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Fucking Great

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Arthur doesn’t harbor any particular feelings towards Mondays. It’s not as if he has a 9-to–5 job with free weekends to look forward to and the inevitably following Monday that signals the beginning of another grueling week to dread, and he rather likes it this way.

What he does hate is any day of the week he has to deal with Nash. And to add insult to injury, there’s little Arthur can doy to stop Nash’s gleeful prattle.

“Seems like even this ugly mutt of yours can’t be bothered to put up with you,” Nash smirks.

“He’s not mine,” Arthur corrects him calmly. By now it’s become second nature for him to ignore Nash’s jibes. Nash is a pig, to put it mildly, and forever bitter that Arthur has too much class to let him into his pants. Unfortunately he’s also one of the most sought after photographers in the area and one of Arthur’s best paying clients. Life is unfair that way.

“Well, at least he won’t try to damage the goods this time.”

Arthur can’t argue with that. For the last two days Max, PMPW’s most promising trainee dog, has tried to eat every model he’s been working with. Arthur’s hasn’t been able to figure out what upsets the usually good-natured Weimaraner so much about this particular photoshoot. It doesn’t just hurt his professional reputation, but also his personal pride as the best puppy wrangler in the business.

Whatever it is, today is different.

Maybe Max found his professional pride or maybe he just likes the hot dude of August. Arthur stares at the rather big bundle of joy trading enthusiastic doggy kisses with one of Chicago’s Hottest Firemen (the calendar’s working title, not Arthur’s personal assessment. March was dumb as fuck and July looked like a plasticky Ken doll), and quite frankly, Arthur can’t blame him if it’s the latter.

“Are you two still not done bickering?” Ariadne, the other half of Nash & Co., joins them and flaps her hand vaguely to her right. “Nash, June over there insists that only you can bring out his artistic side. Seems like you made quite the impression last night—I mean, yesterday. He insists on a reshoot.” She smiles, beatific and innocent. “Just go and do whatever you need to do, I’ll take over here.”

“Thanks, you just saved my life,” Arthur greets her the moment Nash slinks off, dutifully kissing her cheek.

“Again,” she grins. “You know, you could just turn him down if he annoys you so much…” Ariadne trails off mid-sentence, her eyes going almost comically big and round. “Hot damn, I never thought I’d say this, but can I be that dog, please?”

Feeling jealous of his dogs is a first for Arthur, but well, now that Ariadne mentions it… His mouth goes dry now that he finally has an excuse to take a closer look. August is a work of art. His wide shoulders and thick chest are straining against his white v-neck shirt, stretching the fabric so thin Arthur can spot a hint of the black tattoos beneath. He’s powerful, radiating a single-minded intensity that makes it all too easy to picture him barreling into a burning house, heedless of the danger. And his mouth—god, Arthur knows he’ll dream of those plush lips tonight. And several nights after.

“I thought you didn’t work with models for this one. All genuine firefighters, Chicago’s Finest, and all that.”

“Why, thank you, darling,” August, who isn’t just hot as hell but also seems to possess preternatural hearing, beams at them. He sets Max down and joins them, the dog following close on his heels. “I must admit I’m flattered,” he grins, flexing shamelessly as he offers his hand. “But I’m afraid it’s just Eames. Lieutenant Eames, CFD, at your service.”

“I’m Arthur, from Point Man Puppy Wrangling.” Eames’s hand is warm and big, his thumb rough as he strokes it against Arthur’s palm. Just a quick touch, but more than enough to turn Arthur’s gut hot and liquid.

“Uh, guys, maybe we could start then. We’re on a pretty tight schedule here.”

The shoot goes swimmingly. Eames is a natural and the camera clearly adores him. He twists and turns, patiently following Ariadne’s instructions and beaming proudly at Max who suddenly is on his best behavior and the very picture of a good dog, content to spend the day being cuddled to Eames’s chest. Unlike the days before there isn’t much to do for Arthur, not with Eames basically taking over his job. It leaves him with a lot of time to watch and wonder, but his thoughts always return to those tempting tendrils of black ink peeking out from Eames’s collar and beneath his sleeves.

