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First, Do No Harm

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"It's good we waited so long before doing this," says Eames, "I feel very little guilt over the fact that I'm the only one enjoying himself. Seriously, Arthur, when I'm done you need to try this. You're better than fucking a woman."

"Thank you?" Arthur says, on his hands and knees and twisting his head back over his shoulder to scowl at Eames.

"No, I'm serious. I realize you haven't got a point of comparison, but at the moment I'm very happy that you're literally such a tight-arse." Eames steadies himself by seizing Arthur's hips. "Right, I've got to fuck you, sorry, I've absolutely got to"-- and he helplessly starts thrusting, shallow short motions that feel like absolute heaven, Arthur tight around his cock, pulling at him. "It, it doesn't hurt you, does it?" Eames asks, beginning to feel a little guilty after all, because Eames is having an amazing fuck while Arthur is on all fours looking like he'd rather be doing his taxes.

"No, it's okay now," Arthur says, bored. "I just really don't get the appeal, I have to say. This is a letdown."

"So, it's alright if I"-- and Eames closes his eyes and starts working again, a little harder and deeper now, torn between getting it over with and savoring the moment because it doesn't look likely that Arthur will volunteer his arse very often given his lukewarm reaction. It's so damn good though, Eames quickly forgets Arthur and his bored face, panting and shoving in and backing off to take his time, draw it out. "Here, I think I might get better leverage if you go down on your elbows," Eames gasps after a while, opening his eyes to find Arthur with flushed cheeks and the same patient face.

"Fine," says Arthur, and lowers himself down, consenting but obviously running low on enthusiasm.

Eames draws back again. "Let's see if I can't find this magic spot celebrated in song and legend."

"It's not celebrated in song and legend, it's celebrated in your Manhole collection of porn," Arthur returns reasonably. "Look, you already found it with your fingers, it's not the same with your cock obviously."

"Shut up, I'm working here," Eames tells him, and drives in hard, aiming as best he can using his memories of where that little bump had been under his fingers. Arthur doesn't react. Eames tries again, going more to the left.

"I don't think stabbing me with your dick is going to solve this problem," Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not stabbing, I'm triangulating," Eames says, and pulls farther out this time. He's planning another long thrust in what he thinks might be the spot, but Arthur's arse feels so slick and sweet, he can't resist throwing in a slow shallow roll of his hips.

Arthur's eyes slam closed and he makes an unearthly sound.

"What, there?" Eames asks, pleased and surprised. "Ha, I told you I had a method." He pulls out again, slides the head of his cock over the place, does a couple of rapid little pushes across it. Arthur's head drops down limply and he grunts, loudly and repeatedly. "Oh, shit, that's good?" Eames asks, because Arthur doesn't make noises like that, he simply doesn't.

"Rgh," says Arthur, but it looks like he's nodding a little.

"Right," says Eames, and gets to work, settling in at the angle and fucking nice and slow and steady, sure to keep shifting towards the same place. Arthur continues to grunt and gasp and clutch at the pillow desperately. Eames gets excited, thrusts harder and faster, and Arthur cries out. "Whoops, nearly lost my, my balance," Eames says, catching himself just in time, shifting his knees, stroking in again, delirious with lust.

Arthur's shoulders shift. "Ah, shit, you lost it," he says, normal again. "Go, go back where you were."

"This is worse than trying to find the clitoris, I can't even see the fucking thing," Eames grouses, but he moves again and tries to remember what he'd been doing before. "There?"

"No," Arthur says. "Dammit, it was really good for a minute."

"There?" Eames says.

Arthur sighs, skims a hand over his short hair.

"There?" Eames says, growing worried.

Arthur's head drops again and his mouth falls open.

"Ah, there," Eames says, pleased.

They both go a little mental after that. Eames has never seen Arthur quite like this, and while they're both immensely fond of oral sex and hand jobs and the like, they've never made sixty-nining work exactly this way, where this single rhythm, single motion, has them both shuddering and crying out and sweating. "Oh, fuck," Arthur is saying, "I need your hand, Eames, fuck."

Eames gets his hand around Arthur's cock, finds it hard and wet and hot, and that's it for Eames: he comes all at once, the orgasm unlooked-for and yet overwhelmingly good, pulsing into Arthur's arse and feeling his cock in Eames' fist, Arthur around and under him, slick with sweat and gasping for air.

"Shit," Arthur says. "Seriously? Dammit, Eames!"

Eames is slumped over Arthur, his chest to Arthur's back, and he's trying to catch his breath. He shouldn't find Arthur's dismay and irritation so charming, but he's long since given up on understanding why he does anyway. "Sorry, darling," Eames says, not bothering to sound really sorry. "Your arse is too amazing. I'll give you a blow in just a minute."

"So much for first times," Arthur grumbles.

