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Faith in Aberrations

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“One of these days,” Eames announces, “I’m doing this with nothing but my mouth.”

Above him, Arthur’s rhythm stutters. Eames smiles, smoothing both hands over the sweaty curve of his back to rest on his hips.

“I won’t have a condom on,” he murmurs, pausing to kiss the taste of himself from Arthur’s swollen lips, loving the way Arthur’s mouth automatically comes open for him, the broken little sound he utters when Eames draws back, “and I’ll come in you like that and then eat you out so slowly, sweetheart, so fucking slowly you won’t know what to do with yourself. You’ll be sensitive from getting fucked so hard, but you’ll let me do it anyway, let me just hold you open and lick up into you until you’re trembling for it. And you’ll try to tell yourself you shouldn’t like it but you will, I know it, since you love having me in you and you just can’t help yourself. Isn’t that right?”

Eames has always been a talker. He knows Arthur is used to him saying things in the heat of the moment, but this time there’s a tremor in Arthur’s muscles and an alarmed look in his eyes indicating he’s acutely aware Eames is deadly serious about every last word.

“And I’d keep at it for such a long time,” Eames tells him, voice gone rough, both his hands still stroking over Arthur’s narrow hips. “Until you’re crying to get fucked all over again, until you can’t even imagine telling me to stop. I’d have you on your hands and knees so you couldn’t rub one out against the mattress because I know you’d be good for me and not touch yourself if I told you not to. I’d spread you nice and wide, have you ride that pretty arse back and fuck yourself on my tongue, get you all wet and dripping for it.”

“Fucker.” Arthur’s voice is strained as he rides down onto him, pulling Eames’s hands from his hips and bearing forward to pin them to the bed on either side of his head. “H-harder, dammit—let me—Eamesplease, come the fuck on.”

“Just like that, yeah,” Eames breathes, losing half the words when he curves up to take Arthur’s mouth all over again, tongue pressing deep. “You know I love having you beg for something inside you, anything, just to fill you up and make you come. And then,” he licks a bead of sweat from Arthur’s temple, “if you’re a very, very nice little boy for me, maybe I’d even let you have what you want.”

Arthur’s face goes beautifully slack. “Fuck, you can’t just--ah,” and Eames fucking loves the way Arthur’s tight little arse contracts around the width of his cock, taking every centimeter of him like he’ll never get the chance again. “Can’t—Jesusfuck, please—can’t keep…”

He’s close, Eames can tell, his erection wet and throbbing against his stomach, body a sinful arch of flesh and muscle as he leans in, fingers twining together. “Can’t keep talking like that,” Arthur gasps against his jaw, crimson-cheeked.

Since he’s a contrary son of a bitch, Eames just slows his pace, indolently pumping his hips until Arthur’s thighs are shaking from holding himself up and sinking down to meet each thrust Eames gives him.

Eames bites just below his collarbone, nips up his throat, nudges Arthur’s head back so he can kiss the underside of his chin and suck there just short of hard enough to mark him. “Why not?” Arthur lets him go with one hand, pretty fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, slippery from precome and Eames’s mouth. “It feels wonderful,” Eames says, low and full of promise. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

“That’s very gallant, but still.” Arthur isn’t prissy, but he does have his preferences. Eames fucks him bare on occasion, but Arthur keeps putting off rimming since he’s never done it before. Eames finds this deeply tragic, but Arthur’s been very frank about being a little unsure on that front.

To Eames, that just makes it even more tragic. Arthur is generally very amenable to new things, but this is one line he’s drawn and been reluctant to budge.

Eames runs a finger against the edge of his hole, pressing as if to ease it into him alongside his cock. Arthur hisses and grinds down instinctively, heedless, proving Eames’s point without even realizing it. “Think of everything you’ve had inside you, love; how is this any different?”

“It’s your mouth,” Arthur hisses, never one to back down from an argument no matter how ill-timed. “Completely d—” And Eames jars up into him, hard and frantic, wriggling that finger up into Arthur’s slick, stretched arse.

It’s all he needs to have Arthur coming with a shocked little groan, spattering Eames’s chest and clamping tight and silken and perfect around him as he collapses, milking him dry when Eames lets himself follow a minute later. Eames is fairly sure Arthur calls him a cheater and definitely sure he doesn’t give a damn.

