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Eames’ hands tighten on Arthur’s hips and he thrusts up, hard, one final time, his legs tensing beneath Arthur’s weight. Arthur throws his head back when Eames comes, loud groans falling from Arthur’s lips. Eames’ hand flies over Arthur’s cock and he catches some of the hot fluid in his hand, watches as it dribbles over his knuckles. Arthur falls forward onto him, panting, and Eames’ hand immediately cradles his head.
“Mmm. We should shag in a dream sometime, yeah?”
Arthur mouths against Eames’ neck, nipping at his Adam’s apple. “Why are you talking?”
Eames smirks and wraps his other arm around Arthur’s waist, shifting until he gradually slips from Arthur's body. Eames knows for sure it was a stellar fuck because Arthur isn’t carrying about the mess between them. Arthur's unwillingness to tolerate even minimal pillow talk is also evidence of a top-notch lay.
“Shagging in a dream has all kinds of advantages, love. Multiple orgasms, no clean up, no prep. I could be someone else.” He says the last part in a rush and sure enough, Arthur lifts his head and stares.
“Someone else? Like whom?”
Eames rolls them over so they’re on their sides, kissing Arthur slow and deep, licking between his lips and tasting himself, “Anyone you wanted,” he whispers against Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur pulls back, frowning. “I don’t want anyone else. Why…? Do you?”
They’ve been doing this for some time now and they haven’t had an official conversation beyond “you’re mine,” while Eames was fucking Arthur into the mattress and Arthur was clawing his fingers into Eames’ hips, saying “okay, yeah, yes, yours.”
Arthur’s brow is creased now so he just kisses him again all bruising and possessive; hopefully conveying 'you bloody git, of course not.' He shifts them over, climbing on top of Arthur, sliding a leg between his bare thighs. Eames bites at Arthur’s lips, swallowing his moans and enjoying the hitch of breath that stutters out when Eames presses him down harder into the mattress.
Eames breaks away, suddenly breathless and wanting all over again. “Jesus, Arthur,” he moans, ducking his head to bite at Arthur’s throat, loving the way Arthur just pulls him in closer, his fingers clenching on Eames’ arse. “Just, thought you’d like the fantasy s’all. Who do you like, mm?” Celebrity? You get off on that Jon Hamm, I know. All those suits. Or maybe you want someone twinky? What was that film you showed me? The Dreamers? Yeah, maybe that blond ..”
Arthur shakes his head vigorously and lifts his leg to wrap around Eames’ waist. “No, I.. I just can’t. I’d know it was you. It’s too… weird.”
Eames gets it, he does. Forgery within dream sharing is a slippery slope of ambiguous consent and Arthur’s, well – Arthur’s the most upstanding dream worker Eames has ever encountered. It shouldn’t surprise him to learn Arthur wouldn’t be able to let his brain go enough for a bit of fun.
Eames bends to lick Arthur’s nipples, delighting in the groan he receives". “S’okay. Now turn over and let me lick you clean.”
Arthur’s lifting himself out from under Eames before the words are finished, and Eames eventually forgets the whole conversation.
_______________________
Arthur can’t stop thinking about it. It’s Eames’ own fault, bringing up Jon Hamm. And Arthur still isn’t keen on the idea of Eames being someone else, not really, but at the same time he thinks of broad shoulders and slicked back hair and then realizes he has that already. It's funny Eames even considered Arthur would want someone like Michael Pitt; Arthur’s tastes are fairly obvious, or so he thought. On more than one occasion he’s sure to have embarrassed himself by moaning a little too loudly when Eames climbs on top of him, or runs his hands a bit too feverishly over Eames’ muscles, delighting when those large hands paw at him.
Naturally, then, it feels like kismet when Arthur finds old army picture of Eames behind the dresser after one of his cufflinks falls between it and the wall. Eames’ hair is shorter, and his face has a almost baby-faced quality. It’s the rest of him, though, that Arthur can’t look away from. His shoulders are broader, his chest bulkier under a wife-beater that leaves nothing to the imagination. His arms are nearly doubled in size, Arthur thinks, and he suddenly feels rather light-headed. Eames’ army buddy stands next to him, the two of them all smiles, and Arthur notices he has a good few inches on the man. It hits him like a bolt of lighting, knocking the wind from his chest.
