They’re in the fucking warehouse and Arthur can’t believe he agreed to this. He can’t believe that he’s currently clawing at Eames chest, sweat slicking his skin and hair in disarray. He can’t believe that he’s riding Eames for all he’s worth, pleasure tightening in his stomach and pooling in his cock but he can’t come because of the stupid cock ring Eames had slid onto him almost immediately. And fuck the team is still in the warehouse; he can hear someone walking just outside the room.
Eames grabs his attention by shifting, hips lifting as he jacks into Arthur, hard and fast and Arthur can’t help it; there’s a whine bubbling in the back of his throat and he’s fighting to control it, fighting not to alert any of their team members that he’s currently being screwed six ways to Sunday. But the whine tumbles past his lips when Eames grabs his hips and yanks him down, slamming into his prostate hard enough to cause Arthur’s vision to tunnel.
There’s silence from across the way and Arthur jams his fist against his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. Eames chuckles under him, fingers tightening on his hips as he moves at that pace that Arthur loves, quick, almost brutal thrusts that keep Arthur right on the edge. And then there’s fingers trailing over Arthur’s cock, teasing the snug cock ring and Arthur tosses back his head, teeth biting hard into his knuckles. There are so many noises that he wants to let free and he can feel them burning his throat, begging to be let go, and he almost, almost, does it.
But then he looks down and sees Eames grinning at him, lips kiss bitten and eyes blown wide, and he remembers their stupid bet. He remembers that he stupidly said Eames couldn’t make him scream; that Arthur doesn’t do that. And Eames, being Eames, had upped the bet, saying he could do it, that he could make Arthur forget where he was.
And when Arthur had blatantly dismissed his proposal, Eames had dragged him into an unused office at the back of the warehouse to prove him wrong.
“Come on now, love,” Eames says and Arthur gasps out something that is probably a curse, but he can’t really think right now. Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur’s cock, stroking slow, so slow, and Arthur knows he’s waiting for him to scream.
Arthur pulls his knuckles away from his mouth and manages, “You won’t get me to scream –” Arthur practically bites his tongue when Eames gives a powerful thrust, and when he calms down enough, he continues in a clipped tone, “Nor can you, Eames.”
Eames laughs, breathless and slightly wild, one hand digging bruises into Arthur’s thigh while the other works agonizingly at Arthur’s cock. And Arthur wants to hit him, wants to rake his fingernails down Eames’ chest and make his breath hitch. He would, he would, but he’s too busy trying to keep the noises from spilling past his lips, holding them at the back of his throat, feeling them build up and block his airway.
“Scream for me, Arthur. You know you want to,” Eames says, tone teasing and smug and so fond that Arthur closes his eyes. It doesn’t help. He can feel each thrust so acutely and he’s so fucking close it’s tearing him up inside. He can practically taste it, just out of his reach and he wants to scream. Wants to vent his frustration and tell Eames to take off the cock ring and let him fucking come. His lips part, the words bubbling on his tongue, but they don’t fall, trailing away instead into a frustrated whine. Eames shudders under him, and he realizes his fingers have somehow made their way to Eames’ chest. He rakes them down, making Eames curse and buck up into him. Eames presses right against his prostate and rotates his hips and Arthur claws at him, whispers of words dying on his tongue. His body twists when Eames curls up and presses large hands against his lower back and spine.
Arthur gasps, mouth pressed against Eames’ shoulder as Eames rides out his orgasm. His fingers stay curled against Eames’ chest, and he groans, just one short sound, and feels Eames tighten his arms around his waist.
“You bastard. Take off this stupid thing so you can finish me.”
Eames shifts and slides out, causing Arthur to pant and shudder, his entire body arching up suddenly. And then there are fingers at his entrance, circling around where he’s empty and leaking and he bites back a yelp of surprise. Eames grins against his temple, “Who says I was done, love?”
With his body strung out and practically begging for release, Arthur bites hard when Eames slips in one finger, aided by the mess he left. Eames breathes heavy against his ear, and groans when Arthur rocks back, “Arthur, gods, you’re just –” And Arthur throws back his head when Eames adds two more fingers, bottom lip caught tight between his teeth.
He tries to move again, to rock back harder, but Eames holds him in place, keeping his body trapped. With slow precision, Eames spears him open, aiming for his prostate. Arthur suddenly tastes blood and realizes he’s bitten through his bottom lip.
“I know what you want, Arthur,” Eames says, voice sex ragged and torn, and Arthur presses his forehead against Eames’ shoulder. “You want to let it all out, right, pet? Let yourself scream and beg and thrash, and it’s killing you that you can’t.” Eames presses tighter against him and Arthur can feel his half-hard cock slip against his thigh. Arthur can’t even remember why he isn’t supposed to make noise; all he cares about is Eames’ fingers inside of him and Eames’ cock that isn’t in him and the fact that he still hasn’t fucking come.
