Eames gives a groan as Arthur sinks on him, his head pushing back to the cushions of the couch as he grabs at those hips with a thigh pair of hands, not sure if he's trying to slow things down or if he's pushing Arthur down harder.
It doesn't matter because Arthur's not in the mood to ask if he can fuck himself on Eames' dick. And honestly there's little else to do than to hold on for dear life and let him have his fill. Eames would like to thrust up but he already feels the wetness spreading under the bandages and doing that would definitely mean breaking more stitches.
So, he's stuck with wrapping his hands around Arthur's middle and pulling him down when he gets up, and staring at the man with lust-dark eyes, his mouth open to allow harsher breaths past his lips. He's so bloody gorgeous like this, bouncing up and down on Eames' cock, focused and demanding.
Eames would give him whatever he wanted, right that moment. If Arthur would just have the boldness to ask.
Arthur's not exactly in the right space to make demands, not when he's so thoroughly distracted by the cock he's happily fucking himself on. As he grows used to the penetration, he bites his lip and rocks his hips demandingly so that even if he's not getting quite so deep, full thrusts, he's able to feel every inch grinding inside of him.
"Fuck," he gasps, eyes squeezing shut when he manages to drag that cock right against his prostate, his own dick jerking and leaking from the sensation.
Eames' jaw is tight when he reaches up to press his hand onto Arthur's stomach, making him lean back a little, cant his hips so that dick is going to brush against his prostate with each and every urgent fall of his hips.
Arthur clings to him tight and so damn good, Eames' heart is thundering in his ears and he has to close his mouth and breathe through his nose to hold on, to keep it going. There's wildness to Arthur that he hasn't seen for a long while, and if that doesn't drive him mad, very little else can.
"Come on," he urges in a low, rough voice as his other hand wraps around Arthur's cock to stroke him in time with the hard bouncing Arthur's doing.
"Eames..." he breathes, a hoarse moan dragged out of his throat as he feels that big hand wrap around him. There's no way this brutal pace is going to let them last long, which Arthur laments to some extent, but he can tell it's going to be damn satisfying.
He does his best to ride Eames hard, forcing his eyes open to watch that reddened, rugged face, tempted again as always to lean down and bite at those lips. His body's tight, tense, primed for release, but he's determined not to until he's wrung Eames dry, first.
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.
Arthur has to reach up to roughly swipe his hair back because it's falling forward into his eyes, and like hell is he letting anything obscure his view. It's a special kind of madness that's got hold of them both, making Arthur press forward against Eames' hands, relishing in those points of contact even if he might vehemently deny wanting it at any other time.
Even if the pace is still rough, Arthur's slowed down a bit, just enough so he can concentrate on clenching down around Eames' cock to push him harder towards the edge. "Come on, Eames," he murmurs, biting his lip on a particularly hard grind down, his own dick twitching in the Forge's hand as it leaks eagerly.
All it really takes is Arthur asking him somewhat nicely.
Perhaps that lip biting and hair swiping has something to do with it too. Arthur sits on him so tight Eames sees stars at the drag of his clenched ass over him.
"Christ", he swallows the curse in a mighty inhale as his back arches and head tilts back, mouth open even as he forgets to breathe when the tide comes in and his orgasm washes over him like a hot sea of flames, raw, near violent, making him shudder again and again as Arthur's arse keeps milking him dry.
"Arthur..." It's weak and spills from his lips incoherently.
It's breathtaking to watch and Arthur shudders eagerly as he feels that faint heat as Eames fills him. He groans quietly and leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of Eames' chest, staring down at the man with a smug, pleased little smirk, hips rocking as he squeezes down on that spurting cock, riding Eames all through his orgasm.
When the man seems to have recovered his wits a bit, he gruffly directs, "Touch me."
He's not so nice as to let just Eames get off on this, and is selfish enough in the moment to demand his own release come from the man's hand directly.
Of course he's a smug little arsehole and Eames adores him for it.
He groans as he slumps down on the bed and breathes hard, staring up at Arthur's smirking face. If he weren't already bleeding in his bandages, he would have rolled them over and just continued to fuck Arthur through several orgasms, but as it is, well, he doesn't have all that many options.
"You are so pushy, darling," he murmurs and it's not a secret to anyone who hears him that this is not to be counted as anything negative, quite the contrary.
He reaches up, curling his hand in Arthur's messy hair and pulls him down for a hard, mouth bruising kiss. And while he's at it, his hand squeezes harder around Arthur's dick, stroking him with his calloused palm, each pull ending in a twist that's going to bring as much stimulation to the head as possible.
Arthur's groan is muffled into the kiss and his lips throb from a combination of that hard kiss as well as the cut from earlier getting manhandled without a care. He was already ready to blow at any second, given it's been a while since he got laid, so it's no surprise that Eames is able to get him off fast. He only laments that it couldn't last longer.
