Finally, we get to what all of you guys really waited for. I'll be honest; slipping into the 'M' rating for sexual content isn't exactly something I've done before. It was one big experiment for me, balancing emotions, descriptions and trying to find the line between revealing and explicit. I hope you guys enjoy the result. Though, this story is far from over. Based on the feedback, I may try to see if I can make everyone happy. Tell me what you like and didn't like, and I will be very grateful.
And, as always, thank you all a MILLION times for the amazing reviews! I love you guys!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, still.
Warning: Finally in the 'M' rating! Woo!
If Arthur knew that merely waking up would feel like dragging his head along a gravel road for six miles, he would have made a conscious effort to perish in his sleep. Light filtering through the curtains, although soft and indirect, could be compared to a pair of drills being pushed into his eye sockets. He made some vaguely miserable sound and buried himself deep in silk sheets and under pillows. The worst part was knowing that his hotel didn't have bedding so nice, and having absolutely no idea where he might be.
He scrambled to remember why he was half undressed and suffering from a massive headache. The awful taste in his mouth had the slightest flavour of wine, which explained a fair bit right off the bad. Red wine hangovers were the worst. But at least the majority of the suffering was in his head and not his stomach. He rolled onto his other side experimentally, getting a spike of pain in his skull but thankfully no nausea. In his haze, he also realized that he was alone in the bed. When he finally dared wrench his eyes open, the soft grey light in the room was no less agonizing. But Arthur braved it, as he had definitely endured worse in his life, and moved to sit up enough to canvass the room with his gaze.
It was a clean bedroom. Not large, but well kept. The conservative light, on neutral walls and hardwood floors, made it seem rather plain. But an ugly brown blazer thrown over the armchair in the corner tipped him off. Arthur's mouth instantly went dry, and he would have definitely been sick now if there had been any previous nausea. He wrestled his way out of the duvet and sheets, although it was the most comfortable place he could be right now. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took several long, deep breaths.
Sex with Eames had been more or less inevitable. From the second he saw the forger on campus, it was a cold, hard fact. And he had been alright with that. But as the entirely of the previous evening trickled back into memory, piling heavily against the tender interior of his skull, he wanted to crumble under the weight. But, as he let his fingers smooth out the wrinkles of his jeans – the jeans that he was wearing and didn't so much have an unfastened button, he found himself struggling to remember how the night ended.
Dinner, drinking, talking, drinking, trying to leave… Eames being so obnoxiously irresistible. Oh. Right. He faintly remembered climbing into his lap and attacking his mouth with the need of a starved animal. Fuck.
But did they go through with it? Memory faded out around the point where he was clawing away Eames' shirt. Considering he was still half-dressed, he was questioning it. And where the hell was the forger? As he moved to stand, Arthur caught sight of a glass of water and two pills sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him.
His panic deflated at that moment, replaced chiefly by anger with himself.
He downed the painkillers with absolutely no consideration of his own pride, and finally got to his feet. It hurt to move, but he had to find Eames. For the life of him, Arthur couldn't find his shirt in the bedroom. But he felt reservations about walking around half-exposed, so he stole one from the closet (a rather impressive walk-in closet, the bastard). Even hung over, he had just a bit of sense; it was the least offensive shirt he could find in Eames' wardrobe. He took the half-empty glass of water with him when he left the room.
Stepping out into the hallway, Arthur moved with silence that was almost feline. Why he was being cautious was anyone's guess. It was not like Eames would kill him on sight. At least, he hoped not. The other man had been maddeningly unpredictable as of late. He wouldn't put it past the forger to switch it up just to keep Arthur on his toes.
What he found in the living room, however, was hardly dangerous. Sprawled out on the sofa, head awkwardly and painfully tucked between cushions, was Eames. The forger was fast asleep, tangled in a thin blanket and shirtless. Arthur could see some state of abuse on him; bruises and bite marks all over what he could see of Eames' neck and shoulder. Again, despite the glass of water still in his hand, he found his mouth going dry. The sight jogged his memory just the slightest.