"We can do it again," Eames says. "Besides, premature ejaculation is a fundamental part of every cherry-popping experience."

"For teenagers," Arthur points out. "You're nearly twenty-four."

"Mm, and I fuck like a seventeen-year-old, aren't you a lucky boy?" Eames says, grinning into the space between Arthur's ear and his shoulder. "It was good though, right? I had the spot?"

"You had the spot," Arthur concedes, still sulking. "I was going to come, in like, half a minute."

"I'll start wanking you half a minute sooner next time," Eames says. "Problem solved."

Arthur continues to be grouchy, though, even after Eames gets off of him and rolls him over, crawls down his body and mouths his cock. Before Arthur, Eames didn't think it was possible to pout while someone sucked on your cock, but then Arthur isn't like most blokes. He can even have a sulky orgasm, and regularly does.

They get Chinese take-away for dinner, and afterwards Eames undresses them both and gets the lube back out, takes his time getting Arthur ready again and then they get back into the position that worked before, Arthur with his ass up in the air and head down, Eames behind him working in slowly.

"Fuck, fuck," Eames says, gasping.

"If you come before me again," Arthur says, and leaves the threat lingering in the air.

"I won't, it's just, ah." Eames' ribs are already working like a bellows, fighting against the primal urge to just start fucking. "You'll understand when we try this the other way round."

Arthur is breathing through his nose, careful and measured. It's still hurting him, at least a little. "You'd really switch sometime?" Arthur asks.

"Yeah, of course," Eames says. "If you wanted. We only did it this way first because you suggested it."

"Oh," says Arthur, but he's not reacting to Eames' explanation, he's making that face again, the one that's all about Eames doing something very right.

"Yeah?" Eames asks, spurred on by the return of Arthur's hot little noises. "Yeah, you like that."

"Fuck," Arthur says, and pushes back against Eames, hungry and lithe.

Eames is more careful this time, though Arthur's sounds and reactions are almost maddeningly good. Eames thrusts more slowly for a longer time, and after a while he snakes a hand under Arthur's hips so he can jerk Arthur off as he gradually steps up the pace. He thinks about asking Arthur for verbal feedback a few times, but Arthur's gone, he's blissed out and red-cheeked and way beyond forming sentences or even most words.

"Tell me when you're close," Eames says suddenly, because Arthur's gone noisy and pushy and animalistic under him, so much so that Eames feels like he's the one being fucked somehow, from underneath.

"Fuck, fuck," Arthur says, "so close," and then he comes all over Eames' hand, copious and long. Eames is too surprised to do much of anything other than hold on while Arthur shouts and shoves back into him.

Finally Arthur's still, and Eames swipes his hand on the sheets, a little afraid of making any sudden motions. "A little more warning, maybe?" Eames says, tentatively.

"God," Arthur says, wobbly and smiling. "Oh my god, Eames."

"Much as I like that phrase," Eames says, "can I fuck you until I come now?"

"Sure," says Arthur, sinking face first into his pillow. "I might go to sleep though."

Eames doesn't particularly care at this point, honestly, so he gamely starts moving again.

"Ow," says Arthur.

"Ow?" Eames asks, incredulous. "I'm being very gentle and tender here."

"Yeah, it's not that, it's a lot more sensitive than I thought. I don't know how those guys in Manhole do it," Arthur says. "Get off me."

"No," Eames says, bereft. "Arthur!"

"Seriously, get off," Arthur says. "It's like, it's like someone sucking on you right after you come, it feels that -- ah, slow, slow."

Arthur isn't looking back to see the unholy expression of irritation Eames is casting his way; not only does Eames have to stop what he’s doing but he has to do it slowly so as to draw out the torment as long as possible. Eames scowls down at Arthur’s arse and pulls out in a long single glide, every centimeter making Eames that much more desperate to push back in.

“Are you at least going to”—Eames asks, once he’s flopped down onto his back next to Arthur and stripped off the condom, making a gesture down at himself.

Arthur, he sees, wasn’t joking about falling asleep.

Eames shakes him by the shoulder, hard.

“Fuck, what?” Arthur grouches.

“Hello?” Eames says, pointing at his hard cock. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Arthur sighs.

“I’ve changed my mind, this is all a terrible idea. Yesterday you wouldn’t have dreamed of turning down the chance to suck on my cock and today you’re too good for it just because I found your G-spot or whatever.”

Arthur squints at Eames. “I don’t have a G-spot.”

“Tell that to someone who didn’t hear you making disgusting noises while you used me shamelessly for your own carnal pleasure,” Eames tells him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Eames,” Arthur reproaches him, amazingly able to blush in spite of his recent behaviour.

Eames frowns at the ceiling, ignoring Arthur resolutely.

“Eames,” Arthur says again, tone getting darker.

Eames stares.

“Fine, suck your own dick,” Arthur says, and rolls over to go back to sleep.

