Author/artist/podficcer: five_ht / platina / aphelant
Team: ROMANCE ♥
Word count: 1700
Warnings: D/s (in a domestic, sleepy morning sex kind of setting)
FIC BY five_ht:
Arthur wakes slowly on Sundays. Saturday nights are the only time he'll allow himself a sleeping pill (and therefore the only nights he sleeps anywhere near a healthy number of hours). The pills leave him sluggish through the morning, intolerably unproductive for any other day of the week. But on Sundays, he concedes to his body's need for rest and relaxation. He wakes in increments, nuzzling the pillows, sighing out sweet little sounds for long minutes before he so much as opens his eyes.
Eames has had the better part of a year to get used to this, but it's somehow never lost an ounce of its charm.
"Morning, lovely," he murmurs, still feeling fuzzy himself. He presses his nose into Arthur's hair, silky and curling, free of product.
Arthur doesn't respond, probably can't just yet. He gives a sigh like he's about to drift back to sleep, but he presses into the touch when Eames shifts his weight to lie partly over Arthur's back.
Mindlessly, Eames presses his lips to the nape of Arthur's neck, stroking a hand down his side. It's almost too warm under the blankets, and Arthur's skin is hot, but Eames doesn't want to move away just yet. He kisses Arthur's shoulders, darts his tongue out against the ridges and dips at the top of his spine, slow and soft, until Arthur moans.
"Morning," he says, barely more than a breath, eyes still closed. "Time is it?"
"After ten," Eames says, brushing his lips against the shell of Arthur's ear, "Doesn't matter."
Arthur hums an affirmative, and Eames feels him arch, just enough to press back. "Want it," he breathes.
Eames can feel his cock stirring against Arthur's arse, but he hesitates, considering. "How're you feeling?" he asks, pulling the blankets down.
Eames moves so he can look down, run his fingers over the swell of Arthur's arse, over the faint bruises spreading down onto his thighs. If Arthur had had his way, if Eames had listened to the pleas for more and harder, it would have been worse.
"For most people," Eames muses, tracing the colours blooming over Arthur's skin, "A paddling like that would mean they're out of commission for at least the next twelve hours."
"Lucky for us," Arthur says into the pillow, then turns his head so Eames can see his smile.
"Hmm," Eames says, trailing a finger down Arthur's cleft, touching his hole lightly. "Sore?"
"No," Arthur says, and Eames knows it's the truth when his finger slips in, where Arthur is hot and still slick with Eames' come, and Arthur's shoulders don't tense in the slightest.
"Lucky for us," Eames echoes. He rolls away to retrieve the lube, and slicks his fingers before he settles his weight back on top of Arthur. Arthur squirms, spreading his legs apart when Eames touches his entrance again, but Eames goes slow, still cautious with last night's memory fresh in his mind. He eases in one finger, which is probably less than Arthur was expecting.
"Don't tease," Arthur says, pushing back against Eames' hand.
Eames adds a second finger obligingly, but he stills Arthur's hips with his other hand. "I'm not teasing."
Arthur whines, and Eames watches as he fists the sheets, his brow furrowing.
"Tell me if it hurts," Eames says, drawing back a little. Arthur's hands relax, and he licks his lips.
"It doesn't, it's good," he says, then rolls his shoulders, too tense for how sleepy he was just moments ago. He brings his hands up on the pillow above his head, restless.
"Ah," Eames says, realization dawning on him. He kisses Arthur's jaw before he pulls his fingers free, to a tiny whimper of protest. "Sit tight."
Eames stretches over to his side of the bed to rummage through the nightstand drawer. He returns with Arthur's favourite cuffs, wide strips of soft leather that close with a lock, safe and secure. Arthur stretches when he sees them, holding his hands up near the headboard, obedient.
Arthur has an immediate, visible reaction to being restrained, Eames has never seen anything quite like it. He loops the chain around the low bar on their headboard, taking Arthur's wrists in hand, and Arthur sighs as Eames tightens the cuffs, locking them in place. Arthur's whole body loosens on a soft moan, tension seeping out of every muscle.
"There you are," Eames murmurs, pushing his nose into Arthur's hair as he slides back on top of him, pressing his fingers back in. "There you are, love."
Arthur takes it easily now, wet inside and accepting a third finger with barely a whimper. He tugs his arms down an inch, as far as they'll go, and Eames watches him smile contentedly against his shoulder.