There isn’t much that has Arthur hesitating and faltering like a virgin. Eames privately finds it charming that someone who’s led a life as eventful as Arthur’s can still be so sweetly squeamish about certain things. And all the same, he’d writhed and spread his legs and demanded more the first time Eames fucked him without a condom, a reaction Eames plans to take and run with for all he’s worth.

It’s not something they do often, out of practicality, and not something they’ve been doing for long, since they both took a ridiculous amount of time before deciding to admit they’d somehow fallen into a monogamous, cohabiting sort of relationship and might as well cop to it and reap all the benefits. Getting there had been a journey all on its own.

That first time had been worth every second of hell they’d put each other through. Eames had nearly gone cross-eyed watching the thin trickle of come dripping out of him, holding Arthur’s thighs up and apart so he couldn’t draw himself closed or cover himself, letting him whine and writhe in embarrassment. Panting and pink as Eames hummed soothing nothings at him, telling him how amazing he looked that way, how much he loved seeing Arthur lose control. He’d kissed him everywhere, then: his mouth, his ankle, up his thigh, aching to dip his head between his legs for a taste. That had ended badly, with Arthur yelping and rolling over once he realized what was on Eames’s mind, catching him in the jaw with one of his heels in his haste.

Eames really did go cross-eyed for a bit then. Fortunately, Arthur had been too discomfited to hold it over him.

“We could dream it beforehand,” he suggests, walking his fingers down Arthur’s ribs until they’re skimming along the trail of hair below his navel. The two of them are splayed side by side, Eames on his belly, Arthur on his back, exchanging idle little touches as the ceiling fan twirls overhead. “That might be better, even, if you’re more comfortable with it. And I could even make my tongue a little longer, lick all the way up until I reach right there,” he lowers his voice, crooking two fingers up inside Arthur’s come-slick hole and stroking his prostate, “and make you come for me just from that.”

Arthur’s face tenses, but his knees bend obligingly, letting Eames press and touch. His body tightens even more to keep Eames’s fingers inside when he turns and faces him, a hand moving between his legs to stay him, and Eames knows he’s staring at Arthur with the most stupidly adoring look on his face but he just can’t make himself mind it.

“Maybe,” Arthur murmurs, short of breath, tongue slipping into Eames’s mouth to curl and lick and taste. “Maybe some other time.”

With sex, Arthur likes to try new things in reality before dreams. Once, Eames would have chalked it up to Arthur being a bit of a bore, but now he knows better and might even be inclined to believe there’s a bit of a romantic in him instead. They haven’t mentioned it, but Eames is willing to bet Arthur thinks doing unspeakably obscene things to each other while awake is more visceral, more significant, which Eames supposes is true. Quaint, but true. He doubts Arthur will ever admit to it, which makes it even better.

“So does that mean…?” Eames draws out his fingers, white-coated, and moves down the bed to lap along the soft flesh of Arthur’s inner thigh.

“Fine.” The word rushes out of Arthur like a gust of wind, so unexpected it makes Eames’s skin tingle. Then he gives a little tug at Eames’s hair to bring him back up to eye level. “But not now. Not until I’m clean.”

Eames knits his brows. “We both saw the test results last month. I know you are.”

Arthur flushes and fidgets, but his voice is steady. “Not that kind of clean, Eames.”

“Oh.” Even now, Eames still has to remind himself not to underestimate Arthur’s boundless capacity to surprise him. “Well.”

Arthur kisses him on the nose. “I need to get straightened up,” he says brightly, and slides off the bed, cheerful as can be about rendering Eames speechless. Bastard.

Just to have the last word, however belatedly, Eames gives him a slap on the arse. “Good luck with that.”

Arthur mutters something impolite about Eames’s mother and manages to walk out of the room with dignity anyway. Eames is half tempted to chase him down and make him come undone all over again.


It’s very strange living in the same space as Arthur like this. Strange, but nice. Eames, thanks to both his self-preservation and his long and ignominious career, isn’t used to having someone to come home to. There’s so much about it that’s new to him. He’s constantly relishing all the little things he learns about Arthur, cataloguing each one of his quirks and partialities that come to light.

This is peculiar in and of itself. When Eames gathers up details of a person’s life, it’s normally so he can use them to bring about that person’s destruction, definitely not because he cares.

