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"This is a horrible idea," Arthur says. He's pretty sure he's said it already; it's been echoing in his head for the last week, ever since Eames made the suggestion.
Eames doesn't even answer, just gives him a patient look. If he says You don't have to, that will make it the seventh time in two days. Arthur's been keeping count.
Counting is good, counting takes his mind off the rapid beating of his heart, off the way he has to be conscious of every breath if he doesn't want to hyperventilate.
"I could come back later," Matt suggests. "Or we could just write this off."
That just makes everything worse. Being emotional and stupid in front of Eames, Arthur's used to that. But he barely even knows this guy, Eames' friend or not, and now he's going to--
"Fuck me," Arthur says, and winces at his own voice. Flat and toneless, yeah, that'll make the guy want to do him. At least it's not creaking halfway to hysteria, which is how Arthur half-expected to sound.
Stupid, so fucking stupid. They're on Arthur's own bed, in the bedroom he's been sharing with Eames for months now. There are guns within such easy reach that Arthur barely even has to stretch to get one. If Matt so much as looks at him wrong...
But he hasn't. Matt has open brown eyes and a cheerful smile, thick biceps that Arthur won't pretend he hasn't been checking out since Eames introduced them. A nice strong grasp to his hand, and Arthur's slightly ashamed that he likes that, that he wants that force and that want turned on him, even while the same thought scares him silly.
"Okay, how about this," Matt says. "You and Benny kiss for a little," (Arthur is still weirded out hearing that name for Eames, but what the hell, he's used to aliases), "I'll just look on and sort of butt in when it looks right."
Arthur wants to snap at him for stupid grammatical reasons that he can't even make sense of. But he realizes he's being an asshole, so instead he pulls Eames to him for a kiss.
It's instantly comforting, touching Eames. Because whatever happens and whatever else is true, Eames is safe to touch; Eames loves him and cares for him, with his hands on Arthur's skin like they never want to leave.
As Arthur relaxes, another hand comes to lie on him. Just on his hip, incongruous, unmoving and warm. It's disorienting, having to add a third person to his mental map of his surroundings. He's never had to do that during sex before.
Eames pulls away slightly, laying a hand on Arthur's chest. "Your heart's beating so fast," he murmurs. "Are you sure...?"
"You keep asking me that." Arthur twitches. His hair, damp and ungelled, gets in his eyes. He pushes it away with a jerky movement. "I'm the one getting something out of this, remember? I should be asking you." He leans up on his elbow. The hand on his hip, Matt's hand, withdraws slowly. Arthur puts his own hand on top of it, but keeps his eyes on Eames.
"Aren't I getting something out of it?" Eames' eyebrow is raised. "I do love to watch you enjoy yourself." He caresses Arthur's cheek, the line of his jaw. Darts in for a quick kiss, then says, so close their noses touch: "I can feel that you need, darling. Don't you think I want to see you satisfied?"
And there it is, the familiar wave of frustration that strikes Arthur every so often. In the wake of it he sort of wants to cringe in guilt, guilt that he's insatiable and greedy and, worse, makes Eames feel bad for him when Eames did nothing wrong.
Eames frowns. He pokes Arthur between the eyebrows. "Do stop that line of thinking. It benefits no one and is most unappealing besides. You'll get wrinkles."
Behind him, Matt laughs softly. Arthur doesn't, but his expression softens. Eames pats his chest. "There, you see?" He kisses him again, deeper this time. When he moves away, Arthur still wants more.
So he goes for it, dives for Eames' mouth. Eames winds his arms around Arthur's waist, and Arthur sinks into the embrace, doesn’t think of anything beyond this.
He's so unguarded that the touch of lips to the back of his neck doesn't even alarm him at first. This is an exceptionally good thing, because Arthur's reactions when he’s alarmed run to the violent kind. But he's distracted enough to let it go on for a minute, and by the time it's registered, there's clearly nothing to react to.
Nothing bad, anyway. Just soft lips, grazing at the nape of his neck. And Matt's hand inching inwards, tracing a circle around Arthur's hipbone that makes a small electric current run down Arthur's spine.
Arthur shivers. Eames' grip on his head tightens, keeping him still, in place.
"It's fine," Matt whispers in his ear, giving it a sloppy lick as he goes. "You just lie there and let me work. It'll be great. Trust me."
Arthur doesn't. He doesn't think he can trust like that, not a man he barely knows, not someone who gave him that bold once-over as soon as he looked at him. As far as Arthur knows, Matt may be looking to skin Arthur and keep it as a trophy. Arthur has known guys like that.
But he does trust Eames, and Eames' judgement. And if Eames says Matt will fuck Arthur hard and careful at the same time, and that he’ll be content to leave afterwards, then Eames knows what he's talking about. People are his specialty, after all. (And Matt is his friend, Arthur supposes, but that's secondary, always secondary.)
