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Unbeta'd as all hell.
I sometimes have the tendency to look at you religiously.
Eames is thrusting in and out, so slowly, each thrust sending sparks up Arthur’s spine and making starbusts explode behind his eyes, and Arthur is absolutely helpless against staying quiet. “Oh,” he says softly, “oh, oh, oh,” each time Eames pushes in. There’s a small part of him that is deeply embarrassed that the only noise he can make is a noise of soft surprise, but his brain refuses to translate his noises to anything else. He doesn't remember when the mood of their lovemaking changed, from something frantic and charged to something softer and deeper and more intimate, all Arthur knows is that the atmosphere has turned into something that thrills and terrifies him in equal measure. All he knows is that he feels something stirring inside him, and his body is surprised--Eames is touching something inside of him that shouldn’t be touched, something he’s spent years burying deep inside, something he’s been trying to quash but has been blossoming in the dark, quiet confines of his soul for years now.
With every slow, precise thrust, Eames is breaking down the walls that surround that hidden thing inside of him, he feels it blooming in his blood, sweetly sharp and almost unbearable. He turns his head on the pillow, moaning softly now, and he squeezes his eyes shut because it’s too much to look into Eames eyes and see the soft adoration and wonder there. He feels himself trembling, and the knot builds in his throat. Oh. Oh. For a minute he tries to remind himself that this is Just Fucking, and that This Is Eames We’re Talking About, but he’s never been good at lying to himself, and much to his irritation he’s not about to start being awesome at it now. He’s known it’s been different between He and Eames for awhile now, that what started off as a way to blow of steam during jobs had turned into a friendship and partnership that had strengthened and deepened over time. He is suddenly reminded of the job in Prague where after a day full of information gathering they had ended up in Eames hotel, Arthur sprawled on the bed going over his notes and Eames reading a much-loved copy Chomsky: Selected Readings and the entire scene and the sense of home it brought with it taking Arthur’s breath away.
Now, his body caught in the slow burn of pleasure radiating through him with each of Eames’ agonizingly methodical thrusts, He feels the prickle and burn of tears underneath his eyelids as realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and Eames is still thrusting, so perfect, hitting something inside that threatens to unravel and leave him bare and vulnerable, something he never wanted to be. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not with Eames, not with anyone, but. Jesus. I’m home. Darling, Arthur,” he hears Eames pant softly above him. “Please look at me. Please.” there is a patience and a yearning in his plea that says everything that Arthur is afraid to hear.
I can’t, he thinks miserably, wretchedly, his eyes still shut tight. He still can’t say anything for fear that all will come out is a sob, he just keeps making helpless keening noises. Then Eames thrusts in, intent and hard, leaving himself flush with Arthur’s body, and Arthur cannot help the wail that escapes his throat as he comes. He feels Eames tremble above him and then Eames’ breath is a whisper of damp heat against the shell of his ear. “Arthur, love. Look at me, let me see your gorgeous eyes.” Arthur lets out a shaky sigh and opens his eyes. His vision is blurry and he can feel the tears spilling and leaving cool trails down the sides of his face, but before he can say anything, Eames is kissing him tenderly, and murmuring soft words of quiet adoration into Arthur’s neck. “Never thought you’d let me have you like this,” “Never thought you let me see…Arthur, you’re so fucking beautiful, want you always like this.”
Arthur, doing what he thinks is the bravest, scariest things he’s ever done, nods gently.
I sometimes have the tendency to look at you religiously.
Eames is thrusting in and out, so slowly, each thrust sending sparks up Arthur’s spine and making starbusts explode behind his eyes, and Arthur is absolutely helpless against staying quiet. “Oh,” he says softly, “oh, oh, oh,” each time Eames pushes in. There’s a small part of him that is deeply embarrassed that the only noise he can make is a noise of soft surprise, but his brain refuses to translate his noises to anything else. He doesn't remember when the mood of their lovemaking changed, from something frantic and charged to something softer and deeper and more intimate, all Arthur knows is that the atmosphere has turned into something that thrills and terrifies him in equal measure. All he knows is that he feels something stirring inside him, and his body is surprised--Eames is touching something inside of him that shouldn’t be touched, something he’s spent years burying deep inside, something he’s been trying to quash but has been blossoming in the dark, quiet confines of his soul for years now.
With every slow, precise thrust, Eames is breaking down the walls that surround that hidden thing inside of him, he feels it blooming in his blood, sweetly sharp and almost unbearable. He turns his head on the pillow, moaning softly now, and he squeezes his eyes shut because it’s too much to look into Eames eyes and see the soft adoration and wonder there. He feels himself trembling, and the knot builds in his throat. Oh. Oh. For a minute he tries to remind himself that this is Just Fucking, and that This Is Eames We’re Talking About, but he’s never been good at lying to himself, and much to his irritation he’s not about to start being awesome at it now. He’s known it’s been different between He and Eames for awhile now, that what started off as a way to blow of steam during jobs had turned into a friendship and partnership that had strengthened and deepened over time. He is suddenly reminded of the job in Prague where after a day full of information gathering they had ended up in Eames hotel, Arthur sprawled on the bed going over his notes and Eames reading a much-loved copy Chomsky: Selected Readings and the entire scene and the sense of home it brought with it taking Arthur’s breath away.
Now, his body caught in the slow burn of pleasure radiating through him with each of Eames’ agonizingly methodical thrusts, He feels the prickle and burn of tears underneath his eyelids as realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and Eames is still thrusting, so perfect, hitting something inside that threatens to unravel and leave him bare and vulnerable, something he never wanted to be. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not with Eames, not with anyone, but. Jesus. I’m home. Darling, Arthur,” he hears Eames pant softly above him. “Please look at me. Please.” there is a patience and a yearning in his plea that says everything that Arthur is afraid to hear.
I can’t, he thinks miserably, wretchedly, his eyes still shut tight. He still can’t say anything for fear that all will come out is a sob, he just keeps making helpless keening noises. Then Eames thrusts in, intent and hard, leaving himself flush with Arthur’s body, and Arthur cannot help the wail that escapes his throat as he comes. He feels Eames tremble above him and then Eames’ breath is a whisper of damp heat against the shell of his ear. “Arthur, love. Look at me, let me see your gorgeous eyes.” Arthur lets out a shaky sigh and opens his eyes. His vision is blurry and he can feel the tears spilling and leaving cool trails down the sides of his face, but before he can say anything, Eames is kissing him tenderly, and murmuring soft words of quiet adoration into Arthur’s neck. “Never thought you’d let me have you like this,” “Never thought you let me see…Arthur, you’re so fucking beautiful, want you always like this.”
Arthur, doing what he thinks is the bravest, scariest things he’s ever done, nods gently.
