Untitled werekittens
Untitled PBell!verse werekittens interlude
Pairing: catboy!Arthur/werewolf!Eames
Words: ~2700
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mpreg, knotting
Summary: Arthur is the grumpiest kitty in Paris. Eames is too besotted to care.
Author's Note: I'm aware that I cheated you fans of mpreg out of any actual mpreg with my werekittens switcharoo. So here is that, for you oddballs in the house who are into that sort of thing. (Okay I really liked writing it. :'D) More werekittens.
Arthur stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. Runs a hand over the flat plane of his stomach. The formerly-flat plane, which is now ever so slightly convex.
It doesn't even really show under a shirt, but he's shirtless now, under the glow of the lights above the sink. He touches his stomach again morosely.
No heat cycles, he reminds himself, because Eames tells him to keep finding the bright side in all of this. No more heat cycles, which is glorious. Sometimes they were mild, like old days, just fever and want and need and Eames splitting him open on his cock and stopping him up and filling him with hot come until Arthur had regained enough of his higher faculties to make him stop. But mostly they were awful.
Four heats ago Eames had whispered I am so sorry on a kiss pressed to Arthur's forehead-and Arthur had arched against him, purring, waiting to be fucked open-and Eames had cuffed his hand to the bed and immediately left him there. And Arthur had raged. Harder than he'd have believed possible if he wasn't in heat. Eames had left him with one hand free, and lube, so he could at least touch himself, and there was some food and water within reach; but next time, he'd had to put both Arthur's wrists in padded cuffs so that he couldn't mutilate himself trying to get free. And the time after that, he'd gagged him so he couldn't scream himself hoarse. There were honest-to-God tears.
It was humiliating. Worse, it was scary. He doesn't like to admit that part, but it's true. It was scary losing control of himself. And it's scary how his heat cycles seemed to be doing their best to line up with the cycles of the moon. It was alright for Eames to fuck him just enough to tide him over as long as Eames had applied vapor rub all over his nose to block the scent of Arthur's pheromones. As a wolf, Eames couldn't do that. And though he's always careful around Arthur normally, when he got near Arthur in heat-well.
So, they're done with that. That's a definite bright side. That's a big old silver lining.
Arthur wants his stomach back, though.
The click of a latch has him immediately drawing the gun tucked against the small of his back and sidling into the hall. He smells the intruder a second before he sees him, and lowers the gun promptly.
“You're early.”
“You're jumpy,” Eames observes, eyebrows raised, hands in the air.
“I wasn't going to shoot you,” Arthur says grouchily, and shoving the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, he stomps back to the bathroom. He hears Eames moving quietly around their rented house, carrying his bags in, putting the kettle on.
“Tea?”
“No thanks.” Arthur can't seem to stop staring at himself. He was supposed to shower. That's long-forgotten now. “Did you have a ... nice full moon?” he offers, remembering belatedly that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him and his stupid stomach.
“Yeah, I did,” Eames calls back, cheerful. “And don't worry, I didn't tell anyone about you-know-what, in case-you know-the procedure goes wrong. Just another week now till they're Ariadne's problem, I bet you're excited.”
“You have no idea,” Arthur mutters.
Eames wanders in without knocking, and a flood of warmth and affection lights up his face, making Arthur scowl even more fiercely.
“You're showing,” Eames says in hushed, reverent tones.
“I know.”
“Look at you.” Eames moves behind him, sliding one arm around Arthur's waist so he can pull their bodies flush. He splays his other hand over Arthur's belly, and buries his nose in Arthur's neck. “You-”
“I will shoot if you tell me I'm glowing,” Arthur cuts him off.
“I was going to say, you have no idea how good you smell right now.” He licks a stripe up the side of Arthur's neck, and Arthur has to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile, because he wants to be grumpy, damnit.
“And how do I taste, Mr. Wolf?”
