse anyway :D
This is the third story in the Wingman-verse. The others are here and here. This one picks up where OT3 left off.
PS. In case you needed any more convincing that Tom Hardy + fuzzy animals = most adorable mental image ever, read this. FUCKING PRECIOUS.

Arthur doesn't even know how he's managed to get through the entire day, let alone make it home without breaking the speed limit. At home he pulls his bed apart and remakes it, then makes it again. He tidies compulsively. After a second's hesitation, he turns his work phone off. Nothing's going to ruin this; he's bound and determined.

He forgets that Eames works later hours than him. It's past dinnertime by the time he arrives, idly twirling the stem of a rose in his fingers and smiling.

“You brought me a rose,” says Arthur.

“I'm wooing you. Is it working?”

“You brought me a rose from my garden.”

“It was a labour of love,” says Eames.

“I don't think you know what that means,” says Arthur.

Eames steps inside and drags a hand through his hair, damp from the drizzle outside. Arthur steps forward and can't stop himself from running both hands through Eames' hair, too, loving the way it falls in wet strands. Eames leans in and kisses him, still smiling against Arthur's lips.

“Sam's fed and watered, I'm yours for the night,” he says, shutting the front door behind him. “So, what were you thinking, a movie? Maybe order a pizza? Maybe we just turn the TV on and grab a few beers--”

He's cut off when Arthur grabs him by the front of the shirt and yanks him in close.

“Your clothing, Mr. Eames,” he says, in an impressively steady voice. “Lose it.”

Eames is still smiling, but his Adam's apple dips when he swallows, and the interesting thought occurs to Arthur that he has the same effect on Eames as the other way around. At any rate, Eames immediately sets the rose aside and shrugs out of his soggy coat. He has time only to throw it on the welcome mat before Arthur starts dragging him into the house.

Then they're kissing, shedding clothing as they stumble in the direction of the bedroom, and it's intoxicating, all the more so because Arthur knows that nothing is going to wreck this or stop them from doing it -- not dogs or any other distractions. There's just the two of them, him and Eames, Eames' skin, Eames' hands, Eames. When they make it to the bed, Eames wraps strong arms around his waist, lifts him and drops him onto the mattress, and Arthur makes a soft mmf sound as Eames falls on top of him, trapping their bodies together. His skin is hot and flushed and tattooed and Arthur rushes to claim it with teeth and lips and tongue, leaving possessive marks over his neck and chest. A laugh rumbles out of Eames' chest and into Arthur's own.

Bowing his head, he drawls huskily in Arthur's ear, “Oh, pet, I'm going to fuck you over and over till the only thing you know how to say is my name and the words harder and please.”

And Arthur is so instantly, agonizingly harder than he's ever been in his life, he has to stop everything and breathe just so that he doesn't come on the spot. Eames laughs with delight at his reaction, sits back and tugs Arthur's unzipped pants down his thighs. Then his boxers. He peels them off, along with his own pants (because of course he isn't wearing underwear), and when there's no more material to separate them, he leans back down, lines up their erections and wraps a firm hand around them both. Arthur lets his head fall back with a choked sound of relief that could be a sob, and Eames chases his mouth, kisses away his breath till he sees spots.

Precome aids the glide of their cocks against each other -- Arthur's pretty sure most of it is his, he's leaking so much it's almost embarrassing. He can't remember the last time he was this aroused, if ever. Arthur can count the number of male partners he's had on -- well, on two fingers; they were both one-night stands, and though they both held a certain attraction to him, neither of them came close to driving him crazy the way Eames does now. Eames, who is everything Arthur never thought he'd want; stubbled and lazy Eames who looks perpetually like he got dressed in the dark. Eames, who twists his slick hand around Arthur's erection and grinds against him like he understands a fraction of how badly Arthur needs this.

“Lube's ... on the bedside table,” he pants out, and almost immediately regrets it when Eames stops what he's doing and leans over. “Are you clean?” he adds impulsively, and then instantly regrets this, too, because it sounds so blunt and -- well, not sexy.

