[ Eames watches him through the connection and fuck if he doesn't know that Arthur's not looking for any danger when he looks out but he can't prove that and he can't much more than just grit his teeth and accept the cool as a cucumber look that he gets next.
Scream, he wants to say. Fucking hit him like he deserves it.
But no.
There's a tightness to his jaw as he stares at Arthur, not just annoyed, but sad, tired, exhausted... ]
You want me to stay with you even when there's no war?
[ Eames asks as he leans back against a counter top. Then he shakes his head, looking somewhere else than the camera, his teeth worrying over his lip for a moment. ]
You don't want that. You're dead tired of looking at my face as it is.
[ Eames just stares down at the device for a while, his brows furrowing. He hates talking through these things.
Least of all with Arthur. These days all they do is get into these awkward, half-arguments that fluctuate between them like the ocean, coming and going. Sometimes they're good and sometimes they're not and honestly Eames doesn't know anymore what's okay and what isn't.
It's hard enough to figure out when he's right there, let alone through the tiny screen. ]
Eames shakes his head mildly, but then decides to just smile as a goodbye before he closes the device. Yeah, fuck you too. What else is there to say about it?
He doesn't go back to bed, but instead collects his clothes and sneaks out. He takes his irritation back to his apartment and shifts the dream just a little to have a punching bag waiting for him when he gets there. An hour and half spent by punching it doesn't make him feel much better, though.
A shower, a quick cup of coffee and fresh clothes. He tries to sit down with a book but ends up hurling the damn thing across the room eventually. He practically knows Fahrenheit by heart now.
It's already evening when he changes again, dropping himself in a pair of sweats and a hoodie and goes to running.
Weirdly he ends up in Arthur's neighborhood.
Even more strangely he ends up knocking on the door.
Hood pulled up, panting slightly, he stares at the windows that have light in them. Arthur's definitely at home.
Arthur's always wary to answer his front door, especially in the evenings. This time is no different, his hand at his lower back and hovering over the gun he's got tucked in the back of his trousers as he answers the door. On seeing it's Eames, though, he frowns, relaxing slightly as he opens the door further so the man can come inside.
"What's wrong?" he asks, clearly not having expected the Forge would show up at all given their discussion the previous night, and especially not in such a state.
Eames hasn't slept since then. He looks like he's caught some rainfall on his jogging route. (Just how long were you out??) And there's definitely something ticking under his skin, something both irritated and guilty, something that just doesn't leave him alone, doesn't let him think, doesn't let him rest.
It's this arsehole who can't stay out of his head.
Eames doesn't say anything when Arthur opens the door, instead he steps in, steps right into Arthur in fact. His fingertips are cold as he reaches up to cup them around Arthur's jaw and leans in to kiss him on the mouth. And if Arthur lets him, he's going to push Arthur back a few steps until Arthur's back collides with a wall and pin him there.
Eames comes charging in and honestly, Arthur challenges anyone not to feel at least a tiny bit intimidated by that, considering the sheer bulk of the man. His hands are rising to defend himself when instead of getting punched or thrown across the room, he finds himself getting grabbed and kissed hard enough he can feel his lip collide with his own teeth, a strong tang of iron filling his mouth as he's shoved back against the wall.
He finds himself kissing back automatically with a muffled groan, gripping at Eames' shoulders to pull the thicker body tight to his... but then he catches himself and tears away from the kiss with a loud gasp, shifting his arm to shove against Eames' throat to push him back as well, staring at him with wide, shocked and angry eyes.
"What the fuck are you playin' at, Eames?" he growls, breathing hard and trying not to dwell on how his split lip is throbbing or how fucking good it feels to have the man's still-familiar bulk pressed tight to him.
Eames lets out an actual low and near guttural growl as Arthur pushes him back, his lip curling up a little in sheer irritation of having to stop. But he will give ground when it's asked of him, and Arthur won't have a hard time pushing him back.
"Who said anything about playing?" he asks in a voice that's low and hoarse and just bloody tired of talking. They get absolutely nowhere with talking. They never have.