He knows what he wants.
_______________________
“These are my terms and conditions,” Arthur says when Eames arrives home, bags of groceries under his arm. Arthur’s not sure when he started thinking of Eames coming back to Arthur’s apartment as ‘home’ or what to make of Eames having done all the food shopping for the week entirely on his own, without any sort of kicking and screaming.
“Lovely to see you too, s’alright I don’t need any help.” Arthur watches as Eames hefts the bags into the kitchen, six in each hand. His legs nearly give out.
“Screw the food. Here,” Arthur says, marching into the kitchen and shoving his Moleskine at Eames.
Eames raises an eyebrow but takes it from him anyway. Arthur soaks up the way Eames’ jaw twitches and his eyes grow wide as he reads over the terms. Arthur watches as his fingers trace the picture he’s attached to the other side of the page.
Finally, he looks up, and smiles, shaking his head. “I’m not sure what surprises me more. Your request or the fact that you documented it on your memo pad.”
Arthur moved forward, crowded Eames against the island. “Does my request really surprise you," murmurs Arthur as he trails his fingers along Eames’ collarbone, inching his fingers down and closing them around one large bicep. Eames flexes for him, automatically, and Arthur’s mouth goes dry. When he meets Eames’ eyes, they’re as dark with lust as his own must be.
“Where the hell is your PASIV?” Eames asks, breathless.
“Under the bed.”
Eames slaps Arthur’s ass and reels him in close, slotting their mouths together before licking his way inside, suckling Arthur’s tongue while letting out soft sounds that go straight to Arthur’s dick.
Eames releases him and slaps his ass again. “Get on with it, then.”
Arthur nearly sprints to the bedroom.
_______________________
Arthur’s laying fully clothed on top of Eames’ naked body, framed completely within the wide expanse of Eames’ shoulders. He drags his erection along Eames’ torso, and wonders if this is how Ariadne or girls of her size and stature feel with a bigger partner. Eames’ arms close around him, his hands gliding down his spine and back up, just massaging again and again until Arthur’s completely overtaken by the sensation.
They kiss, Eames having to bend his neck because of the extra inches Arthur had included in the terms and conditions. Eames is a good three or so inches taller than him now, and somehow it makes all the difference. He feels awkward, their bodies out of place, torsos no longer lined up perfectly. Now, when his cock drags against Eames, it hits low on Eames’ stomach. Before, when they arrived in the dream, Eames had pulled Arthur forward by his collar for a kiss. Arthur felt his body immediately shift to balls of his feet, and he felt off kilter. Eames leaned down to kiss him, and it was soft and careful like he was learning the movements all over again. Arthur shivers at the memory.
He rises up onto his arms, braced on Eames’ chest and looks down between them. Eames’ cock is jutting against his stomach, full and red; a nice contrast to Arthur’s black pants. Eames’ thighs are nearly three times as wide and Arthur feels his breath catch in his throat. He reaches down, tries to fit his fingers around the width of one. A thrill surges through his body when, naturally, he can barely make it half way around.
Arthur runs his hands over Eames’ shoulders and down his arms, taking in the sharp, dark lines stretched tight across muscle. His eyes rove hungrily, taking in Eames’ chest, the fullness of his girth, not one ounce of fat on him that isn’t muscle mass.
Eames is watching him with something akin to wonder, pupils blown wide.
“Is this your way of saying I need to frequent the gym more?” he murmurs, fisting his fingers in Arthur’s hair and tugging lightly. Arthur lets his head fall back, let’s Eames arch up beneath him and suck open, wet kisses into the base of his throat.
“Maybe,” he moans, eyes drifting shut.
“And your way of expressing some sort of jock fantasy?”
Arthur groans, and forces his eyes open. He looks around the room. So maybe it was a little ridiculous dreaming up a dorm room. Naturally he made the room, including the bed, bigger but not by much. He wants the thrill of them shifting together, of Eames having to catch him from falling.
“Shut up.”
