three PBell interludes
The AO3 migration is going slowly. My HTML illiteracy is killing me. Meantime, have a few homeless Pavlov's Bell snippets! The first two never seemed to go anywhere, but the third is a complete drabble. Enjoy. :)
Words: ~1200
G-rated, pre-relationship fluff.
+
Arthur is playing with the kids when Eames arrives.
“Alright.” Cobb spreads out Eames' various files and begins to rifle through them. “Which part are you having trouble with?”
“It's not anything specific, per se. It's the Mr. Charles gimmick. We know the mark's militarized and I suggested we give Mr. Charles a try, but in all our test runs the projections just run the dreamer down. How did you get Fischer to lower his barriers enough to throw the projections off?”
“Play with me,” Phillipa demands, tugging Arthur's attention away.
“He's playing with me,” James argues, pushing her away.
“He likes me better!”
Arthur simply sits back, and lets the battle for his affections unfold.
“It's just a matter of improvisation,” says Cobb. “You're good at that.”
“The problem is, I'll be in forge. I have to pretend to be the mark's own projection of his brother. So it can't be me.”
“What's your extractor doing, then?”
“He likes me best!” Phillipa shouts, and in the middle of Eames' reply, Cobb says, “Guys!”
Arthur stretches out on the floor, flexing his toes, innocent.
“James said Grover doesn't like me,” Phillipa tells her father.
“He likes both of you. You're going to upset him if you keep arguing like this. Why don't you both work on teaching him to fetch again?”
Grudgingly they compromise, and James throws a ball of tin foil down the hallway. It catches the light and sparkles prettily, and Arthur gets up and gallops after it.
“I didn't know you had a pet,” he hears Eames say behind him.
“Yeah. Got him from the shelter last week.”
Arthur curls up around the tin-foil ball, chewing it. It tastes like metal. He snags it on a claw and stretches his paw so that he can see it glitter.
“Cute,” says Eames.
“Outline the architecture of the dream for me,” Cobb says.
“Bring it back, Grover!” Phillipa entreats. Arthur ignores her until he hears the rattle of a bag of treats. Abandoning the ball, he trots over and sniffs hopefully.
“He didn't bring it back,” James observes glumly. Phillipa gives him a treat anyway, and Arthur carries it under the kitchen table to eat. It crunches satisfyingly between his teeth.
He gives a muffled mew when a huge hand scoops him under the belly and lifts him.
“Cute little bugger,” Eames murmurs, studying him.
Arthur's claws squeeze out of their sheaths, ready to flail his way to freedom. But before he can do much more than lash his tail, Eames brings him in closer, tucking him against the warmth of his body. In the cradle of Eames' arms, Arthur's nose is buried momentarily in his shirt and he opens his mouth to suck in Eames' scent.
His claws sink into Eames' shirt. Clinging on, he arches his spine into Eames' chest and lets a huge purr rumble out of his chest.
“Hello,” Eames says, tickling his cheek. Arthur kneads furiously and presses his side into Eames as if hoping to meld with him through osmosis.
“Huh,” says Cobb. “He's not usually that friendly.”
“Sweet little kitten.”
Arthur finds Eames' hand and, pressing his damp nose into it, he lets his tongue flick out and rasp several times over Eames' fingers. He tastes like salt and cigarette smoke and like his scent, woodsy and musky. Eventually Arthur collapses in a heap, twisting onto his back and half closing his eyes. Eames tickles his upturned paw pads and another purr bursts out of Arthur's throat.
“He's pretty smitten with you,” Cobb observes. Eames chuckles.
“Normally cats hate me.” He lifts Arthur under the forearms, examining him. Arthur wriggles in protest. “What's his name?”
“Grover.” That's Phillipa, coming up on Eames' side. “James named him,” she adds, with an air of disdain.
“Hmm.” Eames is studying him very intently. “D'you know, he looks familiar.”
“Kids, why don't you take Grover to the den and play with him there?” Cobb says.
Eames almost lets Phillipa take Arthur out of his arms; then, abruptly, he stands up.
“I'm craving a smoke,” he says. “I'm just going to go for a bit of a walk.”
“With the cat?” says Cobb dubiously.
“To help me think,” says Eames, already on his way out the back door.
He takes a seat on the back porch, out of sight of the Cobbs, and doesn't take out a cigarette. Instead, he flips Arthur onto his back on Eames' thighs. Arthur, head resting on Eames' knees, folds his paws primly and cranes his head back to peer at the garden.
It's five minutes at least before Eames speaks.
“You can drop the whole kitten act now,” he says. “As if I wouldn't know your scent anywhere.”
Arthur is dozing off in the warm sun. A butterfly flutters past and he flicks an ear, stretching up one paw to bat half-heartedly in its direction.
“You are very cute,” Eames concedes.