Arthur, Eames knows now, has half a dozen pairs of his favorite boots in case they end up getting ruined or lost or somehow become impossible to replace. He can’t stand the smell of cabbage, garlic, or patchouli. He’s an American to his fingertips and still bitches incessantly about Brits and their backwards driving as if he expects everything to warp itself to his own expectations if he just frets about it enough. Too much time spent dreaming will do that to a man.

Eames, God have mercy on his soul, is hopelessly infatuated with him.

Arthur’s request comes up again when Eames is preparing to sit in on a chemical engineering seminar and monitor the keynote speaker, since he’s been recruited to help expose his dodgy past. Or at least fabricate enough evidence to make it look as if he’s had one.

When Eames stops him to ask about dinner, Arthur’s on his way out the door to drop off the dry cleaning. Eames still isn’t used to how fascinating it is seeing Arthur doing something so commonplace, even though their dry cleaner of choice is a woman Eames met after getting recommendations for businesses that would be discreet about removing blood and repairing other unconventional damages. “I can make a proper grocery run over the weekend,” he says, “but if you’ll just pick up a few things that strike your fancy while you’re out, I’ll throw something together for this evening.”

“Is there anything you’re dying to eat?” asks Arthur, distractedly tugging a shirt back onto its hanger.

It’s too easy. Eames can’t resist giving him a leer.

Arthur gets a bit flustered from there, glaring and tensing with such delectable indignation that Eames can’t help but feel a little bad for him.

“You know that isn’t always a necessary procedure, right?”

“Yeah. I did some reading.” Of course he did. Eames feels a surge of affection. “It just…I think I’d feel better about letting you…” Arthur gives an ambiguous waggle of his fingers.

“Letting me what?” Eames presses merrily.

“You know what.”

“Put my tongue up your pretty arse? Is that what you mean?” He leans in, kissing him on the cheek, maneuvering Arthur’s back to the wall so he can wedge a thigh between his legs and enjoy the way he squirms. It shouldn’t turn Eames’s crank as much as it does, the way Arthur still manages to find things to be embarrassed about after everything else they’ve done together. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

The dry cleaning ends up in a heap on the floor so Arthur can grip a double handful of Eames’s jacket. “Just shut up.” And the next thing Eames knows, Arthur’s wrenching him in to slide a kiss against his mouth and both arms around his neck. Eames rhythmically rides his thigh into Arthur’s groin all the while, feeling how diligently he tries not to give in and rut against it.

Now, while he has his palms on the seat of Arthur’s jeans and his lips on his ear, is as good a time as any to hash out the details. “Would you want a hand with it or am I better off leaving you to your own devices?”

“Have you done it before?” Arthur asks after a moment’s hesitation. He dips his lashes, averting Eames’s gaze with genuine reserve, not the false coyness it would look like on most people.

Eames cups his chin. “Done what?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” snaps Arthur, “now stop being so goddamn obtuse.”

“If you can’t even say the word, maybe you shouldn’t be doing it at all.”

Arthur shakes free of him and starts pulling garments off the floor. “Given an enema. Have you ever?” He sounds casual, but Eames can’t see his face as he bends to gather up the clothes again.

“No,” he admits. “But you’re not the only one who can read up on things.”

Arthur rises. “I want you there.” He’s plain-spoken and serious, standing there with his arms full of the gloriously mundane portion of their commingled lives—suits and dress shirts and the silk pajama bottoms Eames adores and Arthur is baffled by because he’s a déclassé twat who can’t understand the point of sleepwear that has to be dry cleaned.

“Is that…okay?” asks Arthur.

“Whatever you want,” Eames tells him, “is more than okay.”

Arthur graces him with a slight smile. Sometimes Eames thinks he would promise him anything.


Later that week, Eames is leaving from a long, dull lunch meeting with a client when he gets a text from Arthur asking if he’s finished yet. Once Eames responds in the affirmative, Arthur messages him back right away.

I’ll be ready then. If you are.

Eames knows he must reply to that but he isn’t sure it’s in any language known to homo sapiens. It doesn’t occur to him until later that Arthur might be referring to something like wallpapering the dining room or alphabetizing Eames’s cufflink collection by designer. All he knows is that by the time he gets home Arthur’s waiting by the door and trying, very staunchly, to look like he hasn’t been waiting by the door.

