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If you’d asked Arthur a month ago if he thought he’d be showered in kisses on a Sunday morning in James Marriotts flat in Brighton, he’d tell you to fuck off with a flushed face and butterfly filled stomach. Now, it’s real, true, and he’s so overjoyed he could yell out into the Brighton sea before splashing himself in the freezing water to make sure he's not dreaming.
“Last night was perfect James,” he breathes, voice somewhat gravely and low. James’ arms are wrapped around his abdomen, and his lips are ghosting the bare skin of his shoulders.
“Mhm, yeah. You’re perfect,” James replies, resting his chin on his shoulder momentarily, before moving to kiss his cheek. “What’d you want for breakfast?” The taller asks, removing himself from him as he walks to the fridge. Arthur's body already aches for him again, and he turns to follow in his footsteps, hands moved to grab at James. His fingers fall down his arm, making waves in hair as he traces himself into the other's skin.
“Coffees fine, unless you’re hungry, then whatever you’d like,” he says, intertwining their fingers and pressing his head against James’ shoulder as he scans the fridge.
“M’ not too hungry, ‘could do with an easy morning. We can get lunch later.” James’ idea sounds like heaven, and in a moment, Arthur is dragging him back to his room and they’re laying in his bed again.
Arthur is laid on top of James, tracing shapes into the other exposed chest, head laid against him. He enjoys hearing his heartbeat, its calm, a steady beat that allows Arthur to match his own. He stirs momentarily, looking up at James, there’s eye contact, followed by a kiss to his forehead.
“What’s going on in there?” James asks, pressing a gentle tap to Arthur’s forehead. Arthur smiles, adjusting himself up, straddling James as he looks down at him lovingly. His hands pressed into James body, legs tugged close into his sides.
“Just, thinking. About you, us.” He admits, looking away for a moment. He’s almost afraid to look back, like he’s already overstepping with simple words. James’ dick is pressed against his ass, and he’s worried about overstepping verbally.
“Yeah? What about us,” James asks, and Arthur’s quick to answer, looking back down to him and pushing a hand through his hair.
“Look, I know we’re temporary. You like Will, and that’s fine. I’m just interested in knowing how long I’m allowed to pretend it won’t be like that.” He replies, his expression soft, and James knows it’s a genuine question, even if it makes him a little sick.
“As long as you want, don’t see that all playing out as soon as I’d like.” His answer is adequate, and Arthur rocks back, pressing into his bulge just slightly more. James groans softly, hands digging into Arthur’s sides eagerly. “Fuck—Arthur.” James’ pleas are always more of a demand, and Arthur can’t help but shift himself just a little farther back, memorizing the look on James’ face.
“What? ‘Just getting comfortable,” he replies, James' eyes are shut now, eyebrows twitching and mouth slightly agape. Arthur runs his hands up his sides, under his sweater and vest, pulling them up with the movement of his wrists. “Let me help you forget about him, just for a little.” He speaks haphazardly, watches James' eyes open and look into his. He looks grateful, but there’s a small glimmer Arthur knows all too well, he wasn’t his first choice, and somewhere in the back of James’ head it’s Will here and not him.
He’s surprised James hasn’t called him Will before, not when he’s plowing him into the mattress with his face in satin pillows, not even when he covers his face and squeezes his eyes shut while Arthur roots over him. He didn’t understand James’ stance, how they could click in almost every way : their bodies fit perfectly together, their minds meshed through thought out sentences and sometimes unspoken words, and yet he still clung to Will after all this time. Arthur was sure there were only so many months you could spend devoting yourself to someone who won’t seek you back, but not only was he watching James entertain it for years, he was too.
“You don’t have to, we can do something else,” James breathes, breath hitched when Arthur’s fingers ghost his nipple. He brings his hands up to his face, running one over his face in hopes to wipe away the growing erection below, the other adjusting his hair before falling against the pillows. Something James likes about Arthur is how open and eager he is to be experimental. That no matter what James needed, or wanted, Arthur was first to step up and provide for him.
“I want to, James.” He replies, quickly after. His hips are anything but stationary now, rocking himself over James’ erection, hands planted on chest. “Just lay back, I’ll sort it,” he suggests, but it comes out slightly exasperated, as if James is stealing his oxygen and he needs it back.
James nods, and Arthur removes his shirt, soon followed by the removal of his own, and James’ hands are groping muscle before he can blink. It feels like home, no matter how pathetic Arthur feels for it. James’ hands are calloused and rough, but they provide a second home for him. He knows them all too well, through his hair, over his body, feeling, seeing, watching them pick up a phone and text Will far too many times while he’s tucked in bed next to him.
After shirts are shed, there’s shifting of hips, followed by the loss of jeans and underwear. Pure skin on skin, and Arthur’s reaching over James for the lube in his drawer. It’s a well learned dance rooted in his memory now, each step reoccurring in such a way he won’t dare to forget. He’ll make a home in James’ until he’s no longer allowed, memorize the places of his belongings, shift them slightly and watch James not notice. He wants James to notice.
“You’re breathtaking, y’know.” James chimes, and Arthur could say the same for him. Laid out beneath him, arms sprawled behind his head, displaying biceps and tattoos Arthur knows like they’re on his own body. If you gave him a pen and paper, he could draw them without looking. He’s got one that sticks out to Arthur, there’s a little coffee tucked next to his Otto tattoo, and he’s sure it’s for Will. He’s sure that little steaming cappuccino is delicately placed in that area of his skin dedicated to the things he loves.
