madsmurf93 | It just doesn't get enough apperication [BOTTOM!EAMES FEST]

Hello Darlings,

This is Eames:

Not many people know much about Eames except for one thing...and it is very important.

It is his arse and this is his arse:

This is also his arse:

SEE IT MOVE!

AND MOVE SOME MORE:

AND SEE SOME MORE LOVELY ARSE:

ISN'T IT LUSH AND BOTTOMABLE?

You see, Eames is no top (sure those Bottom!Arthur fics will tell you otherwise) but instead he is a begging and slutty bottom for everyone and especially Arthur (ESPECIALLY ARTHUR!) Just in case you are wondering this is Arthur:

In conclusion, Eames is a slutty bottom for every male in the fandom and this is your chance to prompt that and fic it and graphics it, draw it and fanvid it and just do everything to it because EVERYONE NEEDS TO APPRECIATE BOTTOM!EAMES because, really, he is a delightful thing.

Arse pics courtesy of google and Bina <33 Mostly from Bina since Bina is a goddess amongst mortals - just saying.

NOW! GO WRITE, VID, GRAPHIC, DRAW AND PROMPT BOTTOM!EAMES WITH ANYONE AND EVERYONE!!

Loves Maddie <3

Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Break Me Shake Me - Savage Garden

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

toujourspret.livejournal.com

Robert bites his lip; the tender red flesh will be purple with bruises later, swollen and bloody, but he bites himself to keep from biting Eames. Eames, whose lips are thick and fat and swollen already, Eames, whose lips are the lips of a born cocksucker. Eames, who’s old-money-public-school-Eaton-College-yes-please-sir on his knees and Robert reaches forward with one Italian-leather-clad foot and shoves him down. He uses just the tip, just the fine-wrought wingtip, as if using the sole would dirty his shoes, and he says, “Open your mouth.” And Eames does.

And God, but each tooth is gleaming in the dim light of his father’s office, gleaming like ivory and just as rare. Eames traces the tip of his tongue around them, and Robert can’t even bring himself to care that they’re crooked because he wants that mouth around his cock ten minutes ago. His fingers tremble slightly on the zip of his fly and they both pretend not to notice.

“Are you good,” Robert stumbles slightly, only slightly, eagerness and nervousness and shyness and arousal fighting for control at the root of his tongue, “Are you good at this? At sucking cock?”

Eames nods.

“Tell me,” Robert continues, breath coming sharp through his nose. “Tell me.”

“Oh, I’m good. I’m so good, baby,” Eames says in a voice that’s half growl and low. “I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

“You look good,” Robert says, but it’s not enough, not confident enough. He clears his throat. “You look like you know what you’re doing. You look like you’ve sucked a lot of cock. You look like you like it.”

Eames purrs then, rubbing his face catlike against the erection in Robert’s three thousand dollar suit before dragging the flat of his tongue up the length of the line of it. “Yes,” he hisses. “I’ve sucked so many cocks before, but none of them were you.”

And the image of it hits Robert in the solar plexus, hits him so hard he sees stars and he imagines Eames in a schoolboy’s kit, blazer rucked and tie loose and hanging over a rumpled cotton shirt. He sees this boy on his knees before a friend, an upperclassman—a teacher, he thinks, and moans—and he wants to know. Wants to taste the first cock those lips have sucked. “Who was he?” Robert asks, and he’s surprised how jealous he sounds.

“No one,” Eames tells him, and his thick fingers are squirming their way into his trousers through the opened fly. Robert tugs impatiently at his belt and it comes free as Eames lifts him carefully, half-hard, through his boxers. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Eames whispers reverently.

“Just get on with it,” Robert tells him. He reaches down and closes his eyes, wraps his hand around the width of it. Eames’s tongue is thick-wet on it and Robert’s breath catches in his chest for a moment. He feels like he’s drowning for a minute until he opens his eyes to the rapturous look on Eames’s upturned face and knows it for sure. Robert makes a sound like crying and shoves home, pushing past Eames’s slack lips until they’re resting in his pubic hair and Eames looks thoroughly satisfied.

“Sweet,” Robert starts, but he forgets which deity he’s trying to invoke when Eames closes his lips around the base of his cock and sucks. He settles for a long moan instead, and he can feel Eames’s laugh climbing through his own skin. It’s too much, too fast, too good, and Robert slides his fingers along the side of Eames’s face until they’re buried in his hair and then he twists them, pulling him gaping, wet-mouthed, back. “Get on your knees,” Robert commands, and his voice is as hoarse as if he were the one sucking cock.