“Delectable as always,” Eames growls, nipping him. He's dropped the game an instant later, though, too distracted to play along. “Look at you, though.” He rubs his hand over Arthur's belly. “Full of kittens.”
“Oh, God,” Arthur groans, closing his eyes. That is the last thing he needs to think about, what if they are actual fucking kittens, fuck me we have no idea what we are getting into this is a disaster.
“How many d'you suppose are in there?” Eames asks, hushed again.
“One,” Arthur says dully, keeping his eyes firmly shut. “None. Anti-matter, preferably.”
“Dr. Forsyth says three or four, maybe,” Eames offers hopefully. Arthur hates that hopefulness.
“No,” he says flatly. “Eames, absolutely not. I categorically refuse to be outnumbered by our children. Two is pushing it.”
Eames is grinning slyly when Arthur opens his eyes to glare at him in the mirror. “Come now, Arthur. If it came to a fight, I should think we'd be equipped to take on at least fifty infants between us.”
There's a slight uncertainty there, though; he's afraid Arthur will give half their babies away. And that just makes Arthur groan again, because Eames would probably do it, for him, and just look at him, he's so excited about these stupid stupid babies and Arthur's probably a horrible person for wanting to deny him of any of that. Even if he's already sacrificing a lot for Eames already, thank you very much. Like conceding to one baby. Which is way more babies than any reasonable person needs, in Arthur's opinion. But when has anything about their relationship ever been reasonable?
Arthur looks back at that awful horrible baby bump and feels panic starting to swell in his chest, because he knows there's no way he can do this. What if he doesn't like them? Worse-what if they don't come out the way Eames is expecting and he doesn't like them? No; Eames would like them if they came out like that creature in Alien, arterial spray and all, surely; but what if they aren't werewolves and his family doesn't like them? Eames would be crushed.
What if they are werewolves and they don't like Arthur? This seems depressingly plausible. Babies already hate him. Phillipa cried for hours the first time he baby-sat her. On the other hand, what if they aren't werewolves, and they take after Arthur, and they grow up hating him for inflicting them with his stupid cat-genes?
What if they are actual goddamn kittens?
Eames wraps both arms around Arthur's waist and tightens them, cutting off his inner spew of panic before it can choke him.
“You think too much,” Eames says, and presses a kiss above Arthur's eyebrow.
“One of us has to,” says Arthur. Eames gives a little growl into the side of Arthur's neck that sounds like a groan.
“You're dead sexy like this, you know,” he rumbles. “My babies inside you.”
Arthur opens his mouth to argue that point, but Eames sweeps him up in his arms before he can, and carries him bridal-style to the bedroom. Arthur growls and squirms in protest, but only to keep up appearances. He relaxes when Eames sets him down on the bed.
“My babies,” he growls again, kneeling down over Arthur and nuzzling his stomach roughly.
“You can have them,” Arthur tells him hoarsely; it's only just coming back to him how fucking horny he's been ever since Eames left.
“Our babies,” Eames corrects himself just to be contrary, and starts tugging Arthur's jeans down so he can trail sloppy kisses from Arthur's stomach to the inside of his thighs. Arthur gives up, and squirms again, managing to get a hand on himself before Eames bats it away. “Let me take care of you,” he chides.
It's the scent, Arthur knows that, the hormonally-charged scent that is communicating to Eames that he needs to take care of Arthur's every whim. Arthur had had to literally push him out the door to make him get going for his pack in England. And normally he'd be disgruntled, but he's feeling sorry for himself and he thinks he deserves to be pampered, a bit. So he rolls over and lets Eames pull his jeans and socks all the way off, and then he's stretched out naked while Eames is sitting fully clothed on top of him, stroking his tail and reaching for the lube which is in the bedsheets.
“You've been busy without me,” he says wryly.
“Yeah.” Arthur pushes back against him, eager.