Eames holds Arthur still, distracting him with kisses as Matt undoes his pants and pulls them down. When Matt reaches for Arthur's underwear, Arthur tenses; Eames chuckles.
"Let me do this," Eames says, and there's something almost like greed in his voice as he scoots back a ways to push Arthur's underwear down, then bends to press a kiss to his cock. Arthur is half-hard, but like always, the least bit of attention gets him all the way into full hardness. Eames smiles at him, lapping at his cock desultorily.
Matt gives a low whistle. "Christ. Move off, Benny, I need to taste him right the fuck now."
Eames does, after a brief questioning look at Arthur. Arthur must have nodded, although he can't remember moving, because Matt is on him in a second, mouth hot and insistent on Arthur’s dick. Arthur gives a shocked moan, flushing a little when he realizes what he sounds like.
Matt’s hands are on him, holding him down. Between the urgent pleasure of having his cock sucked and the hard press of that grip, Arthur doesn’t know where to turn or what to do. He’s halfway to kicking in automatic reaction, out of sheer adrenaline, when Eames’ hand threads in his.
Eames’ eyes are kind, knowing. He kisses Arthur’s knuckles. “Let the man work,” Eames says, quiet. “It’s what he’s good at, after all.”
Matt pauses to glare at Eames, lifting a hand off Arthur to give him the finger. Eames laughs, and even Arthur huffs a little breathless something. “Hey, c’mon,” Arthur says, a hint of whining in the back of his voice. “You can’t stop because he’s a dick. You’d never get anything done.”
The vibrations of Matt’s silent laughter move all the way up Arthur’s spine and cause a short-circuit in his brain, or so it feels. He throws his head back, unthinking, wincing when he hits the headboard.
Matt pulls away with an obscene pop. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He sounds cocky and completely annoying, but Arthur doesn’t give a fuck right now, he just wants his cock back in that mouth.
Eames goes down on him often enough, happily enough, but it’s not the same. Because Arthur can feel the selfishness in Matt’s grasp and in the pull of his mouth. Eames has better technique and Eames cares about making Arthur feel good, but Matt’s hold feels like Arthur’s cock is made of everything delicious, like he’d suck Arthur off for hours and would not let him come even if Arthur begged, not unless Matt happened to be in the mood to make Arthur come.
That idea should probably not be turning Arthur on this much.
Matt gives him a final lick. “That looks like it’s doing the job,” he says, with an eyebrow lift that makes Arthur want to kick him for real. “Gimme the lube.”
Eames hands him the bottle from the dresser. Arthur always feels a little awkward when Eames fingers him, at least at first, knowing Eames isn’t going to fuck him and doesn’t want to. But Eames does like fingering him, whispers into Arthur’s ear how gorgeous he looks when he’s getting what he wants. Usually, by this time, Arthur can’t manage the coherence to think about reciprocity - or about anything, really, beyond tightening around Eames’ fingers and spilling.
It’s different now, though. Matt doesn’t know him, or maybe doesn’t care as much. He pushes in a little too fast, too soon, and Arthur hisses.
Eames’ hand tightens around his. “Watch it,” he says to Matt. “Do I need to remind you that this is delicate equipment?”
“Equipment?” Matt’s grinning, his finger lazily moving in and out of Arthur. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Eames says severely, “and I’ll thank you for paying careful attention to what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I am,” Matt says, and crooks his finger just enough to make Arthur hiss in a completely different way. “That good?” he says, to Arthur this time.
“Are you fishing for compliments?” Arthur gasps.
Matt’s grin turns into a full-on smirk as he presses harder on the same spot. “What if I am?”
Since Arthur clearly isn’t going to answer (he’s too busy gritting his teeth against a moan), Matt turns to Eames again. “So, anything I should do? Or not do?”
“We’ve been over the details,” Eames says. It sounds so much like the discussions they have on the job, this exasperation when people just don’t listen, except that Eames is talking to a guy with his finger up Arthur’s ass, and, unexpectedly, it hits Arthur so fucking hard. He wants to come, to kick, to crack skulls and take names-- but he can barely move, so incoherent with wanting.
This is when the fear would take over, usually, the moment when Arthur would turn and run the fuck away. But Eames is there, and Arthur’s already accepted that he can trust Eames with his life. Arthur can’t make smart decisions right now, but that’s fine because Eames can and Eames is right here.
“Shh,” Eames whispers into his ear, fingers light across Arthur’s collar bone. “Here, hang on a minute.”
He moves them both, Arthur so pliant in Eames’ hands that it’s a wonder he doesn’t pour like liquid over the covers. They settle, Eames reclining against the headboard and Arthur leaning against Eames. The stiff cotton of Eames’ shirt is warm against Arthur’s back, only slightly scratchy. Eames’ arms wrap around him, capable and strong and enduring.