Eames shifts Arthur’s weight like he’s nothing, sitting up straight and pulling Arthur down into his lap, his knees folded onto themselves on Eames’ thighs. Eames drags his teeth down the column of Arthur’s throat, his hands moving to Arthur’s flies. He shoves one large (fuck, so large) hand inside and thumbs along the length, before squeezing gently.
“This what you thought of at university, darling? A big, beefy jock who could hold you down and give it to you hard?”
Arthur lets out a strangled cry, half caught in his throat, and arches into Eames’ hand. “Just shut up and fuck me, stud,” he says, as dryly as he can manage.
Eames barks out a laugh and throws Arthur down on his back, toward the foot of the bed. Arthur looks up at him, eyes wide, and suddenly the room feels devoid of air. Eames leans back on his shins, grabs hold of Arthur’s pants and yanks them down.
Arthur kicks his legs up and starts on his own boxers. Eames slaps his hands away, grinning, and tugs them off himself. Then he’s swallowing Arthur down to the base, inhaling deeply and tickling the hair of his groin with his nose. Eames’ mouth is slick and hot, his tongue mapping out the shapes of Arthur. He knows every inch of Arthur’s cock, every sensitive ridge that makes Arthur shake and moan and pull at the bed sheets until his knuckles are white.
Eames’ fingers are pressing sharp into his hip bones and he’s holding Arthur down so tightly that even a feeble attempt to thrust up is met with absolutely no give.
“Oh fuck, Eames,” Arthur gasps, the inability to move hitting him like a freight train. He struggles again just to feel the resistance. Eames chuckles around him and keeps sucking him right down to the root, and Arthur just writhes as much as he can back against the mattress, the pillow. Arthur’s sweating and he starts pulling at his shirt, unbuttoning with unsteady fingers knowing his hands won’t be slapped away this time; knowing he won’t let him go.
Arthur’s trying to get his arms out of his shirt when Eames pulls off and yanks him forward by the waist. Then he’s off the bed and lifting Arthur into his arms like he weighs nothing and holy shit, his cock leaks just from the movement. Eames backs them against the wall, Arthur’s legs tight around him.
“Hold on with your legs,” Eames whispers, mouthing his ear lobe, applying wet, soft suction. Arthur obeys, and then Eames is stripping him of his shirt and flinging it across the room. Eames drops his hands to Arthur’s ass, squeezing hard.
“Are you nice and wet for me already?” His voice is low, rough, and positively filthy; Arthur will never get his fill.
Still, the question is rather foolish, even given the tone. “Yeah, dream and all –”
“I don’t care,” Eames cuts him off, voice sharp. “I’m still gonna rim your pretty arse until you quiver beneath me.”
Arthur’s legs turn to jelly around Eames’ waist. Luckily in that moment Eames tosses him down onto the bed again, turning him over like he weighs no more than a feather, and proceeds to do just that.
_________________________
Arthur’s not sure how long Eames’ tongue has been in his ass. His cock and raw and aching from where it’s rutting against the bed. Eames is sloppy against him, his tongue thrusting inside, mixing with the lube already prepping Arthur’s ass, placing kisses along his cheeks in intervals. Eames breathes him, pressing his nose right up against Arthur’s ass and loving it, Arthur knows, loving it so much. Arthur’s hands are above his head and Eames’ are on his upper back, holding him in place, feeling the undeniable shakes racking through Arthur’s body.
Eames presses in deep pass the ring of muscle, licking Arthur open, sliding two fingers easily around his tongue and angling them so they barely graze his prostate. When Arthur cries out, Eames pulls away and then covers Arthur with his body, and oh fuck, he’s, Arthur is lost against him.. if someone were to walk in, Arthur’s not even sure they’d be able to see him beneath Eames’ mass.
“You’re such a filthy slut for me, you know that?” Eames whispers dirtily into Arthur’s shoulder, biting down hard. “Tell me how you want it. You’re calling the shots here, love.”
“Want you to hold me down and fuck me till I scream,” Arthur moans against the pillow, reaching back to feel Eames’ bicep.
“Mmm. Like this then,” he sighs and Arthur feels him shift, nudging Arthur’s thighs apart.
And he – he wants, but. He squeezes Eames’ forearm. “No… no, I. Wanna see you,” Arthur gasps. Wanna see your muscles, he doesn’t add. He assumes it’s implied.
