OT3, 1/1
Title: OT3
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2400
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sexual situations
Summary: Arthur, Eames, and the dog. [AU]
Author's Note: I couldn't help myself. I wrote a sequel to The Wingman. Could also be a fill for this prompt: To try and relieve some of the stress of their job, Eames and Arthur get a dog. However, it seems that whenever they try to have sex, he (or she) keeps wandering in and/or barking. Effectively cock-blocking.
Part two of the Wingman verse.
Eames' dog hates him.
Arthur has irrefutable proof.
Item One: Fixing him up with Eames in the first place. Yes, he blames the dog, and no, he doesn't consider this a favour. Yet.
Item Two: Eames has to cancel their first date, which Arthur had told himself over and over that he was not looking forward to or excited about at all, of course he wasn't; but even though he'd prepared himself for a let-down, this was still a disappointment, all the more so when Eames tells him that it's because Sam is sick. And Arthur had thought Sam was on his side.
Item Three: To make up for the lost date, Eames invites him over the next night to watch a movie. Arthur's nervous as hell but Eames is, as always, confident enough for both of them. He serves wine and by the time the movie's half over Arthur can't even remember the main character's name, because Eames keeps shooting him these smoky little glances, and it seems inevitable that they end up flat on the couch with Eames' hand dragging through Arthur's hair and their lips locked together--
And then there's a retching sound, and Sam is puking in the corner.
Eames doesn't even blink. Just climbs off the couch and hurries Sam outside to finish vomiting and starts cleaning up the carpet, in full dad mode. Arthur's still breathless and not entirely sure what's just happened.
“Bad dog,” he scowls when Eames lets the dog back inside. Sam gives him a woeful look and Eames pats him protectively.
“It's just the pills the vet gave him. He can't help having an upset tummy, Arthur,” he says, reproachful. “Can you, mate?”
Sam taps his tail sadly on the floor in response, and shoots another look at Arthur, and this time Arthur can see right through his sad-dog act. He's just been cockblocked by a dog.
+
It seems like every time they get around to kissing each other, or touching, or anything remotely suggestive, Sam decides that this-is-the-opportune-moment to jump onto the couch between them and start wriggling and licking and flinging spit. They meet outside Eames' house every morning so that Eames can hand over Sam's leash and send them on their daily jog, and when they lean in to share a kiss over the gate, Sam starts biting and wrestling with his leash impatiently.
At the end of the block, when Eames' house is out of sight, Arthur crouches down and grabs the dog around its bristly, whiskery muzzle.
“Three years, Sam,” he hisses. “Three years since I've been laid. That's as old as you are. I haven't had sex since you were born. And if you keep this up, I will kill you.”
Sam's tongue squirms out of his mouth and starts lapping at Arthur's fingers. Arthur pulls his hand back, revolted.
“Kill you,” he vows darkly.
Sam beams up at him and wags his tail, playing innocent.
Arthur hates dogs.
+
“You always dash straight home when you drop Sam off,” Eames says one day. “Why don't you have your coffee here?” His gaze rakes over Arthur in a way that would most definitely offend him if it were anybody else. Actually, it's somehow even more offensive coming from Eames. “You could always shower over here, too.”
It is definitely not the routine, but Arthur knows that if he keeps refusing, Eames will just come up with more and more schemes to push him out of his comfort zone. That's how he ends up stopping for coffee at Eames' house in the morning, and once he's done that a few times he starts finding plates of bacon and eggs and toast on the table, so he starts having breakfast there too; till eventually he does, indeed, end up showering. In Eames' house. With his clothes off.
It seems somehow racy and daring.
He has to wonder, as he lathers up, if Eames, still sitting at the kitchen table just down the hall, is listening to the shower and thinking about Arthur, naked, in his house. Which, naturally, leads to him looking around the shower, the shower where Eames showers every day, and imagining Eames in here. Showering. He can't help it -- it's been a long time. And he likes the mental image.