He lifts Arthur under the arms again to study him closely. Arthur blinks at him. When Eames puts him down, Arthur wriggles to find a comfortable place to nap. His whiskers find the space between Eames' shirt and his jacket. Intrigued, Arthur burrows into this dark, warm space. Eames' clothes are soft. From here Arthur can feel the expansion of his chest when he breathes, can hear his steady heartbeat. His scent is overwhelming. Arthur's purr vibrates through his entire body. Yes. This is the perfect place for a nap. He purrs and kneads.
“You're tickling me. Honestly, Arthur, someone who didn't know us might actually guess that you like me.”
Arthur's ears perk to hear his name.
“Stop fooling around now,” says Eames. “Come out.”
But Arthur has already curled into a tight ball, tucked against Eames' ribcage.
“Oh, Arthur.”
He reaches inside his jacket and runs a hand lightly down Arthur's back. His fingertips, where they press into Arthur's soft grey tabby fur, feel amazing, as if they're trailing sparks. Arthur arches into his hand.
“The funny thing,” says Eames, stroking him again, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's rapture, “is that I feel as though I'm bursting out of my skin. Even though it's not a full moon. Of course, I've had practise at controlling the change. You haven't. Still, this shouldn't be possible.”
Arthur quivers adoringly against him and mewls when his hand stops moving. Eames starts petting him again.
“Darling, I think we're dreaming,” he says bemusedly.
How silly. They can't be dreaming. Arthur isn't even napping yet. How can he fall asleep when the touch of Eames' hand makes his whole tiny body tremble, desperate for more? He wants to wrap his whole body in Eames, as if Eames is a heat-giving ray of sunshine for Arthur to bask in.
“Arthur, we're dreaming,” says Eames more decisively.
---
Words: ~1900
Warnings: blue balls. I'm sorry D: This one picks up right after the first Pavlov's Bell.
+
If not for Arthur's heat cycles, they would never get anything done.
Arriving at the hotel for the next job (together, we're working together, Eames tells himself giddily, so he'll believe it), he isn't entirely sure what to expect. The important thing, he decides, is that he let himself tie with Arthur accidentally, and Arthur hasn't said anything about it or started avoiding him. He ignores the not-important things, like the stupid smile Arthur can put on his face with a thought alone, and how he can feel all his rough edges (his defenses) softening when Arthur's around, and how he just wants to curl up around Arthur and live there forever.
He arrives at their shared hotel room and finds Arthur already there, unpacking his clothes neatly into drawers. Immediately Eames wants to kiss him. Is that okay? Would that be an acceptable greeting? He agonizes over this for a second. Eames does one-night stands and casual flings and whatever his thing with Faye is; he's never had a boyfriend.
And then Arthur glances up. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Eames shuts the door behind him and watches Arthur carefully for a cue.
After a minute of Eames standing awkwardly there while Arthur folds and unpacks, Arthur sighs quietly and straightens up, his spine a stiff line.
“The rest of the team won't be here till tomorrow,” he says. “I thought we could use the time to ... discuss some things.”
“Of course,” Eames blurts out at once.
Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. Eames drops his bag by the door and moves closer. His heart is sinking in his chest. He should have known that nothing would have changed between them. The only reason Eames is here is that he's the most convenient person for Arthur to sleep with. He takes a deep breath and commits that to memory, to make sure he won't forget.
Arthur tips his chin up slightly, parting his lips.
“Afraid of me?” he says.
Eames shakes his head, taken aback.
“You're nervous,” says Arthur, smiling a little. Eames chuckles, the ice effectively broken.
“You've got a good sense of smell.”
Arthur smiles again, the corners of his eyes creasing. Eames could almost manage to believe that Arthur's happy to be here with him. Arthur's smile infects him, starting in the pit of his belly and warming him all the way to his fingertips.
I'm going to make you love me, he thinks suddenly, passionately. He is determined to make Arthur smile like that as much as he can in the near future.
“So,” he says, when silence settles over them. “One bed, hm?”
Arthur's eyes glimmer. “I was thinking you could fuck me on it.”
Christ. Arthur with his barriers down is lovely. If Eames hadn't been infatuated before, he would be for sure now.
Eames moves closer and, when Arthur doesn't stop him, he places his hands on Arthur's shoulders and pushes him down gently on his back. He straddles Arthur, and just gazes down at him for a moment, relishing this feeling of having Arthur right where he wants him.
“Eames.” Arthur brings a hand up to Eames' chest, stopping him when Eames starts to lean down. Eames halts, just about twitching with impatience. Arthur lowers his hand slowly. “I just want you to know. I'm not used to this. I've never been in a ... steady relationship. Hell, until last week I'd never even had sex face-to-face. I don't like letting people get close to me.”
“What, because of your tail?” Eames asks, and Arthur's face clouds.
“Because I'm different, yes,” he says tersely.
“Well,” says Eames, “just this werewolf's opinion, but you're pretty normal to me.”
Arthur smiles again, and happiness floods through Eames.
“Can I see your knot?” Arthur asks suddenly. Eames grins and leans down, close to his face.
“If it's secrets you want, you should know I'll only show you mine if you show me yours,” he purrs.
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. “Okay,” he says, unbuckling his pants. His hand brushes Eames' groin. “You'll have to get off me, though.”