“Aren’t you going to take off your shirt,” Arthur blurts out after another round of intense cuddling for Max, his mouth running miles ahead of his brain. He raises a brow, tries to play it cool, but the smirk Ariadne slants his way tells him that he’s about as subtle as a brick.

“With pleasure, darling,” Eames says, and there’s that flutter in Arthur’s stomach again. Eames is the type that probably has cute names for all the boys and girls, but that doesn’t stop Arthur feeling special every time Eames calls him darling in that raspy voice.

“Like this?” Eames holds Max in the crook of his arm and pulls his shirt off one-handed, revealing smooth skin and dark tattoos stretching over a thickly muscled chest and broad shoulders.

“Good, great, yes, keep doing that,” Ariadne calls, her camera whirring and clicking as she kneels down for a better angle.

“How about this?”

Eames sets Max down and pouts right into the camera, one hand pulling the crotch of his oversized yellow pants down to reveal even more ink and a tantalizing edge of dark curls. “This is good, right? I tried to practice selfies, but somehow the angle is always off with them. Perhaps I should get one of those sticks.”

“Yeah, no… it’s great, but uh… we’ll keep this strictly above the waist, I think,” Ariadne says. She looks flustered and a little pink around the cheeks, much the same way Arthur is feeling. Despite her answer she gets up and keeps snapping away frantically and she does nothing to stop Eames from revealing the sharp cut of his hips and even more of that dark hair that Arthur just knows would be soft and rough against his lips.

He already knows he’ll pay whatever price she’s asking for one of these photos. Later, because right he has a job to do.

“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I think Max needs a break.” Arthur scoops up Max who has been sitting at Eames’s heels all this time and rewards him with a good scratch behind the ears. Max yips and wiggles like the excited puppy that he is and quite frankly, it’s not him who needs a break here. But rules are rules and they’re in the middle of a fucking park. Eames is already attracting some attention from the visitors milling about and the last thing Arthur needs is to be caught with a boner in broad daylight.

“This is a bloody great dog,” Eames tells him, following them both to the spot where Arthur set up his work space. He bends and throws a stick for Max who immediately lunges after it. “I’d love to see him again. Is he yours?”

“No, he belongs to my friend Dom,” Arthur says. He takes the stick Max presents to him and throws it again, although with much more force than necessary. It’s like his brain refuses to work around Eames, or why else would he shoot down a perfect invitation to see him again?

“He’s with me quite a lot—” he starts again, and then everything literally goes to shit.

“I will fucking kill this mutt!” Nash’s voice is loud enough to wake the dead, ringing through the park and turning heads. “Arthur, you’re fired.”

Arthur’s been fired by Nash more often than he can count. He slowly counts to ten and goes to fix things, like he always does.


Arthur wakes with a start. He’s hot and sweaty, his thighs tingling with the remembered drag of large, warm hands against his skin, pressing him wide open.

This whole situation is awful. He’s not going to jerk off thinking about a guy he met only once. Not again, no matter how hot that guy is. Arthur’s resolve lasts about two minutes, pretty much the same amount it takes for him to come once he gives in and takes himself in hand. He thinks about generous lips and dark swirls of ink licking against planes of hard muscle, the promise of thickness he thinks he glimpsed from the way Eames cupped himself. God, he hopes—no, he knows he’s right, can tell with absolute certainty that Eames’s cock is thick and heavy, so fat Arthur would have to work to take it. Just the thought is enough to tip him over the edge and he comes with a moan, a shaky exhale that leaves him feeling empty.

