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Thursday Morning, 10am

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He's not asleep, really, but he's not quite awake either. Dozing, thinks Arthur. Buttery light pours from high windows and the house is very still. He should get up, go for a run but he's not going to. He could hunt down Eames and drag him back to bed but that feels like a lot of effort too.

So he's not asleep, really, when Eames plants one knee on the bed and dips in for a quick kiss, then another — warm and lingering. Eames tastes of toothpaste and milky tea and Arthur isn't sure when that became such a turn on but fuck if he cares. He's never been one to covet what he couldn't have or to envy someone's Instagrammed domestic bullshit but Arthur thinks he could get used to this. Waking loose-limbed and well-fucked in the late-morning light, the scent of sex rising from tangled sheets.

He tugs Eames on top of him, kissing and kissing. Eames laughs and slings one leg across him, cages Arthur's head with his forearms and, fuck, he loves having Eames' bulk over him. Arthur turns his head to touch his tongue to Eames' bicep, tasting salt. Eames' breath stutters out and it sets off a swoop in Arthur's belly so he licks again, hoping for more. But Eames just hums, lips tracing under Arthur's jaw, right where — oh fuck, yes.

And that's it for drowsy and slow. Arthur's head is buzzing and his hands clutch at Eames's hips. He grinds up, desperate for contact, and the pressure is so good he hisses and it's just the one perfect syllable of Eames' name.

Eames is solid and heavy on him, perfect. Better than perfect because daylight spills over a bruise at Eames' neck that Arthur put on him and the sight of it sends sparks down Arthur's spine. He ruts against Eames feeling claimed in return — anchored and grounded.

Eames licks Arthur's nipples into tight pebbles that he sucks into the wet heat of his mouth and yeah. Yeah, that works, too. He kisses his way down Arthur’s body but Eames is a fucking tease and Arthur tells him and Arthur begs him. Eames grins, wide and lewd, and holds Arthur's gaze as he slithers down to mouth at Arthur's balls, as he suckles them and strokes a finger over Arthur’s hole. He holds Arthur's gaze as he slips plush lips over the head of Arthur's cock. Arthur moans, low and needy when Eames tongues at his slit and, fuck, that's it. Arthur can't fucking hold on. He doesn't know if it's the silken heat of Eames' mouth or the slide of Eames' tongue or the electric jolt of Eames, gorgeous and greedy, watching Arthur watch him.

Arthur reaches for Eames and thinks that for all the places they’ve fucked — for all the times they've crashed and tumbled along the way — for all they've twined their lives together, they have never had this.

Time and space. And sunlight.