(I WISH I HAD THAT "I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE" MACRO WITH COBB'S SQUINTY FACE RIGHT NOW.)
I'VE NEVER WRITTEN COMMENTPORN EEEEITHER! Or... porn of any kind, really, come to think of it. (Also, heh. That's what she said.)
(POV is also hard. Like Eames.)
It's just really difficult to stay still. Arthur feels like he's on fire. Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur's wrists, pulling Arthur's hands off of his shoulders--his eyes closed like he's the one in pain, when Arthur is so hard it hurts--and it's like he'd wrapped his fingers around Arthur's cock, and Arthur can't help but sway up to his tiptoes, trying to get closer. Eames drops his mouth open like he's got any idea, and Arthur's breath catches on a moan.
And he knows, logically, he knows he never would've done this. Never would've been panting for it, if it weren't for that compound. He's got sweat beading along his hairline, and he can't stay still. He knows exactly how to twist his wrist to break the hold, but it's the most Eames has touched him in the hours since this started, since Arthur had ducked his head and pressed his mouth against the place where Eames' pulse was suddenly racing, and breathed out, against his will, "Oh, fuck."
Arthur twists his wrist the other way, echoes the way Eames had grabbed him and steps forward. He pushes his mouth back there, that place under Eames' jaw where he can taste sweat and a blooming bruise. "Eames," he says this time, without meaning to at all, "Eames, please."
Eames wants to groan, but doesn't let himself. It gets trapped somewhere in his chest, rattles around and he can tell by the way that Arthur's mouth turns up that he knows, that he can feel it.
He should leave. Should let Arthur work it out of his system on his own, except that Arthur swears he can't. Except that Arthur's got his pretty brow all furrowed and his bottom lip bitten almost bloody from trying to control whatever this is. He should leave, because it'd be easier for him, but Eames can't seem to walk away from Arthur, when he looks so much in pain. Eames has never had never had difficulties saving his own hide before, but he's also never had an Arthur whose hair is all mussed and whose shirt is all wrinkled, and who keeps stepping toward Eames and then shuffling back again.
"I won't," Arthur says, and stops. His hands are shaking, fingers trembling worse that Eames had ever seen, and it would take a much stronger man than Eames has ever been not to grab them, not to squeeze them encouragingly.
"I know, darling," Eames answers, and even manages to keep the sadness out of his voice. Arthur shakes his head, quick, almost child-like with how vehemently he's trying to deny it, but Eames does. He knows Arthur, once it's worn off, once the drugs are out of his system, that Arthur won't, that Arthur would never.
Eames is many things, but daft is not one of them.
"I won't be mad," Arthur says.
"You are mad."
"I won't be angry," Arthur says, his grip on Eames' fingers nearly vice-like, but his voice so, so very soft.
no subject
I'VE NEVER WRITTEN COMMENTPORN EEEEITHER! Or... porn of any kind, really, come to think of it. (Also, heh. That's what she said.)
(POV is also hard. Like Eames.)
It's just really difficult to stay still. Arthur feels like he's on fire. Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur's wrists, pulling Arthur's hands off of his shoulders--his eyes closed like he's the one in pain, when Arthur is so hard it hurts--and it's like he'd wrapped his fingers around Arthur's cock, and Arthur can't help but sway up to his tiptoes, trying to get closer. Eames drops his mouth open like he's got any idea, and Arthur's breath catches on a moan.
And he knows, logically, he knows he never would've done this. Never would've been panting for it, if it weren't for that compound. He's got sweat beading along his hairline, and he can't stay still. He knows exactly how to twist his wrist to break the hold, but it's the most Eames has touched him in the hours since this started, since Arthur had ducked his head and pressed his mouth against the place where Eames' pulse was suddenly racing, and breathed out, against his will, "Oh, fuck."
Arthur twists his wrist the other way, echoes the way Eames had grabbed him and steps forward. He pushes his mouth back there, that place under Eames' jaw where he can taste sweat and a blooming bruise. "Eames," he says this time, without meaning to at all, "Eames, please."
Eames wants to groan, but doesn't let himself. It gets trapped somewhere in his chest, rattles around and he can tell by the way that Arthur's mouth turns up that he knows, that he can feel it.
He should leave. Should let Arthur work it out of his system on his own, except that Arthur swears he can't. Except that Arthur's got his pretty brow all furrowed and his bottom lip bitten almost bloody from trying to control whatever this is. He should leave, because it'd be easier for him, but Eames can't seem to walk away from Arthur, when he looks so much in pain. Eames has never had never had difficulties saving his own hide before, but he's also never had an Arthur whose hair is all mussed and whose shirt is all wrinkled, and who keeps stepping toward Eames and then shuffling back again.
"I won't," Arthur says, and stops. His hands are shaking, fingers trembling worse that Eames had ever seen, and it would take a much stronger man than Eames has ever been not to grab them, not to squeeze them encouragingly.
"I know, darling," Eames answers, and even manages to keep the sadness out of his voice. Arthur shakes his head, quick, almost child-like with how vehemently he's trying to deny it, but Eames does. He knows Arthur, once it's worn off, once the drugs are out of his system, that Arthur won't, that Arthur would never.
Eames is many things, but daft is not one of them.
"I won't be mad," Arthur says.
"You are mad."
"I won't be angry," Arthur says, his grip on Eames' fingers nearly vice-like, but his voice so, so very soft.