“I'll start with two, then.” And he does, sliding two slick fingers right in under Arthur's tail, so much better than Arthur's fingers, thicker and defter. He growls again, leaning down and pressing his lips to the nape of Arthur's neck. “Been thinking about this all weekend.”
“Even when you were wolfed out?” Arthur asks.
“Especially when I was wolfed out,” Eames says in his low, barely-human growl.
Arthur has to start laughing, gasping out another faint oh, God, because he's totally serious and that's the slightly terrifying part. The even more terrifying part is when Arthur thinks about Eames' wolfish side, that reckless feral light in his eyes that says you are mine, I own you, and, well, it makes Arthur kind of hot. Maybe he even wishes Eames would act more like that in bed sometimes, act out that possessive, domineering alpha male. But not too much, because the potential for real, not-fun pain is considerable when one's boyfriend is a werewolf and one is already pretty sensitive to begin with.
So Eames is being gentle now, crooking his thick fingers in all the right ways, three of them now, and Arthur never knows what to do with his tail when he's lying on his stomach so he just drapes it over Eames' shoulder. Eames rumbles again. There's an edge of that wolf still left in him.
“Going to fuck you now, Arthur,” he says, sliding his fingers out, and his voice is deep, so deep. Arthur shivers all over. Eames is gone for a few moments, shedding his clothing, and then he's back and he stretches out over Arthur. He doesn't even have to line himself up; he holds Arthur's arms down with both hands, and rocks lazily between Arthur's spread thighs until the fat head of his cock snags against Arthur's hole, slides right in. “Gonna fuck you full of kittens,” he growls.
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur says, to let him know exactly what he thinks of that kind of dirty talk, and then Eames slams the rest of the way in and he's not prepared for it. His body jolts even with Eames holding him down, caging him in, and he coughs out a startled little sound. Eames works his hips around, finding an angle he likes before shoving up and in again, and the force of it makes Arthur's hair spill onto his forehead in an untidy fringe, and-he can't even swipe it away, because Eames has got his upper arms thoroughly pinned, and yeah, this is what Arthur wants. To be owned. He spreads his legs even further, quivering.
“Yeah, you want it,” Eames husks lovingly, a direct contrast to the force with which he fucks Arthur into the mattress. He's just about crushing Arthur's tail against his back and Arthur's biting down on his arm to stifle all the little mewling sounds that want to pour out every time Eames pounds into him. Eames drags his arm back out of reach. “No. Let me hear you.”
“Ah,” is all Arthur can manage; he couldn't begin to summon the brain cells required for my tail, you asshole, and frankly doesn't want to. Eames bites a mark into the side of his neck and licks it soothingly when he whines.
“Like that, do you?” he murmurs. “Knew you'd be desperate when I got back here. Knew you'd just want to lie down and let me own you ...”
Fuck, it's like he's psychic. Just in case, Arthur is fast to tamp down all those embarrassing thoughts about how fucking big Eames feels inside him and how he fucks like a porn star and how fucking much Arthur loves him-
And shit, that's a dangerous one, and it blind-sides Arthur so hard and fast he bucks his hips involuntarily and lets a strangled cry slip past his lips. Eames flattens him out promptly and slows his pace, rolling his hips carefully like he's afraid he's just hurt Arthur, and fuck, he knows all the right angles and it feels even more amazing. Arthur buries his face in the sheets, biting down viciously hard on his lip, because it's all he can think over and over and fuck Eames for releasing one of his arms so that he can give Arthur's hair a little tug, pull his head off the bed.
“Let me hear you,” he growls again, and Arthur gasps it out, his eyes watering:
“I love you.”
Eames' hips stutter and he stops altogether. Arthur bites his lip and drops his head again.
