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i've got you until you're gone

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It's been a boring day. Arthur got shot, once, but it was straight between the eyes, and he didn't feel it, just woke straight up. Other than that, it's been paperwork, so much paperwork, and Eames pestering him by being around, by existing, and by flaunting his inability to follow dress code by refusing to shave.

Unfortunately, Eames looks exceedingly good when he doesn't shave, so this was coming all day, them back in Eames' tiny, cramped room, Eames' hands sliding his shirt up from under his belt, resting, hot, in the small of his back.

"How was work today, honey?" Eames asks him between kisses.

"You're a moron," Arthur tells him, then reaches for Eames' side, takes out his Browning, careful, then for good measure his own Beretta, placing them on the bedside table.

"Are you done being a control freak?" Eames mutters, then starts on the buttons of his shirt.

"Because it's not like they could kill us or anything," Arthur says, and Eames snorts, tugging his shirt off. He lets it drop to the floor, and Arthur opens his mouth to complain, but Eames cuts it off with a kiss.

It works, but only because Eames is a ridiculously good kisser, mouth hot and wet against his, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. He chuckles into Arthur's mouth when Arthur makes a noise, and Arthur bites him in retaliation.

Of course, it's not really retaliation when all it does is make Eames press closer to him, hands sliding between them to work Arthur's belt, fingers quick and trained. Arthur's got his pants off before he even really knows what's happening, and Eames is still pressed against him, fully dressed, all perfect man in uniform, and that's not fair.

Arthur pulls back to tell him that, but Eames just hooks his fingers in Arthur's dogtags and drags him by them back into a kiss, or, more of a bite, hard enough that Arthur can taste blood.

"Clothes," Arthur gasps against Eames' mouth, can't manage anything more than that, and Eames makes a noise that sounds like laughter against him again, but Arthur can't hold it against him when Eames' hands are already moving to the buttons of his shirt, sliding it off with a shrug before starting on his pants.

They both have to take a moment then to lean down, to unlace their boots, because they forgot about them once in the heat of the moment, and the sex was interrupted by Eames tripping over his own feet in the middle of Arthur blowing him, landing in a sprawled heap. Arthur laughed until he couldn't breathe, and then kissed the offended look right off Eames' face.

Eames pushes Arthur down on the bed as soon as they're naked, covering him. Arthur curves his palm over a tattoo on his arm, hand bright against the dark lines. "I want to fuck you," Eames says, then bites at Arthur's jaw.

Arthur shoves at him. "Then do it," he says, catching a flash of Eames' grin before he leans over to the bedside table, roots around blindly, fingers brushing over the guns, before he finds the lube and a condom.

Eames spreads his legs, slow, eyes dark and mouth kissed red and wet and obscene. He gives Arthur this long, long look, all heat, and Arthur can feel himself flushing under his gaze, can't help it.

"You're adorable," Eames tells him with a lopsided grin, and Arthur almost kicks him off the bed, but that gets sidetracked when Eames pushes a finger into him, slow and slick. Eames slides down his body, presses a kiss against his knee, adding another finger and twisting them, pressing forward until Arthur gasps, hips shifting up.

"That's it," Eames murmurs, mouthing at Arthur's thigh, and then he's sucking the head of Arthur's cock into his mouth, looking up to catch Arthur's eyes. He looks like porn, like everything Arthur has jerked off for as long as he can remember, and Arthur's almost overwhelmed by how much he wants him, how much he still wants him, months into this and the need not getting any less great.

It's a scary thought, it's all scary, but it fades when Eames slides his mouth lower, when Eames presses a third finger into him, still slow, almost leisurely, like they have all the time in the world. They really, really don't.

"Fuck me," Arthur mumbles, pushing back against Eames' fingers, and Eames looks up, slides his fingers out, slow, before fumbling with the condom for a minute, for too long, long enough that Arthur snatches it from him and opens it for him.

"Much obliged, love," Eames says, and Arthur ignores the way that hits him low in the stomach, ignores it until Eames is sliding into him, all low burn and fullness, and Arthur can let everything hit him, the way Eames is hiking Arthur's leg up around his waist, the way Eames' tags are brushing against his chest with every thrust, cool against his skin. It makes him shiver.

"You're gorgeous," Eames says, voice low, scratchy, and Arthur closes his eyes, turns into Eames' hand when he rests it on his cheek. There's this moment where it feels like something's going to happen, something they can't take back, but Eames just keeps moving, and eventually takes his hand off Arthur's cheek to wrap it around his cock.

Arthur arches up, and Eames mutters things, filthy, gorgeous things, into his ear, hand rough and perfect on him. Arthur comes with Eames still moving in him, everything going tight and hot, and Eames comes a minute later, teeth buried in Arthur's shoulder.

They rest, for a moment, until Eames has to pull out, until Arthur can manage to think and breathe at the same time.

"Our clothes are on the floor," Arthur mumbles. He's feeling hazy, come drying on his stomach, sticky on his thigh.

"Yes, yes," Eames says. "Don't move, I'll get them."

Arthur gets a spectacular view of Eames' ass then, because he's too lazy to actually get off the bed, instead stretching out, body precarious in air as he grabs at their clothes and throws them haphazardly at his desk. His tags click against the floor, and then he straightens out, tucks his face up on Arthur's stomach. He's probably getting come on his face, the idiot.

"Better?" Eames asks.

"Not really," Arthur says, but he lazily cards his hand through Eames' short-cropped hair, feeling too good about things to particularly care, right now.

"I'm getting come on my face," Eames says.

"I know," Arthur says. "That's because you're an idiot."

Eames turns his face to bite Arthur's stomach, and then he gets distracted, tongue tracing over the come, slow.

"Seriously?" Arthur asks, because it's making him feel hot and tight again, and the day may have been boring, but it was long, and he has to sneak out of here before it gets more suspicious than it really is.

Eames looks up at him, and there's some come on his cheek from when he'd been lying down, some on the plush curve of his lower lip.

"Fuck it," Arthur says, and drags him up for a kiss.