But Eames replies, “Pretty sure,” and before Arthur can pose any more awkward questions, he returns with the lube and a condom in his hand. Arthur tries to hide his relief, because he knows he's high-maintenance sometimes and it's surely got to be unattractive. But that's Eames, really; he teases mercilessly, true, but he knows what matters to Arthur.

Eames flips him over, spreading Arthur's thighs with his knee and lifting his hips off the bed, and slicks up a hand with lube. Arthur groans when he feels Eames' finger tracing his hole, his other hand sliding up Arthur's thigh.

“Stop teasing.”

“I would never,” Eames purrs, his voice husky enough to drive Arthur even crazier than usual, and he just dips his finger in, just the tip of it. Arthur groans again, eyes fluttering shut, and grips tight handfuls of his pillow while Eames starts to slide his finger in, smooth and steady. “God, you're tight,” he says reverently.

“Haven't -- haven't done this in awhile,” Arthur manages to speak through the pillow, unsticking his tongue from the material. He's dizzy. “God -- that feels--”

Eames pushes a second finger in and Arthur arches his back off the bed, brain dimly registering the dull ache of his hole stretching to accommodate Eames' fingers over the blood pulsing thickly in his ears. Eames works agonizingly slowly, gently coaxing him open, twisting just a little. When the tips of his seeking fingers find Arthur's prostate, it's like all the circuitry in his brain fizzles and sparks and shorts out at once.

“Fuck -- Eames--”

Eames chuckles and withdraws his fingers, slowly, and Arthur nearly sobs again at the loss, needing to feel Eames moving inside him. Eames rolls him back over easily and there's a wry, affectionate smile on his lips as he leans down and kisses Arthur again. His hands make quick work of the condom wrapper and he slides it down over himself, and Arthur wraps a leg around his waist while he's coating himself with more lube. Then he stretches himself out over Arthur's body, bracing on one arm.

Arthur very nearly whines when he feels the head of Eames' cock pressing, nudging at his hole, and then pushing in. His hands move compulsively to Eames' back at the slow slide -- he can feel every millimeter of sheathed flesh penetrating him -- and it's so good, but God, Eames is so much bigger than he thought and he's just not loose enough. He can feel how obscenely stretched around him he is.

Eames stops with the head barely in. “You okay, love?”

“Yeah,” Arthur pants, trying to rock back down against him, take in more, even though it hurts. And it hurts. He feels it keenly, torn between the pleasant friction on his nerves, and the painful ache and stretch.

“You're really tight.” Eames nudges his hips forward a little bit, experimentally, and Arthur unconsciously sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, barely snatching back a yelp.

Eames stills. Arthur feels the quiet sigh he breathes against his face.

“I'll stop.”

“No,” says Arthur pleadingly.

“How long ago is 'awhile', anyway?” Eames asks him.

“Maybe a few years,” Arthur admits, and okay; maybe those times had all taken place after he'd been drinking. Copiously. And now he's stone-cold sober and had no idea that alcohol was necessary in order for him to do this.

He panics a little. Surely people do this all the time without needing to get drunk beforehand. He can't be the freakish exception.

Eames shakes his head and starts to pull out. Arthur makes a sound of protest, trying to push down on him again.

“It's the angle,” he says, “here--”

He hitches his other leg over Eames' waist, spreading his thighs apart further, and has to quickly drop that position with a gasp because it's even worse. Eames sighs again, gently.

“I'm hurting you,” he says.

And it's true, it hurts so much that Arthur's erection is flagging pitifully and the corners of his eyes are wet and stinging, and he's so tight he doesn't even think Eames can push in much further, but in desperation he says, “Just do it anyway.”

“No, fuck.” Eames eases out of him. The emptiness is sudden and relieving, not like when he took his fingers away. “I don't want to hurt you, Arthur.”