Then, with a sudden sense of urgency, Eames pulls out, and Arthur doesn't even have time to complain before Eames flips him over roughly and pushes back in, pushes in deep until he's forced Arthur's hips up off the bed, and he's swelling inside Arthur-who has to clamp his eyes and his mouth shut against a sob because it hurts, it hurts as much as the first time, stretching him unmercifully. Eames snarls and gasps his way through orgasm, somehow managing to fist one hand around Arthur's cock, and one stroke is all it takes. His climax hits him so hard he doesn't even feel Eames' knot anymore. It's all just heat.
When he can blink and breathe again, and the starbursts are fading, Eames is locked solidly inside him and he's nosing and kissing Arthur's face.
“You love me,” he says wonderingly.
“That was the hormones talking,” Arthur says, exhausted.
“You love me,” Eames repeats.
Arthur gives up. “Of course I love you. I'm carrying your fucking babies,” he says, and he's really trying to be grumpy, but he just can't manage it. He's too fucked-out and sated and-just so happy Eames is back, and snug inside him, where he belongs.
Eames looks down at the mention of babies, and rubs Arthur's stomach. “I'm sorry, babies,” he says ruefully. “How irresponsible of us to expose you to that.”
“They're like ... this big,” Arthur reminds him tiredly, holding his fingers a couple inches apart.
“I know. It must have felt like an earthquake in there.”
“Felt like one out here,” Arthur says, and laughs, because sometimes he gets giggly after really good sex. Eames laughs at him laughing, tracing Arthur's dimples with a thumb.
“I hope one of them gets your dimples.”
Arthur just smiles at him, and then thinks about that. One of them, sharing his features. Somehow he's never thought of them in this context before. They've just been-the parasites, the squatters inside him, or if he thought about them literally, the peanut-shaped fetuses who are the length of his pinkie finger right now. He hadn't thought about them as little ... people. Little Arthurs and Eameses. They will look like them both, maybe even act like them both. Because they come from him and Eames. No one else. They are theirs.
“I kind of want to meet these babies,” he says. It's a brand-new feeling. He's a little awed.
“Now you get the picture,” Eames murmurs, affectionate and patient like he always knew Arthur would get there eventually; and he kisses him soundly.
Pairing: catboy!Arthur/werewolf!Eames
Words: ~2700
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mpreg, knotting
Summary: Arthur is the grumpiest kitty in Paris. Eames is too besotted to care.
Author's Note: I'm aware that I cheated you fans of mpreg out of any actual mpreg with my werekittens switcharoo. So here is that, for you oddballs in the house who are into that sort of thing. (Okay I really liked writing it. :'D) More werekittens.
Arthur stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. Runs a hand over the flat plane of his stomach. The formerly-flat plane, which is now ever so slightly convex.
It doesn't even really show under a shirt, but he's shirtless now, under the glow of the lights above the sink. He touches his stomach again morosely.
No heat cycles, he reminds himself, because Eames tells him to keep finding the bright side in all of this. No more heat cycles, which is glorious. Sometimes they were mild, like old days, just fever and want and need and Eames splitting him open on his cock and stopping him up and filling him with hot come until Arthur had regained enough of his higher faculties to make him stop. But mostly they were awful.
Four heats ago Eames had whispered I am so sorry on a kiss pressed to Arthur's forehead-and Arthur had arched against him, purring, waiting to be fucked open-and Eames had cuffed his hand to the bed and immediately left him there. And Arthur had raged. Harder than he'd have believed possible if he wasn't in heat. Eames had left him with one hand free, and lube, so he could at least touch himself, and there was some food and water within reach; but next time, he'd had to put both Arthur's wrists in padded cuffs so that he couldn't mutilate himself trying to get free. And the time after that, he'd gagged him so he couldn't scream himself hoarse. There were honest-to-God tears.
It was humiliating. Worse, it was scary. He doesn't like to admit that part, but it's true. It was scary losing control of himself. And it's scary how his heat cycles seemed to be doing their best to line up with the cycles of the moon. It was alright for Eames to fuck him just enough to tide him over as long as Eames had applied vapor rub all over his nose to block the scent of Arthur's pheromones. As a wolf, Eames couldn't do that. And though he's always careful around Arthur normally, when he got near Arthur in heat-well.