Arthur works fast, massaging lube over his hand, sliding it over James length after seconds of teasing his tip. Biting at his lip as James releases sweet sounds that make this all the more easy for Arthur. He’s good at this, they’ve done it plenty of times before when he watches the gears work in James’ head, those ones that push Arthur away in his brain. The ones they’ve spoken about before, that tell James he’s using Arthur. He doesn’t know that Arthur would rather be used by him in a million lifetimes than not have him in one. He’s quick to scissor himself open, it’s easy, they’ve fucked last night.
It’s not long until he’s pressing James into himself, and their noises sync for a moment, James’ hands finding his hips like clockwork. Arthur’s knees dug into the bed below, one hand pressed into James’ stomach, the other gripping thigh. He swallows hard, eyes fluttering open after James has fully filled him. Arthur’s eyes dust James below him, finding that spot on his arm with the coffee for only a moment before looking back to chocolatey eyes and messy hair.
“You should get a planet tattoo, or a star,” he starts, pushing his knees farther into the mattress as he begins to ride him. Rolling hips and a lean forward and James is already breathing a moan, Arthur receives it like candy, a reward of the highest decree. “Right there,” he adds, hand moving, and a finger pressed into his skin right next to that coffee linework.
“Why’s that?” James asks, head leaning back farther into pillows as Arthur brings himself down his length painfully slow. Arthur reads him, and quickens his pace, nails digging into thigh as a result. He's trying to avoid his own orgasm before James’, dodging that bundle of nerves that drive him up the wall. But James is big, and he can’t quite achieve his intentions. There’s a moan from Arthur’s own lips, and James sputters beneath him at the movement.
“Just—fuck. I just think, it’d look nice.” He replies, a white lie. He wants his own spot there. He’d pay rent for lineart on James’ skin so long as he has his own spot in the museum of love on James’ body.
“Might as well be your name, everyone knows you like space,” James retorts, of course he knows what Arthur’s antics are. He knows him too well. Arthur’s skin is dusted pink, and eye contact shifts to eye avoidance. He’s quiet, the sound of sex filling the space as he quickens his pace once more, focus written all over his face.
“I wouldn’t complain,”
Arthur’s reply is followed by another silence, but this time there’s no longer words after. The hard part of riding the guy you love is the overthinking, the thoughts swirled louder than the slapping of skin. How awful is it that the whimpers and moans from James beneath him are what ground him?
“I’m not asking you to,” he continues, it's been minutes and he’s bringing it up again. He’s riding James to completion, and he’s started a conversation trying to clear the air. James doesn’t reply, instead digs his fingers deeper into where they’ve found grip on Arthur’s thighs. “Fuck—as corny as it sounds though,” he starts, biting down on his lip mid sentence, he’s hit that spot, full on James and close to an orgasm. “I’d like an inconspicuous one, for us, or you.” He manages his thoughts out, focusing back on rocking and moving himself in rhythm.
“You don’t have tattoos,” James states the obvious aloud, eyebrows furrowed and hips bucking up. Arthur’s noted that James has started to fuck up into him, chasing his own high. With each thrust, he allows a small moan to escape him, nails cascading down James’ side, leaving red lines in pale skin.
“I would do it though, if you let me.” He voiced, cut off at the end by another sloppy thrust up into him. There’s more silence, but this time it’s the forced silence by James’ clear orgasm. “Fuck—James, do it. Please, do it.” Arthur whines, quickening himself eagerly as he pleads with the other.
James does him well, taking a hold of his hand and interlocking fingers as he holds his hip with the other and pulls him flush to his body. His dick is pressed far into Arthur, painting his insides pearlescent harshly. Arthur’s free hand is wet and tending to himself, and a few quick, harsh pumps later results in gifting James’ stomach with his own pearlescent liquid. They stay like this for a minute, catching breath and marinating in the shared post-orgasm.
Arthur moves first, lifting himself off of James with a clench that makes James shudder in overstimulation. There’s attentive cleaning up, boxers finding their way back to bodies, Arthur goes to get water for the two of them, and James answers messages he’s missed. Arthur tucks himself into bed next to James, enveloped by the larger in a matter of seconds, a kiss pressed to his head and fingers traced over his skin.
“Should get a cowboy tattoo,” James speaks, fingers running through Arthur’s hair gently. “You love riding,” he adds, a stupid grin displayed over his face as Arthur looks to him. He laughs, wrapping his own arms around James’ midriff.
“That’s awful,” he replies, letting his eyes flutter shut against him. He knows that coffee is tucked next to his head, he knows that even if he gets that little planet next to the cappuccino, he’s subjected to orbiting what Will Lenney is, just like James has for so long. “Am I allowed to stay?” He asks, like a one night stand would, or as if somewhere deep down he’s aware he’s not invited.
“Of course, as long as you want,” James replies, and Arthur knows he’s completely unaware how dangerous his invitation is. He’ll leave in hours anyways though, because even if James reassures him thousands of times it’s ok, there’s always a risk versus reward in Arthur’s mind.
At the end of the day, he would much rather the occasional reward.