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Irresistible You

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Eames is fresh out of the shower and leaning towards the mirror, shaving carefully with a plastic razor. It’s Saturday morning and so far he’s done barely anything, which is the best kind of Saturday morning there is. He’d even felt bold enough to steal some of Arthur’s expensive bodywash and shampoo and now he smells lovely, like Arthur.

Arthur, who is walking past the open bathroom door, head down. He’s got the newspaper under one arm and a steaming mug of coffee in the other hand, impeccably dressed, which is Arthur’s idea of a perfect Saturday morning. Eames throws a small smile his way, and Arthur catches the movement and returns it as he passes. Because Eames isn’t particularly paying attention to the sound of Arthur’s footsteps it surprises him when he looks up and sees that Arthur is back in the doorway, sans coffee, sans paper – just standing in the doorway.

Standing in the doorway and staring at Eames.

For a moment it seems like Arthur just has a question for him, like ‘did you use the last of the creamer’ (yes) or ‘didn’t you say you were going to take out the garbage’ (no) or ‘did you use my bodywash again?’ (definitely no). But Arthur’s face shifts from interrogatory focus to something soft and slack and wistful, almost within a bare second.

Eames blinks at Arthur, patting his face dry with the handtowel. “Did I miss a spot?” he asks, quickly glancing in the mirror to make sure there’s no rogue shaving cream on his chin.

Arthur continues to stare, which is very unlike Arthur. Arthur is rarely, if ever, at a loss for words, particularly if he has a criticism to offer Eames. Eames watches Arthur’s eyes, traces the gaze to its point of focus. This seems to be Eames’ left arm. Eames looks down. His arm looks ordinary to him; rather fit and muscley now that he’s been going to the gym three times a week (to which Arthur has said, ‘you’re already hot, what’s the point?’ and Eames has answered, invariably, ‘of course it’s nothing shallow like that, I only want to be healthy and physically active and all that nonsense.’)

Arthur swallows, and his gaze traces an almost palpable line up Eames’ shoulder, down his back.

“Oh,” says Eames, and checks himself out in the mirror, flexing just a little. “I thought I was hot enough already? Changed your tune, have you?”

“Come here,” Arthur answers, voice gone dry and raspy and low, “fuck, come here,” but Arthur is already moving and he meets Eames halfway, wrapping his arms around Eames, clutching at Eames’ upper arms, his shoulders, stroking down his back. Eames is still wet from the shower, he’s getting Arthur’s fresh crisply ironed shirt damp in places as they press together but miraculously Arthur doesn’t seem to notice or care. His mouth finds Eames’ and he’s pressing Eames back against the bathroom wall and just – feeling him up, shameless and greedy and grabby, long strong pianist’s fingers stroking Eames’ skin, digging hard into the muscle underneath. Eames is so startled by the onslaught that he freezes, hands up in the air, like surrendering to the police. He’s really not quite sure what he’s done to trigger this assault (though he is far, far from complaining); Eames hasn’t seen this side of Arthur before, not really, this intense hungry demanding side of Arthur that doesn’t seem bashful or hesitant in the face of Eames’ own hesitation and inertia.

It only takes a moment for Eames’ brain to clear; it’s Arthur after all, and if Arthur wants to shove Eames back against the wall and stroke his muscles and kiss his mouth, Eames should bloody well settle in and enjoy it.

Except Eames isn’t really very good at sitting back and enjoying it, not once he realises that they are going to have sex now, which is – Eames takes it back – this is a perfect Saturday morning. His hands close around Arthur’s shoulders and he gives a little push, then another, and Arthur reacts with still more desperation even as he gives way. Eames shoves again, experimentally, and Arthur goes with a hungry sound of approval. Eames has a vague idea of walking him backwards towards the bedroom but Arthur, yielding though he is, isn’t cooperating. Eames pushes and pushes and only winds up farther into the bathroom, with Arthur against the wall instead of Eames, Arthur still kissing and groping and pressing his whole body into Eames’.

Eames gives it up as a bad job and undresses Arthur right there, messily. He no sooner unbuttons Arthur’s shirt partway than he’s moving on to Arthur’s trousers, getting the fly undone, and then just inelegantly shoving trousers and pants both down far enough to free Arthur’s arse for grabbing and his cock for stroking. Arthur is clinging, that’s the only word for it, he’s clinging to Eames, panting, the flush from his neck having spread down his chest to disappear under the still-buttoned middle of his shirt, the shirt sticking to his skin in patches from Eames’ wet skin and hair.

It doesn’t seem like the time to ask, but Eames suddenly isn’t sure what to do now. Arthur certainly is beyond answering anyway, pupils blown and lips red swollen, writhing wordlessly as Eames kisses his neck and fondles his arse. Eames is weirdly worried about making the right move, though, because Eames doesn’t want to do anything that might break this spell. Arthur is – Arthur is kind of amazing right now, amazing and intoxicating, and the last thing Eames wants to do is something that might banish lithe grinding hungry Arthur and bring in cross and disappointed Arthur.

Eames pulls back. If Arthur wants to be pushed around, Eames can manage that at least. He tugs at Arthur’s shirt, which is slipping off one shoulder, and wheels Arthur around, crowding him over until he’s in front of the empty towel bar. It’s the right height, so Eames grabs Arthur’s arms and hooks them over the bar. “Hold it,” he says, and though he’s almost expecting Arthur to resist, Arthur does it, with a relieved sigh. In fact, Arthur fairly clings to the towel bar, he drapes himself over it. He bows his head and shivers, and Eames thinks maybe he got this one right after all.

Eames looks down and is somewhat amazed to realize he’s still wearing the towel he’d thrown around his hips after his shower, and yanks it off now quickly before spending some quality time pressing his whole naked front up against Arthur’s partially clothed back.