Eames moves back, happy to let Arthur go on undressing himself. In the meantime, he pulls his own shirt off. His scent unfurls around him and Arthur immediately wrinkles his nose.
“I'll get used to it,” he says, sheepish when he realizes Eames has noticed.
“I think you smell gorgeous,” Eames says honestly.
Arthur lowers his eyelids self-consciously and, in one brisk motion, he pulls off his trousers and tosses them off the bed. He leaves his briefs on, but tugs his tail out and sweeps it toward Eames.
“There. Just be gentle,” he says warily, when Eames takes the tail in both hands. He makes sure to fondle it carefully when he lifts it to his face so that he can bury his nose in the soft fur, drinking in the warm, natural scent.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs.
Arthur just looks at him like he doesn't know if Eames is joking or not. He's obviously making an effort not to pull his tail away, so Eames lets it go. It whisks out of reach at once.
“Your turn,” says Arthur.
Eames agreeably undoes his trousers and kicks them off. He's wearing boxers. When he tugs them down and takes his cock in hand, Arthur's eyes widen. They're close enough that Eames can smell the adrenaline that courses through him.
“Shit, Eames,” Arthur says, pulling away slightly. “You're huge.”
“That's kind of you,” says Eames.
Arthur shuts his mouth, but his tail gives away his emotion, prickling alongside him. Eames, sliding his fist along his cock, raises an eyebrow.
“You've taken it before,” he says.
“Yeah, but ...” Arthur purses his lips, and Eames knows what he's thinking. This is his first time seeing Eames' cock up close, in the light, and not in a haze of drunkenness or heat. Feeling a little discouraged, Eames stretches out next to him, on his side.
“I take awhile to warm up, normally,” Arthur says, avoiding his eyes. “I don't think people always enjoy having sex with me because ... they think I'm not enjoying it, if I'm not in heat. I've been called 'cold' before. I just want to warn you what you're getting into. And I don't know that I'll always be able to relax enough to let you fuck me, if I'm not totally drunk or in heat.”
“I'll get you nice and relaxed,” Eames promises. With a grin, he adds, “Fortunately for us both, I happen to love foreplay.”
Arthur doesn't look exceptionally reassured, but he does relax somewhat. He rolls onto his side to face Eames, watching him jerk himself, brow furrowed. Eames takes his hand and guides it to his cock.
“Here,” he says, wrapping Arthur's fingers lightly an inch or two above the base of his prick. “Feel that?”
Arthur frowns and nods.
“That's the knot. It's just a pair of glands on either side that swell during climax.”
Arthur nods again, still frowning thoughtfully, and slides his hand up and down Eames' shaft. “That was inside me?”
“Mmm. The whole thing. You should see it when it's swollen.”
Arthur's dark eyes flick up to his, deadly serious. “I want to.”
Eames' dick feels heavy and hot with Arthur's hand wrapped loosely around it. He flattens Arthur quickly, fitting their mouths together in a possessive and brutal kiss, and Eames grinds his cock down against Arthur's briefs a few times.
“Take those off,” he growls, lifting his head. Arthur's tail flicks, betraying a hint of nerves, before he starts wriggling around under Eames and obeys. Eames' cock throbs at the thought of having Arthur under him like this, obeying him like this, and he has to force himself to remember that he's not with another werewolf; this isn't his show, and he cannot tie with Arthur again.
Arthur casts his briefs away and pushes a tube of lube into Eames' hand. Eames doesn't even know where it came from. He sits back and opens it, and Arthur lays back and watches, his tailtip tapping the bed nervously.
“You want it like this?” Eames asks. His voice is gravelly. Arthur nods. “On your back?”
“I don't want you playing with my tail,” Arthur says stiffly.
Eames has to admit, the temptation probably would be too great. “Alright,” he says. Gently, he lifts one of Arthur's legs under the knee and bends it toward his stomach. Arthur turns his head away, eyes closed and cheeks flushing pink, bared and vulnerable under Eames' hungry gaze.
“I don't think you'll fit,” he croaks out while Eames dribbles some lube down the crack of his ass and rubs it around his hole with a finger.
“We'll see.” With his finger nice and slick, Eames pushes it inside before Arthur can have any warning.
His tail bats the bed and it causes the most interesting sensation around Eames' finger, a little flex and squeeze of muscle. Arthur drags in a deep breath and Eames pushes in deeper, having to pause every time the tail lashes unhappily and causes another squeeze. He wonders what that will feel like around his dick, and resists the urge to withdraw his hand so that he can start jerking himself off.
“I've never done this with anyone else,” Arthur blurts out suddenly, his eyes still shut tight. “Only you.”
Eames' finger slides in the last little way, his knuckles flush against Arthur's ass. “Ah,” he says.
“Don't mistake me for some kind of slut just because I-I threw myself at you a couple times. Those were the only times I've ever-ah, fuck-”
Eames is starting to slide in a second finger. In the corner of his eye he sees Arthur's whole tail curl up stiffly and his muscles clench reflexively against Eames' hand. This is definitely not like the other times. He goes slow, slow.