“All right,” Eames says. “Go on.”
Arthur closes his eyes and lets his head droop back on Eames’ shoulder. He doesn’t really have the strength to hold it up anymore.
He hasn’t kept an exact count of how long it’s been since he last got fucked, but it’s been a while. After all this time, it’s almost a shock to have Matt’s cock bumping up against his hole. Arthur gasps and tenses; he has to resist his urge to turn away when Eames tightens his grasp and kisses his cheek.
“Come on.” Eames’ voice is low, hypnotic. “Don’t you want to?”
Arthur does, in spite of himself and everything he did to ease that fucking yearning. He shudders and lets his legs fall open, loose everywhere at once. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see Matt’s expression.
The first push is almost painful. Eames has to gentle him through it, run his hands over Arthur’s arms and kiss his neck, whisper smooth low meaninglessness into Arthur’s ear.
Matt’s hands are on his waist, and they’re nothing like gentle, barely even careful. Matt’s movements are restrained, but only just; Arthur can feel the fury lurking just behind the surface, the desire to use him.
With effort, Arthur says, “Hold my legs up.”
He looks at Matt just long enough to see the gleam in his eyes. Then Matt props him up and holds him open, and pounds into him without mercy.
It hurts and it burns and it feels absolutely amazing. Arthur makes wet little gasps, shuddering uncontrollably, Eames’ firm grasp the only thing holding him together as Matt pushes and takes and fucks him, hard, unrelenting.
Arthur’s not hard anymore, but not for lack of wanting. His desire has moved elsewhere, inside, where it’s hot and insistent and unbearable.
“Fuck,” he grits out, pushing out as best as he can, “give me more --”
And Matt does, Matt’s hips thrust forward fast and deep, and Arthur comes without being touched, without even getting hard again, sobbing.
Matt pauses for a moment, giving Arthur a chance to catch his breath before he starts again, just as hard and fast.
When Eames talks, his chest vibrates under Arthur.. Arthur likes that so much that he almost misses what he’s saying. “-- had enough?”
“Nah,” Matt pants. “He can - take a bit - more --”
And he can, Arthur can, and that’s the best thing, that’s what he’s missed most. Lying half-unconscious and sated, being used for someone else’s pleasure. He wants Matt to pull out, take the condom off, fuck Arthur’s mouth, because he misses that, too.
Maybe next time, he thinks, too blissed out to think the implications through. Or Matt could push Arthur’s face into the mattress as he fucks him, and Eames could hold Arthur’s hand. That could be enough.
This train of thought is interrupted when Matt grips him hard enough to make Arthur wince, almost tight enough to bruise. But it stops within a minute, as Matt’s eyes roll back until only the whites are showing. He collapses over Arthur, breathing hard.
“That was excellent,” Matt says, as soon as he gets his breath back. “Hey, mind if I kiss you?”
Arthur glances up at Eames, who shrugs. “Sure,” Arthur says. He gets a brief, sweet peck on the lips; not what he expected, but not unwelcome.
He finds himself smiling at Matt, who’s sweaty and tousled, grinning back at him with nothing but simple happiness. It’s actually likable.
“It was great,” Arthur says, sincerely. “Come back any time.”
Matt laughs. “Will do.” He kisses Eames too, on the cheek, then gets up, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up for exercise. Or winding down, rather, Arthur thinks, a smile on his lips.
The door of the apartment clicks shut behind Matt, soft and distant. Arthur should get up and lock it, but he doesn’t think he can actually move yet. Eames pushes him off after a minute, moves, presumably to go do just that.
That’s fine. Arthur lies and looks at the ceiling, feeling the burn and ache of muscles long neglected, of pleasures near-forgotten. Even if they never do this again, just this once, that was enough.
Eames comes back, and he has a wet towel in his hand. Arthur raises an eyebrow, which about depletes his energy levels. “You can’t clean me up after this.”
“You wound me.” Eames sits down, letting the towel drip on Arthur’s thigh. At least the water’s warm. “Why would you deny me the pleasure of seeing you all clean and comfortable?” He leans down to lick Arthur’s chest, smacking his lips as he sits back up.
“I’ve been selfish enough today.” Arthur flails ineffectively for the towel. “Come on, lemme clean up so we can sleep.”
“Alas, no.” Eames, the bastard, keeps the towel out of Arthur’s reach. “I officially declare this Arthur Selfishness Day. It is a day for all good Arthurs all over the world to think about themselves and to be stupidly, selfishly happy.”
“Oh fuck you,” Arthur grumbles, but he can’t help smiling. “So do it and come to bed already. If I’m being selfish, I want my body pillow.”
“With pleasure.”
Arthur’s eyes close as Eames swipes the towel over him, just the temperature Arthur likes. Eames’ other hand settles around Arthur’s biceps, curled there like it means to stay.