So, they're done with that. That's a definite bright side. That's a big old silver lining.
Arthur wants his stomach back, though.
The click of a latch has him immediately drawing the gun tucked against the small of his back and sidling into the hall. He smells the intruder a second before he sees him, and lowers the gun promptly.
“You're early.”
“You're jumpy,” Eames observes, eyebrows raised, hands in the air.
“I wasn't going to shoot you,” Arthur says grouchily, and shoving the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, he stomps back to the bathroom. He hears Eames moving quietly around their rented house, carrying his bags in, putting the kettle on.
“Tea?”
“No thanks.” Arthur can't seem to stop staring at himself. He was supposed to shower. That's long-forgotten now. “Did you have a ... nice full moon?” he offers, remembering belatedly that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him and his stupid stomach.
“Yeah, I did,” Eames calls back, cheerful. “And don't worry, I didn't tell anyone about you-know-what, in case-you know-the procedure goes wrong. Just another week now till they're Ariadne's problem, I bet you're excited.”
“You have no idea,” Arthur mutters.
Eames wanders in without knocking, and a flood of warmth and affection lights up his face, making Arthur scowl even more fiercely.
“You're showing,” Eames says in hushed, reverent tones.
“I know.”
“Look at you.” Eames moves behind him, sliding one arm around Arthur's waist so he can pull their bodies flush. He splays his other hand over Arthur's belly, and buries his nose in Arthur's neck. “You-”
“I will shoot if you tell me I'm glowing,” Arthur cuts him off.
“I was going to say, you have no idea how good you smell right now.” He licks a stripe up the side of Arthur's neck, and Arthur has to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile, because he wants to be grumpy, damnit.
“And how do I taste, Mr. Wolf?”
“Delectable as always,” Eames growls, nipping him. He's dropped the game an instant later, though, too distracted to play along. “Look at you, though.” He rubs his hand over Arthur's belly. “Full of kittens.”
“Oh, God,” Arthur groans, closing his eyes. That is the last thing he needs to think about, what if they are actual fucking kittens, fuck me we have no idea what we are getting into this is a disaster.
“How many d'you suppose are in there?” Eames asks, hushed again.
“One,” Arthur says dully, keeping his eyes firmly shut. “None. Anti-matter, preferably.”
“Dr. Forsyth says three or four, maybe,” Eames offers hopefully. Arthur hates that hopefulness.
“No,” he says flatly. “Eames, absolutely not. I categorically refuse to be outnumbered by our children. Two is pushing it.”
Eames is grinning slyly when Arthur opens his eyes to glare at him in the mirror. “Come now, Arthur. If it came to a fight, I should think we'd be equipped to take on at least fifty infants between us.”
There's a slight uncertainty there, though; he's afraid Arthur will give half their babies away. And that just makes Arthur groan again, because Eames would probably do it, for him, and just look at him, he's so excited about these stupid stupid babies and Arthur's probably a horrible person for wanting to deny him of any of that. Even if he's already sacrificing a lot for Eames already, thank you very much. Like conceding to one baby. Which is way more babies than any reasonable person needs, in Arthur's opinion. But when has anything about their relationship ever been reasonable?
Arthur looks back at that awful horrible baby bump and feels panic starting to swell in his chest, because he knows there's no way he can do this. What if he doesn't like them? Worse-what if they don't come out the way Eames is expecting and he doesn't like them? No; Eames would like them if they came out like that creature in Alien, arterial spray and all, surely; but what if they aren't werewolves and his family doesn't like them? Eames would be crushed.
What if they are werewolves and they don't like Arthur? This seems depressingly plausible. Babies already hate him. Phillipa cried for hours the first time he baby-sat her. On the other hand, what if they aren't werewolves, and they take after Arthur, and they grow up hating him for inflicting them with his stupid cat-genes?