The fact that he's standing naked in the same spot where Eames also happens to stand naked should not be turning him on this much, but before he knows it he's reaching down to stroke himself quickly. It's been a really long time.
Eames' knock and voice startle him so badly he has to bite his lip to stifle a gasp.
“'Scuse. Just need to use the loo, won't be a second.”
“Sure,” Arthur manages to reply, affecting nonchalance. He hears Eames enter and is profoundly grateful for the curtain between them (or is he? he wonders wildly). His hand has stilled and he's sort of frozen, inexplicably awkward. Surely Eames could have waited another few minutes to use the toilet. But instead he's in here, standing just feet away from Arthur (who is still totally naked) and his pants are probably unzipped by now and Arthur has to reach for the tap to bring the temperature of the water down.
He should invite Eames to join him.
And if that isn't the most impulsive thought to have ever crossed his mind in his entire life, he doesn't know what is.
Once the idea's in there, though, it's infectious. It grips hold of him and paints the scene vividly in his mind's eye. Eames could be standing right there, just inches from his body, water rolling down his biceps and his throat for Arthur to lick away, down his chest and abdomen and--
He's gonna do it. The words are right there on his tongue. He practises different casual-sounding tones in his head. He waits just in case Eames is going to say something, first, because speaking at the same time would be too embarrassing, but he's definitely gonna say it -- just -- now--
And then he looks down and sees Sam's head sticking into the shower, tongue lapping stray water droplets from the faucet, but his eyes are fixed directly on Arthur. The expression on his face is distinctly wicked and says a thousand words. His voice in Arthur's head is British, like Eames', and dripping with sarcasm.
Oh. How embarrassing. I didn't realize there was anybody in here. Well, may as well ruin your fucking life while I'm here.
“Eames,” Arthur croaks, snatching his hand away from himself.
“Whoops. What've I told you about peeping, Sam?” Sam is scooped away, shooting Arthur one last gleeful look. The curtain falls back into place. “Sorry about that. You know how besotted he is with you, though. I can't blame him, I'd be in there myself if I could get away with it.”
“Sure,” says Arthur weakly.
“Continue your shower unmolested,” Eames says blithely on the other side of the curtain, and leaves.
+
Arthur tries a new tactic. He invites Eames over to his place.
Eames brings the dog.
“You brought the dog,” Arthur says.
“Of course I did.” Eames stoops down to unleash Sam. “He loves you. He flew into a jealous rage when I told him where I was going. Said the most wicked things about me, darling.”
“Of course he did,” says Arthur. Sam just blinks up at him with that laughing seal face and all Arthur can think of to say is, “If he pukes you're buying me a new rug.”
“Absolutely. Though I have his word that he won't be anything but a perfect gentleman.”
Arthur isn't quite brave enough to say, As long as you promise not to be a gentleman. Why can't he think of lines that actually sound sexy? Scratch that: why can't he be like Eames and make anything sound sexy? He feels like such a schoolgirl around him.
He hopes Sam will just fall asleep or something, but the first thing Sam does is run off and proceed to explore every nook and cranny of Arthur's house. The new environment has him just thrilled. It's hard to inject a feeling of romance into dinner when the dog is skidding past them with a grating clatter of nails on the hardwood every two seconds, since he decides he absolutely needs to run laps around the house like he's practising to chase hubcaps at the Sprint Cup this year. And this should exhaust him, but it doesn't.
“No dogs on the furniture,” Arthur says sharply, trying to settle down on the couch next to Eames, because Sam has just landed next to him. His face is split in a huge grin and his tongue lolls an inch from Arthur's face.
“Bless him, he likes it here,” says Eames.
He snaps his fingers and Sam jumps down. And then back up. And then onto the back of the couch. And then down behind the couch. Then he takes a flying leap and reappears on the cushion next to Arthur, clearing the back of the couch with room to spare.
“That's the terrier in him,” says Eames proudly.
Arthur has never noticed before that Sam apparently has wire springs instead of legs, but now it's all he can notice. They sit on the couch with wine and try to talk and the dog is sailing around the room the whole time using the couch as a springboard. He flies over the ottoman, over the couch's arms, and over Arthur.