It’s awful, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching for his phone and pulling up the photo Ariadne sent him. He zooms it open with two fingers that are still trembling a little. The ultra HD resolution forgives nothing, not that there’s anything to forgive with Eames. Arthur can see the tiny blue flecks in his grey eyes, the plump curve of his lips. So many details he hadn’t been able to notice during the shoot. In the photo Eames’ nipples are hard and pebbled and Arthur can’t help but wonder if almost baring himself in public was as much of a turn-on for him as watching him was for Arthur.


“Hey, that dog grew up pretty fast.”

Arthur stops, struggling against the weight of almost 200 pounds of dog in full motion. Newton barks sharply when his leash pulls tight, not happy with the interruption of his run. Arthur can’t hold back a smirk at the cautious look that flits over July’s face. There aren’t many people who don’t feel intimated by a fully grown Mastiff.

“Hey,” Arthur greets him. “I’ll make sure to tell Max he really made an impression on you.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe that was not my best joke, but I had to think it up quick. This guy here is fast.”

Not as fast as he could be, but Arthur doesn’t tell him that. Going for a run after a hard day of work and learning new tricks is a treat for Arthur and his dogs. He likes to change the route frequently to keep things interesting and if he keeps walking by the fire station more often lately and slows down a little, well, who can blame him.

“Yeah, he really keeps me on my toes, it’s hard to keep up with him sometimes, ” Arthur laughs, patting Newton’s flank. “So, how have you been? Already thinking about a career change?”

July huffs out a laugh and waves a hand towards the station. “Nah, it’s been interesting, but I wouldn’t give this up for the world. Hey, you want to come in and have a look?”

The station looks quiet from the outside, but it’s a whole different world once they step inside. It’s early evening and the place is buzzing with movement, men coming and going, wearing uniforms and plain street clothes. Despite the underlying current of energy, the need to go from 0 to 100 within the blink of an eye, the mood is relaxed. Arthur can see some guys playing cards and others just chatting. He’s hit with a sense of camaraderie that probably exists only between people who are prepared to die for each other.

Within seconds he’s surrounded by a bunch of people. Some of the faces he recognizes from the shoot. Not all members of the department had been deemed hot enough to be a hot dude of the month (Arthur still cringes at the name), but some of them had hung around simply to watch or offer moral support to those who had to take off their shirts. These guys might run into burning buildings without a second thought, but baring a little skin was something else entirely, at least for most of them.

Not for Lieutenant Eames, the reason Arthur has been running two extra miles each day for the last week. Arthur glances around the room surreptitiously. There are a lot of tattoos on display, but none of them curve over thick, bulging muscle the way he remembers. None of them belong to Eames.

There’s no time to dwell on his disappointment. Arthur is invited to hang around and spends a pleasant evening in good company. It’s a slow shift, something that doesn’t happen often July, who actually is called Marco, tells him. He’s almost as bad at playing cards as Arthur and offers Arthur leftovers from their dinner, a surprisingly tasty casserole.

Arthur can’t even remember the last time he enjoyed himself this much. He loves his job, wouldn’t change it for the world, but running his own business means long hours spent on photo or movie shoots and nights full of paperwork. He’s thought about hiring somebody to help, maybe it’s time to finally get through with it and free up some time and enjoy life.

“I should go,” he says reluctantly after he’s lost another round of poker. “Any later and I’ll have to carry this lazy lump home.” He smiles down on Newton who sighs, but otherwise doesn’t move where he’s lying on Arthur’s feet.

“Oi, I swear the next one who skips handing in his mission report will pull double shifts for the next two months!”

Arthur would know that raspy voice everywhere, has been waiting for it all evening. It sends a warm shiver of excitement down his spine and it takes every bit of restraint he has to turn slowly and not jump to his feet and do something horrible like tripping over them. It’s bad enough that he’s developed a crush that would put his adolescent self to shame, but there’s absolutely no need to act like it.

There’s a split second in which everything goes still, the firemen properly chastised while Eames glances around the room, his eyes sharp as he’s figuring out what’s different tonight.

