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.
That's better, but it's not quite okay just yet, as much as Arthur likes being crushed down by Eames. He grapples with the man and rolls them over, straddling Eames' hips as he drags his teeth over those stupidly plush lips.
"You're gonna hurt yourself, dumbass," he growls, keeping his hands pressed to Eames' chest to make him stay the fuck down. Then he's reaching down to shove down Eames' sweats, very much intent on getting him naked. "Shoes."
There's an irritated groan coming from Eames when Arthur pushes him down, but he doesn't try to get up. Because that will only result with another argument and while they're going at it like two horny and a little bit violent old dogs, it's still a delicate process and any rocking of the boat will shatter it.
So, Eames drops his shoes, kicking them off and lifting his arse when Arthur yanks down his sweats, leaving him naked sans the bandages. Then his hand rises to grab at Arthur's hair, fisting in it tightly as he pulls him down to a bruising kiss, teeth and tongue, all intending to ruin that pretty mouth of his that spews such bullshit.
"Stop fussing," he mutters between kisses. "I'm not going to break."
For all Arthur's pissed off still about- well, everything, he still pauses at Eames' words, staring down at him with a briefly haunted expression, remembering how just a short while ago, the Brit had been laid out on the same table right next to them, now, unconscious and torn up.
"... Shut up," he grunts, coming back to himself and pushing back into the kisses almost desperately, fingers briefly digging into Eames' hips as he straddles the man's thighs again.
Eames hands lower from Arthur's hair to his neck and from there to his shirt, popping open the few buttons that still are fastened. His arms have less mobility than usual due to the shoulder injury, which is why he's using that shirt to yank Arthur all the way down to him and chases that haunted look hopefully off his face with a harder, deeper kisses.
From there it's relatively easy to slide his hands down to Arthur's hips and over them to his arse, pushing under layers of cloth to curve his fingers around well rounded buttocks. He manages to mostly push down the trousers and whatever's under there, so when he pulls Arthur down and rocks his hips up, there's dick against dick through the soft cotton of Arthur's underwear.
Arthur kicks off his shoes and rises up on his knees, helping to get his underwear and trousers off before swooping back down on Eames, growling with displeasure when he sees the dark hickeys left from whoever the man was fucking the previous night. His teeth fix on an empty patch of skin just under Eames' ear, nipping and sucking at the spot as he grinds their hips together, fingers almost bruisingly tight as they grip at the Forger's arms.
Things Eames didn't know he needed: possessive Arthur.
Things Eames doesn't realise even now that he wants: the same thing without insecurity and anger.
He arches under Arthur's weight, letting out a groan as his throat is practically worn thin by savage teeth and mouth. His hands are greedy as they grab at Arthur's hips, pulling him down against himself, needing the skin to skin contact with what feels like suffocating tightness around his chest.
Somehow being with Arthur is always like this. It feels so damn good and it feels too much too little, everything at the same time, rough.
Their hips grind in a maddening rhythm against each other, Eames' heels digging into the mattress to be able to push up against Arthur. Eventually one of them needs to focus to get things further, but right now, this is somewhat doable.
It's filthy and rough, verging on painful as they rut together, but even through that, Arthur finds his head. Gritting his teeth, he pushes up and stares down at Eames as he breathes hard, hips still moving to keep his ass grinding over the hard cock under him.
"Get me some lube," he orders, knowing the Forge is far better at conjuring things out of thin air than him in a dream.
There's an impatient growl coming from the usually suave and chatty forger when Arthur pushes up and Eames is honestly debating with himself to just grab Arthur and pull him back down. But he manages to still for a moment, chest heaving with deep breaths as he stares up at Arthur, hair ruffled and lips swollen even further from rough kisses.
The request is a reasonable one. Seriously... Eames, just get to it.
He dips his hand under a blanket that's thrown over the sofa and pulls out a fat tube of lube, pushing it into Arthur's hands. He watches Arthur quietly while he flips the cork open and spills some onto his hands. When he's reaching behind himself, Eames reaches up and curves a hand around his neck, pulling him down. Then he slides his hands down to Arthur's arse and spreads his cheeks for him while his teeth find a soft spot on Arthur's neck to bite and suck, aiming to leave enough marks that Arthur will find hard to get rid of them by tomorrow.
