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“Do you have any toys?” Eames asks out of the blue.
“Bottom drawer in the nightstand,” says Arthur. He's sure Eames has been in there already. If he minded, he wouldn't keep letting an inveterate thief into his apartment.
Eames leans off the bed to rummage in the drawer. Arthur knows exactly what he’s looking at: a couple of butt plugs, a leather cock ring, a pair of clover clamps. Of course, he pulls out the clamps. Arthur bought them on a whim and never quite got around to trying them. That’s what he tells himself, at least. Actually, he tested one on his finger, felt the strength of the spring, saw the hard rubber pads digging into his skin, and thought “hell, no.” But he’s not about to admit that.
Eames knows how Arthur is, too. That’s why Arthur’s shoulders are always covered in circle-shaped bruises (Eames gets feisty when he's being fucked, and who is Arthur to argue?), why his nipples are always painfully sensitive against his shirt the next day. Why Arthur can’t back down on this, because it’s a challenge and Arthur normally can’t be suckered by this kind of emotional appeal but it’s Eames, so.
Eames drops the nipple clamps on the bed and kisses Arthur gently. He’s confusing that way, confusing when he tweaks Arthur’s nipples hard, a shock of conflicting impulses, and Arthur gasps into his mouth. Eames picks up the clamps and Arthur’s body tries to writhe away in spite of him. He’s not sure if he can handle it yet; his nipples are plenty sensitive, he just likes it to hurt a little. This is going to hurt more than a little. But Eames foils any escape attempt by climbing on top of him, pinning Arthur's hips to the bed.
“This alright?” asks Eames, grabbing both nipples and pinching just hard enough. Arthur can’t help arching into it.
“Fuck yeah.” Arthur’s verbal communication skills are already disappearing.
Eames tugs and twists relentlessly, pulling Arthur’s nipples into hard little peaks, then rubbing rough thumbs across them. Arthur grasps Eames’ thighs just to have something to hold onto, something to do aside from trying to thrust his hips into the air or push his chest harder into the delicious torture of Eames’ fingers. He bites his lip, trying not to beg for it. He knows it’s written on his body anyway, so plainly that even someone who doesn’t know him could see it.
This is all par for the course; that’s why Arthur’s not expecting it when Eames smiles wickedly and pinches his left nipple harder, attaching the clamp at the base. Arthur jerks at the bite of it and Eames grabs him by the shoulders, holding him down, hot and heavy and inescapable. Arthur's not sure if it’s too much. His nipple is pressed into a hard ridge above the pinch of the clamp, a wave of hurt spreading from it. Eames seems to be waiting for him to ride it out, eyes locked on Arthur's face. It’s too much to process with everything else; Arthur turns his head to the side, hiding from the feeling of being studied while he tries to breathe through the pain.
Apparently satisfied that he’s not running away, Eames lifts a hand and reaches for Arthur’s cock. Arthur’s surprised to discover he’s still hard. Eames strokes him firmly enough that he can feel it over everything else, then leans down and whispers “hush” in his ear. When he adds the other clamp, Arthur just sighs. He’s starting to float now, sensation overwhelming his ability to think.
Eames moves off him, but Arthur stays. At some point he closed his eyes, so he has no warning before Eames slides a slick finger into his ass. Normally that would be enough for Arthur, if he wanted, but right now he barely feels it.
Then Eames curls two fingers inside, hitting just right, at the same time as he pulls gently on the chain connecting the clamps. Arthur's world narrows to three points, darts of pleasure meeting in a thrill at the base of his cock. He arches up, barely aware of what he’s doing, as Eames tugs again and again, sending endless ripples running through him. He’s so focused on the feeling in his nipples that he barely registers Eames pushing his legs up towards him.
Eames sinks into him and the stretch briefly eclipses the sharp ache in his chest. When he tugs on the chain, the burst of... pain, pleasure, something... has Arthur scrabbling at the sheets, flailing for an anchor. Eames just keeps pounding into him, Arthur begging "please, please" under the harsh sounds of breath and flesh.