What if they are actual goddamn kittens?
Eames wraps both arms around Arthur's waist and tightens them, cutting off his inner spew of panic before it can choke him.
“You think too much,” Eames says, and presses a kiss above Arthur's eyebrow.
“One of us has to,” says Arthur. Eames gives a little growl into the side of Arthur's neck that sounds like a groan.
“You're dead sexy like this, you know,” he rumbles. “My babies inside you.”
Arthur opens his mouth to argue that point, but Eames sweeps him up in his arms before he can, and carries him bridal-style to the bedroom. Arthur growls and squirms in protest, but only to keep up appearances. He relaxes when Eames sets him down on the bed.
“My babies,” he growls again, kneeling down over Arthur and nuzzling his stomach roughly.
“You can have them,” Arthur tells him hoarsely; it's only just coming back to him how fucking horny he's been ever since Eames left.
“Our babies,” Eames corrects himself just to be contrary, and starts tugging Arthur's jeans down so he can trail sloppy kisses from Arthur's stomach to the inside of his thighs. Arthur gives up, and squirms again, managing to get a hand on himself before Eames bats it away. “Let me take care of you,” he chides.
It's the scent, Arthur knows that, the hormonally-charged scent that is communicating to Eames that he needs to take care of Arthur's every whim. Arthur had had to literally push him out the door to make him get going for his pack in England. And normally he'd be disgruntled, but he's feeling sorry for himself and he thinks he deserves to be pampered, a bit. So he rolls over and lets Eames pull his jeans and socks all the way off, and then he's stretched out naked while Eames is sitting fully clothed on top of him, stroking his tail and reaching for the lube which is in the bedsheets.
“You've been busy without me,” he says wryly.
“Yeah.” Arthur pushes back against him, eager.
“I'll start with two, then.” And he does, sliding two slick fingers right in under Arthur's tail, so much better than Arthur's fingers, thicker and defter. He growls again, leaning down and pressing his lips to the nape of Arthur's neck. “Been thinking about this all weekend.”
“Even when you were wolfed out?” Arthur asks.
“Especially when I was wolfed out,” Eames says in his low, barely-human growl.
Arthur has to start laughing, gasping out another faint oh, God, because he's totally serious and that's the slightly terrifying part. The even more terrifying part is when Arthur thinks about Eames' wolfish side, that reckless feral light in his eyes that says you are mine, I own you, and, well, it makes Arthur kind of hot. Maybe he even wishes Eames would act more like that in bed sometimes, act out that possessive, domineering alpha male. But not too much, because the potential for real, not-fun pain is considerable when one's boyfriend is a werewolf and one is already pretty sensitive to begin with.
So Eames is being gentle now, crooking his thick fingers in all the right ways, three of them now, and Arthur never knows what to do with his tail when he's lying on his stomach so he just drapes it over Eames' shoulder. Eames rumbles again. There's an edge of that wolf still left in him.
“Going to fuck you now, Arthur,” he says, sliding his fingers out, and his voice is deep, so deep. Arthur shivers all over. Eames is gone for a few moments, shedding his clothing, and then he's back and he stretches out over Arthur. He doesn't even have to line himself up; he holds Arthur's arms down with both hands, and rocks lazily between Arthur's spread thighs until the fat head of his cock snags against Arthur's hole, slides right in. “Gonna fuck you full of kittens,” he growls.
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur says, to let him know exactly what he thinks of that kind of dirty talk, and then Eames slams the rest of the way in and he's not prepared for it. His body jolts even with Eames holding him down, caging him in, and he coughs out a startled little sound. Eames works his hips around, finding an angle he likes before shoving up and in again, and the force of it makes Arthur's hair spill onto his forehead in an untidy fringe, and-he can't even swipe it away, because Eames has got his upper arms thoroughly pinned, and yeah, this is what Arthur wants. To be owned. He spreads his legs even further, quivering.
