Eames could get up. Well, no, not really since it seems all of his muscles have transformed into jelly, but in theory. Hypothetically. Certainly he could open his eyes, but he really doesn't see why he should do that. After all, it involves effort on his part.
On the other hand, someone did just open the door. This might merit an actual reaction.
Eames mulls it over, thinking of the gun he's got under the mattress. Could be a matter of life and death, he tells himself.
But moving, his self replies, in rather a whiny fashion. Eames contemplates getting his brat of an id spanked at the nearest possible opportunity, and is distracted by the jingle of a belt buckle hitting the floor.
Ah. The sound is instantly recognizable, somehow purer than the common belt buckle. Eames can hear the chiming of many tiny complicated tools in it. It rings expensive.
Either that, or he knew it was Arthur walking in by the fact that he had a key. But Eames enjoys his little flights of fancy too much to besmirch them with common sense. Where's the fun in that, anyway?
There's a swish of expensive fabric. Eames lazily imagines it under his hands, soft and luxurious, thick and warm from Arthur's skin, smelling of him and of laundry detergent. If Arthur should choose to leave (suddenly, inexplicably wearing nothing but his skivvies) Eames could just roll around in Arthur's clothes and still feel fairly content.
Indignant that he was denied Arthur's actual company, to be sure; but certainly in a state preferable to no Arthurian presence at all.
Arthur crawls on top of him, then, pressing kisses to the back of Eames' neck. They turn into nips and then bites when Eames fails to pay Arthur the attention Arthur seems to think he deserves.
Well, and he does, at that. But, as previously specified, moving.
Arthur pauses. He huffs into Eames' ear. "Fine. Be that way." And before Eames can react, Arthur's leaning up, away from Eames.
Eames is going to protest that. Very soon. Very soon indeed. In just another minute.
Meanwhile, Arthur's meandered down to lick at the small of Eames' back. He's a good licker, Arthur is. Very methodical. Gets all of Eames' lower back nice and wet, right down to the cleft of his arse.
This may or may not make Eames spread his legs a tiny bit wider. Arthur doesn't deign to notice, content to go on licking. Not a millimeter of skin goes untongued. How very like Arthur; such thoroughness. Eames feels a burst of warmth in his chest, a smile curving his lips where Arthur can't see.
Then Arthur sits up, and Eames just about smothers a disappointed groan before Arthur resettles himself with his prick right in Eames' cleft, rubbing himself against Eames' newly spit-slicked skin.
There's something deliciously selfish about it, about Arthur simply rutting against Eames without so much as a by-your-leave, mindless of Eames' pleasure, thrusting hard and unrestrained the way you can't while fucking, or at least while fucking Eames.
Except maybe - maybe he could, just like that, maybe if Eames were truly asleep Arthur could slide his cock inside him, rough and rude, no questions or preparation, and Eames would wake up sore and confused and used with Arthur clutching him, nosing his hair -
Eames twists and bucks and comes all over the sheet, messy. Arthur slows, then stops.
"Okay?" he says. Eames is the one who was sort of technically asleep, but Arthur's voice is low and raspy. Eames likes it, makes him think of fucking Arthur's throat until his knees won't let him stay up anymore.
"Why did you stop?" Eames says. Arthur answers with a sharp bite to the back of his neck, and Eames subsides, melting against the sheets.
Arthur gets back to his previous speed soon enough. Eames can still feel Arthur's cock rubbing against his hole, but it's a gentle tease, not too much even though he just came.
He's actually entertaining thoughts of getting hard again when Arthur's hands tighten bruisingly around his shoulders and he feels Arthur's come spill warmly against his back.
"Welcome home," Eames mutters, drowsy. He falls asleep before he even hears Arthur's reply.