He waits patiently, listening to Arthur gulp for breath, until Arthur's muscles ease their grip a little and Eames is able to slide his fingers out.
“You need a distraction, kitten,” he says. He tugs Arthur's tail straight and, before Arthur can snap at him, he leans down and takes Arthur's cock in his mouth. He doesn't do this frequently, but he knows the motions; he laps with his tongue and sucks Arthur down and Arthur's thighs quiver on either side of him.
“Eames,” he manages, and in response Eames pushes one finger back up inside him, gratified when Arthur's hole opens more easily around him. For a minute he just strokes, and sucks; and when Arthur seems close, he pulls back a bit and adds another finger. Arthur breathes raggedly through it, his body opening up to the intrusion in centimetres.
---
Words: ~850
Warnings: rimming.
+
“I want to try something,” Eames says. “Roll over.”
“No,” Arthur says, muffled in the arm he has slung over his face.
Eames scoops him around the waist and flips him over on his stomach easily. Arthur twists back onto his back as a reflex, with a hiss of protest.
“I said no.”
Eames huffs. “What's the matter?”
“If you want to fuck me again, you're just going to have to wait.”
“Who says I want to fuck you again?” Eames rubs his hand over Arthur's stomach for a moment before Arthur bats his hand away irritably. “Alright, I always want to fuck you again, but I want to do something different this time.”
Arthur deliberates. Eames looks earnest. Perhaps it wouldn't kill him this time to give Eames what he wants.
He sighs, and struggles for a moment to put words to his consternation. “Don't touch my tail.”
“Keep it out of my way, then,” says Eames.
Arthur rolls over slowly. Eames pats his hip wordlessly, and he rises onto his knees and elbows. His tail waves stiffly. He doesn't like this, isn't used to baring himself like this for someone else. He doesn't like how sensitive his tail is, how easy it would be for Eames to grab it and snap it in the middle, so much more breakable and vulnerable than a wrist or ankle. He spent all his youth denying the people who asked to see his tail so they could call him a freak. It's no problem for him to get on all fours with his legs spread like a whore when he's in heat and Eames is right there, but when he's in his right mind, he's ... protective.
He feels Eames' cheek brush gently against the lie of the fur in a nuzzle, and snaps his tail away.
“I said don't touch.”
“Alright, alright,” Eames says amiably. His hands squeeze Arthur's hips gently, then travel down to the cheeks of his ass. His thumbs knead gently, working in toward the centre where Arthur is still fucked-open and sore. He bites back a warning, forcing himself to trust Eames.
Just when Eames is thumbing a small circle around Arthur's clenching hole, he pulls his hands away. He spends a few moment fussing with the way Arthur is positioned, spreading his thighs as much as he can and hiking his hips up just a bit higher off the bed. Arthur rests his head on his folded arms with his eyes shut.
Eames' thumbs return to his ass, hands cupping and spreading his cheeks. Then, before Arthur knows what he's doing, Eames is lapping a stripe up the seam of his ass, right over his hole.
“Fuck!” Arthur jumps, his tail sticking up and bristling like a bottle-brush. “What are you doing?”
“You'll like this,” Eames says quickly, “I promise.”
Arthur goes still but growls, just to let Eames know how much he dislikes this idea. Eames leans down and lays a few grateful kisses along his spine, cheek brushing his tail again.
Then he pulls apart Arthur's cheeks again, enough to make his abused hole ache, and immediately starts soothing the hurt with long, lapping strokes of his tongue. Arthur's toes curl on the bed and his eyes squeeze shut. It feels unreal. Eames takes deep, steady breaths as he licks Arthur out, no doubt collecting any stray lube and come that have leaked out of him. His nose nudges the base of Arthur's tail with every lick.
He pauses, swirling his tongue slowly around the rim of the hole, and Arthur bites his tongue. Then, decisively, Eames presses a wet kiss there and licks into him, working his tongue deeper and deeper on every stroke.
“Fu-uck.” The word breaks as it leaves Arthur's throat in a groan. His muscles know how to react against an intruder like Eames' dick-clench down, push back against the invasion until Eames has to force his way in. Faced with Eames' steady, lapping tongue, Arthur's tight ring of muscle simply melts like butter, putting up no resistance against him.
“There we go,” Eames murmurs, drawing back to lay another kiss to Arthur's hole. “Knew you'd like it.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur wheezes out without much feeling, sinking bonelessly into the mattress. Eames chuckles and starts fucking his tongue in again, and again, easing all of his come out, and slowly Arthur's tail comes to rest wrapped around the back of his neck, drawing him in.
Arthur doesn't even realize he's hard again until Eames presses a last wet, sucking kiss there and rolls him over onto his back. His smile is entirely too smug.
“If you try to kiss me, I'll bite your throat out,” Arthur promises tiredly, and Eames laughs.
“I imagine you would,” he says, and swallows Arthur's cock down until he comes with a shout.