He remembered being fairly angry with Eames, although that was nothing knew. But he had felt hurt, rejected – oh. Oh.
Eames had refused to sleep with him.
Arthur felt dizzy, either from the hangover or the sheer audacity of the truth, and found himself sitting on the arm of the couch at the forger's feet. It was just impossible to conceive, that Eames might deny him such a thing. It was Eames. Eames. When thinking of all the things that this man had effortlessly convinced Arthur into doing, it was baffling to consider that he would turn down such an opportunity. The point man had been more than willing. Hell, he remembered making a fumbling attempt to undo the other's pants while simultaneously giving him that painful-looking hickey on his collarbone. Wait. A hickey? Christ, they were like teenagers.
As Arthur was sorting through his thoughts, threading fingers through his messy hair and trying to decide if he should go, he felt the man on the couch stir. Eames made some indistinct sound and rolled over onto his back. A wince on pain crossed his closed eyes as he stretched the muscles of his neck. Perhaps it was his strong survival instinct, but the forger sensed Arthur's looming presence and opened his eyes quickly. However, he seemed to relax when he saw who was perched at the other end of the couch. A faint smile even crossed his lips.
And there they were. In the not-quite morning light and the silence of a waking city, Arthur never felt so overwhelmed.
The would-be awkward conversation was carried out in silence. Eames, clearly better off than Arthur in terms of a hangover, sat up and made space for the other to sit down properly. Reluctantly, the point man did just that. He settled beside the other and helped him unwrap himself from the blanket. Eames, with soft amusement in his eyes, ran a thumb over the sleeve of the shirt that Arthur was wearing, tracing the path of dark green stripes. Arthur handed him the glass, offering him the rest of the water. It was taken gratefully and downed; no doubt the forger had been rather dehydrated.
Once the cup was set down, they seemed to settle together seamlessly. With his head on the other's shoulder, Arthur just let his eyes ask. The bulk of their relationship was based on banter and argument, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Because whatever words he might use would be inadequate. Eames' expression softened as he looked down, and there was a tense smile on his lips as his fingers worked through the younger man's hair.
Arthur was confused, and still a little hurt. But Eames wasn't apologizing. He didn't regret anything, after all, and there was likely no chance that he would even pretend to feel guilty about doing the right thing. And the point man understood that, but the reason why he had been turned away was lost on him. He was not even worried about his pride, by this point. He wanted to know. Eames glanced towards the kitchen briefly before returning his eyes to Arthur.
"You think I don't care about you." The forger spoke this in a sort of exasperated sigh. Arthur felt a sharp pang of something in his chest, wholly unpleasant and sickening. Eames moved to stand, but Arthur repeated the previous night's tactic of planting himself in the other man's lap.
"Why didn't we have sex last night?" he finally demanded, pinning Eames' legs down and refusing to move until he got the answer. Eames tried to push him away at first, but froze when the question was thrown his way. His muscles eased slowly, and his expression pulled into one that could very easily make one feel like an absolute insult to average human intelligence. Arthur was not used to being told he was stupid, especially by someone like Eames.
"Because you were inebriated, you idiot." Eames said, making another push to dismount Arthur and stand. The point man clung, however, glaring down at him.
"What difference does that make? You were drunk, too." he shot back. "You think I would have been mad because of that, when we've done that before?" Arthur was unwavering, even as he saw Eames begin to show his frustration. His smooth, perpetually smiling face pulled into a rare frown. It was firm and almost angry. Another attempt to gently shove Arthur away was unsuccessful.
"Wow, Arthur. I don't even know what to say." Eames growled. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he saw him upset. Was there even a last time? While Arthur was a lit firecracker in terms of temperament, Eames was the opposite. A complete fucking Zen Master. And that was probably the only thing that saved the moment. The forger relaxed again and leaned his head back, seeming to take a calming breath. Arthur waited it out, until the other spoke again. "I don't want to have sex with you drunk. Isn't that enough of a reason?"