When Eames finally convinces him to lie down, he flops right at their feet and pants and grins at them both, way too blissed out to take a nap and totally convinced that he's having the time of his life with his two best friends in a new fucking place that smells like Arthur everywhere, like life just doesn't get any more fucking exciting than this.
There's no way Arthur can get in the mood with the dog staring at them like that. No way. The heavy breathing coming from the floor is a considerable turn-off, too.
Eames kisses him goodnight before he leaves. Arthur is convinced his dick is going to fall off if his balls get any bluer than this.
And now there's hair all over his couch. He fucking hates dogs.
+
“Why?” he demands of Sam, when they jog the next morning and he takes a minute to walk. “Why are you doing this to me? Weren't you listening before? Three years.”
Sam's tongue lolls in his happy seal face.
“You wouldn't understand. You don't even have balls,” Arthur informs him nastily.
It feels like a low blow, but Sam takes it in his stride. Fuck dogs and their lack of sexual urges. Sam doesn't know what he's missing.
+
When it finally happens, and Eames is manhandling him towards the bedroom and there's kissing and roving hands, the first thing Arthur says when they pause for breath is, “I'm going to be late for work.”
I'm going to be late for work.
He does not even deserve to have sex.
Luckily, Eames just says patiently, “You can be late for once in your life, Arthur,” and kisses him again, and Arthur's relieved if only because he's been effectively shut up.
They collapse onto Eames' bed. Arthur's just come out of the shower and his hair falls around his head in a damp halo. Eames runs his fingers through it again and again, while Arthur reaches down for his pants and starts tugging at them, forcing the zip open so he can shove his hand under the waistband of Eames' boxers. Eames groans deliciously, head falling forward to land on Arthur's shoulder, arches his back and pushes his hips forward into Arthur's hand. Arthur squeezes and tugs, loving the girth of him, completely fucking breathless with anticipation. He's never wanted anything so bad in his life. More than his car, more than his promotion at work, he just wants Eames to fuck him. Again and again.
He's so close he can almost feel Eames' cock buried in his ass and their clothes aren't even off yet, when he feels something else entirely. It's a tongue. In his ear. It's not Eames'.
He flails and ends up smacking Sam across the head. Eames looks up at the violent motion and Sam just blinks and licks his own nose.
“Bugger off, you,” Eames starts to say -- or something close to that -- Arthur can't be sure, because that's the moment when he just fucking explodes:
“For fuck's sake, Sam!”
The dog's ears droop abruptly.
“Why can't you leave us alone for five fucking minutes! Why?” Arthur begs him, and he'd go on, too, but Sam has turned and is slinking off the bed to hide out underneath it.
Eames is quivering with barely-suppressed laughter.
“Are you not into exhibitionism, darling?” he manages to get out.
“I can't do this in front of your dog,” Arthur says helplessly. “And he keeps doing it.”
“He's a dog, Arthur. They pester. They're like toddlers.”
“He hates me.”
“He loves you!” says Eames, looking genuinely surprised.
“I suppose he's told you so himself?” Arthur suggests resentfully.
“Of course he has. He only pulls out all the stops for the boys he really likes.” And Eames leans down and kisses him again, more slowly now. “He's just not used to sharing me. He hasn't had to do this for awhile.”
“Oh,” Arthur mutters. He supposes, grudgingly, that the dog was here first.
“Tell you what,” says Eames, sitting back. “We call this Sam's territory for now. But after work today, I'm going to show up at your house -- alone -- and I'm going to shag you into next week. No interruptions. We can even unplug the phone in case Sam gets any ideas. He's a very schematical mastermind when it comes to cockblocking.”
“Does he do this to all your boyfriends?” Arthur asks breathlessly, after Eames has kissed him again.