“Arthur! Arthur from Point Man Puppy Wrangling!” Eames drawls when he finally spots Arthur and crosses the room, his eyes shifting to something softer that does terrible things to Arthur’s stomach. “What brings you to our humble abode?” Eames asks, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. “No, let me answer that for you. You missed me, darling, yes? Admit that you missed me!” He looks smug and absolutely delighted, as if strangers come to the station to lust after him every day.

Arthur takes a hard look at the threadbare t-shirt stretching over Eames’s wide shoulders and swallows.

They probably do. Fuck.

“Maybe,” he says, drawing the word out, letting confidence bleed into the invitation. It’s strange but he doesn’t mind that so many people are watching their little exchange, not when Eames looks at him like that, something hot and heavy simmering right under the blatant flirting. Something that makes Arthur’s heart plummet, makes him feel brave. “But maybe I just came by when I walked the dogs and saw a familiar face.”

It’s an effort to tear his eyes away from Eames’s powerful thighs but Arthur manages, just in time to see Eames’s brows climb into his hairline, his smile growing impossibly bigger. Arthur is well aware that some of his thoughts about what exactly he wants Eames to do with those thighs must show on his face, but he stubbornly holds Eames’s gaze. Somebody at the table chuckles good-naturedly.

“Well, if it helps, Max definitely misses you,” Arthur amends, dry.

“I told you that dog is bloody fantastic!”

“Yes, and he’s alone at home, so Newton and I should definitely get going,” Arthur says and stays exactly where he is. Much like Newton, who pricks his ears when he hears his name and wuffles, all without moving an inch.

“Or Eames could give you a ride home in the truck. Help to put out some of that heat,” one of the card players quips.

“Don’t mind Yusuf,” Eames says. “He’s still bitter that he wasn’t picked for the calendar to represent our fine city.” Eames gives a contemplative hum. “But I must admit sometimes he has excellent ideas, even if the timing leaves a lot to be desired.” He shrugs an apology. “My shift just started. I’m afraid you’ll have to sit on my truck another time.”

Arthur snorts out an inelegant laugh. Christ, it’s impossible not to be charmed by Eames, despite or maybe because of his terrible puns and innuendo. He’s just—too much. Too hot, too charming, too likeable. And worst of all, it doesn’t seem like he’s even trying

Arthur feels torn somewhere between disappointment and enjoying this little game way too much. “I see, we’ll leave you to do your job then,” he says and bends down to pat Newton’s head, letting the dog know that now it’s really time to go. “But I do look forward to that truck of yours.”

Yusuf mutters something that suspiciously sounds like “Will you two get a room already.”

“Still in a snit, I see.” Eames smiles at Arthur. “Come on, then, I’ll show you out.”

His hand is hot where it curls around Arthur’s elbow. All Arthur can think about is how large it feels, how heavy, how it looked tucked into waistband of his pants, and he just wants.

“So you’d really like to see Max again?” Arthur asks once they’ve reached the entry. It’s barely more than a rasp, his throat dry with nerves.

“Max, and this delightful fellow, too. But most of all I want to to see you.” Eames’s voice drops, so low Arthur barely hears it. “Any way you’ll let me.”

Eames is barely an inch taller than Arthur, but his massive build makes Arthur feel small next to him. When he looks up all playfulness is gone and Eames looks at him, hungry and heavy-lidded. Daring him.

“Only see me?” Arthur sways into him, his whole body hot and tight with anticipation, but he catches himself just before their lips meet. Being this close to Eames feels natural like breathing and it’s so very tempting to give in and take what he wants, but this is still Eames’s workplace and Arthur isn’t the one who has to sit through ten more hours and be prepared to literally save lives.

Eames stands very still, radiating heat, barely an inch between them. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?” he murmurs and leans in, his lips skimming Arthur’s temple. “Christ, you’re tempting. You have three seconds before I forget all about my job and pin you to that wall and make you moan my name.”

“Promises, promises,” Arthur teases shakily, trying to lighten the thick tension between them.