When he cums, it's with a low, satisfied moan right against Eames' swollen lips, and he spurts messily between them (damn, he'll definitely have to change those bandages-), and his body weakly clenches on the soft cock still buried in his ass. He almost slumps down from it, but catches himself to avoid putting pressure on Eames' injuries, panting hard against the man's face as he tries to catch his breath while the aftershocks keep coursing through him.
When he comes back to himself, he'll find Eames staring up at him, his hand slowly carding through Arthur's hair, gently working through the mess of it. There's no anger in the forger's eyes anymore, just wonder and yielding curiosity.
Arthur is absolutely bloody gorgeous when he comes and Eames could watch his release on repeat for hours without ever becoming bored. That's saying something...
Eames' expression is unexpected and Arthur actually finds himself feeling a little embarrassed from it, because he shouldn't read into such things. Still, there's no reason to push away from the man when they've just shared a pretty intense moment together, so he stares right back down, eyes unreadable, if a bit gentle, tilting his head a little into that stroking hand.
Then he wets his lips and casts his eyes down between them, sliding a hand gently over Eames' bandages. "I'm gonna have to check these."
Not the most romantic thing to say immediately, but Arthur's hardly ever been accused of being romantic in any way, shape or form.
That minute tilt of his head and the look that's unreadable but not angry, not torn, not hollow - they get to Eames - and he's already beginning to lean up to kiss Arthur when the pointman looks away, down, between them and starts talking about the bandages.
Eames swallows and relaxes down again. His hand drops to Arthur's shoulder and down to his arm from there.
Arthur gets the distinct impression he's ruined things again, but what's done is done.
Besides, he's spotted that little patch of red growing in the middle of Eames' bandages, and that's enough to spoil the mood all on it's own.
"I think you tore some stitches," he sighs, exasperated and tired as he forces himself off, grunting quietly when he feels Eames' still-softening length slip out of him. He doesn't bother putting all his clothes on, just grabbing up his underwear so he's not flapping about completely naked.
"Wait here, I'll get a towel to clean you off and then check your wounds," he orders, voice strictly business and calm as always, smoothing his hair back to some semblance of neatness as he goes upstairs to the bathroom.
Tired is what Eames feels as well, his wrist resting on top of his eyes when Arthur steps away. He doesn't bother covering himself in the slightest, just lays flat and naked and flaccid on the sofa bed until Arthur has disappeared from sight.
Then he rolls up, cringing a little at the tightness that he feels against his side and reaches for his underwear on the floor, using them to wipe himself clean. After that he just sits there for a moment, staring at the opposing wall, elbows on his knees and feeling like he just fucked up things even worse than he did before.
Finally he leans back a little and starts peeling off the bandages on his side. There's not a whole lot of fresh blood there, but enough that it runs down to his hip and he scrambles to yank the rest of it away so he can catch the drip with the soiled bandages.
To say Arthur's displeased to see Eames being so dumb is an understatement.
"Seriously?" he growls, rushing over and batting away Eames' hands, not caring if blood might leak onto his furniture because what the fuck? "You couldn't wait five minutes?"
The towel that had been intended for cleaning Eames instead gets wadded up against the open wound, applying pressure. "Lie down," comes the gruff instruction, a pointed glowering stare directed up at Eames' face to indicate Arthur's not playing around.
Eames grunts with half annoyance, half something else, uncomfortable, something that sits right under his ribcage. Something that fucking aches worse than the wound against his side.
At first it seems like he's going to push Arthur's hands away, but then thinks better of it and lays back against the sofa bed, hands coming up to rub over his face.
"I love it when you push me around, darling," he says but there's none of the usual playful tease in it, just... tired and little sad.
Arthur's hands still from where they'd been getting the medkit out, his eyes flicking up to stare at Eames' partially covered face. He almost says something but then decides against it, shaking his head and looking down at the wound which seems the more pressing issue.
It's not until after he's finished closing it up again and is applying fresh bandages that he comments quietly, "Not like you to be so moody."
Eames stays still and quiet the whole time, eyes closed and quiet. Arthur's not even snapping back at him like he usually does.
Obviously Eames could have just... not knocked on that door and they would maybe have been fine, in a couple of years.
"I know," he replies to Arthur's observation, which is as astute as they usually are. Usually Eames is the steady rock that just keeps going. Despite whatever people might think of him bue to his flighty personality. But not now. He feels restless and awkward and anxious.
Arthur falls silent and finishes with the bandages, making sure they're secure and not likely to come flying off or getting bunched up by accident.
He should get dressed, properly. Or washed up, first. Or he should get both done for Eames, first, though the man probably needs a sponge bath, because like hell is he letting the man get those bandages wet.