He applies pressure to the hand on his throat, not pushing it aside at all, but pressing against it. His hands have come down from Arthur's jaw to his shirt front, down to his waist, curling white knuckled on the folds of the fabric.
There's a warning push against Eames' throat, Arthur wanting/needing him to stay back for his own sanity's sake.
"You didn't get enough from your date last night?" Arthur snaps, gripping hard at Eames' bicep. Just the thought of that faceless stranger makes Arthur's blood boil, and the fact that Eames has the gall to come to him literally the day after practically flaunting getting laid... it makes Arthur see red and he wants to bite and punch and claw at the bastard who dares do this to him time and time again.
"I have no idea idea," Eames snaps out and while he usually doesn't raise his voice at all, here they are, something hard and sharp entering his demeanour as he pulls away from Arthur completely.
He shakes his hands, tries to shake off the whole thing but can't. Because this bloody thing is just right under his skin, right there, right fucking there. And it's not letting him go. He turns and stares the open doorway that lets out to the street.
"Maybe not, because all I've been thinking is you all the damn day and here I am. Kick me out now, Arthur."
That last bit is what catches Arthur's attention more than any of the other shit falling out of Eames' mouth. His eyes narrow as he stares hard at the Forge, clenching his jaw as he remembers their conversation from the night before.
"... I already told you I'm not kickin' you out," he grits out. "Why the hell are you trying to make me?"
Eames' shoulders are knotted tight and he honestly doesn't know how to answer Arthur at all. Maybe it would be okay if Arthur would just give up with him. Finally. But he doesn't seem willing to do that.
"Because I'm a fucking idiot," he snaps and glares at Arthur over his shoulder for a few seconds. "Why the hell would you want to keep this ridiculous farce dragging on with a twit like me? Just tell me to go, maybe I'll understand it better coming from you."
Arthur deserves none of this after all. None at all.
Now it's Arthur's turn to rush Eames, grabbing him by the shoulder to turn him roughly before shoving him back towards the open door-
-Only to slam it shut before pushing Eames up against it, growling, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, asshole."
His hands fist in the bastard's hoodie, threatening to tear the thick fabric in his grip as he leans in to bite at Eames' lips, demanding their next kiss.
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," Eames practically shouts at this point, his voice growing harsher the further he gets, letting out a grunt when he's shoved against the door, his back protesting, his wounds not quite in any danger of opening but still hurting.
"I'm pissed off--" he manages to get out before Arthur is biting his mouth and it's his turn to groan as the bottom of his stomach drops away and something aching settles in instead.
His hands are at Arthur's shirt, grabbing at it hard as he pulls Arthur all the way up onto his tippy toes while Eames answers the kiss with just as much brutal force as Arthur is giving him.
"Yeah, well join the damn party," Arthur grunts, kissing back in a messy clash of teeth and lips. It's the absolute worst thing they could do right now, he's sure, but what else could they do?
Eames knows this isn't going to resolve anything, and they'll probably regret it later, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care if they end up hurting each other more, he doesn't care that the ache in his chest is just intensifying the more they kiss.
He's too busy shifting his hold on Arthur, his fingers quite possibly patterning Arthur's sides with possessive marks as he yanks Arthur flush against himself. And then they're moving again, across the little hallway and to the opposing wall where Eames can press him against the wall, pin him down as he's dragging his mouth to Arthur's neck, leaving marks that aren't going to stay for long in a dream.
He shoves his hand under Arthur's shirt and pushes it up, not caring to be too gentle about it. Sweet and caring didn't get tickets to this show.
A couple of Arthur's shirt buttons go flying with the rough treatment, but he's not exactly in the mood to care about those right now. His back's smarting a bit from being shoved against another wall and perhaps his teeth are a bit rougher against Eames' lips as revenge as a result, while his hands claw for the other man's hoodie, yanking it up along with whatever shirt he might be wearing underneath.
There's no way they're making it up the paradoxical staircase like this, so Arthur instead makes Eames back up by pulling off the man's tops and then shoving him hard in the direction of the sofa bed the Forge's been occupying since his run-in with the orcs. Whether they actually get on it or end up on the carpet in front of it remains to be seen.