“Aren’t I already?” Eames asks. He’s smirking until Robert pulls his hair sharply, exposing the line of his throat to Robert’s predatory gaze.

“No. You’re not.” And as Eames obediently rolls to his hands and knees, Robert reaches beneath Eames to undo his belt and fly, pausing to grope him through his cotton pants before they, too, fall to puddle at Eames’s knees. “Do you think you made it wet enough?” Robert asks. It’s mostly rhetorical. Eames answers anyway:

“There’s only one way to find out.”

From:

toujourspret.livejournal.com

Robert pushes in slow, reveling in the thick clench of Eames’s body as it closes around him. The muscles of Eames’s lower back bunch and flex as he braces himself for Robert’s slow invasion, and his knees shift on the ground impatiently. Robert refuses to go faster. He doesn’t want to lose himself to this just yet.

He leans back, admiring the view. From the side, he can see those thick lips, swollen and red and still so wet, can see the way Eames’s lashes flutter with each inch he presses in, can see the dark marks in the carpet where Eames’s fingers are tugging against the pile. “Talk to me,” Robert tells him, because he wants to know. He wants to know what’s going through Eames’s mind right now.

Eames laughs breathlessly. “What,” he stops to moan shakily, “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your favorite fantasy,” Robert says, curious. “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

“Arthur,” Eames gasps, and his eyes are squeezed so tight that Robert doubts he even knows he’s answered until Eames repeats the name so low it’s practically a prayer.

“Tell me about him,” Robert says. Eames whimpers, rocking back into his thrusts.

“He’s,” Eames says. “God, he’s just Arthur. Stupid, boring, absolutely gorgeous Arthur.”

“And what is Arthur doing to you?” Robert asks, and Eames snorts.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“What would you want him to do to you?” Robert corrects himself.

“I,” Eames moans then, long and low, and presses his face into the crook of one arm, reaching the other back to take himself in hand with short, quick strokes. “He’s got me on the, the chair. I’m asleep, and he knows he can do anything he wants to do to me.”

“Is Arthur bigger than you?” Robert asks quietly.

Eames laughs again. “No. He’s thin; you’re actually quite similar in build,” he says, and Robert hums encouragingly. “No, the only time he could ever overpower me is when I’m asleep, and he knows it. It’s the only time he could completely control me.”

“And you want him to control you?” Robert asks. Eames’s lips go slack with the suggestion; he’s beyond moaning, fist flying over his cock as Robert pushes into him in steady, slow thrusts.

“Oh, God, yes,” Eames manages. “I, I want—”

“And what does Arthur do when he’s got you at his mercy?”

“He,” Eames stutters for breath. His thighs are corded tight beneath Robert’s hands and Robert knows it won’t be long. “He sucks me. He sucks me long and slow, and it feels like hours, I mean it is hours, until I’m going mad from it, until I can’t stand it any longer, until I—” he chokes on saliva then, drooling.

“Do you come?” And Robert’s voice is insidious, deadly soft and suggestive. Eames’s whole body shakes.

“Please,” Eames begs. “Oh, please.”

“Does Arthur let you come?” Robert insists.

“N—I don’t—”

“When you wake up, does he flip you over? Does he rim you? Does he play with you until you’re a broken, soggy mess?”

“I—please!”

Robert pauses, clenching a fist around Eames’s wrist. There’s surprising tension in his thin frame, and Eames is taut beneath him. “Does he fuck you hard?” Robert asks quietly. “Does he open you up and give you the fucking you really need?”

“Please.” Eames is a mess now, poised on the edge so delicately.

“Tell me.”

“Yes!” And Eames nearly screams the word as he seizes around Robert’s cock, back tight and arched as he comes. “Yes!”

Robert rides out the spasms, his own orgasm no less sweet for being less violent. He’s subtle, already tugging his cuffs back together and resnapping the links by the time Eames can look up at him bashfully, cheeks red with exertion and honesty. Robert gives him a half-smile. “If you ever wake up from that dream,” Robert says, and his eyes are sleepy-sated, “I’d be glad to help you dream another.”

“I,” Eames says. His voice crackles and he’s not sure what to say, but somehow he’s slightly guilty as he looks at his mark.

“I’m sure I’m no Arthur,” Robert continues blithely, then smiles. “But I’d be real.”

Eames manages a crooked smile and knows better.