“No, no. Only you,” says Eames, with a self-satisfied smile. He winks. “I think he can sense he's going to have to share with you for a long time, darling.”
sequel
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~2400
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sexual situations
Summary: Arthur, Eames, and the dog. [AU]
Author's Note: I couldn't help myself. I wrote a sequel to The Wingman. Could also be a fill for this prompt: To try and relieve some of the stress of their job, Eames and Arthur get a dog. However, it seems that whenever they try to have sex, he (or she) keeps wandering in and/or barking. Effectively cock-blocking.
Part two of the Wingman verse.
Eames' dog hates him.
Arthur has irrefutable proof.
Item One: Fixing him up with Eames in the first place. Yes, he blames the dog, and no, he doesn't consider this a favour. Yet.
Item Two: Eames has to cancel their first date, which Arthur had told himself over and over that he was not looking forward to or excited about at all, of course he wasn't; but even though he'd prepared himself for a let-down, this was still a disappointment, all the more so when Eames tells him that it's because Sam is sick. And Arthur had thought Sam was on his side.
Item Three: To make up for the lost date, Eames invites him over the next night to watch a movie. Arthur's nervous as hell but Eames is, as always, confident enough for both of them. He serves wine and by the time the movie's half over Arthur can't even remember the main character's name, because Eames keeps shooting him these smoky little glances, and it seems inevitable that they end up flat on the couch with Eames' hand dragging through Arthur's hair and their lips locked together--
And then there's a retching sound, and Sam is puking in the corner.
Eames doesn't even blink. Just climbs off the couch and hurries Sam outside to finish vomiting and starts cleaning up the carpet, in full dad mode. Arthur's still breathless and not entirely sure what's just happened.
“Bad dog,” he scowls when Eames lets the dog back inside. Sam gives him a woeful look and Eames pats him protectively.
“It's just the pills the vet gave him. He can't help having an upset tummy, Arthur,” he says, reproachful. “Can you, mate?”
Sam taps his tail sadly on the floor in response, and shoots another look at Arthur, and this time Arthur can see right through his sad-dog act. He's just been cockblocked by a dog.
+
It seems like every time they get around to kissing each other, or touching, or anything remotely suggestive, Sam decides that this-is-the-opportune-moment to jump onto the couch between them and start wriggling and licking and flinging spit. They meet outside Eames' house every morning so that Eames can hand over Sam's leash and send them on their daily jog, and when they lean in to share a kiss over the gate, Sam starts biting and wrestling with his leash impatiently.
At the end of the block, when Eames' house is out of sight, Arthur crouches down and grabs the dog around its bristly, whiskery muzzle.
“Three years, Sam,” he hisses. “Three years since I've been laid. That's as old as you are. I haven't had sex since you were born. And if you keep this up, I will kill you.”
Sam's tongue squirms out of his mouth and starts lapping at Arthur's fingers. Arthur pulls his hand back, revolted.
“Kill you,” he vows darkly.
Sam beams up at him and wags his tail, playing innocent.
Arthur hates dogs.
+
“You always dash straight home when you drop Sam off,” Eames says one day. “Why don't you have your coffee here?” His gaze rakes over Arthur in a way that would most definitely offend him if it were anybody else. Actually, it's somehow even more offensive coming from Eames. “You could always shower over here, too.”
It is definitely not the routine, but Arthur knows that if he keeps refusing, Eames will just come up with more and more schemes to push him out of his comfort zone. That's how he ends up stopping for coffee at Eames' house in the morning, and once he's done that a few times he starts finding plates of bacon and eggs and toast on the table, so he starts having breakfast there too; till eventually he does, indeed, end up showering. In Eames' house. With his clothes off.
It seems somehow racy and daring.
He has to wonder, as he lathers up, if Eames, still sitting at the kitchen table just down the hall, is listening to the shower and thinking about Arthur, naked, in his house. Which, naturally, leads to him looking around the shower, the shower where Eames showers every day, and imagining Eames in here. Showering. He can't help it -- it's been a long time. And he likes the mental image.