There are some stumbled steps, hard, biting kisses as they travel across the floor, Eames is shirtless soon enough, only wearing the bandages that Arthur's been managing. But Arthur is still wearing his abused shirt when Eames reaches down to yank at the fastenings of his trousers, impatient hands pull the belt off, spreading zipper open, then they push under, one hand on Arthur's arse under all layers of cloth, the other between them to find Arthur's cock to fist it roughly.
They're not going to make it to the couch. They might not even make it to the floor. There are plenty of wall space for leverage in the hall. Eames usually plans these things out, he's meticulous about his business even, he knows what he's doing. It takes quite a bit for him to become unhinged like this, but apparently Arthur just has to be the exception for everything. Every fucking thing.
Going straight for the prize leaves Arthur gasping for air and panting hard against Eames' lips, his hips immediately shoving forward into that rough hand. Still, Arthur's aware that there's a certain impatience in the air and that combined with Eames' state of recovery is not going to let them go as all-out as they might otherwise.
Rather than risk things being dragged to an abrupt halt because Eames has collapsed, Arthur shoves him back again, gritting out against his lips, "Get on the bed."
It's a good thing one of them is thinking about the near future, Eames for once has nothing for it. He's living through those rushed breaths that fall on his mouth, jaw tight but the groan rising from his throat something quite unhinged.
When Arthur pushes him, he lets out an exasperated grunt and finally gives into the urging, grabbing Arthur's hips in a tight hold and practically hauls him across the floor and into the sofa-bed.
He pushes Arthur down to it and then crawls over him, kicking his legs apart so can fit himself in between them as he grounds their hips together, heavy and demanding.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Scream, he wants to say. Fucking hit him like he deserves it.
But no.
There's a tightness to his jaw as he stares at Arthur, not just annoyed, but sad, tired, exhausted... ]
Are you kicking me out now?
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Then he shakes his head, gruffly muttering:]
Don't be an idiot. Who the hell does that, especially in the middle of something like this?
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Mnn.
It's going to be over soon. It always is.
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[Why does it feel like they're not just talking about the war?]
... And then what? I'm still not kicking you out, but if you want to go back to your place... I'm not stopping you.
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[ Eames asks as he leans back against a counter top. Then he shakes his head, looking somewhere else than the camera, his teeth worrying over his lip for a moment. ]
You don't want that. You're dead tired of looking at my face as it is.
Isn't that right?
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You're entitled to your opinions. My offer's still there.
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Least of all with Arthur. These days all they do is get into these awkward, half-arguments that fluctuate between them like the ocean, coming and going. Sometimes they're good and sometimes they're not and honestly Eames doesn't know anymore what's okay and what isn't.
It's hard enough to figure out when he's right there, let alone through the tiny screen. ]
Arthur... [ he starts, quietly. ]
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I'll see you around, Eames.
..... oops i forgot the brackets OOPS HOW DID THAT HAPPEN
He doesn't go back to bed, but instead collects his clothes and sneaks out. He takes his irritation back to his apartment and shifts the dream just a little to have a punching bag waiting for him when he gets there. An hour and half spent by punching it doesn't make him feel much better, though.
A shower, a quick cup of coffee and fresh clothes. He tries to sit down with a book but ends up hurling the damn thing across the room eventually. He practically knows Fahrenheit by heart now.
It's already evening when he changes again, dropping himself in a pair of sweats and a hoodie and goes to running.
Weirdly he ends up in Arthur's neighborhood.
Even more strangely he ends up knocking on the door.
Hood pulled up, panting slightly, he stares at the windows that have light in them. Arthur's definitely at home.
GEE I WONDER
"What's wrong?" he asks, clearly not having expected the Forge would show up at all given their discussion the previous night, and especially not in such a state.
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It's this arsehole who can't stay out of his head.
Eames doesn't say anything when Arthur opens the door, instead he steps in, steps right into Arthur in fact. His fingertips are cold as he reaches up to cup them around Arthur's jaw and leans in to kiss him on the mouth. And if Arthur lets him, he's going to push Arthur back a few steps until Arthur's back collides with a wall and pin him there.