It's so frustrating and humiliating that Arthur really could sob. There's nothing, nothing, no schedule or work or nosy fucking dogs to stop them from doing this, nothing except his own traitorous body that apparently doesn't even understand how this is supposed to work. He's furious with himself.

“It's fine,” Eames says firmly. “Look, it's fine, alright? You're just not relaxed enough. So I'll help you relax.”

“And how do you--” Arthur starts petulantly, and breaks off when Eames slides down his body and closes his mouth around Arthur's cock. He swears, his hard-on returning with a vengeance, so quickly he's light-headed. Eames' tongue is wickedly deft. When the head of Arthur's cock presses at the back of Eames' throat, and then deeper -- when he swallows around Arthur, wet-hot throat closing in on him rhythmically -- Arthur's mind is wiped clean as a magnetized disk and all he can do is thrust his hips up helplessly.

Then Eames' fingers are back, exploring, expertly slipping up inside him to seek that secret spot again, and Arthur's groaning, noisy and uninhibited. When Eames' fingers find his prostate again and scrape gently over it, it punches all the breath out of him in one rush and he can't seem to catch it again, even though his chest is heaving. All the wiring in his nerve endings snaps and crackles explosively; he can feel the exquisite drag of Eames' fingers all the way up his spine. He manages a cracked warning before he comes, but Eames doesn't hesitate for a second to swallow all of him.

“Fuck,” Arthur pants forcefully.

“You enjoyed that?” Eames drawls with amusement.

“Yeah -- but, hey--” Arthur reaches down clumsily till he finds Eames' erection and skims the condom off. Eames is silent when Arthur begins jerking him off -- because this, at least, he can do -- except for harsher breaths. He buries his face against Arthur's neck, the rough scrape of stubble ticklish under Arthur's jaw, and mouths at him, lays wet kisses there, breathes ragged endearments until he's spilling himself in Arthur's hand with a low groan.

For a minute they just catch their breath, and then Arthur pushes himself upright, ignoring the dull ache between his legs. Eames slides off him and slumps passively into the pillow instead.

“We should eat,” says Arthur.

“Capital idea, love,” Eames mumbles into the pillow. “Build up your energy for round two.”

Arthur smiles and gets out of bed, grabbing a housecoat off the back of his bedroom door. The rest of the house is already dark; he finds when he gets to the kitchen that the drizzle outside has become a downpour against his windows that gives one the impression of being inside a carwash. The noise it makes on the roof is strangely soothing and Arthur feels comforted by it, warm and snug inside, while he searches his kitchen for easy food. He comes up with crackers and grapes, which is hardly a meal, but it isn't like he'd have the patience to prepare and cook and sit down and eat when he's got Eames in his bed, right now.

Eames hasn't moved by the time Arthur returns.

“Typical,” Arthur comments. “It's nowhere near bedtime and you're already falling asleep.”

“Me? Never,” says Eames, raising his head enough to blink muzzily at Arthur. But he sounds sleepy enough when he adds, “How long's it been thundering outside?”

For a second Arthur thinks he really is talking nonsense in his sleep, until he realizes that there is, actually, a low, occasional rumble outside. It's nearly drowned out by the noise of the rain on the roof.

But just moments after Eames says this, there's a brilliant flash that fills the room with white light. Hard on its heels is a crack, and a deafening boom of thunder so loud it makes the entire house quiver. The power goes out abruptly.

“Shit!”

In an instant Eames is on his feet, searching for his pants on the floor. Arthur stares at him, blinking in the dark.

“I have to go,” says Eames, his voice hurried and strained. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize the rain would get this bad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's Sam,” says Eames apologetically, “I left him alone--”

Of course it's fucking Sam. Sam and his fucking phobia of thunderstorms.

Arthur hates that dog so much.

“You said I could have you for the night,” he points out, watching as Eames struggles to yank on his pants.

“Well, I didn't account for the weather, Arthur,” says Eames, flustered. “It's just a little setback, alright, I can come over tomorrow night--”

“You promised,” says Arthur, and he can tell by the way Eames looks at him that he's just clued in. This is going to be an issue.