"Pushy asshole," Arthur grunt, even as he tilts his head to one side to let Eames mark up his neck with a little shudder. It might've been a while since Arthur's had a good romp, but he's still quick and efficient in prepping himself, not bothering to tease or take time to enjoy the process, just gritting his teeth and bearing with it until he feels comfortably stretched enough to take a cock.
He's not here to be sexy or seductive. He just wants to fuck and shut Eames up for once.
It's greatly frustrating to have a limited reach with his broken body. If there were no wounds on him, he would have rolled Arthur over and fucked him senseless. But he already knows it's not going to work when he can't put weight on one arm and he probably would pass out after a couple of minutes.
Arthur is just as dogged about getting down to it, though. Which means that when Eames lets him go, Arthur is going to shift and get them where they both desperately want to be.
"Come on," Eames still hurries him with gritted teeth, lifting Arthur's arse as he shifts his grip on the man and rolls his own body to get his dick behind him. (Not a wise move, his side protests immediately, something wet touching the bandages underneath. Eames ignores this, he doesn't care if he'll feel a bit faint after this...)
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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
"You're gonna hurt yourself, dumbass," he growls, keeping his hands pressed to Eames' chest to make him stay the fuck down. Then he's reaching down to shove down Eames' sweats, very much intent on getting him naked. "Shoes."
Kick them off, please.
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So, Eames drops his shoes, kicking them off and lifting his arse when Arthur yanks down his sweats, leaving him naked sans the bandages. Then his hand rises to grab at Arthur's hair, fisting in it tightly as he pulls him down to a bruising kiss, teeth and tongue, all intending to ruin that pretty mouth of his that spews such bullshit.
"Stop fussing," he mutters between kisses. "I'm not going to break."
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"... Shut up," he grunts, coming back to himself and pushing back into the kisses almost desperately, fingers briefly digging into Eames' hips as he straddles the man's thighs again.
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From there it's relatively easy to slide his hands down to Arthur's hips and over them to his arse, pushing under layers of cloth to curve his fingers around well rounded buttocks. He manages to mostly push down the trousers and whatever's under there, so when he pulls Arthur down and rocks his hips up, there's dick against dick through the soft cotton of Arthur's underwear.
"Get these off," he demands impatiently.
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Things Eames doesn't realise even now that he wants: the same thing without insecurity and anger.
He arches under Arthur's weight, letting out a groan as his throat is practically worn thin by savage teeth and mouth. His hands are greedy as they grab at Arthur's hips, pulling him down against himself, needing the skin to skin contact with what feels like suffocating tightness around his chest.
Somehow being with Arthur is always like this. It feels so damn good and it feels too much too little, everything at the same time, rough.
Their hips grind in a maddening rhythm against each other, Eames' heels digging into the mattress to be able to push up against Arthur. Eventually one of them needs to focus to get things further, but right now, this is somewhat doable.
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"Get me some lube," he orders, knowing the Forge is far better at conjuring things out of thin air than him in a dream.
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The request is a reasonable one. Seriously... Eames, just get to it.
He dips his hand under a blanket that's thrown over the sofa and pulls out a fat tube of lube, pushing it into Arthur's hands. He watches Arthur quietly while he flips the cork open and spills some onto his hands. When he's reaching behind himself, Eames reaches up and curves a hand around his neck, pulling him down. Then he slides his hands down to Arthur's arse and spreads his cheeks for him while his teeth find a soft spot on Arthur's neck to bite and suck, aiming to leave enough marks that Arthur will find hard to get rid of them by tomorrow.
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He's not here to be sexy or seductive. He just wants to fuck
and shut Eames up for once."Stop, I'm ready-"
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Arthur is just as dogged about getting down to it, though. Which means that when Eames lets him go, Arthur is going to shift and get them where they both desperately want to be.
"Come on," Eames still hurries him with gritted teeth, lifting Arthur's arse as he shifts his grip on the man and rolls his own body to get his dick behind him. (Not a wise move, his side protests immediately, something wet touching the bandages underneath. Eames ignores this, he doesn't care if he'll feel a bit faint after this...)
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