Work Text:
The boxing club is deserted, run-down and shabby. Tucked into the corner of a street, off-beat. Boarded up windows.
Eames chose well.
Arthur keeps his steps light as he walks down the corridor. He can hear Eames, the heavy sounds of fists hitting a punching bag, low grunts of effort. He rounds the corner and stops in the doorway, resting his shoulder against it, watching. There's dim setting sunlight filtering through dirty windows, a glowing haze that envelopes Eames' broad back, sleek muscles moving. His torso is covered in sweat.
Arthur takes in the sight, and allows his thoughts to stray for a moment, imagines pushing Eames to the floor to run his hands all over that back.
The punches stop, and Eames reaches for his water bottle, gulping it empty. It's only the two of them here, and the sound of Eames' heavy breathing. He gets back to pummelling the punching bag, just for a minute, circling it until he can look at Arthur. His sweat pants are hanging low on his hips, and Arthur notes his bruised sides and bloody knuckles. Picks up on the faint rasp in his lungs.
This version of Eames - a different persona, undercover; playing the game he knows best - can't keep still for one second, bounces lightly from one foot to the other, smooth movements despite his injuries. The look in his eyes is made strange by that mask he's still wearing, rendering him unreadable.
Arthur steps fully inside the room, casual as you please. Doesn't even have to say a word for Eames to pull a face.
"Wankers caught me outside the pub," he says, by way of explanation. His accent is rough, eyes guarded, and Arthur cracks a bit of a smile. Eames' gaze is steady on Arthur.
"You provoked them," he says, steps closer, sharp eyes. He's a moment away from reaching out to touch Eames, but not yet, not quite.
Eames shrugs, faux-abashed. "Had to, innit. Had to play it down, too." The thought visibly doesn't sit well with him, his face souring. But when he looks up at Arthur the expression vanishes. Through his lashes Eames regards him with anticipation. If he were wearing another version of himself he might lick his lips at this point, might even bat his lashes. Instead he just holds Arthur's gaze, a challenge all in itself.
Arthur comes to stand before him, tracing a finger down the dark shadows on Eames' side.
"You lost, then," he says, and puts his palm fully on Eames' skin, not pressing, just resting. He revels in the sharp intake of breath. Muscles twitching under his hands, everything curled tight and tense. He looks up and Eames' eyes are closed.
"Had to, yeah? Couldn't have my cover blown."
"Of course." That half step closer, to bring their bodies almost flush together. "A shame about all that... excess energy," he murmurs, "wasted on that punching bag."
Eames grins, eyes opening. Presses into Arthur, and licks along his jaw. "Rather waste it on you, pengting." His hands come up in a mockery of tenderness, fluttering over the sides of Arthur’s hips before cupping his ass.
"Mr Eames," Arthur says low, leaves the words hanging. For a moment there's just stillness, laced with soft crackling static, until Arthur digs his fingers in hard and Eames groans deliciously, bringing their lips together in a snap of a movement.
Arthur pushes into him immediately, starts to maneuver Eames backwards. He's aiming for the wall, wants to push Eames into it face first, wants to add to the bruises. But underneath his hands Eames alights like a firecracker, pushes Arthur to the floor right next to the punching bag. Settles into his lap to grind down, head thrown back.
Arthur huffs a laugh, lies back flat on the grimy floor, digs his fingers into Eames' thighs. "God you're such a slag, aren't you?" His accent's all wrong, but Eames responds to it beautifully, moaning and leaning forward, propped up on his arms. Another minute and his movements are going to turn rough and greedy, if Arthur lets him.
"You better take me, then," he pants, his voice breathy and affected, the little shit. "Take me, Arthur. Your hotel room, right here, I don’t care- oh-"
He’s cut off by Arthur surging up for a biting kiss. When they break apart Arthur starts digging through his wallet, pulling out a condom and a packet of lube.
"On your knees," he says.
There's a gleeful, almost manic grin on Eames' face as he complies, sliding down his track pants and underwear in one movement. He positions himself with his ass to Arthur, wiggles playfully for a second. But underneath it there's that restlessness thrumming, just beneath his skin, vibrating. It's making Arthur drunk with slow-burning want.