Arthur shoves back into the pressure, making eager sounds.

Eames ungently presses him back towards the wall and Arthur goes limp. "Stay there," Eames tells him, and Arthur – Arthur stays. Eames takes a dizzy step back and slaps around the small bathroom counter. There’s a fresh bottle of lube here somewhere, he’s sure he’d never bothered putting it away when he’d gotten it out of the grocery bag a few days ago. There it is; Eames seizes it and turns back to Arthur, who’s still holding tight to the towel bar.

Eames slicks his hand and fingers Arthur whilst biting the nape of his neck and the bump at the top of his spine and the narrow wings of his shoulders, all the delicious Arthurian places that Eames can’t ever quite spend enough time enjoying.

Arthur is being so still and quiet, that for a second Eames suffers a paranoid flash that Arthur's not with him anymore, he’s gone off somewhere else. "Is it good?" Eames asks him, speaking into the crook of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur nods, shaky, eyes closed, and Eames notices all of a sudden that Arthur is biting his lip, he's white-knuckled where he's holding on to the towel bar.

"Do you want it?" Eames isn't really checking anymore; Arthur’s desires are crystal clear. Mostly Eames is just being kind of an ass because he likes watching Arthur tremble and wait.

But Arthur doesn't scowl or huff, he just nods again and exhales unevenly, moving his feet apart, bracing himself a little better.

Eames knows an invitation when he sees it.

Normally, he's kind of careful about this, the moment when he first slides into Arthur. Eames isn’t neurotic about it, just – considerate. Polite, maybe. But this time, with Arthur so utterly submissive before him, Eames decides on impulse that politeness isn’t the order of the day. He just goes for it, he pushes into Arthur in a long unforgiving motion.

Arthur gasps and grabs at the towel bar but he doesn't do anything to object, he just arches for an instant then opens up, all at once.

Eames is careful to wrap one arm across Arthur's chest, unyielding, muscles flexed, using the other to steady Arthur's hips.

He isn't gentle about it at all as he starts fucking into Arthur, long heavy hard strokes, and Arthur takes it, bracing himself a little better. After a while, the towel bar creaks and the drywall on one side spiderwebs out with tiny cracks, but it doesn't break.

Arthur, who has been mostly just panting hard through all this, loses his stoic silence. He tries to muffle it at first – he presses his open red mouth into his forearm and cries out into it – but Eames keeps going and then Arthur seems to forget about control. His mouth moves away and he starts groaning and swearing loudly, louder still.

Eames always loses his shit a little when Arthur starts being really noisy, and now is no exception. He grabs Arthur harder, drives into him so fiercely that the right side of the towel bar gives way after all with a squeal and a crackle, making Arthur stumble.

But Eames has got him, catching him up tight with the arm around Arthur’s chest. Arthur quickly braces himself on the wall, drywall dust sticking to his skin near his wrist, the outside of his hand, the damp parts of his shirt.

"Do you want to come?" Eames asks, still thrusting, faster now. Arthur can’t do that for himself, not at the moment; he’s too busy holding himself steady while Eames fucks him steady and deep.

Arthur -- Arthur shakes his head, giving an unexpected denial.

Eames doesn't know what to do except keep fucking into Arthur, and besides he's quickly losing any semblance of linear thought. The bathroom is still kind of steamy and it echoes and it's filled with the slap of skin on skin and Arthur's rough loud cries. Arthur seems to be okay, he's good, he's more than good, he's obviously really liking this. It’s not like Eames isn't going to be bossy about it, he's not going to order Arthur to do anything, he's not like that…

Except Eames is going to come, he's going to come very, very soon.

"You have to come," Eames tells Arthur, his voice gone rough and weird even to his ears.

And Arthur does, untouched, all at once.

As he comes, Arthur's arms fold in and lose their tension, he slumps down to loll in the vise grip of Eames' arm. Eames has to push him hard up against the wall so he can keep fucking into him, shallow fast thrusts, frantic. Arthur just takes it, swallowing and gasping and head sagging with release. Eames hides his face in the safety of Arthur's shoulder, feeling Arthur narrow and lean and gorgeous under him, and he comes like that, with Arthur yielding and loose-limbed and sort of dazedly smiling under him.

“What,” Eames gasps, still shifting his hips lazily, riding out the last of his orgasm, “what the ever loving bloody fucking hell was that?”

Arthur is half-dead on his feet from the looks of him, cheek mashed to the plaster and only upright by virtue of Eames holding him there. “Dunno,” Arthur says muzzily. “I never go for that – big. Brick shithouse thing.”

“My cock in your arse begs to differ,” Eames says, smiling slyly, giving Arthur one last good thrust before he softens too much. Arthur rides it out and smiles with half his mouth. “Now I have to shower all over again, you shameless minx, and you’re going to pass out and be no use to me for hours.”

“Mm,” says Arthur, unrepentant and blissful. “Plus the towel bar, we totally broke that.”

Eames shifts back, eases Arthur away from the wall and makes sure he’s got his footing before pulling away. “Damage deposit, gone,” Eames says, steering Arthur towards the bedroom, gently unbuttoning his shirt and tugging his trousers up a little. “All because of your filthy obsession with my devastating manliness.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says as they reach the bedroom, and drops boneless onto the mattress, almost immediately unconscious.

Later he’s going to be shy and grouchy about the whole thing, he’ll blush when Eames alludes to it and get touchy when Eames asks if Arthur wants to wear a collar or call Eames ‘sir’; but right now Arthur is dreamy and smiling and messy and beautiful.

Eames clicks the light off as he leaves the room and heads back to the shower. He might make time for a visit to the gym today.