Eames’ aching balls keep him awake for a few minutes longer (he’s too annoyed to wank off even though it would serve Arthur right) but eventually he drifts into sleep too.

The next morning Arthur is far from apologetic. If anything, he’s grouchier than ever.

Eames lounges against the kitchen counter and eats his cereal, watching Arthur nurse his coffee cup and study the newspaper like it’s a personal affront to him.

“I wasn’t serious, last night,” Eames admits finally. “I’ll fuck your arse again if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” Arthur says neutrally.

“Well, what if I want to then?” Eames asks.

Arthur looks over his shoulder at Eames. “My ass is closed for business today. Too bad.”

“So as usual, then,” Eames says nastily, pulling a face at Arthur.

Arthur goes back to the paper, unmoved.

It isn’t until later that Eames realizes Arthur’s too polite to just say what he means: his arse is sore from yesterday and he needs time to recover. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Eames asks him when he comes to this epiphany.

Arthur blinks and stops filling his cup of green tea mid-pour. “Why didn’t I say what?” he asks.

Eames takes advantage of Arthur’s confusion to steal a piece of sashimi off his plate. “About your sore arsehole.”

Arthur’s eyes go wide and he casts a significant look around the sushi restaurant, as if anyone could be bothered to listen to them quarrelling about Arthur’s painful arse.

“I’m not a monster, you know,” Eames says. “I would never ask you to roll over for me if it was an actual source of discomfort.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, between clenched teeth, crazed.

“Just, let me know when you’re all healed up, we’ll have another go,” Eames says, and he can’t resist making an illustrative gesture with his hand and the piece of sashimi.

Arthur fixes his eyes on his plate, poking at the pieces of salmon with his chopsticks, furious.

“I don’t know what you’re so wound up about, I’m the one who got buggered out of a proper orgasm last night.” Eames covers his mouth. “Oh, pardon the expression.”

Arthur sighs heavily. “If I promise to – you know. When we get home. Would you stop talking about this?”

“Yes,” Eames says, fully intending to cash in on Arthur’s puritanical vagueness later in exchange for some really wonderfully dirty acts.

But for all Eames’ sense of humour can be painful to Arthur’s delicate sensibilities, he would never truly demand anything of Arthur that wasn’t being freely offered. So it is that one week passes with no mention of their ill-fated explorations, and then two, and then a full month.

Eames has pretty much written the experience off as a bad one when Arthur comes home from the hotel bar with a pilfered bottle of wine and a dirty lewd wonderful smile all over his beautiful dimpled face.

“What’s this?” Eames asks, only half awake, the television flickering blue over Arthur’s face.

Arthur unstops the bottle and hands it to Eames, who gamely takes a few swigs before passing it back so Arthur can do the same.

“Are you drunk?” Eames checks.

“Not yet,” Arthur replies, and starts to pull off his clothes.

Eames sits up straighter on the couch, taking notice. “Should I?” Eames half-asks, moving his hands towards his fly.

“No,” Arthur says, and drops his trousers and pants to the floor before stepping out of them. He’s already hard, and gorgeous in the wavering light. “Let me.”

Arthur picks up the wine bottle and clambers over Eames, straddling his lap and nuzzling into Eames’ neck. “Take the bottle,” Arthur says, but instead of feeling the press of cool glass into his palm, Eames is aware of Arthur pressing something much smaller into his hand.

“Oh,” Eames says, stupid and shocked and abruptly knocked into shivery lust. He fumbles with his hands out of sight behind Arthur, getting the cap open, squeezing lube onto the fingers of his right hand, trying to close the bottle and drop it somewhere he’ll be able to find it again in the dark recesses of the couch cushions. Arthur is still kissing his neck, still pressing up against Eames, writhing and grabby and naked and hot. “Okay,” Eames says, and gets his hand down to Arthur’s arse, pushing with wet fingers to find and circle Arthur’s hole.

“Yeah, Eames,” Arthur says, pulling back with his head lolling, long beautiful throat working.

“Yeah?” Eames says, and pushes with his index finger, strokes in and out minutely before going deeper and finding the place that makes Arthur sigh.

“More,” says Arthur, who has never asked for more, who has always looked vaguely irritated when Eames asks if he wants it.

Eames pulls out his finger, adds a second, and Arthur shudders and his hips shift.

“Ah, more,” Arthur says again, wanton and shameless.

Three fingers, and Arthur is starting to make that sound he made when it was Eames’ cock there, and Eames doesn’t think he’s terribly off-base when he wonders if this is what Arthur’s after. Still, he’s not going to be the one to ask, especially when Arthur’s in this rare asking mood.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur says, and pushes at Eames’ shoulder, signaling for a stop. Eames removes his hand, unsure if he’s excited or disappointed; so much depends on Arthur’s next move.