“I'm sorry,” Eames says again. “Any other night, I'd stay. But I have to get home now.”

“Why?”

Eames seems taken aback by the question. “Because he's alone, and he'll get frantic.”

“He's a dog,” says Arthur, heat rising in his face. “Why am I coming second to your dog?”

Eames stops looking apologetic. He gives Arthur a different look, instead. Then he gets up and goes into the hallway to collect the rest of his clothing. Arthur follows him. He's never had a pet: he doesn't get it, and it's making him crazy.

“Why don't you explain it to me?”

“It's not a matter of discussion, Arthur,” says Eames tersely. “I need to take care of my dog.”

“Well, how many more times is this going to happen!” Arthur demands, exasperated. “How many more times are you going to put your dog first, Eames?”

Eames yanks on his shirt and turns to face Arthur abruptly.

“Look,” he says. “Something you should understand about me. I don't make commitments lightly. That's why I went through all the hassle of bringing Sam over here to the States with me when I got transferred, instead of dumping him back in the shelter. That's why I work long bloody hours every day and still get up at five o'clock just so I can see you in the morning. It's not about putting one of you over the other. I have a commitment to this dog, and right now I have to go and take care of him.”

“You have a commitment to me, too,” Arthur points out.

It's hard to read Eames' features in the dark, but when he speaks, Arthur knows he has, for the first time, managed to piss the easygoing Englishman off. “Grow up, Arthur,” he says, and goes to the door. Arthur stays where he is, even when Eames turns and says, “Are you going to give me a drive back to my place, or not?”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest.

“Alright,” says Eames, after a second. “Fine.”

He opens the door. For a moment the sheeting rain outside is deafening. Then Eames is gone, the door thudding shut behind him.

Numbly, Arthur thinks, Did we just break up?

He's flushed with anger when he goes back to his room to pull on his clothes. It's not like he really hates Sam, most of the time. It just hurts -- it really fucking hurts that Eames would rather go home, in the rain, to hold his dog's hand till the storm passes, than stay here with Arthur and finish what they'd started. He does feel like a child, pushed aside and ignored. For a dog. And, even worse -- he feels partly at fault, irrationally; like the real reason Eames left is because Arthur can't handle his cock. It's embarrassing and silly, but it stings nonetheless.

He's raiding his kitchen for real food, waiting for the kettle to boil and sulking when his phone rings. He checks the caller ID.

Eames. He answers anyway.

“Hey,” Eames says. He sounds tired and rough, and there's a hollow quality to his voice that worries Arthur a little. “Can you come? I need you.”

Arthur forgets his resentment. It melts away as soon as he hears that defeated tone in Eames' voice.

“Sure,” he says quietly.

“Thanks.” Eames hangs up.

The thunder is still rumbling away when Arthur gets in his car, his wipers squeaking across the windshield at top speed as he makes his cautious way to Eames' house. The door's unlocked, so he lets himself in. There's still power over here, but most of the lights are off.

Eames is sitting on the couch, as soaked as if he's been thrown fully clothed into a pool, cradling and soothing Sam, who is wrapped up in a thick blanket in his arms.

“Hey,” he says again, when he looks up at Arthur. “I have to take Sam to the vet.”

“Why?” Arthur asks, but just then he lays eyes on Eames' bedroom door, which is at the end of the hall. An entire corner has been gouged out of it. Wood chips are strewn everywhere and blood is smeared and smudged over the carpet around the door. Arthur gapes. “Shit, Eames!”

“I know.” Eames adjusts his hold on the bundle of blankets. “I left him shut in my bedroom.”

“Sam did that?” says Arthur disbelievingly. He might not know much about dogs, but he knows Sam: Sam is a good dog, and though he might get on Arthur's nerves at times he is, for the most part, quiet and well-behaved. Eames' bedroom looks like a scene out of CSI.

