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Relax (Don't Do It)

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“Oh. Oh god, Eames, I’m gonna...”

The words come out in a breathless rush as Arthur says them. He’s perched on the arm of the couch and looking down at Eames, who sits in front of him on the ottoman, sliding Arthur’s length out of his mouth in one long, smooth motion.

Eames pulls off, gently supporting Arthur’s cock with one hand and petting it with the other as it flexes in thwarted orgasm. Eames looks up at Arthur, grey eyes calm and pleased.

“Mm, you like that?” Eames says as he flicks his tongue whisper-light over Arthur’s frenulum.

Arthur inhales long and shaky and exhales through slightly pursed lips. “Okay,” he says. “Keep going.”

A few more gentle strokes of his fingers, then Eames takes Arthur’s prick down in one go, lips and tongue making quiet wet sounds. He cups Arthur’s sac deftly, kneading the tightened skin at the back with his fingers, and starts to bob his head. His other arm is propped casually on his knee, his relaxed pose a stark contrast to Arthur’s: curved slightly forward, abs flexed, thighs pushing outwards — whole body a testament to the strain of teetering on the edge. Inching forward, back.

Eames flutters his tongue, then draws it firmly up the underside of Arthur’s dick — now flushed a deep, painful-looking red — and closes his lips to suckle on the head. His thumb and forefinger circle the base, a hard grip to stave off Arthur’s impending eruption, so close Eames can feel the vibration deep in Arthur’s balls.

He pulls off, a silvery line of spit dripping in a long line from Arthur’s tip, glistening as it catches the light. Eames holds his grip at the base and looks up again.

A dismayed little grunt escapes Arthur’s lips. “Please,” he says. “I need to.”

“Breathe,” Eames replies, tightening his squeeze. “One last one, I promise. Deep breath, come on now.”

Arthur does, closing his eyes and taking in a tenuous, shaky breath that does nothing to calm the tension in him. He does it again, longer.

And again.

His eyes open.

“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t manage any more than that.

“Good,” Eames smiles, then bends to lick and suck at Arthur’s sac, at the shaved-smooth flesh drawn so tight to to his body. This time when he takes Arthur in again, he tilts and looks up, making sure Arthur’s watching as he sinks onto it. He keeps his suction constant, stroking his tongue up and down and drawing his mouth almost off before filling himself up again. Arthur can’t keep his hips still any longer, pulsing them needfully, fingers gripping white on the couch.

“Yeah, fuck,” Arthur breathes. “Oh god. Oh god —” and he breaks with a sob of relief, wracked with shudders, pumping stream after stream of hot come in Eames’s mouth. Eames stays on, sucking, milking him, lips and tongue coaxing every shudder, every twitch until finally Arthur calms, emptied of pressure. Deflated.

Arthur’s unstable laugh has Eames removing his hands to rest on Arthur’s thighs and sitting upright, a smug, indulgent smile curling his lips.

“Okay, I admit it,” Arthur says after a few moments, once he’s gathered his wits about him again. “You were right. You give better head than Jessie Colter.”

“You see? It’s not all about how it looks,” Eames says.

Arthur laughs again. “It looked pretty good from up here,” he replies.

Eames smirks and finally withdraws his hands entirely while Arthur pulls up his pants and puts himself away.

It’s as Arthur’s putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave the rented flat they have as their base of operations that Arthur throws out, casually, “You know. I’ve been reliably informed that I bottom better than Brent Corrigan.”

Eames cocks an eyebrow, his smirk turning sly as he follows Arthur out the door.

**End**