Eames has always found Arthur beautiful. He's all long lines and beautiful proportions. But this, this right here is how he prefers to appreciate that beauty. Flushed and straining, his expression cracking into pleasure, no pretense of cool surface available.

He groans deep within his throat as Arthur's hips come slamming down at his, each dragging pull bringing him a little closer to an inevitable release that he yearns but doesn't want yet, not yet, please not yet. He struggles against the tide, core tight and his hand on Arthur's stomach straining, trembling with the effort.

They're both so very stubborn, who even knows which one of them is going to give up first.