Before Eames can reply, the windows flicker with another flash of lightning, and a rumble of thunder sounds overhead. Instantly, Sam arches in Eames' arms and fucking screams, like Eames is breaking his legs or something. Eames grips him more tightly, hunches over and makes soothing hushing noises until Sam stills, panting loudly and quivering in the blanket. Edging around the room, Arthur can see now how Sam's whiskery white muzzle -- that normally happy seal face -- is a spiked mask of dried blood. His paws are even bloodier.

“Jesus,” says Arthur faintly.

“Yeah.” Eames gets up, lifting Sam easily. “I have to take him to the vet, and I need you to hold him in the car.”

“Okay,” says Arthur nervously, inching closer.

“Make sure you keep the blanket between you and his head,” says Eames, hefting Sam around, “in case he freaks out--”

His arm shifts, and Arthur sees blood on his hand. He jerks away violently.

“Sam bit you?”

“He was scared. I startled him.” Eames looks up at him, and his gaze is defensive, faintly challenging. “He's a dog, Arthur. They're not always predictable when they're scared.”

“Eames, look, I--” Arthur fumbles for words, raising his hands pleadingly. “I'm actually kind of -- I'm a little -- nervous, around dogs ...”

There; he's forced it out. He feels foolish. But Eames just looks at him, desperate.

“It's Sam,” he says. “Please.”

“But I can't -- I -- oh, alright,” Arthur says nervously, holding out his hands. Eames' features crease with relief and he carefully arranges Sam in Arthur's arms. The dog squirms and whimpers, and Eames stoops down to stroke his head.

“You're alright, little mate,” he murmurs softly, and Arthur sees the tip of Sam's pink tongue sneak out to lap feebly at Eames' hand, as though he's too exhausted to manage more than that.

Watching them, Arthur suddenly feels like the world's biggest prick.

He's nearly as as soaked as Eames is by the time they jog out to Eames' car and Arthur manages to wrestle the door open, balancing Sam in one arm. He collapses into the seat and catches his breath while Eames starts the car. Sam squirms again, whining.

“I'm sorry,” Arthur says, when they're on the road. “I didn't think--”

“It's fine,” Eames cuts him off. Arthur goes on anyway, because it feels important.

“I don't know a lot about dogs. I've never had one. I didn't know he'd do ... that. I thought he'd just be sitting around, scared. So I didn't really ... get it. That's why I was mad.”

Eames' lip twitches before his expression resumes its seriousness. “Usually he just jumps in the bathtub and starts howling. But he has panic attacks when he's alone, yeah. Heads up.”

There's another flicker of lightning, and another rumble of thunder. The storm is moving away from them now, but it's still loud, and Sam thrashes, almost squealing. Arthur has to grip him tightly, his heart thudding fearfully, scared that Sam might suddenly whip around and bite him or something. But the dog soon settles, and Arthur can feel his little warm body quaking with each breath through the blanket.

Suddenly feeling a strange kinship with the dog, he reaches inside the blanket and pets Sam's head gingerly. There's a feeble movement from the region of Sam's tail.

“I have panic attacks, too,” Arthur says quietly, staring down at the blanket.

Eames glances over at him quickly.

“You never said.”

Arthur shrugs.

“But you're so ... put-together.”

“Yeah,” Arthur laughs self-deprecatingly. “There's a reason.” He hesitates. “I thought you'd ... think I was weird or something. You're the first person I've told in years.”

“Of course I don't think you're weird,” Eames says forcefully. “Just means I'll have two of you to take care of when the storms roll around, that's all.”

Suddenly, Arthur thinks for the first time that he might be a little in love.

+
He ends up having to take care of them both, by the end of the night. At the emergency vet clinic Sam is sedated and cleaned up, and he already looks much better by the time all the blood is gone, but his paw pads still need bandaging since he scraped them up badly on the door. The vet hands Eames a bottle of sedatives for future thunderstorms, and somehow the bill comes up to almost a hundred and fifty dollars. Arthur is amazed when Eames barely blinks at this, just hands over his credit card.