Eames settles himself between Arthur’s legs and then he’s turning Arthur again, with one arm and Arthur’s knocked breathless again. “Holy shit, I can’t,” he says when they’re facing each other, unable to stop his hands from tracing all over Eames’ chest again, running his nails against the honey brown hair of his chest, scraping over his tattoos, thumbing his hard nipples.
“I can’t handle you,” Arthur chokes out, and they both look down at Arthur’s leaking cock. Eames gives it a brief tug before taking himself in his hand.
"Thought that was the point, yeah?" Eames grins, and Arthur knows he's attempting nonchalance, but his voice is raw and his eyes are glazed.
Eames’ hair is damp against his forehead, his face is flushed and it’s then Arthur knows Eames is getting off on Arthur’s arousal as much as Arthur’s getting off on Eames’ body. As if reading his thoughts Eames bends down to kiss him, all teeth and tongue, their mouths barely touching.
“You’re fantastic,” Eames whispers and kisses him again, deeper.
When he pulls away, Arthur feels dizzy. Eames sits back on his knees between Arthur’s thighs and lifts to settle around his waist. “Spread wider,” Eames chokes out, and Arthur does, wrapping his legs around Eames’ huge thighs. Before he can look back at Eames’ face, Eames thrusts in hard to hilt. Arthur’s neck snaps back against the pillow. “Ohh fucck,” he groans. “Eames.”
Arthur watches the unsteady rise and fall of Eames’ chest, and bites his lips when Eames’ hands settle around his biceps. Eames’ locks his elbows, holds Arthur down with all his weight while fucking into him in long, hard strokes, hitting Arthur’s prostate on every upstroke.
Arthur tries to reach for his cock but he can’t, not with Eames’ holding him in place. He doesn’t necessarily mind, fine with the slow, steady rush of the head of Eames’ cock dragging against his prostate; completely content with watching Eames’ eyes fall closed on occasion, watching his arms flex and his stomach muscles clench.
Eames thrusts harder, deeper, until Arthur is thrashing beneath him, unable to move; unable to avoid the ache of his cock, the pressure in his balls. When Eames pulls out to the tip and slams back in, Arthur comes with a loud, piercing cry that one could definitely call a scream if so inclined.
“Fuck, Arthur, come for me,” Eames gasps, and keeps fucking into him until Arthur’s legs are aching and every last drop has spurted across his belly and chest.
Arthur’s panting shallowly when Eames pulls out with warning and flips Arthur easily over, pressing him down into the mattress, knocking his thighs apart with his knee and lining himself up to slide back in. Eames covers him, everywhere, from head to toe, and Arthur has to crane his head back to kiss him, those extra inches making Eames loom over him and oh god, Arthur could suffocate like this and he doesn’t care, can barely breathe right now yet it’s the sweetest rapture he can imagine.
“God, your arse, Arthur,” Eames is whispering. His throat sounds scratched and his words are slurred. Eames always did get rather drunk on sex, Arthur thinks fondly and just let’s Eames take his lips again, let’s Eames bend to kiss him, loving the difference in their height, loving this reckless, heady feeling of possession.
Eames comes with a snap of his hips and his tongue in Arthur’s mouth, the two of them moaning their pleasure around lips and teeth. Eames slumps down on top of him, peppering kisses over Arthur’s reddened skin, letting his stumble scratch along Arthur’s shoulder.
“One off thing, then?” Eames asks, breathlessly, after long minutes of silence.
Arthur’s lungs feel like they’re crushed but he can’t bring himself to ask Eames to move. “We still have some time left on the clock, Mr. Eames. Anything beyond that…,” he twists his head upward, smirking, “we shall see.”
Eames’ face turns oddly soft and he kisses Arthur slowly with a hand on his jaw, bending his neck down to reach him (Arthur’s not going to get over the height thing for a while, he knows it) but right now Eames is licking between his lips tenderly.
When he pulls back he keeps his fingers on Arthur’s jaw and slowly strokes. “Never would’ve pegged you for a romantic, by the by.”
Arthur can’t help the flush that spreads across his face. “I know what I like,” he says simply.
Arthur decides Eames’ answering smile is worth doing this a million times over.
[end]