“Yeah, you want it,” Eames husks lovingly, a direct contrast to the force with which he fucks Arthur into the mattress. He's just about crushing Arthur's tail against his back and Arthur's biting down on his arm to stifle all the little mewling sounds that want to pour out every time Eames pounds into him. Eames drags his arm back out of reach. “No. Let me hear you.”
“Ah,” is all Arthur can manage; he couldn't begin to summon the brain cells required for my tail, you asshole, and frankly doesn't want to. Eames bites a mark into the side of his neck and licks it soothingly when he whines.
“Like that, do you?” he murmurs. “Knew you'd be desperate when I got back here. Knew you'd just want to lie down and let me own you ...”
Fuck, it's like he's psychic. Just in case, Arthur is fast to tamp down all those embarrassing thoughts about how fucking big Eames feels inside him and how he fucks like a porn star and how fucking much Arthur loves him-
And shit, that's a dangerous one, and it blind-sides Arthur so hard and fast he bucks his hips involuntarily and lets a strangled cry slip past his lips. Eames flattens him out promptly and slows his pace, rolling his hips carefully like he's afraid he's just hurt Arthur, and fuck, he knows all the right angles and it feels even more amazing. Arthur buries his face in the sheets, biting down viciously hard on his lip, because it's all he can think over and over and fuck Eames for releasing one of his arms so that he can give Arthur's hair a little tug, pull his head off the bed.
“Let me hear you,” he growls again, and Arthur gasps it out, his eyes watering:
“I love you.”
Eames' hips stutter and he stops altogether. Arthur bites his lip and drops his head again.
Then, with a sudden sense of urgency, Eames pulls out, and Arthur doesn't even have time to complain before Eames flips him over roughly and pushes back in, pushes in deep until he's forced Arthur's hips up off the bed, and he's swelling inside Arthur-who has to clamp his eyes and his mouth shut against a sob because it hurts, it hurts as much as the first time, stretching him unmercifully. Eames snarls and gasps his way through orgasm, somehow managing to fist one hand around Arthur's cock, and one stroke is all it takes. His climax hits him so hard he doesn't even feel Eames' knot anymore. It's all just heat.
When he can blink and breathe again, and the starbursts are fading, Eames is locked solidly inside him and he's nosing and kissing Arthur's face.
“You love me,” he says wonderingly.
“That was the hormones talking,” Arthur says, exhausted.
“You love me,” Eames repeats.
Arthur gives up. “Of course I love you. I'm carrying your fucking babies,” he says, and he's really trying to be grumpy, but he just can't manage it. He's too fucked-out and sated and-just so happy Eames is back, and snug inside him, where he belongs.
Eames looks down at the mention of babies, and rubs Arthur's stomach. “I'm sorry, babies,” he says ruefully. “How irresponsible of us to expose you to that.”
“They're like ... this big,” Arthur reminds him tiredly, holding his fingers a couple inches apart.
“I know. It must have felt like an earthquake in there.”
“Felt like one out here,” Arthur says, and laughs, because sometimes he gets giggly after really good sex. Eames laughs at him laughing, tracing Arthur's dimples with a thumb.
“I hope one of them gets your dimples.”
Arthur just smiles at him, and then thinks about that. One of them, sharing his features. Somehow he's never thought of them in this context before. They've just been-the parasites, the squatters inside him, or if he thought about them literally, the peanut-shaped fetuses who are the length of his pinkie finger right now. He hadn't thought about them as little ... people. Little Arthurs and Eameses. They will look like them both, maybe even act like them both. Because they come from him and Eames. No one else. They are theirs.
“I kind of want to meet these babies,” he says. It's a brand-new feeling. He's a little awed.
“Now you get the picture,” Eames murmurs, affectionate and patient like he always knew Arthur would get there eventually; and he kisses him soundly.