Arthur drives them home because, now that Sam is alright, Eames has allowed himself to fall into a sort of exhaustive daze, so that by the time they return to his house, he looks nearly in the same shape as Sam, who is stoned to the nines. Arthur guides the dog over to his crate in the corner of Eames' bedroom, where he crawls in and curls up with a sigh, then tends to Eames, who is still wearing his wet clothes and shivering. He takes Eames' hand to examine it and finds that the bite isn't nearly as bad as he'd first thought; just some skin scraped off.

“Are you going to need rabies shots?” he asks uncertainly, and Eames laughs.

“He's not a raccoon, Arthur,” he says, and seems to find this even funnier.

His teeth are chattering, so Arthur hastens to help him strip off his clothes and all but shoves him into a steaming hot shower. He's chilly, too, but it doesn't seem fair to take advantage of Eames while he is potentially dying of pneumonia and it's Arthur's fault, so he just pulls off his own soggy clothing and digs around in Eames' drawers until he finds boxer shorts and a t-shirt that somewhat fits him.

“I'm staying over,” he says, when Eames emerges from the shower, looking considerably brighter-eyed. “In case you die of pneumonia.”

“Whatever excuse you like,” says Eames, grinning.

“And I wanted to say,” Arthur goes on self-consciously. “I don't -- have a record of being very good at relationships. But I can make commitments, too. And if that means I have to commit to your dog, too, then ... I guess I'm okay with that. That's all, really. What -- what are you doing?” he adds, watching Eames creep over to the crate where Sam is snoring softly. He quietly shuts the door and latches it, then -- so casually it makes Arthur's cheeks burn -- sheds his towel and drapes it over the top of the crate, hiding Sam from view. “Why are you doing that?”

“Because he's young and impressionable and I don't want him to see what I'm going to do to you,” says Eames, with a wink.

Arthur had been planning on starting to clean up the carpet around the door, but he has to admit, as Eames crosses the room and pushes him gently down onto the bed, this is a much better idea. He's at something of a loss for words while Eames rids him of his clothing; up until Eames produces a tube of lubricant and slides a slicked finger inside him. Arthur arches off the bed. “Oh, fuck--”

“Hmm.” Eames nuzzles his stomach appreciatively. “You're more relaxed now than you were before. Want to try again?”

“I--” Arthur thinks self-consciously of the dog in the corner, but he can already sense this is probably one of many times they'll have to work around Sam. “I -- oh -- okay.”

Eames kisses him, takes some more time to work him open, while Arthur stares at the ceiling, his head swimming and pulse throbbing in his ears. He's somehow startled when Eames tugs him upright.

“C'mere.” Eames is sitting back, kneeling on the bed. Arthur does the same, inching over until he's straddling Eames. He's not sure he likes this position. It's strangely -- intimate; they're so close -- he can feel Eames' warm breath gusting over his neck. But that thought fizzles out when Eames starts stroking a hand up and down his back, a soothing gesture. He reaches behind Arthur and nabs a condom wrapper, peeling it open. Arthur leans back to watch him slide it on and then apply lube liberally. He's already very hard.

“You were tired a minute ago,” Arthur doesn't quite whisper.

“I might die of pneumonia tonight. This could be our only chance.”

Eames' arm encircles him, pulls him snug up against his chest, while the head of his cock rubs just around Arthur's hole. Arthur certainly doesn't whimper, and if he does, Eames doesn't say anything about it. He bites the inside of his cheek and stops breathing when Eames pushes in.

Just a few centimetres. Then he stops. Arthur finds he can breathe.

“Now you're in control,” Eames says softly, tilting his head so that his lips brush over Arthur's. His breath smells good and Arthur realizes belatedly that Eames had brushed his teeth in the bathroom. He is definitely a little in love. “Take your time.”