Arthur’s next move is to retrieve the wine bottle and tilt another few swallows down his throat, then offer the same to Eames. Eames complies hastily, more interested in Arthur’s naked body over him than in the taste of the wine. But Arthur’s scrambling up now, onto his knees and then off Eames’ lap. “Get your dick out, come on,” Arthur is saying impatiently, and Eames hurries to comply. “Where’s the lube, fuck?” Arthur says, and Eames finds it, because – yes. Fuck, yes.

When Arthur is satisfied that Eames is ready – fully clothed except for where his hard wet cock is sticking out of his open trousers – he comes back to straddle Eames’ lap, only facing away this time, his back to Eames’ chest.

“Don’t move,” Arthur orders him breathlessly, “let me.”

Eames makes fists, clutching uselessly at the upholstery of the couch, trying not to do anything other than hold still, because here’s Arthur lowering himself onto Eames’ cock, slow and smooth and steady.

“Ah, fuck,” Arthur says, sweat popping out on his back. “Shit, this is –“

Painful? Good? Difficult? Eames will never know, because Arthur abandons the thought and keeps going until he’s seated fully on Eames, panting and open-mouthed.

“Can I?” Eames asks, not even sure what he wants permission to do.

“No,” Arthur says, giving a general denial in return. “Hold still.”

After a few more shaky inhalations, Arthur braces himself on the couch, on Eames, and starts to move up and down experimentally. Eames bites his tongue, holds his breath, fighting every instinct to keep his hands down and his hips steady. Abruptly Arthur freezes, groans, and then scrabbles for Eames’ hands, settling them down on Arthur’s hips. “Okay, there,” Arthur says, “that’s the spot. You fuck me, I’ll jerk myself off.”

“Okay, okay,” Eames agrees stupidly, pressing his hot face into the bare expanse of Arthur’s slender shoulder. “Okay.”

And then – it’s good. It’s effortlessly good, which is even better. Arthur is a bloody genius, with the wine and the position and the preparation and even leaving Eames in the slightly restrictive bonds of his trousers, limiting how much he can move, leaving Arthur to take up some of the slack as they move together, slow and then fast, sleek and smooth and then hard and jolting.

“Don’t come yet,” Arthur says, a few times, and Eames blinks the sweat out of his eyes and reins himself in, barely.

“You, you don’t come yet either,” Eames gasps once because Arthur has suddenly gotten very noisy.

“No, not yet,” Arthur agrees, and settles down with some obvious effort.

But then Eames can’t stave it off any longer, not with Arthur fucking down onto him and reaching back to wrap one arm around Eames’ head and neck, and working his cock with the other hand, fast and wet and desperate.

“I’m going to,” Eames admits, pained, “oh fuck.”

“Me too, me too,” Arthur says, thank god, and when he comes almost immediately, Eames is still lucid enough to notice it this time, the feel of it from the inside, the hard squeezing bump-bump-bump of Arthur’s orgasm, and Eames goes a little mental and holds Arthur as still as he can so Eames can thrust up into him hard and fast, pulsing in counterpoint.

Eames slumps back, melting into the couch, his t-shirt sticky with sweat. Arthur slouches with him, laughing and petting Eames’ hair, gasping for breath.

The upstairs neighbour makes his presence known with an abrupt series of stomps.

“Sorry,” Eames shouts. “Done now! I swear!”

Arthur collapses into laughter. “You were totally noisy.”

I was?” Eames asks, appalled. “Did you hear yourself, you were like a cat in heat, fuck!”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, and gingerly begins to sit up, obviously planning to extricate himself.

“No, no, stay for a minute,” Eames urges him, and traps Arthur against his chest with arms folded across his body. “I’m still inside you, feel that?”

Arthur nods, a shy smile playing at his lips.

“You’re a bloody genius, that was seriously fucking brilliant,” Eames tells him sincerely.

“I kept thinking about it,” Arthur admits. “I did some reading.”

“Of course you did,” Eames grins, and squeezes Arthur’s slim long body against his own. “Maybe not an everyday thing, though, I’d never survive it.”

“No, definitely not everyday,” Arthur agrees. “But we can try you sometime, still.”

“Yeah, cheers,” Eames says, getting a little muzzy.

“Okay, moving before we get stuck together permanently,” Arthur says, and it’s easier now that Eames has mostly gone soft, they slide apart with only a little sigh from Arthur, and Eames remembers to put the wine bottle on the end table before standing up to undress the rest of the way.

Arthur wanders off to the bathroom and comes back with a warm damp cloth that he uses to wipe them both off, serious again, his mouth a line of concentration.

“Oh, damn, we forgot the condom,” Eames says, drawing Arthur’s gaze back up to meet his. “Well if you’re up the duff I’m not going to be held responsible, you drunken slag.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, but his smile is twitching back into place, and really, that’s all Eames ever wants anyway.