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He finds himself kissing back automatically with a muffled groan, gripping at Eames' shoulders to pull the thicker body tight to his... but then he catches himself and tears away from the kiss with a loud gasp, shifting his arm to shove against Eames' throat to push him back as well, staring at him with wide, shocked and angry eyes.
"What the fuck are you playin' at, Eames?" he growls, breathing hard and trying not to dwell on how his split lip is throbbing or how fucking good it feels to have the man's still-familiar bulk pressed tight to him.
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"Who said anything about playing?" he asks in a voice that's low and hoarse and just bloody tired of talking. They get absolutely nowhere with talking. They never have.
He applies pressure to the hand on his throat, not pushing it aside at all, but pressing against it. His hands have come down from Arthur's jaw to his shirt front, down to his waist, curling white knuckled on the folds of the fabric.
"It's not hard to interpret this, is it?"
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"You didn't get enough from your date last night?" Arthur snaps, gripping hard at Eames' bicep. Just the thought of that faceless stranger makes Arthur's blood boil, and the fact that Eames has the gall to come to him literally the day after practically flaunting getting laid... it makes Arthur see red and he wants to bite and punch and claw at the bastard who dares do this to him time and time again.
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He shakes his hands, tries to shake off the whole thing but can't. Because this bloody thing is just right under his skin, right there, right fucking there. And it's not letting him go. He turns and stares the open doorway that lets out to the street.
"Maybe not, because all I've been thinking is you all the damn day and here I am. Kick me out now, Arthur."
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"... I already told you I'm not kickin' you out," he grits out. "Why the hell are you trying to make me?"
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"Because I'm a fucking idiot," he snaps and glares at Arthur over his shoulder for a few seconds. "Why the hell would you want to keep this ridiculous farce dragging on with a twit like me? Just tell me to go, maybe I'll understand it better coming from you."
Arthur deserves none of this after all. None at all.
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Now it's Arthur's turn to rush Eames, grabbing him by the shoulder to turn him roughly before shoving him back towards the open door-
-Only to slam it shut before pushing Eames up against it, growling, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, asshole."
His hands fist in the bastard's hoodie, threatening to tear the thick fabric in his grip as he leans in to bite at Eames' lips, demanding their next kiss.
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"I'm pissed off--" he manages to get out before Arthur is biting his mouth and it's his turn to groan as the bottom of his stomach drops away and something aching settles in instead.
His hands are at Arthur's shirt, grabbing at it hard as he pulls Arthur all the way up onto his tippy toes while Eames answers the kiss with just as much brutal force as Arthur is giving him.
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Talk?
God forbid.
Besides, Arthur's due a little physical release.
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He's too busy shifting his hold on Arthur, his fingers quite possibly patterning Arthur's sides with possessive marks as he yanks Arthur flush against himself. And then they're moving again, across the little hallway and to the opposing wall where Eames can press him against the wall, pin him down as he's dragging his mouth to Arthur's neck, leaving marks that aren't going to stay for long in a dream.
He shoves his hand under Arthur's shirt and pushes it up, not caring to be too gentle about it. Sweet and caring didn't get tickets to this show.
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There's no way they're making it up the paradoxical staircase like this, so Arthur instead makes Eames back up by pulling off the man's tops and then shoving him hard in the direction of the sofa bed the Forge's been occupying since his run-in with the orcs. Whether they actually get on it or end up on the carpet in front of it remains to be seen.
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They're not going to make it to the couch. They might not even make it to the floor. There are plenty of wall space for leverage in the hall. Eames usually plans these things out, he's meticulous about his business even, he knows what he's doing. It takes quite a bit for him to become unhinged like this, but apparently Arthur just has to be the exception for everything. Every fucking thing.
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Rather than risk things being dragged to an abrupt halt because Eames has collapsed, Arthur shoves him back again, gritting out against his lips, "Get on the bed."
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When Arthur pushes him, he lets out an exasperated grunt and finally gives into the urging, grabbing Arthur's hips in a tight hold and practically hauls him across the floor and into the sofa-bed.
He pushes Arthur down to it and then crawls over him, kicking his legs apart so can fit himself in between them as he grounds their hips together, heavy and demanding.
cw: sexy times going in
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