“Just need a ... a minute,” Arthur says, strained, utterly dizzy with sensation. Eames is right; he's a little looser now, the ache a little less pronounced. He presses his forehead into Eames' shoulder and just gulps for breath, eyes clenched shut against the mild spinning of the room, while Eames strokes his back again and waits patiently.

He relaxes in degrees. His body pulls in Eames' cock bit by bit, and Arthur knows he's going to feel this for days. He's going to be aching all day at work tomorrow, and somebody might notice. He's surprised at himself when, instead of filling him with dread, the thought sends a little thrill straight to his groin.

He doesn't realize Eames has bottomed out until his ass is resting flush against Eames' lap.

“Congratulations. You can take all of me,” says Eames, pleased. Arthur laughs breathlessly.

“You're really full of yourself, aren't you?”

“Actually, pet, I think you're the one who's full of myself at the moment.”

Arthur groans, burying his face against Eames' neck. “I set myself up for that one.”

“You really did,” Eames agrees, affectionate. “But I know what you meant. I am a bit cocky.”

He punctuates this with a little tilt of his hips that makes Arthur gasp, digging nails into his shoulderblades.

“Can you just -- just fuck me, now? Please?”

“Gladly,” says Eames. And, wrapping his arms around Arthur, he presses him back gingerly until he's resting on the mattress and Eames is braced over him, still buried deep inside him, and starts to move.

This really is nothing like drunken, anonymous sex. Nothing at all like that, actually. They kiss, hot and frantic. Eames seems to delight in every sound he can wring out of Arthur, making it a personal mission to find every sensitive spot on Arthur's body, until Arthur's groaning, writhing around him, cursing him when he finds the ticklish spot under Arthur's ribcage.

“It's been a long time for you, hasn't it?” Eames laughs, screwing into him at such an angle that makes all of Arthur's insides surge with pleasure.

“Fuck you,” he pants, but he's grinning, because Jesus, he doesn't remember sex being quite this much fun.

“Again and again,” Eames promises, “till you never need or want another man inside you, love--”

“Provided you don't die,” Arthur gasps out.

“You might be the death of me,” Eames says, and Arthur doesn't understand, right then, although he thinks he might--

It isn't long before Eames is thrusting into him with a greater sense of urgency, and Arthur's ass just melts pliant around him, his insides gripping a little every time Eames hits his prostate. It's then that he realizes just how close he is, without Eames even touching his cock. A few more thrusts are all it takes before he's coming, over his own stomach, and he can hear himself groaning oh my God, oh my God, like his head is underwater. Eames kisses him fiercely; then his hips stutter and he's coming, too, hilting himself deep inside Arthur and rasping curses against Arthur's neck.

They spend a minute catching their breath before Eames pulls out and slides the condom off. Arthur's oddly disappointed at the loss. He feels utterly plundered, completely fucked-out in an intensely satisfying way.

“Is the dog still asleep?” he asks, when Eames leans over him for a kiss.

“Yes. He must be terribly stoned, considering how noisy you were.” He chuckles when Arthur simply glares at him tiredly. “Can we sleep in tomorrow, d'you think?”

“What, like till six?”

Eames laughs at him. “Is that what you consider a sleep-in?”

“It's my final offer. I don't change the routine for just anyone, you know.”

“I know.” Eames kisses him again, suddenly tender. “It's one of the things I love about you, darling.”

Arthur can't think of anything to say to that. The words are too big, too loaded, and he's too awkward. Eames just smiles at him like he never expected a response, and is asleep a minute later, curled against Arthur's side with an arm draped over him.

It takes Arthur a minute to realize that this is the first time he's spent the night with somebody in -- well -- ever. And he should be freaking out right now, because he's not at home, he's not in his bed, he doesn't have his clothes here, or his alarm clock set to the right radio station, or his pulp-free organic orange juice, his morning routine is going to be completely different--

But he's not freaking out, because he's with Eames and he thinks he could be a lot in love. And that just maybe, he's already home.

sequel