eternalsojourn

This had its origins many moons ago, when

ohfreckle had a bad day and asked for good things. I tried to do a drive-by porning and failed miserably. I’m sorry it’s so late, ohfreckle! But this one’s for you!

Anyway, I started writing this thing, and it picked up feelings along the way. I apologize for what is ultimately unremitting romantic fluff. I guess I needed to get this out of my system before gearing up for my Team Angst contributions. I hope. >_>

Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1750
Warnings: None (unless a warning is needed for bareback)
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Eames has a shitty day, hates everyone, and Arthur sets out to take his mind off things.
Beta:

night_reveals. You’ve changed my writing life, darling, don’t you forget it.

The Cure for Embitterment

"The whole world can just fuck off and die," Eames says, hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes. Arthur looks up from his book, over the rim of his glasses and checks to see what response is necessary. Sometimes Eames says these things and is rather jovial about it. Not today.

"Anyone you need taken out? Kneecapped maybe?" Arthur's only half joking.

Eames laughs mirthlessly. "Much as I'd love for all the idiots I've dealt with today to meet your particular brand of calculated cruelty, I'd really rather just put it behind me." He moves to their open kitchen, pulls out one of the good whisky glasses, and pops open the Ardbeg Uigeadail. Arthur's eyes widen; this is serious.

Arthur replaces his bookmark and gets up to move in behind Eames, slipping his arms around his waist and breathing into the back of his neck. As he approaches he can smell the thick, oily peat smoke of the Ardbeg. Eames tips his head back a little, taking a sip, and it's a good few moments before Arthur feels him swallow.

"Can I help take your mind off things?" Arthur asks, and just to make his intentions extra clear, slides one hand down to dip his fingers just inside the hem of Eames's trousers.

Eames groans. “I’m not sure even that will help,” he says before taking another sip of whisky and placing the glass firmly on the counter. “Worth a try, though,” he smirks.

Arthur places gentle kisses along the back of Eames’s neck, pulls his collar down slightly to access more skin. He leans in and softly licks up the rim of Eames’s ear and whispers, “You want me to take control? Tie you down, keep you hard and begging? Or maybe you want to fuck my mouth. Hmm?” He licks again, fluttering and soft before suckling a little on his earlobe. Eames sighs heavily and moves his head slightly to both better Arthur’s access and the press into him a little.

“I hate everyone in the world but you, darling,” he says.

“Hm,” Arthur murmurs softly in consideration of Eames’s hearing. “You didn’t answer my question.” He drops tender kisses along the rim of Eames’s ear, to the sensitive dip behind.

In response Eames turns around and grips Arthur’s ass with both hands, kisses him deeply and pushes him back against the counter. He tastes of strongly of whisky. He lifts Arthur up onto the counter and removes Arthur’s glasses, placing them a safe distance away on the counter. With deft twists of his fingers, he flicks each of Arthur’s buttons open, sucking kisses into every bit of skin as he reveals it.

“Just this, Arthur,” he says as he pushes Arthur’s shirt off his shoulders, nosing along his collarbone and inhaling deeply. Arthur ruffles his fingers through the short hairs at Eames’s nape, tilts his head to the side to watch Eames’s mouth work on his skin.

His nipple hardens under Eames’s tongue and teeth and Eames’s hands wander, drifting over random bits of skin, squeeze the muscle in Arthur’s thighs. Arthur loves this, loves Eames’s attention, and oh, like that, the way he bites just a little harder than is comfortable. Arthur sees how this is going to go, and it’s wonderful, it is. Eames will slowly, patiently make Arthur more sensitive, they’ll build and touch until they tip over the edge. But Eames needs to come undone, and he never will until he’s sure that Arthur has; Arthur rarely gets that far.

So Arthur turns his focus outward, decides to take what he wants, giving silent permission for Eames to do the same. He looks at Eames, sees him as though they haven’t been doing this for the better part of a year. Sees him as the man he was before Arthur got to have him. It makes Arthur skin-hungry, greedy. He touches, explores.

Eames senses the change, looks up at Arthur with a surprised little hum and an elegantly arched eyebrow. Arthur cups Eames’s jaw with both hands, pulls him up for a delving, thirsty kiss.

The taste of whisky is almost overpowering, but Arthur can still smell something distinctly Eames underneath if he pays attention. And he does, focuses on kissing like it’s the only thing they’ll do, and it occurs to him that he’s never kissed like this before; it’s usually a means to an end.

So he takes his time, gingerly touches his tongue to the edges of Eames’s teeth, caresses Eames’s tongue, licks away the taste of whisky until it’s only Eames left. It’s only when Eames pulls at Arthur’s hips to move him off the counter, that Arthur realizes how much the edge had been digging into the backs of his thighs.