Arthur falls asleep on his belly that night, with his tail wound loosely around Eames' thigh. So much for self-preservation.
Words: ~1200
G-rated, pre-relationship fluff.
+
Arthur is playing with the kids when Eames arrives.
“Alright.” Cobb spreads out Eames' various files and begins to rifle through them. “Which part are you having trouble with?”
“It's not anything specific, per se. It's the Mr. Charles gimmick. We know the mark's militarized and I suggested we give Mr. Charles a try, but in all our test runs the projections just run the dreamer down. How did you get Fischer to lower his barriers enough to throw the projections off?”
“Play with me,” Phillipa demands, tugging Arthur's attention away.
“He's playing with me,” James argues, pushing her away.
“He likes me better!”
Arthur simply sits back, and lets the battle for his affections unfold.
“It's just a matter of improvisation,” says Cobb. “You're good at that.”
“The problem is, I'll be in forge. I have to pretend to be the mark's own projection of his brother. So it can't be me.”
“What's your extractor doing, then?”
“He likes me best!” Phillipa shouts, and in the middle of Eames' reply, Cobb says, “Guys!”
Arthur stretches out on the floor, flexing his toes, innocent.
“James said Grover doesn't like me,” Phillipa tells her father.
“He likes both of you. You're going to upset him if you keep arguing like this. Why don't you both work on teaching him to fetch again?”
Grudgingly they compromise, and James throws a ball of tin foil down the hallway. It catches the light and sparkles prettily, and Arthur gets up and gallops after it.
“I didn't know you had a pet,” he hears Eames say behind him.
“Yeah. Got him from the shelter last week.”
Arthur curls up around the tin-foil ball, chewing it. It tastes like metal. He snags it on a claw and stretches his paw so that he can see it glitter.
“Cute,” says Eames.
“Outline the architecture of the dream for me,” Cobb says.
“Bring it back, Grover!” Phillipa entreats. Arthur ignores her until he hears the rattle of a bag of treats. Abandoning the ball, he trots over and sniffs hopefully.
“He didn't bring it back,” James observes glumly. Phillipa gives him a treat anyway, and Arthur carries it under the kitchen table to eat. It crunches satisfyingly between his teeth.
He gives a muffled mew when a huge hand scoops him under the belly and lifts him.
“Cute little bugger,” Eames murmurs, studying him.
Arthur's claws squeeze out of their sheaths, ready to flail his way to freedom. But before he can do much more than lash his tail, Eames brings him in closer, tucking him against the warmth of his body. In the cradle of Eames' arms, Arthur's nose is buried momentarily in his shirt and he opens his mouth to suck in Eames' scent.
His claws sink into Eames' shirt. Clinging on, he arches his spine into Eames' chest and lets a huge purr rumble out of his chest.
“Hello,” Eames says, tickling his cheek. Arthur kneads furiously and presses his side into Eames as if hoping to meld with him through osmosis.
“Huh,” says Cobb. “He's not usually that friendly.”
“Sweet little kitten.”
Arthur finds Eames' hand and, pressing his damp nose into it, he lets his tongue flick out and rasp several times over Eames' fingers. He tastes like salt and cigarette smoke and like his scent, woodsy and musky. Eventually Arthur collapses in a heap, twisting onto his back and half closing his eyes. Eames tickles his upturned paw pads and another purr bursts out of Arthur's throat.
“He's pretty smitten with you,” Cobb observes. Eames chuckles.
“Normally cats hate me.” He lifts Arthur under the forearms, examining him. Arthur wriggles in protest. “What's his name?”
“Grover.” That's Phillipa, coming up on Eames' side. “James named him,” she adds, with an air of disdain.
“Hmm.” Eames is studying him very intently. “D'you know, he looks familiar.”
“Kids, why don't you take Grover to the den and play with him there?” Cobb says.
Eames almost lets Phillipa take Arthur out of his arms; then, abruptly, he stands up.
“I'm craving a smoke,” he says. “I'm just going to go for a bit of a walk.”
“With the cat?” says Cobb dubiously.
“To help me think,” says Eames, already on his way out the back door.
He takes a seat on the back porch, out of sight of the Cobbs, and doesn't take out a cigarette. Instead, he flips Arthur onto his back on Eames' thighs. Arthur, head resting on Eames' knees, folds his paws primly and cranes his head back to peer at the garden.
It's five minutes at least before Eames speaks.
“You can drop the whole kitten act now,” he says. “As if I wouldn't know your scent anywhere.”
Arthur is dozing off in the warm sun. A butterfly flutters past and he flicks an ear, stretching up one paw to bat half-heartedly in its direction.
“You are very cute,” Eames concedes.
He lifts Arthur under the arms again to study him closely. Arthur blinks at him. When Eames puts him down, Arthur wriggles to find a comfortable place to nap. His whiskers find the space between Eames' shirt and his jacket. Intrigued, Arthur burrows into this dark, warm space. Eames' clothes are soft. From here Arthur can feel the expansion of his chest when he breathes, can hear his steady heartbeat. His scent is overwhelming. Arthur's purr vibrates through his entire body. Yes. This is the perfect place for a nap. He purrs and kneads.