“Yes,” Eames nods, stepping back with a reluctant sigh. He plucks a sharpie from a clipboard on the wall and carefully writes a fat, black string of numbers into Arthur’s palm that won’t come off for several days.


It’s almost dark when Arthur arrives home where he feeds Newton and the other dogs currently in his his care before he heats some leftovers for himself. The walk home and the familiar routine helped to calm him and he feels almost back to his normal self while he eats lukewarm Kung Pao Chicken standing at the kitchen counter. Only his usual self feels somehow incomplete without the pounding of his heart and the nervous nag of what-if in the back of his mind.

God, when was the last time he felt so hot and shaky, so alive? The answer to that is as easy as it’s sad. Not even sex with his last boyfriend made him burn up with need like the merest brush of Eames’s lips.

So much for Arthur’s new-found calm.


Arthur spends the next day teaching a puppy to feign enthusiasm for the can of food Arthur spoons into his bowl, all the while wondering when it’s okay to call Eames without appearing too eager.

When four o’clock rolls around it’s safe to say that he failed on both counts. The dog food smells like old socks though, so Arthur counts it as a win. It’s not his problem that dogs are smarter than people give them credit for. He solves the problem by replacing the food in the can with another brand from his well-stocked shelves. Nobody gives a damn about dog food in tv commercials for dog food anyways, it’s all about the cute puppies.

The more pressing problems remains unsolved for the time being. Arthur can hear Ariadne roll her eyes on the other end of the line when he finally swallows his pride and calls her for advice and her drawn-out Yesterday isn’t particularly helpful, either.

There’s not much he can do but resign himself to another sleepless night. There’d been a message on his phone when he went to bed last night. A photo of Eames in his yellow pants. It looks much like the one Arthur already has on his phone, but darker, a little grainy, a line of cables visible in the background, as if Eames snuck into a storage room to take it. He’s pulling down his waistband in this one, too, angling the phone with the other hand and—

God, fuck. Eames’s cock is everything Arthur has hoped for, uncut and thick, an obscene, delicious heft framed by thick curls. And just like last night when he gripped his own cock, the black letters on his palm are burning.


Exhausted after a long day on the set of the dog food commercial Arthur almost misses the faint meow. It’s a pitiful little sound and Arthur already thinks he must have imagined it and is halfway through the front door of his house when he notices that one of the branches of the old tree in the front yard is swaying wildly.

Arthur sighs and walks over to the tree, and then—just to make his displeasure clear— he sighs again when he looks up and spots the tabby clinging to the very end of the swinging branch.

Now Arthur is admittedly very much a dog person, but he’d never leave any kind of animal in distress. He considers getting the ladder from the shed in the back for a second, but why waste time and energy he doesn’t have when he knows just the right man for the job. Arthur pulls out his phone and taps in Eames’s number. He hasn’t saved it yet because it felt weirdly presumptuous, but there’s no need anyway. By now the number is seared right into his brain, probably through skin contact alone.

A true professional, Eames listens and asks all the right questions, arriving in record time despite the daily madness that is rush hour traffic. The only thing that’s missing is his truck. And his uniform and all the gear Arthur assumes is needed for a proper animal rescue. He casts a dubious glance first at Eames’s beaten pick-up truck and then at the tree as a way of greeting, effectively dousing Eames’s wide and happy smile into one of mild bewilderment.

“Wait, there really is a cat?” Eames asks, understanding dawning on his face.

“Of course there is a cat,” Arthur huffs, exasperated, pointing to the tree. The cat meows, right on cue, and jumps down onto the roof of the truck, confirming Arthur’s opinion that they really are just little demons in disguise. “Did you think this was some of kind of booty call?”

Eames leans back against his truck, crossing his arms in a slow, deliberate move that makes his shirt pull tight against the broad slope of his shoulders. And winks.


