Work Text:
When a throat-clearing noise comes from someone standing by the bedroom door, Eames' thought process goes a little like this: oh shit someone's here, oh thank god it's only Arthur, oh shit it's Arthur and he's seeing me spread out on my back and taking it from a fucking machine, oh fuck that's hot... The resultant tensing and relaxing of his muscles has him practically squirming, which leads to some interesting angles, and it takes a concentrated effort to make himself still. Then he opens his eyes and checks.
It's Arthur, standing in the doorway with his stupid bag and jacket still on, hands loose by his side. Eames flexes his fingers around the bars of his headboard and tries to think of something to say. He's not sure how his voice would come out if he could think of anything, though, so he settles for just looking. He ought to be scrabbling for the remote to turn the thing off. Arthur ought to say something, turn away, have walked away as soon as he realised what was going on. Eames ought to have figured out the damn voice control software so he could tell the machine to stop instead of lying there in front of Arthur's wide eyes.
The machine picks up speed with a hiss of hydraulics, and it's good, so good, and Eames lets his eyes close again, drops his head back to the pillow. Arthur clears his throat again, shifts his weight uncomfortably, and Eames' exhibitionist streak kicks in. He can't help it. He arches his back a little, grips the headboard hard to flex his biceps, breathes harder. Then he rolls his head to the side and slowly opens his eyes to gaze at Arthur.
Wide eyes. Wide, dark eyes. Wide, dark eyes that seem to be fixed around Eames' midsection, where his cock is twitching against his stomach and a thick fake cock is fucking his arse. Wide, dark eyes above an open panting mouth.
As Eames watches, Arthur licks his lips. He catches Eames' eye. "Don't let me interrupt you, Mr Eames," he says, clearly aiming for his usual deadpan but missing it by a mile.
If Eames remembers correctly, there's ten minutes or so left on the program. Last time, he made it to the end and then came with one good squeeze of his cock. He might not make it that far this time. He'd be really happy to come right now. But he pulls himself up the bed a little, angles his hips so the thrusting is a little less pleasurable. His hands are attached to the headboard with more than just his own considerable stubbornness. Arthur might leave as soon as the show is over, and that would suck.
If Eames is going to last another ten minutes, he needs to not think about sucking.
Arthur's bag thumps to the floor, and his jacket follows it. Arthur loosens his tie, and only after that does he reach for his fly. Eames watches avidly as Arthur pulls his cock out and starts stroking, but the light isn't good and he wants to see more, dammit. "Come closer," Eames says.
Arthur's feet seem to be rooted in the doorway. Eames wants a lot of things, but if this is his only chance, he doesn't want to waste it. He wants to taste Arthur. "You should come over here and fuck my face," Eames says. He briefly bites his lip and lets it go again. It's a move that's stood him in good stead in the past, and it doesn't fail him now. Arthur stumbles a few steps towards him. When he's level with Eames' hips, he pauses. Arthur licks his lips.
Eames wants that pretty mouth on his cock. He wants Arthur's mouth, his hands, his cock on him and in him and anything, fuck, he wants to come, he really wants to come, wants to come down Arthur's throat, on Arthur's face, might just explode the first time Arthur touches him, but he wants to touch, and taste, and...
Arthur seems to know it, the sadistic bastard, because he leans one knee against the side of the bed, by Eames' ribs, and he doesn't lean any further. He just looks, and now he's close enough that Eames can smell him, and he smells really good, Eames starts to twist closer and try to bury his face in the crease of Arthur's hip, but Arthur leans back again. It's a pretty clear message. Eames lies back and lets out one of the moans caught in his throat.
Eames watches Arthur's hand moving on Arthur's cock. He licks his lips without thinking. Arthur moans now, but Eames hardly notices, blood pounding in his ears as the fake cock fucks him incrementally deeper with every thrust. Arthur reaches out and traces two fingers across Eames' lower lip; Eames licks them because he can't not.
"Fuck, Eames," says Arthur, and he's gorgeous, leaning over the bed, and then he's closer, and closer, and suddenly Arthur is kissing him. Arthur is kissing him, hard, and the hand that was on his mouth has slid down to his throat. Arthur is kissing him, and that hand slides down Eames' chest, his belly, and then...
The barest brush of Arthur's hand is enough. Eames comes, hard.
He whites out for a moment or two. When he comes back to himself, the machine is still fucking him, and he tries to grab the remote and push himself up the bed at the same time, failing at both because his hands are kinda numb and he's shaky all over, and it's too much, fast and deep and too fucking much, and then.
Then, somehow, Arthur has the remote, has hit the pause button, and Eames gasps in a huge relieved breath.
Arthur's still hard, cock sticking comically out of his trousers as he walks to the end of the bed. He carefully pulls the machine away, fake cock slipping out of Eames' arse with an unpleasant wet sound, and then Arthur, oh, Arthur.
Arthur climbs up on the bed between Eames' legs, and frankly Eames expects Arthur to stick his cock in and go for it, which Eames is fine with, though he might ache in the morning. But Arthur arranges them to his satisfaction, then settles in to rub off against Eames' thigh.
Eames finally gains control of his hands, and reaches up. He grabs Arthur by the tie (a long-time fantasy fulfilled) and pulls him down for a kiss.
Arthur's hair is still slicked back, for god's sake, and it's stupid how pleased Eames is to be able to mess it up. He wants to mess Arthur up so much. He slides his free hand down into the back of Arthur's trousers, gripping that tight arse firmly.
Before long, Arthur is shuddering in Eames' arms, biting down on his shoulder as he comes. Eames gentles him, strokes up and down his back under his crumpled shirt.
Arthur doesn't take long to recover. He pushes himself off Eames with a sigh, and Eames lets him go easily. Clinging is so undignified. But Arthur doesn't start putting himself to rights. Arthur takes off his tie, pulls his shirt over his head, and sits on the bed to start taking off his shoes.
Arthur's staying, at least for round two, and this time Eames won't be at a disadvantage from the start.
Eames can't stop the grin from spreading across his face. He doesn't even try.
"Eames? I think you should know, that expression does not inspire confidence. Are you listening to me? Eames!"