The fact that he's standing naked in the same spot where Eames also happens to stand naked should not be turning him on this much, but before he knows it he's reaching down to stroke himself quickly. It's been a really long time.
Eames' knock and voice startle him so badly he has to bite his lip to stifle a gasp.
“'Scuse. Just need to use the loo, won't be a second.”
“Sure,” Arthur manages to reply, affecting nonchalance. He hears Eames enter and is profoundly grateful for the curtain between them (or is he? he wonders wildly). His hand has stilled and he's sort of frozen, inexplicably awkward. Surely Eames could have waited another few minutes to use the toilet. But instead he's in here, standing just feet away from Arthur (who is still totally naked) and his pants are probably unzipped by now and Arthur has to reach for the tap to bring the temperature of the water down.
He should invite Eames to join him.
And if that isn't the most impulsive thought to have ever crossed his mind in his entire life, he doesn't know what is.
Once the idea's in there, though, it's infectious. It grips hold of him and paints the scene vividly in his mind's eye. Eames could be standing right there, just inches from his body, water rolling down his biceps and his throat for Arthur to lick away, down his chest and abdomen and--
He's gonna do it. The words are right there on his tongue. He practises different casual-sounding tones in his head. He waits just in case Eames is going to say something, first, because speaking at the same time would be too embarrassing, but he's definitely gonna say it -- just -- now--
And then he looks down and sees Sam's head sticking into the shower, tongue lapping stray water droplets from the faucet, but his eyes are fixed directly on Arthur. The expression on his face is distinctly wicked and says a thousand words. His voice in Arthur's head is British, like Eames', and dripping with sarcasm.
Oh. How embarrassing. I didn't realize there was anybody in here. Well, may as well ruin your fucking life while I'm here.
“Eames,” Arthur croaks, snatching his hand away from himself.
“Whoops. What've I told you about peeping, Sam?” Sam is scooped away, shooting Arthur one last gleeful look. The curtain falls back into place. “Sorry about that. You know how besotted he is with you, though. I can't blame him, I'd be in there myself if I could get away with it.”
“Sure,” says Arthur weakly.
“Continue your shower unmolested,” Eames says blithely on the other side of the curtain, and leaves.
+
Arthur tries a new tactic. He invites Eames over to his place.
Eames brings the dog.
“You brought the dog,” Arthur says.
“Of course I did.” Eames stoops down to unleash Sam. “He loves you. He flew into a jealous rage when I told him where I was going. Said the most wicked things about me, darling.”
“Of course he did,” says Arthur. Sam just blinks up at him with that laughing seal face and all Arthur can think of to say is, “If he pukes you're buying me a new rug.”
“Absolutely. Though I have his word that he won't be anything but a perfect gentleman.”
Arthur isn't quite brave enough to say, As long as you promise not to be a gentleman. Why can't he think of lines that actually sound sexy? Scratch that: why can't he be like Eames and make anything sound sexy? He feels like such a schoolgirl around him.
He hopes Sam will just fall asleep or something, but the first thing Sam does is run off and proceed to explore every nook and cranny of Arthur's house. The new environment has him just thrilled. It's hard to inject a feeling of romance into dinner when the dog is skidding past them with a grating clatter of nails on the hardwood every two seconds, since he decides he absolutely needs to run laps around the house like he's practising to chase hubcaps at the Sprint Cup this year. And this should exhaust him, but it doesn't.
“No dogs on the furniture,” Arthur says sharply, trying to settle down on the couch next to Eames, because Sam has just landed next to him. His face is split in a huge grin and his tongue lolls an inch from Arthur's face.
“Bless him, he likes it here,” says Eames.
He snaps his fingers and Sam jumps down. And then back up. And then onto the back of the couch. And then down behind the couch. Then he takes a flying leap and reappears on the cushion next to Arthur, clearing the back of the couch with room to spare.
“That's the terrier in him,” says Eames proudly.
Arthur has never noticed before that Sam apparently has wire springs instead of legs, but now it's all he can notice. They sit on the couch with wine and try to talk and the dog is sailing around the room the whole time using the couch as a springboard. He flies over the ottoman, over the couch's arms, and over Arthur.