Arthur’s gut tightens with the hot and gnawing coil of want that unwinds from somewhere deep within. He can hardly breathe past the sudden vise grip of anticipation where everything fades back until all that’s left is the man in front of him. Arthur looks closely now that he’s finally allowed, eyes drifting over all the places he wants to touch, taking in Eames’ chest, the thick bulge between his legs. Eames flexes for him, gorgeous and shameless, and Arthur’s mouth goes dry.

Arthur can’t remember who moved first, but it’s him who pushes into Eames’s arms and slots their mouths together, pries Eames’s mouth open before licking his way inside. Eames lets him, pulls him in and kisses back hard, sliding their tongues together while he guides them to the front door and inside the hallway. “What do you want, darling,” he murmurs, shoving the words into Arthur’s mouth.

Everything, Arthur wants to say. Now that he’s started it’s like he can’t stop touching, can’t stop wanting. He wants to drop to his knees and spread his legs, feel Eames’s cock press him open and fuck in deep and hard; wants to kneel between those powerful thighs and do the same to him. But first—

“I want to suck your cock.” He bites down hard on Eames’s bottom lip and sucks hard, groaning deep in his throat. “Do you have any idea what you did to me with that photo?”

“I dearly hope so, I imagined it in great detail,” Eames says with a soft hum. “On your knees, then, love.” His voice is quiet but firm, crumbling around the edges. He doesn’t tease, just pushes firmly on Arthur’s shoulder and unzips his pants with his other hand.

Eames’s waist is a hard column of muscle between Arthur’s hands and Arthur can’t even think for how badly he wants him. There’s a damp spot spreading over the white cotton of Eames’s briefs, drawing Arthur in. He leans forward, rubbing his nose over it, breathing in the musk of arousal. Arthur loves this, the vulgar smell and taste of another man’s need because of him.

“Darling, please,” Eames groans above him. “Next time I’ll gladly give you all the time to play, but if you don’t want this to end right the fuck now you’ll have—”

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes, sensing that now isn’t the time to tease if he wants his prize. He carefully peels down Eames’s underwear and draws the tip of his tongue up the underside of Eames’ cock from balls to head before he wraps his hand around him. Fuck.

Eames’s cock isn’t overly long, but god, it’s as thick as Arthur had hoped, his mouth watering at the heft and girth. He plants a kiss against the tip before he slips his mouth over it and immediately the taste of salt and tucked away skin explodes on his tongue, teasing a low groan from him that vibrates through both of them. Above him Eames curses quietly and Arthur feels almost sorry; almost, because Eames is sliding a hand in his hair and pushing his way inside Arthur’s mouth, the head of his cock thick and blunt, stretching Arthur’s lips and jaw until his eyes are watering.

Arthur breathes hard through his nose and takes a minute to adjust to the heavy weight on his tongue. He can feel Eames trembling under his hands, holding back, but that’s not what her wants. He squeezes Eames’s hip and looks up, locks eyes with him to let him know that it’s okay.

“Christ, Arthur, how are you—your mouth…,” Eames stutters out, his eyes slamming shut when he moves his hips and starts to fuck Arthur’s face. God, Arthur loves this even more, the heavy weight of cock sliding against his tongue and the slow, urgent roll of Eames’s hips. Eames is gorgeous like this, his head thrown back in abandon as he single-mindedly chases his pleasure. He comes much too soon with a low sigh, his cock pulsing against Arthur’s tongue while he spills down Arthur’s throat.

It’s intimate, hot and filthy and it makes Arthur achingly, blindingly hard.

“Fuck me,” he pants against Eames’s thigh after Eames pulls out, struggling to get the words past his sore throat.

“Should’ve thought about that before you blew my brains, out, love,” Eames rasps shakily, carding his finger through Arthur’s hair. “You’ll have to give me a few minutes first.”

“No!” Arthur isn’t sure if that’s ‘no, I didn’t think about it’ or ’no, you can’t have a few minutes’. All he knows is that his mouth tastes like Eames’s cock and that he wants it inside of him, needs it to fill him up until he’s so full he can’t think, can’t breathe.