"... Think you can manage the stairs?" he asks when he's finally done with the bandages, not looking up as he packs away the medkit and wads up the now bloodied towel.
They're back in square one it seems and it both frustrates and angers him for reasons that aren't quite clear to him.
But he's nothing if not a good actor and he decides to swallow his own irritation and gut wrenching doubt by reaching for a small, playful smile.
"Hey, sorry for messing up your couch, darling. I'll get you a new one, okay." He reaches over to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, knowing a few locks will come lose and that might have been exactly what he wanted. "Especially if that means we might end up ruining that one too..."
Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't pull away from Eames, instead taking his arm and putting it over the slimmer man's shoulders. It's weird how that playful smile is both a bit of a relief and a bit painful to look at, but Arthur doesn't want to look into it, now, when they're both reeling from everything possible.
"Forget the couch," he huffs, getting them both to stand. "C'mon. We both need to wash up."
"You're so bossy even after coming like a fountain on my stomach," Eames murmurs with that infuriating smile of his while Arthur hauls him up. "I like it. It reminds me how bossy you are before while you tell me to fuck you harder."
Oh, yeah, he's putting in all his ridiculous charm and playful energy that is at least 70% fabricated. Just to gain some ground in normalcy.
"You don't know when to shut up, do you?" Arthur grunts, taking them up the stairs and past the open floor of his bedroom to the bathroom. Once there, he gets a stool for Eames to sit next to the bath, giving him a pointed stare that indicates he'd better stay put, or else. He gets the cleaning products, laying them down on the edge of the tub before grabbing the shower head and turning on the water.
A washcloth gets soaked, then Arthur's using it to give Eames' body a quick 'rinse', before following it up with some body wash, careful not to get the bandages wet.
"I try not to shut up if I can help it," Eames hums agreeably. Arthur has him on his toes, waiting for the other shoe to drop any minute now, he's already fluffing up a smoke screen so it doesn't feel that jarring when he disappears into the mist like a ninja. Jesus, these analogies are getting just as cheesy as his teasing.
So, he surrenders himself to Arthur's fussing. And if he leans against him whenever he has a chance, it's just to annoy Arthur more, not anything else, right?
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It doesn't matter because Arthur's not in the mood to ask if he can fuck himself on Eames' dick. And honestly there's little else to do than to hold on for dear life and let him have his fill. Eames would like to thrust up but he already feels the wetness spreading under the bandages and doing that would definitely mean breaking more stitches.
So, he's stuck with wrapping his hands around Arthur's middle and pulling him down when he gets up, and staring at the man with lust-dark eyes, his mouth open to allow harsher breaths past his lips. He's so bloody gorgeous like this, bouncing up and down on Eames' cock, focused and demanding.
Eames would give him whatever he wanted, right that moment. If Arthur would just have the boldness to ask.
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"Fuck," he gasps, eyes squeezing shut when he manages to drag that cock right against his prostate, his own dick jerking and leaking from the sensation.
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Arthur clings to him tight and so damn good, Eames' heart is thundering in his ears and he has to close his mouth and breathe through his nose to hold on, to keep it going. There's wildness to Arthur that he hasn't seen for a long while, and if that doesn't drive him mad, very little else can.
"Come on," he urges in a low, rough voice as his other hand wraps around Arthur's cock to stroke him in time with the hard bouncing Arthur's doing.
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He does his best to ride Eames hard, forcing his eyes open to watch that reddened, rugged face, tempted again
as alwaysto lean down and bite at those lips. His body's tight, tense, primed for release, but he's determined not to until he's wrung Eames dry, first.no subject
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.
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Even if the pace is still rough, Arthur's slowed down a bit, just enough so he can concentrate on clenching down around Eames' cock to push him harder towards the edge. "Come on, Eames," he murmurs, biting his lip on a particularly hard grind down, his own dick twitching in the Forge's hand as it leaks eagerly.
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somewhatnicely.Perhaps that lip biting and hair swiping has something to do with it too. Arthur sits on him so tight Eames sees stars at the drag of his clenched ass over him.
"Christ", he swallows the curse in a mighty inhale as his back arches and head tilts back, mouth open even as he forgets to breathe when the tide comes in and his orgasm washes over him like a hot sea of flames, raw, near violent, making him shudder again and again as Arthur's arse keeps milking him dry.
"Arthur..." It's weak and spills from his lips incoherently.
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When the man seems to have recovered his wits a bit, he gruffly directs, "Touch me."
He's not so nice as to let just Eames get off on this, and is selfish enough in the moment to demand his own release come from the man's hand directly.
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He groans as he slumps down on the bed and breathes hard, staring up at Arthur's smirking face. If he weren't already bleeding in his bandages, he would have rolled them over and just continued to fuck Arthur through several orgasms, but as it is, well, he doesn't have all that many options.