“You're tickling me. Honestly, Arthur, someone who didn't know us might actually guess that you like me.”
Arthur's ears perk to hear his name.
“Stop fooling around now,” says Eames. “Come out.”
But Arthur has already curled into a tight ball, tucked against Eames' ribcage.
“Oh, Arthur.”
He reaches inside his jacket and runs a hand lightly down Arthur's back. His fingertips, where they press into Arthur's soft grey tabby fur, feel amazing, as if they're trailing sparks. Arthur arches into his hand.
“The funny thing,” says Eames, stroking him again, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's rapture, “is that I feel as though I'm bursting out of my skin. Even though it's not a full moon. Of course, I've had practise at controlling the change. You haven't. Still, this shouldn't be possible.”
Arthur quivers adoringly against him and mewls when his hand stops moving. Eames starts petting him again.
“Darling, I think we're dreaming,” he says bemusedly.
How silly. They can't be dreaming. Arthur isn't even napping yet. How can he fall asleep when the touch of Eames' hand makes his whole tiny body tremble, desperate for more? He wants to wrap his whole body in Eames, as if Eames is a heat-giving ray of sunshine for Arthur to bask in.
“Arthur, we're dreaming,” says Eames more decisively.
---
Words: ~1900
Warnings: blue balls. I'm sorry D: This one picks up right after the first Pavlov's Bell.
+
If not for Arthur's heat cycles, they would never get anything done.
Arriving at the hotel for the next job (together, we're working together, Eames tells himself giddily, so he'll believe it), he isn't entirely sure what to expect. The important thing, he decides, is that he let himself tie with Arthur accidentally, and Arthur hasn't said anything about it or started avoiding him. He ignores the not-important things, like the stupid smile Arthur can put on his face with a thought alone, and how he can feel all his rough edges (his defenses) softening when Arthur's around, and how he just wants to curl up around Arthur and live there forever.
He arrives at their shared hotel room and finds Arthur already there, unpacking his clothes neatly into drawers. Immediately Eames wants to kiss him. Is that okay? Would that be an acceptable greeting? He agonizes over this for a second. Eames does one-night stands and casual flings and whatever his thing with Faye is; he's never had a boyfriend.
And then Arthur glances up. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Eames shuts the door behind him and watches Arthur carefully for a cue.
After a minute of Eames standing awkwardly there while Arthur folds and unpacks, Arthur sighs quietly and straightens up, his spine a stiff line.
“The rest of the team won't be here till tomorrow,” he says. “I thought we could use the time to ... discuss some things.”
“Of course,” Eames blurts out at once.
Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. Eames drops his bag by the door and moves closer. His heart is sinking in his chest. He should have known that nothing would have changed between them. The only reason Eames is here is that he's the most convenient person for Arthur to sleep with. He takes a deep breath and commits that to memory, to make sure he won't forget.
Arthur tips his chin up slightly, parting his lips.
“Afraid of me?” he says.
Eames shakes his head, taken aback.
“You're nervous,” says Arthur, smiling a little. Eames chuckles, the ice effectively broken.
“You've got a good sense of smell.”
Arthur smiles again, the corners of his eyes creasing. Eames could almost manage to believe that Arthur's happy to be here with him. Arthur's smile infects him, starting in the pit of his belly and warming him all the way to his fingertips.
I'm going to make you love me, he thinks suddenly, passionately. He is determined to make Arthur smile like that as much as he can in the near future.
“So,” he says, when silence settles over them. “One bed, hm?”
Arthur's eyes glimmer. “I was thinking you could fuck me on it.”
Christ. Arthur with his barriers down is lovely. If Eames hadn't been infatuated before, he would be for sure now.
Eames moves closer and, when Arthur doesn't stop him, he places his hands on Arthur's shoulders and pushes him down gently on his back. He straddles Arthur, and just gazes down at him for a moment, relishing this feeling of having Arthur right where he wants him.
“Eames.” Arthur brings a hand up to Eames' chest, stopping him when Eames starts to lean down. Eames halts, just about twitching with impatience. Arthur lowers his hand slowly. “I just want you to know. I'm not used to this. I've never been in a ... steady relationship. Hell, until last week I'd never even had sex face-to-face. I don't like letting people get close to me.”
“What, because of your tail?” Eames asks, and Arthur's face clouds.
“Because I'm different, yes,” he says tersely.
“Well,” says Eames, “just this werewolf's opinion, but you're pretty normal to me.”
Arthur smiles again, and happiness floods through Eames.
“Can I see your knot?” Arthur asks suddenly. Eames grins and leans down, close to his face.
“If it's secrets you want, you should know I'll only show you mine if you show me yours,” he purrs.
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. “Okay,” he says, unbuckling his pants. His hand brushes Eames' groin. “You'll have to get off me, though.”