When Eames finally convinces him to lie down, he flops right at their feet and pants and grins at them both, way too blissed out to take a nap and totally convinced that he's having the time of his life with his two best friends in a new fucking place that smells like Arthur everywhere, like life just doesn't get any more fucking exciting than this.
There's no way Arthur can get in the mood with the dog staring at them like that. No way. The heavy breathing coming from the floor is a considerable turn-off, too.
Eames kisses him goodnight before he leaves. Arthur is convinced his dick is going to fall off if his balls get any bluer than this.
And now there's hair all over his couch. He fucking hates dogs.
+
“Why?” he demands of Sam, when they jog the next morning and he takes a minute to walk. “Why are you doing this to me? Weren't you listening before? Three years.”
Sam's tongue lolls in his happy seal face.
“You wouldn't understand. You don't even have balls,” Arthur informs him nastily.
It feels like a low blow, but Sam takes it in his stride. Fuck dogs and their lack of sexual urges. Sam doesn't know what he's missing.
+
When it finally happens, and Eames is manhandling him towards the bedroom and there's kissing and roving hands, the first thing Arthur says when they pause for breath is, “I'm going to be late for work.”
I'm going to be late for work.
He does not even deserve to have sex.
Luckily, Eames just says patiently, “You can be late for once in your life, Arthur,” and kisses him again, and Arthur's relieved if only because he's been effectively shut up.
They collapse onto Eames' bed. Arthur's just come out of the shower and his hair falls around his head in a damp halo. Eames runs his fingers through it again and again, while Arthur reaches down for his pants and starts tugging at them, forcing the zip open so he can shove his hand under the waistband of Eames' boxers. Eames groans deliciously, head falling forward to land on Arthur's shoulder, arches his back and pushes his hips forward into Arthur's hand. Arthur squeezes and tugs, loving the girth of him, completely fucking breathless with anticipation. He's never wanted anything so bad in his life. More than his car, more than his promotion at work, he just wants Eames to fuck him. Again and again.
He's so close he can almost feel Eames' cock buried in his ass and their clothes aren't even off yet, when he feels something else entirely. It's a tongue. In his ear. It's not Eames'.
He flails and ends up smacking Sam across the head. Eames looks up at the violent motion and Sam just blinks and licks his own nose.
“Bugger off, you,” Eames starts to say -- or something close to that -- Arthur can't be sure, because that's the moment when he just fucking explodes:
“For fuck's sake, Sam!”
The dog's ears droop abruptly.
“Why can't you leave us alone for five fucking minutes! Why?” Arthur begs him, and he'd go on, too, but Sam has turned and is slinking off the bed to hide out underneath it.
Eames is quivering with barely-suppressed laughter.
“Are you not into exhibitionism, darling?” he manages to get out.
“I can't do this in front of your dog,” Arthur says helplessly. “And he keeps doing it.”
“He's a dog, Arthur. They pester. They're like toddlers.”
“He hates me.”
“He loves you!” says Eames, looking genuinely surprised.
“I suppose he's told you so himself?” Arthur suggests resentfully.
“Of course he has. He only pulls out all the stops for the boys he really likes.” And Eames leans down and kisses him again, more slowly now. “He's just not used to sharing me. He hasn't had to do this for awhile.”
“Oh,” Arthur mutters. He supposes, grudgingly, that the dog was here first.
“Tell you what,” says Eames, sitting back. “We call this Sam's territory for now. But after work today, I'm going to show up at your house -- alone -- and I'm going to shag you into next week. No interruptions. We can even unplug the phone in case Sam gets any ideas. He's a very schematical mastermind when it comes to cockblocking.”
“Does he do this to all your boyfriends?” Arthur asks breathlessly, after Eames has kissed him again.
“No, no. Only you,” says Eames, with a self-satisfied smile. He winks. “I think he can sense he's going to have to share with you for a long time, darling.”
sequel