“Yes,” Arthur insists. It’s suddenly a struggle to make sense, almost impossible to think past the tight curl of need inside of him. “In me…”

“Ah,” Eames says, and somehow that small word carries all the answers to what Arthur needs. Thick fingers are pressing against his mouth and slipping past his sore lips, moving slow and shallow over his tongue. “Get me nice and wet for you, love.”

Three fingers are nowhere near as big as Eames’s cock, but by the time he’s sucked and licked them dripping wet Arthur stills feels a little dizzy and is glad when Eames helps him stand and brace himself against the wall. Eames steps up behind him, slotting them together, chest pressed to Arthur’s back. His fingers are quick on Arthur’s belt and zipper, shoving Arthur’s pants jeans down just below his arse and then the ghost of Eames’s spit-slick fingers strokes between his cheeks, barely there.


Not enough.

“More…,” Arthur pants into the wall and pushes his hips back into the touch. God, what he needs is thick, long, rough friction, the push and pull of something moving inside of him. Thick, blunt fingers ease his ass apart and then Eames pushes in, one slow finger, lets Arthur feel each knuckle rasp over his rim as it enters him. Arthur pushes his ass back, desperate for more, wanting those fingers deep inside of him. “Come on, Eames,” he pleads and clamps down hard.

“Greedy,” Eames rasps. His grip on Arthur’s hip tightens as he begins working in a another finger, and yeah, there it is, the familiar burn Arthur craves, the dark pleasure that flares in his ass and races up his spine, winding every muscle in his body tight. The third finger is an even tighter fit. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath and shifts his hips. It’s not much, his movement limited by the jeans around his thighs and Eames’s heavy weight against his back, but it’s enough to guide Eames where he needs him, closer…closer…

The first brush against his prostate makes Arthur’s muscles burn and lock so hard his entire body is pulsing with it. He clenches hard around Eames, an unspoken yes, there or maybe he said it out loud because Eames is bearing down on him, doesn’t leave Arthur an inch of space, pinned between Eames’s body and the wall. Eames’s breath is hot against his ear, a low murmur of filthy praise and encouragement. There’s not much room for him move, but his fingers are relentless, stroking and pressing where Arthur wants it, slow, deep, and hard.

Arthur is so close he can feel it pulling tight in his gut. He coughs out a sob and then—ohthankfuckinggod—he feels Eames’s hand curling around his cock and his voice curling around Arthur’s name. Eames doesn’t move his hand, just squeezes, slow and hard and all of Arthur’s nerves seem to explode in sensation at once and he comes hard, breath freezing his throat while Eames’s fingers stroke deep inside of him.

“Fuck,” Arthur laughs shakily when he finally remembers how to breathe again and even that seems that like too much of an effort.

“In a minute, darling,” Eames promises. Arthur feels rather than hears his rumble of laughter where Eames is still pressed against his back. He turns his head and mouths at Eames’s jaw, presses his answering smile into the stubble-rough skin he finds there.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Arthur says, groaning when Eames taps against his prostate and sends another spike of pleasure racing up his spine. If Eames keeps this up he’ll be ready to go again before they even make it to the bedroom. “Fair warning, though, I might have to keep you.”

“For outstanding services, I hope. I’m thrilled my efforts of wooing you were successful.”

“Wooing?” Arthur asks, incredulous. He brazes his hands against the wall and pushes hard, until they finally manage to untangle themselves and free Arthur from the sad remnants of his jeans.

“Wooing, yes, of course, right from the beginning.” Eames replies. “You must know that I tried to impress you. I don’t show off like this for everybody.”

“Oh God,” Arthur snorts out on a laugh. He takes a look at Eames who should look utterly ridiculous with his half-hard cock hanging out of his pants and somehow still manages to be the hottest guy Arthur has ever met, and suddenly he can’t stop laughing. “You’re a terrible liar,” he wheezes. “I found your Instagram. And your Myspace.”