"You are so pushy, darling," he murmurs and it's not a secret to anyone who hears him that this is not to be counted as anything negative, quite the contrary.
He reaches up, curling his hand in Arthur's messy hair and pulls him down for a hard, mouth bruising kiss. And while he's at it, his hand squeezes harder around Arthur's dick, stroking him with his calloused palm, each pull ending in a twist that's going to bring as much stimulation to the head as possible.
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When he cums, it's with a low, satisfied moan right against Eames' swollen lips, and he spurts messily between them (damn, he'll definitely have to change those bandages-), and his body weakly clenches on the soft cock still buried in his ass. He almost slumps down from it, but catches himself to avoid putting pressure on Eames' injuries, panting hard against the man's face as he tries to catch his breath while the aftershocks keep coursing through him.
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Arthur is absolutely bloody gorgeous when he comes and Eames could watch his release on repeat for hours without ever becoming bored. That's saying something...
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Then he wets his lips and casts his eyes down between them, sliding a hand gently over Eames' bandages. "I'm gonna have to check these."
Not the most romantic thing to say immediately, but Arthur's hardly ever been accused of being romantic in any way, shape or form.
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Eames swallows and relaxes down again. His hand drops to Arthur's shoulder and down to his arm from there.
"Of course you do," he says quietly.
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Besides, he's spotted that little patch of red growing in the middle of Eames' bandages, and that's enough to spoil the mood all on it's own.
"I think you tore some stitches," he sighs, exasperated and tired as he forces himself off, grunting quietly when he feels Eames' still-softening length slip out of him. He doesn't bother putting all his clothes on, just grabbing up his underwear so he's not flapping about completely naked.
"Wait here, I'll get a towel to clean you off and then check your wounds," he orders, voice strictly business and calm as always, smoothing his hair back to some semblance of neatness as he goes upstairs to the bathroom.
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Then he rolls up, cringing a little at the tightness that he feels against his side and reaches for his underwear on the floor, using them to wipe himself clean. After that he just sits there for a moment, staring at the opposing wall, elbows on his knees and feeling like he just fucked up things even worse than he did before.
Finally he leans back a little and starts peeling off the bandages on his side. There's not a whole lot of fresh blood there, but enough that it runs down to his hip and he scrambles to yank the rest of it away so he can catch the drip with the soiled bandages.
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"Seriously?" he growls, rushing over and batting away Eames' hands, not caring if blood might leak onto his furniture because what the fuck? "You couldn't wait five minutes?"
The towel that had been intended for cleaning Eames instead gets wadded up against the open wound, applying pressure. "Lie down," comes the gruff instruction, a pointed glowering stare directed up at Eames' face to indicate Arthur's not playing around.
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At first it seems like he's going to push Arthur's hands away, but then thinks better of it and lays back against the sofa bed, hands coming up to rub over his face.
"I love it when you push me around, darling," he says but there's none of the usual playful tease in it, just... tired and little sad.
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It's not until after he's finished closing it up again and is applying fresh bandages that he comments quietly, "Not like you to be so moody."
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Obviously Eames could have just... not knocked on that door and they would maybe have been fine, in a couple of years.
"I know," he replies to Arthur's observation, which is as astute as they usually are. Usually Eames is the steady rock that just keeps going. Despite whatever people might think of him bue to his flighty personality. But not now. He feels restless and awkward and anxious.
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Arthur falls silent and finishes with the bandages, making sure they're secure and not likely to come flying off or getting bunched up by accident.
He should get dressed, properly. Or washed up, first. Or he should get both done for Eames, first, though the man probably needs a sponge bath, because like hell is he letting the man get those bandages wet.
"... Think you can manage the stairs?" he asks when he's finally done with the bandages, not looking up as he packs away the medkit and wads up the now bloodied towel.
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They're back in square one it seems and it both frustrates and angers him for reasons that aren't quite clear to him.
But he's nothing if not a good actor and he decides to swallow his own irritation and gut wrenching doubt by reaching for a small, playful smile.
"Hey, sorry for messing up your couch, darling. I'll get you a new one, okay." He reaches over to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, knowing a few locks will come lose and that might have been exactly what he wanted. "Especially if that means we might end up ruining that one too..."
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"Forget the couch," he huffs, getting them both to stand. "C'mon. We both need to wash up."
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Oh, yeah, he's putting in all his ridiculous charm and playful energy that is at least 70% fabricated. Just to gain some ground in normalcy.
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A washcloth gets soaked, then Arthur's using it to give Eames' body a quick 'rinse', before following it up with some body wash, careful not to get the bandages wet.
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So, he surrenders himself to Arthur's fussing. And if he leans against him whenever he has a chance, it's just to annoy Arthur more, not anything else, right?
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