Eames moves back, happy to let Arthur go on undressing himself. In the meantime, he pulls his own shirt off. His scent unfurls around him and Arthur immediately wrinkles his nose.
“I'll get used to it,” he says, sheepish when he realizes Eames has noticed.
“I think you smell gorgeous,” Eames says honestly.
Arthur lowers his eyelids self-consciously and, in one brisk motion, he pulls off his trousers and tosses them off the bed. He leaves his briefs on, but tugs his tail out and sweeps it toward Eames.
“There. Just be gentle,” he says warily, when Eames takes the tail in both hands. He makes sure to fondle it carefully when he lifts it to his face so that he can bury his nose in the soft fur, drinking in the warm, natural scent.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs.
Arthur just looks at him like he doesn't know if Eames is joking or not. He's obviously making an effort not to pull his tail away, so Eames lets it go. It whisks out of reach at once.
“Your turn,” says Arthur.
Eames agreeably undoes his trousers and kicks them off. He's wearing boxers. When he tugs them down and takes his cock in hand, Arthur's eyes widen. They're close enough that Eames can smell the adrenaline that courses through him.
“Shit, Eames,” Arthur says, pulling away slightly. “You're huge.”
“That's kind of you,” says Eames.
Arthur shuts his mouth, but his tail gives away his emotion, prickling alongside him. Eames, sliding his fist along his cock, raises an eyebrow.
“You've taken it before,” he says.
“Yeah, but ...” Arthur purses his lips, and Eames knows what he's thinking. This is his first time seeing Eames' cock up close, in the light, and not in a haze of drunkenness or heat. Feeling a little discouraged, Eames stretches out next to him, on his side.
“I take awhile to warm up, normally,” Arthur says, avoiding his eyes. “I don't think people always enjoy having sex with me because ... they think I'm not enjoying it, if I'm not in heat. I've been called 'cold' before. I just want to warn you what you're getting into. And I don't know that I'll always be able to relax enough to let you fuck me, if I'm not totally drunk or in heat.”
“I'll get you nice and relaxed,” Eames promises. With a grin, he adds, “Fortunately for us both, I happen to love foreplay.”
Arthur doesn't look exceptionally reassured, but he does relax somewhat. He rolls onto his side to face Eames, watching him jerk himself, brow furrowed. Eames takes his hand and guides it to his cock.
“Here,” he says, wrapping Arthur's fingers lightly an inch or two above the base of his prick. “Feel that?”
Arthur frowns and nods.
“That's the knot. It's just a pair of glands on either side that swell during climax.”
Arthur nods again, still frowning thoughtfully, and slides his hand up and down Eames' shaft. “That was inside me?”
“Mmm. The whole thing. You should see it when it's swollen.”
Arthur's dark eyes flick up to his, deadly serious. “I want to.”
Eames' dick feels heavy and hot with Arthur's hand wrapped loosely around it. He flattens Arthur quickly, fitting their mouths together in a possessive and brutal kiss, and Eames grinds his cock down against Arthur's briefs a few times.
“Take those off,” he growls, lifting his head. Arthur's tail flicks, betraying a hint of nerves, before he starts wriggling around under Eames and obeys. Eames' cock throbs at the thought of having Arthur under him like this, obeying him like this, and he has to force himself to remember that he's not with another werewolf; this isn't his show, and he cannot tie with Arthur again.
Arthur casts his briefs away and pushes a tube of lube into Eames' hand. Eames doesn't even know where it came from. He sits back and opens it, and Arthur lays back and watches, his tailtip tapping the bed nervously.
“You want it like this?” Eames asks. His voice is gravelly. Arthur nods. “On your back?”
“I don't want you playing with my tail,” Arthur says stiffly.
Eames has to admit, the temptation probably would be too great. “Alright,” he says. Gently, he lifts one of Arthur's legs under the knee and bends it toward his stomach. Arthur turns his head away, eyes closed and cheeks flushing pink, bared and vulnerable under Eames' hungry gaze.
“I don't think you'll fit,” he croaks out while Eames dribbles some lube down the crack of his ass and rubs it around his hole with a finger.
“We'll see.” With his finger nice and slick, Eames pushes it inside before Arthur can have any warning.
His tail bats the bed and it causes the most interesting sensation around Eames' finger, a little flex and squeeze of muscle. Arthur drags in a deep breath and Eames pushes in deeper, having to pause every time the tail lashes unhappily and causes another squeeze. He wonders what that will feel like around his dick, and resists the urge to withdraw his hand so that he can start jerking himself off.
“I've never done this with anyone else,” Arthur blurts out suddenly, his eyes still shut tight. “Only you.”
Eames' finger slides in the last little way, his knuckles flush against Arthur's ass. “Ah,” he says.
“Don't mistake me for some kind of slut just because I-I threw myself at you a couple times. Those were the only times I've ever-ah, fuck-”
Eames is starting to slide in a second finger. In the corner of his eye he sees Arthur's whole tail curl up stiffly and his muscles clench reflexively against Eames' hand. This is definitely not like the other times. He goes slow, slow.