“Fuck, you don’t even know how hot this is, how hot you are,” Eames pants. “You’re so high, I could do anything to you. Anything. And you would like it.”
Arthur sighs in agreement. There’s a deep ache building inside him and he thinks maybe he could come just from this, from the bright grip on his nipples. But his bliss shatters when Eames sneaks a hand between them to release the clamps. Fire roars back in, shocking, a sob in the back of Arthur’s throat. He wants them back, needs them back, but then one of them snaps down and it’s even worse. He looks down and sees it directly on his nipple, the pads squeezing so tight they’re almost touching. Eames’ hand is there with the other one, holding it open. Arthur wants to push him away because he can’t do it, he can’t take any more. He reaches for Eames’ arm and grips a bruise into his biceps, but he has no leverage to stop the metal sliding around his nipple and snicking shut.
Eames presses his forehead to Arthur’s.
“How is it?” he asks. Arthur’s lost in himself, in the twin bites on his chest that are pain but aren’t, quite. “Arthur.”
“I… fuck. I…” Arthur isn’t sure what he’s asking for. Eames reaches for one of the clamps. Is he going to take it off? Arthur’s hand darts out to catch his wrist.
“I need you to tell me what’s going on in there.” Eames isn’t moving any more, one hand bracing himself on the bed, the other trapped between them. “Give me a color.” His voice is firm, like he’s trying to calm a frightened child.
“It’s…” A minute ago Arthur would have told him to stop, to take them off. “Yellow,” he chokes out. The pain is transmuting to something else, now, something he wants to keep hold of. “Don’t. Don’t take them off.”
Eames looks at him like he’s analyzing, thinking, and that’s not what Arthur wants.
“Keep going,” Arthur encourages. “Sorry, I… please.”
“Please what?” Eames is coiled against him, ready to spring into action.
“Please keep fucking me.”
Arthur’s proud of himself for the complete sentence that forms through the rushing in his head, in his whole body. Eames rocks back and starts thrusting into him, slow and deep, a counterpoint to the ache of his nipples. Then he leans forward a bit and tugs on the chain again, quick and sharp. It’s a stab through Arthur’s chest, perfect and overwhelming. He’s on the edge of something, hands scrabbling at Eames’ back, urging him harder. Arthur’s trying, clenching down on Eames’ cock, but it’s not quite enough-- and it’s Eames who comes, stuttering into him while Arthur’s fingernails paint red lines down his sides.
Eames pulls away then and Arthur grabs for him, but he’s back already, warmth pressed to Arthur’s side, a mouth on his. Eames bites Arthur’s bottom lip at the same time as he yanks down on the chain, harder than he had before. It hurts, hurts so good that all Arthur can say is “more.” More is Eames releasing the clamps again, the sudden overwhelming rush of sensation. And then something is there, a tongue and a wet finger, teasing gently at nipples left oversensitive by the harsh grip. Arthur’s whole body is shaking, overstimulated yet not stimulated enough. Eames just keeps torturing him, holding him in place with a forearm across his ribs as he flicks his tongue and finger back and forth in a matching rhythm.
Arthur can’t. He just can’t. He tries to say it, sobs out some kind of words, but he’s not getting the point across because Eames pushes his hand away when he reaches to touch himself. Every muscle in Arthur’s body feels tense. Eames just keeps going, relentless. He pinches, and Arthur’s back arches off the bed. When the pinch turns into a twist and the lips turn into teeth it’s there, it’s perfect, a long throb of pleasure wracking his body, coming and coming as Eames bites down viciously.
Arthur spends a minute just shivering, floating back to himself. His nipples are pink and sore, twin red bruises in each areola where the clamps bit into his skin. Eames pokes at one and Arthur growls at him.
“Obviously, I should have asked about this earlier,” smirks Eames. Arthur can’t muster the will to argue.