"Arthur," Eames says, his breath catching as Arthur opens for him, soft and pliant, "You don't know how perfect you are like this."
Arthur whines, one leg bending to hook his ankle over Eames' calf. "I do try," he manages, his cheek dimpling. Eames eases his fingers out, and this time Arthur doesn't make a sound, just splaying his legs wider as Eames gropes for the lube.
Their groans are nearly indistinguishable when Eames presses his cock inside, Arthur's body taking him in in one smooth slide. Eames runs a hand up Arthur's arm, squeezing tight around the leather at his wrist as they steady their breathing.
"Christ, you feel good," Eames says into Arthur's hair. He wonders if he'll ever get used to this, if he'll ever be able to push into Arthur like this without his nerves singing at the tight heat, at the wetness that he knows is him, staining Arthur inside.
Arthur releases a breath with a whine, "Fuck me, Eames, please move."
Eames draws his hips back and then sinks in deep, but his thrust is slow and measured, mindful of Arthur's bruises and the hurt Eames could easily inflict. A slow and careful rhythm isn't typical for them, but the restraints are enough to scratch Arthur's itch when he's sleepy and pliable like this. Eames repeats the motion and Arthur groans, obediently still, accepting the pace.
It's a strange occurrence for Eames, to have Arthur naked and laid out for him but not begging and clawing for more. And Eames loves him like that too – loves pushing his limits, painting his skin with bruises and welts, leaving him strung out for hours and sobbing for it – but this is different, this is rare. Sometimes Eames likes to take it slow.
"Let's stay here all day," he says, to a breathless huff of laughter that ends on a groan when Eames thrusts again, "I'll keep you chained here, make you come till you can't move."
"Yeah," Arthur moans, already on board, "Add some coffee, sounds like a perfect day."
Eames kisses his jaw, and it turns into a bite when Arthur whimpers. The soft noises and sweet compliance make something possessive flare in Eames' chest, for all he wants to be slow and gentle. He can't help leaving marks, sucking and scraping little red spots into Arthur's shoulders and neck as he fucks him. Arthur squirms with it, the chain on his cuffs dragging and clinking on the headboard. Eames speeds up a few beats when he feels Arthur shifting against the bed, giving himself some friction. Eames can feel it building for him, too, pleasure and tension starting to cloud his thoughts and give his movements an edge.
He's still careful not to hit too hard on Arthur's bruises, but he's grinding in deep, one hand at Arthur's waist to guide him back into it, help him press down on the mattress rhythmically.
"I'm gonna come," Eames says, pressing kisses along Arthur's jaw, "Tell me what you want, let me hear it."
"Inside," Arthur gasps, arching, pressing back against Eames' hips, taking him deeper, "Inside me, please."
"Can you come for me?" Eames asks him, his pace picking up as the pleasure starts to take him over, "You can do it, come for me."
Arthur's breath turns harsh and labored, and he nods as he tightens around Eames' cock. "Yeah, yeah," he moans, grinding himself down against the sheets and shoving back hard against Eames' thrusts.
Arthur freezes when he comes, muscles rigid and his mouth open on a rough, ragged cry. Eames drags it out for him as long as he can, fucking him through the tremors, murmuring hoarse praise until his own senses can't take the noises and the clenching, and he tumbles over the edge.
"Fuck, Arthur," he gasps, blind and mindless with his orgasm, holding himself deep inside Arthur's body, filling him up, marking him. Arthur arches into it, moaning like he's coming again, and Eames' hands clench so hard on his hips he's probably adding to the collection of bruises.
Eames feels, maybe, something approaching lucid once he catches his breath and the aftershocks fade. Arthur, on the other hand, is boneless, barely able to make a sound when Eames pulls out, still keeping Arthur pinned under him.
"You said something about coffee?" Eames asks, forehead pressed to the nape of Arthur's neck.
Arthur grunts, hooking his ankle over Eames' calf again, like he thinks Eames might suddenly try to move. "Sleep," he mutters into his arm.
"Sleep, good deal," Eames says, stretching to retrieve the small key on the nightstand and fumbling to open the cuffs, feeling slow and uncoordinated. He massages Arthur's arms as he brings them back down, then rolls them away from the wet spot on the sheets, his arm around Arthur's waist.
Arthur presses against him with a sigh, his back to Eames' chest, and Eames thinks they could just stay here like this. That kind of sounds like a perfect day, too.