He waits patiently, listening to Arthur gulp for breath, until Arthur's muscles ease their grip a little and Eames is able to slide his fingers out.
“You need a distraction, kitten,” he says. He tugs Arthur's tail straight and, before Arthur can snap at him, he leans down and takes Arthur's cock in his mouth. He doesn't do this frequently, but he knows the motions; he laps with his tongue and sucks Arthur down and Arthur's thighs quiver on either side of him.
“Eames,” he manages, and in response Eames pushes one finger back up inside him, gratified when Arthur's hole opens more easily around him. For a minute he just strokes, and sucks; and when Arthur seems close, he pulls back a bit and adds another finger. Arthur breathes raggedly through it, his body opening up to the intrusion in centimetres.
---
Words: ~850
Warnings: rimming.
+
“I want to try something,” Eames says. “Roll over.”
“No,” Arthur says, muffled in the arm he has slung over his face.
Eames scoops him around the waist and flips him over on his stomach easily. Arthur twists back onto his back as a reflex, with a hiss of protest.
“I said no.”
Eames huffs. “What's the matter?”
“If you want to fuck me again, you're just going to have to wait.”
“Who says I want to fuck you again?” Eames rubs his hand over Arthur's stomach for a moment before Arthur bats his hand away irritably. “Alright, I always want to fuck you again, but I want to do something different this time.”
Arthur deliberates. Eames looks earnest. Perhaps it wouldn't kill him this time to give Eames what he wants.
He sighs, and struggles for a moment to put words to his consternation. “Don't touch my tail.”
“Keep it out of my way, then,” says Eames.
Arthur rolls over slowly. Eames pats his hip wordlessly, and he rises onto his knees and elbows. His tail waves stiffly. He doesn't like this, isn't used to baring himself like this for someone else. He doesn't like how sensitive his tail is, how easy it would be for Eames to grab it and snap it in the middle, so much more breakable and vulnerable than a wrist or ankle. He spent all his youth denying the people who asked to see his tail so they could call him a freak. It's no problem for him to get on all fours with his legs spread like a whore when he's in heat and Eames is right there, but when he's in his right mind, he's ... protective.
He feels Eames' cheek brush gently against the lie of the fur in a nuzzle, and snaps his tail away.
“I said don't touch.”
“Alright, alright,” Eames says amiably. His hands squeeze Arthur's hips gently, then travel down to the cheeks of his ass. His thumbs knead gently, working in toward the centre where Arthur is still fucked-open and sore. He bites back a warning, forcing himself to trust Eames.
Just when Eames is thumbing a small circle around Arthur's clenching hole, he pulls his hands away. He spends a few moment fussing with the way Arthur is positioned, spreading his thighs as much as he can and hiking his hips up just a bit higher off the bed. Arthur rests his head on his folded arms with his eyes shut.
Eames' thumbs return to his ass, hands cupping and spreading his cheeks. Then, before Arthur knows what he's doing, Eames is lapping a stripe up the seam of his ass, right over his hole.
“Fuck!” Arthur jumps, his tail sticking up and bristling like a bottle-brush. “What are you doing?”
“You'll like this,” Eames says quickly, “I promise.”
Arthur goes still but growls, just to let Eames know how much he dislikes this idea. Eames leans down and lays a few grateful kisses along his spine, cheek brushing his tail again.
Then he pulls apart Arthur's cheeks again, enough to make his abused hole ache, and immediately starts soothing the hurt with long, lapping strokes of his tongue. Arthur's toes curl on the bed and his eyes squeeze shut. It feels unreal. Eames takes deep, steady breaths as he licks Arthur out, no doubt collecting any stray lube and come that have leaked out of him. His nose nudges the base of Arthur's tail with every lick.
He pauses, swirling his tongue slowly around the rim of the hole, and Arthur bites his tongue. Then, decisively, Eames presses a wet kiss there and licks into him, working his tongue deeper and deeper on every stroke.
“Fu-uck.” The word breaks as it leaves Arthur's throat in a groan. His muscles know how to react against an intruder like Eames' dick-clench down, push back against the invasion until Eames has to force his way in. Faced with Eames' steady, lapping tongue, Arthur's tight ring of muscle simply melts like butter, putting up no resistance against him.
“There we go,” Eames murmurs, drawing back to lay another kiss to Arthur's hole. “Knew you'd like it.”
“Fuck you,” Arthur wheezes out without much feeling, sinking bonelessly into the mattress. Eames chuckles and starts fucking his tongue in again, and again, easing all of his come out, and slowly Arthur's tail comes to rest wrapped around the back of his neck, drawing him in.
Arthur doesn't even realize he's hard again until Eames presses a last wet, sucking kiss there and rolls him over onto his back. His smile is entirely too smug.
“If you try to kiss me, I'll bite your throat out,” Arthur promises tiredly, and Eames laughs.
“I imagine you would,” he says, and swallows Arthur's cock down until he comes with a shout.
Arthur falls asleep on his belly that night, with his tail wound loosely around Eames' thigh. So much for self-preservation.