Arthur was silent for a moment, and he felt a steady increase of pressure in his skull. Like he needed any more. He let his gaze fall, looking at nothing in particular (though, he was looking in the direction of Eames' bare chest pretty intently). He couldn't fathom it. He tried to ask why, but it came out in a quiet mumble. Eames' anger seemed to dissipate rapidly. He managed a quiet laugh, much to the point man's annoyance. He swatted the forger on the side of the head. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to convey his displeasure with being laughed at. Eames grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, still chuckling.
"It's no fun when you're drunk, darling." No more irritation, just an affectionate purr. Eames seemed almost relieved. Arthur felt a fluttering in his chest and heat in his face, especially when Eames smiled. "You were giving me the distinct impression that I meant more to you than a cheap shag. Isn't it the least I can do to return the favour?"
"Only if you mean it." Arthur sighed, leaning back a little bit until Eames tugged him closer again. That irritating, alluring smile shifted into a grin.
"I wrestled you off of me, passed up on sex, let you call me all sorts of terrible names, then let you have my bed to yourself. Stop asking so many bloody questions, love. You know the answers."
It was like stomping on a landmine. The silent world around them, with faint cold morning light and utter stillness, exploded into a wave of colour and life. The words 'hangover' and 'common sense' were instantly eradicated from the English language. Like they hadn't missed a beat, they resumed a hasty, lustful series of kisses and movements. Arthur had to briefly consider how kissing Eames was like dreaming; he never really knew when or how it started, but he found himself right in the middle of things and utterly unwilling to ask why. Again, this was a brief thought, as the forger promptly hauled them both up off the couch. There was something practiced and perfect about it, how they didn't break the kiss or falter in trying to untangle themselves. Eames did earn himself another smack for trying to carry Arthur bridal-style into the bedroom. Only then did he break the kiss and opt to haul the slighter man over his shoulder.
"You asshole." Arthur tried to snarl this as he squirmed, but the ferocity of it was muted by the yelp he uttered when Eames grabbed the backs of his thighs and hoisted him down onto the bed. It would have been absolute hell with his aching head if he hadn't landed in the overstuffed duvet, which absorbed the impact and almost comically consumed him. As he struggled to sit up, he heard Eames snicker. This died, however, when he hooked his feet around the backs of the forger's legs and tugged him closer, ruining his balance.
Tumbling and wrestling on the queen size bed was a lot easier than it had been on the sofa. And, as they weren't drunk this time around, it was less of an actual battle. Just a lot of fumbling with buttons and zippers. Eames actually took his time trying to remove the shirt that Arthur was wearing, and gave a pouting whine of "I liked that one." when the point man grew impatient and removed it himself, sending a couple of buttons flying.
Arthur couldn't remember if they used to laugh this much, or if Eames used to be so doting with touches and attention. They were definitely used to something a little more hasty and angry, so it was different. With the selfish, single-goaled mindset gone, it felt more like having sex with the forger for the first time. For a long stretch of time, all they did was rediscover each other. At first it felt ridiculous and cliché. But by the time he found a ticklish spot on Eames' ribs, and they discovered that the place between Arthur's shoulder blades was sensitive enough to reduce him to gasps and moans of "Oh God, Eames." when assaulted with one's tongue, the silliness of it all ceased to matter.
The whole experience was endlessly better, when they were focused more on pleasing each other than their own orgasm. It was no longer a race, either; not a hurried fuck on a desk with people in the next room. It was real. It was forever before they actually began having sex, and Arthur couldn't have possibly complained. He struggled to remember if Eames was usually this gentle with preparing him, if he used to kiss him while doing so and seek out his most sensitive place just for the sake of driving him wild before they even began. Any other time, Arthur would have been embarrassed about being reduced to a trembling mess. But it didn't seem to matter. He would return the favour.
The initial pace of the sex, deliberately slow and gentle, might have been awkward if they hadn't spent forever building up to it. Admittedly, they were both out of their element like this. Every previous time, it had been furious, with insults and orders between panting breaths. They had been just as determined to destroy each other as they were to get off. This wasn't nearly as hostile. Eames was actually being careful.