Eames buries his face in Arthur’s neck, and Arthur wants to see him but clearly Eames wants to hide, so Arthur lets him. He simply undoes the button of Eames’s trousers, slips his hands down the back of his pants and palms his firm cheeks over his briefs. Eames sighs into Arthur’s neck, licks a line upwards to the soft indent under his ear.

“Yes,” Eames murmurs. “This might just do the trick.” And he helps Arthur out of the rest of his clothes, drops his own absent-mindedly to the side.

He opens the cupboard above Arthur’s head, pulls down a bottle; it’s the expensive olive oil, Arthur notices, but he has no intention of pointing that out, not when his skin prickles to attention in anticipation of Eames’s confident fingers.

A few drops fall with a soft plop on the floor before Eames nudges Arthur’s legs apart with his thigh and begins to work him open. He only gets two fingers in before Arthur stops him, though.

“That’s enough, I’m ready,” he says, and Eames gives him a skeptical look. It's not that Arthur's impatient; he wants to be tight for Eames. The words stick in his throat, though, and all he manages is, "Just -- it’s enough. Really.” And to stop Eames protesting he guides Eames's hand to his own cock, helps him coat it with the the oil.

Eames turns Arthur around, nudges his legs apart and rubs his cock over Arthur's hole. Ordinarily Arthur would growl at Eames to just fuck him already, but he wonders now if the intent was never to tease.

He pushes back slightly and just enjoys the anticipation. He rests his elbows on the counter, looks over his shoulder to see Eames's face: intense, mouth partly open, staring heavy-lidded at the place where they’re about to join. He’s frowning a little in concentration, whatever anger he came home with now transmuted, redirected. Arthur bites his lip, closes his eyes and waits to feel the pressure of Eames’s demand for entry.

It’s slow but adamant when it comes; Eames knows Arthur’s limits, doesn’t hesitate to take from Arthur within those boundaries. And it’s painful but exquisitely so; Arthur bears down, focuses on the feeling of yielding to the intrusion. He takes pride in the long, low groan that seems to seep out of Eames like an overflow. It’s impossibly tight, and Arthur feels a dribble of oil meander down his cleft, a gentle tickle.

Eames drapes himself over Arthur’s back, greedy hands wandering over Arthur’s front, tracing his contours. Arthur pushes himself up onto his palms, back into Eames, turns his head to draw Eames into a kiss.

When Arthur reaches down to stroke himself, his hand is immediately joined by Eames’s. After a moment of simply feeling Arthur’s fingers, stroking the skin between, Eames just sort of takes over and Arthur relinquishes control. It’s far from the first time Eames has stroked him like this, but Arthur is always struck by how different it is from his own touch, how there’s an added pleasure in not knowing exactly which touch is coming next.

He pushes up into Eames’s hand and back onto Eames’s cock, and they fall into a steady rhythm, pulsing against each other. Eames mouths at Arthur’s jaw, hungrily licks into his mouth every time Arthur turns his head. As they gradually speed up, get more intense, as Eames holds Arthur tighter, Arthur loses his grasp on thought.

It’s bubbling up in him before he knows it: words that fill him, threaten to tumble from his mouth. And if he could just think... but he can’t, not with Eames pressed so close against him, lips on his skin, pushing up inside him. And the words are right there, sitting in his mouth and all he has to do is open.

“God, Eames,” he breathes. “Eames.” He gets a hum in response, murmured into his neck. “I love you,” Arthur says, breaking, and there’s no taking it back now. But there’s no time to second-guess, because Eames is pressing in tight, stilling, coming deep inside and breathing “Arthur,” into his ear. Eames’s grip on Arthur’s cock gets tighter, and with the spreading warmth inside him, feeling full and surrounded, Arthur jerks, squeezes his eyes shut and rides it out, letting his orgasm rock through him and wipe his mind clear of everything but sensation.

After a long moment Eames huffs a laugh into Arthur’s shoulder, slips his cock out slowly. “Bloody hell, Arthur. You don’t do things by halves, do you? I just wanted some cheering up.” Arthur turns around and Eames nips at his lower lip. Arthur smiles and tries not to tense, but he’s keenly aware of what hasn’t been said. He kisses back, attempting to cover the omission with action.

Eames’s hands drift down and he draws a lazy finger through the mess, grips his cheek with his other hand. Breaking the kiss, he mumbles, “It’s mutual, I assure you.”

Arthur tamps down his expression to hide the fact that his chest feels as if it’s about to burst wide open. He drops his head to Eames’s shoulder instead and says, “I need a shower; this oil is... kind of drippy.” After a second he looks up into Eames’s face, raises his eyebrow in silent invitation.

Eames grins crookedly at him, gives him a light smack on the hip. “All right, then. This doesn’t fix anything, though, you know. I still hate everyone but you.”

Arthur decides to chalk it up as a success anyway.

***End***