He rubs a soothing hand up and down his hip. Waits for Eames' breath to steady a bit before pushing lube up inside him, twisting his finger in up to the knuckle.
"God I love how you’re always prepared," Eames exhales on a moan, pushing back. "Just like that, just-" he sucks in breath as Arthur curls his finger to prod his prostate.
"There?"
Eames nods frantically, and because he’s a bit of a bastard Arthur avoids there until he's finished prepping Eames. Until Eames is writhing and begging on three fingers, a litany of "darling please, please, please."
Really, Arthur would have to be made out of stone not to comply. He hurries to roll on a condom, stalls further by rubbing the length of his cock along the cleft of Eames' delectable ass, moaning a luxuriant noise.
"Darling," Eames whines, faked accent slipping off him like an oil spill. "Stop teasing, I need you. I need it."
Arthur agrees silently; he needs it. He buries himself inside in an unhurried motion, slick and smooth and so fucking good. He can't resist sliding all the way out, just to push in again even slower, that thrumming crackling around them both. He can almost feel it tingling in his fingers, but today he wants this to last.
So he stills. Waits for Eames to start pushing back, listens to the high-pitched noises he makes, barely audible at the back of his throat, as if he knows that he’s supposed to stay still and wait but he just can’t help himself.
"Arthur, Arthur, please," he pants on every soft exhale, feverish urgency melting away into deep molten pleasure the longer he's made to wait.
The sun is burning red now, motes of dust bright like sparks in the air. All of Arthur's focus rests on the way Eames spreads out underneath him, wanton and shameless. How he trembles and keens.
He presses a hand to the bruises again and Eames sobs.
Arthur takes mercy, then, starts thrusting, moaning with the sweet slide of it. He spreads Eames’ ass cheeks wide to push in deeper, pace languid and slow, all of his self-control on display.
Beneath him Eames gasps and shifts, and shifts again, bruised fingers clenching uselessly on the floor. Arthur slaps him once, hard enough to leave a red imprint on one cheek, and pulls Eames up to sit in his lap. They both groan at the shift in angle.
"Too keyed up still?" Arthur asks, thrusting up hard once, lips brushing at Eames' ear. "Better work for it then."
He doesn't have to tell Eames twice. A sigh and he's leaning back into Arthur, trusting him to keep them both upright. He's moving his hips in shallow circles, barely satisfying either of them, and still soft sounds fall from his lips on every exhale.
"Fucking tease," Arthur says, and he thinks Eames might be smiling at that. He twists his head a fraction to bite his ear. "Move."
Finally Eames does, and Arthur digs his nails in deep where he's holding on, pulling Eames down hard on his cock. It's so fucking good, hot and tight and sweaty. The light is playing off Eames' muscles, his wet cock. The sight has Arthur screwing his eyes shut, forced deep breaths to stave off his orgasm.
He knows that this is not enough for Eames. His noises betray him, laced with desperation, he sounds almost mindless.
Arthur reaches around to push two fingers inside Eames' mouth, stroking over his tongue.
Eames groans around him, sucking obediently for a moment. A vague tension is creeping into his movements, like maybe he's warring with himself.
"Tell me what you need," Arthur says, slips his fingers out of Eames' mouth to let him answer but Eames just makes a noise of protest, and sucks them back in. He's hesitating, urgency forgotten, but Arthur can be patient. Tightens his grip on Eames' jaw minutely, and that's what does it. Eames moves to drag Arthur's hand down, a moment of surrender as he puts it on his throat. It's Arthur whose breath catches in his throat.
"That's it," he murmurs, feels Eames trembling as he tries to move again. So he takes over their rhythm best as he can, but slows the thrusts. He wants to make this last, this tenderness on the harsh concrete floor bruising his knees, with the light draining rapidly from the London sky.
"Darling," Eames sighs above him, and pushes his throat harder into the cradle of Arthur’s hand. "Please," so soft that it might not have been there at all.