"Don't you dare be gentle with me, Mr. Eames." Arthur purred into the other's ear, bucking his hips in a demanding manner and delighting in the surprised groan he earned for his efforts. The pace suddenly spiked a little.
"Relax, pet. Just trying to make sure you last." Arthur felt a grin against his shoulder before Eames bit down on the skin. At the same time, he thrust deeper to stop the sputtered, offended response before Arthur could even open his mouth.
Okay, they hadn't changed that much.
Much to his delight, it was not this maddeningly slow and cautious for long. Eames had not forgotten what he liked, and did not miss the chance to cater to it. He hated to admit it, but the forger had been smart about it. If he had started off with the rapid, merciless pace that they eventually moved into, Arthur might have been done in minutes. Eames knew the exact angle to maximize his pleasure, but changed it up now and then to keep it inconsistent. And, perhaps, because he liked it when Arthur swore at him.
Another discovery that Arthur enjoyed was the delight of actually kissing during intercourse. It was messy, suffocating, and wonderful. Every one seemed to last for minutes on end, and his lungs burned with a desperate need for air. Eames' lips and tongue had a unique ability to render him absolutely stupid. Luckily, however, Arthur had a similar power over him. Having his bottom lip bitten thoroughly scrambled his mind, and Arthur knew exactly how to exploit that. It was slightly difficult, however, balancing between kissing and touching and moving his hips. It was never a problem before, when they didn't care. But it was a refreshing challenge.
When they weren't kissing, it was a broken conversation. It was an intricate mixture of directions, pleads, affection, and sometimes the filthiest things Arthur never thought he would hear or say in his lifetime. But it eventually boiled down to the most raw expressions of desire, and confessions of being completely, utterly consumed in one another. The way Eames purred in his ear, uttering his name over and over like a mantra, just overwhelmed him. He broke down, losing all composure and self-restraint. His nails buried themselves in the skin of the other's back. He arched uncontrollably, letting out a loud, endless strings of OhGod and Nathanielmoremoreplease.
It was something so sacred, something he never shared. Like a grand secret only they knew, and Eames shivered when he heard his own, real name being uttered in the midst of such an intense moment. It was seconds, mere seconds that felt like years, before they reached the climax. Arthur came first, letting out strangled cry and arching his back again. For a moment, his whole world consisted bursts of colour in his sight, the electricity and heat coursing through his body in violent waves, and the desperate groaning of his name against his shoulder as Eames reached an equally dizzying orgasm. After that, it was nothing but panting and kissing and half-formed words. Eames was nuzzling their cheeks together as he pulled out, and that contact didn't break until they were both settled comfortably on the mattress. The idea of the need to clean up never crossed Arthur's mind; every ounce of him was drawn to Eames. Gravity no longer existed to him. It was only Eames holding him to earth.
He could definitely not remember ever kissing after sex. But they did this time, and it was every bit as thrilling as the minutes before. Arthur would not have remembered he had a headache if one were to tell him. All he felt was pure bliss and warmth, as Eames lazily but playfully wrestled him into the covers to cuddle. They didn't even have the heart to pretend they didn't enjoy such a pointless, time-consuming thing. They were too exhausted to move even if they wanted to. Eames was kissing up and down his neck and shoulder before long, and Arthur felt himself being lulled to sleep.
The shrill blaring of the bedside alarm pierced its way into Arthur's skull, making him jump and wince at the same time. He felt Eames shift, reach over and slam the blasted clock with his fist, either turning it off or destroying it. Either way, Arthur was happy. He resumed claiming the forger's body as his pillow, blanket and heat source.
"You don't have class until noon." he murmured, smiling against the skin and closing his eyes.
"And you have one at eight. In fifteen minutes." Eames pointed out with a lazy grin as he nuzzled his face into Arthur's hair. The point man snorted lightly and answered by tightening his grip around Eames' waist. He was perfectly content to stay here until he absolutely had to leave. Until his welcome was worn right out. Until Eames shoved him out the door.
It was a nice thought, lingering here for eternity. But, as he heard an insistent ringing from the phone in his coat in the living room, Arthur deflated. It wasn't stopping. Someone was worried about him.