“Eames,” Arthur bites out, and Eames laughs, “Are you going to admit it, Arthur?”
That brings him a semblance of remembrance. Arthur jerks back, teeth finding his lips again as he glares at Eames, the challenge clear in his eyes. Eames grins and presses his fingers in deep, twisting them just so, and Arthur groans, his body feeling too taut and too hot. But he stops himself from whimpering, through sheer force of will, and continues to glare at Eames.
“What’s it going to take?” Eames asks, pulling his fingers free. They leave too fast and Arthur clenches down on air, entire body tightening at the sensation. But he refuses. Simply refuses to let Eames win this one. He will not scream.
There’s a sudden shift and Arthur is being pushed off Eames, pushed until he’s on his elbows, ass high in the air. The desk is warm and slick with their sweat and Arthur presses his forehead against it, fighting to tame the throb in his cock. He can do this. He can.
And then he realizes what position he’s in. And how Eames enjoys playing dirty.
There are fingers trailing along his back, Eames’ mouth following them down. Arthur fights to move forward, fingers scrambling at the desk. Because he knows he’s going to lose, he knows the minute Eames licks at his entrance, he’ll be gone. Screaming, howling; whatever Eames wants, Arthur will give him.
Eames smiles against one cheek and then his hands are spreading Arthur open. Arthur fights to get one arm up and over his mouth, practically jamming his fist against his teeth. His entire body is poised, tense and quivering, as he waits for the first swipe of Eames’ tongue.
Instead, Eames fits his lips over Arthur’s hole and sucks.
Arthur bits his knuckles so hard he bleeds. His back arches up and back, and Eames catches him around his thighs to halt his motion. Arthur keens, wildly, entire mind wiped completely of any stupid bet he might have made. Instead, all he can think about is getting more friction, getting more everything, and he pulls his hand away to say it.
With a hum, Eames sucks and bites and licks all around Arthur, lapping with such single minded determination that Arthur knows if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll probably kill Eames. His arms are shaking, his entire body a strung out mess, and when Eames fits his lips around Arthur’s hole and stabs into him, Arthur moans, loud and desperate.
“Eames, Eames, God, please, just – I need, fuck, Eames.” Arthur can’t articulate a single sentence and he can feel his control slipping and he fights to get a hand down to his cock. But Eames is already there, fingers gliding over the clasp on the cock ring and with a sudden shove of his tongue, Eames flicks off the clasp and Arthur screams. His vision flashes white and his entire body bows upwards. Eames holds him tightly around his thighs, tongue still licking and stabbing and making Arthur twitch with every overwhelming sensation. And finally, when he’s spent and slumped over the desk, Eames pulls away with a kiss to his tailbone.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it, Arthur love?” Eames breathes, fingers visibly shaking as he turns Arthur over. Arthur breathes out a laugh, hands coming up to clasp around Eames’ neck. He brings him down for a lazy kiss, tongues tangling.
And then there’s a sharp rap at the door.
“Lunch break ended half an hour ago, guys,” Ariadne says, voice grossly amused. “And I think you gave Cobb a heart attack. You can rejoin us when you’re decent!”
And she clips away.
Eames is laughing into his shoulder, shaking so hard that when Arthur pinches his side, he just laughs harder. Bucking up, Arthur heaves Eames off of him, sitting up and reaching for Eames’ ridiculous paisley shirt.
“Oi! What are you doing?” Eames crawls forward as Arthur wipes himself clean, handing Eames his come stained shirt.
“She said decent. I can handle decent. Can you, Mr. Eames?” Arthur grins, tugging on his shirt and slipping on his vest. He ignores the throb in his lower back, the fact that he can feel every shift and movement like a ghost of Eames buried in him. Flushing, he grabs his tie and his pants and his cufflinks, keeping the corner of his eye on Eames.
“I can do decent,” Eames says, hiking up his pants and shrugging on his suit jacket. “I wonder, though, if this,” and Eames taps him on the ass, fingers slipping down to Arthur’s hole, “would constitute decent.”
Arthur refrains from pushing back against Eames’ hand and instead fixes his cuffs. Eames drops a kiss on Arthur’s temple and smacks him once more on the ass before he leaves with a grin and a short wave. When the door closes, Arthur presses his bitten hand to his mouth again, eyes fluttering closed as he remembers. Well. He’s never screamed before. Grinning, he grabs his pants and brushes back his hair in the broken mirror across from him.
Payback’s a bitch.