There's no choice here, not really. Because Arthur gets it, he feels the moment like a tide pulling at the two of them, inescapable. Couldn't put it into words, how scratching red welts into Eames' skin equals adoration, how scraping his teeth over his neck has their pulses racing, the bite in Eames' shoulder a seal of trust.
"You take it so well, don’t you," he says instead. Thrusts up to illustrate his point, and means the pain. "Beautiful," he says. "Gagging for it."
In his arms, Eames shudders. He squeezes his fingers, slow and deliberate.
"Beautiful," he says again, smiling a bit as Eames grasps his free hand. Smiles again when finally Eames' breath stops in his throat, held there in the cradle of Arthur's palm.
"I could do anything to you, and you’d let me."
Then he does, snapping his hips to resume that more-languid-than-not rhythm, feels Eames working his throat but not fighting it. The beating of his heart getting quicker and Eames, in love with anything extreme, presses himself into it, giving himself over.
He buries his face in Eames' shoulder, groaning silently when he feels him starting to twitch, lungs starting to run out of oxygen.
"You were fucking made for this," he says, something like wonder rasping in his voice. "Such a slut for me."
Arthur holds on for a bit longer, just to catch the beginnings of Eames' body struggling, before he releases his grip and is rewarded with a shattering, heaving, fucked out inhale, Eames sucking air in greedily. His skin burns against Arthur's, and he can't resist thrusting up roughly, fucking Eames' breath out of him.
"Arthur," no more than a groan. "Fuck, Arthur..."
He’s getting drunk off it. Needs more. Pulls out and pushes Eames on his back, settling between his legs.
Eames barely knows what’s happening as Arthur thrusts in again. Gives a shout, face twilit and slack, chest heaving.
"Always knew you could take it," Arthur gasps, slick fast thrusts, mouth sealing over Eames' who still hasn't caught his breath, can't, not with Arthur thrusting his tongue inside deep and deeper and pressing close as can be.
When Arthur finally breaks their kiss Eames is red in the face, arms lax on the floor above him. Arthur's name is gravel in his throat but he can’t not say it, over and over like a prayer in-between gasps. His cock lies heavy and red on his belly and he doesn't seem to care, has no energy left to do something about it. The thought that he's at Arthur’s mercy makes him drive in faster, and Eames' gaze grows fuzzy.
"Please," he says, a challenge and a plea all at once that Arthur can't refuse.
"Fuck, you’re insatiable," he groans, shifting his weight to wrap his hands around Eames' throat again. Keeps thrusting, tries to focus only on Eames because he's been teetering on the edge for an eternity. And Eames' eyes slide shut, a smile playing around his lips.
"Fuck," Arthur says, softer. He couldn't stop his rhythm now if he tried, too far gone. Wants to see Eames lost, entirely, tightens his fingers on the sides of Eames' neck hard as he dares. His other hand slides down, finding the bruises again.
Just a tad more pressure and Eames is gasping, choked off, eyes closed but with an expression of such serenity on his face that Arthur wouldn't dare stop if the world were ending. Instead he thrusts harder and digs his fingers into every bruise he can find, knuckles kneading over swollen skin, and Eames is gone. Comes with a full-body shudder, silent in Arthur's grip, thick spurts of come painting his stomach.
A second later Arthur follows with a shout, vision whitening out and inadvertently squeezing tighter around Eames' throat. The realisation that he's doing it sends another pulse of pleasure through him.
He feels Eames twitch around him with aftershocks, can feel him trying to catch his breath. Leans in to kiss Eames harshly, slowly coming down and feeling greedy with it. He wants to take and take, Eames' breath and body and-
Eames rears up, Arthur's softening cock slipping from his body, making them both groan. For the span of a second stillness settles over them.
"Oh Arthur," Eames rasps then. Words barely audible, all loose relaxed movements now, voice thick with wonder.
He kisses him, softly, and Arthur thinks they may never have kissed quite like this before. It's hard to think through the fog in his brain, easy to just go with the moment, to let Eames have his way.
"Darling," Eames whispers, burying his nose in Arthur's hair, and draws his hand to his neck.
Arthur squeezes lightly, and feels warmth pooling in his chest, as the light fades completely around them.