“Hello there.” He sheds his jacket, taking his time with it just to watch Arthur practically crackle with barely suppressed energy. “You were saying?”

Arthur is looking a little nervous and a little defensive, standing there in an undershirt and navy blue boxer briefs, but he still shows no second thoughts whatsoever about coming right up to Eames and kissing him. Slow and deep, letting Eames grope him through the butter-soft fabric of his underwear. “I was, yeah.” His fingers are already picking apart the knot of Eames’s tie. “Upstairs.”

In the bathroom, there’s no trace of imminent wallpapering to be found. True to form, Arthur’s set up everything himself. Eames’s gaze immediately goes to the bag hanging over the doorknob, his face just as immediately settling into a neutral expression so Arthur doesn’t catch him frowning. It seems very sterile and staid and Eames tries not to be apprehensive about it all. Arthur likes neatness, he likes order, he likes making plans he can rely on. Eames shouldn’t have any reservations about letting him carry them out.

“I can manage it on my own if you’d rather not.” Arthur sounds too casual, as if he’s plucked the doubt whole from Eames’s mind. Hair in disarray, small rueful smile on his face. Eames can hardly believe he’s thirty sometimes.

Suddenly, it all seems so stupid. This is Arthur asking for something and Eames giving it to him. They’ve leveled cities at each other’s sides, or at least gone down trying. This is nothing. “If it involves your bum,” Eames says firmly, “then I’m onboard. When are you going to learn this?”

He hauls Arthur in for another kiss, slipping a hand down the front of his underwear to cup him this time, fingers closing around a handful of warm, smooth flesh that has Arthur humming his gratitude and dragging his shirt over his head. His hips are already pressing forward, short little thrusts into Eames’s hand, and Eames isn’t so unkind as to make him keep his clothes on at a time like this. But when he draws the pants off Arthur’s hips, there’s not a trace of hair around his cock, balls, nowhere. Just the usual path of it leading to his prick, then nothing.

Eames swallows. “You—”

“I told you, I’m ready,” Arthur says simply.

“We’re not filming porn here, darling.” But he keeps touching, rubbing the flat of his finger down between his cheeks, circling against his arsehole. He’s starting to wonder how far Arthur’s ideas of cleanliness go and whether they’re all this intriguing.

Arthur sighs, spreading his legs enough for Eames to press the very tip inward, just slightly. “Maybe next time.”

Eames can’t help but steal another glance at the door. The bag looks absurdly big and Arthur, still pressed full-length against him, is only human. “So. The whole thing, then?” He doubts Arthur could take it, slim as he is. It doesn’t help that Eames came across some fairly horrific anecdotes when doing some research of his own.

“Fuck, no. Four liters the first time?” Arthur grimaces. “Not likely. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Sorted. But just…right here?” It seems awfully ill-mannered, having him lie on a few folded towels right there on the floor.

Arthur looks amused, then rubs the pad of his thumb along Eames’s jaw and kisses him. “Some other time, we can have all the candles and rose petals you want.” He’s using that tone of his that’s somewhere between sardonic and sincere. “This can be before or after we make porn.”

“I’m not picky,” Eames says. “All three together is also a possibility.”

“Just remember to go slowly or I’ll cramp and this won’t be fun for anyone.”

Romance has never been Arthur’s strong suit. Eames wouldn’t have him any other way. “Shut up and get on your knees.”

Arthur dimples. “If I had a nickel for—”

Eames lifts the end of the hose and Arthur does as he’s told.


It’s easy at first, kissing him and fingering him to start things off and get Arthur relatively relaxed, then having him take his place on the floor. Eames layers another towel on top of the bathmat to soften it up, which is about as comfortable as this is going to get. By the time he’s nudging the nozzle into him, Arthur is pink-eared and biting the inside of his cheek.

Slowly, he lets it slip inside him slightly deeper. They’ve barely begun at all and Eames is already making a bit of an idiot of himself, he’s sure, pausing every other moment to ask how it feels, if it’s too much, if he needs to stop, and Arthur is swallowing and clutching at the flesh of his own arms and swearing he can take more. Face burrowing into the towels, arse in the air. He even lets Eames reach up to stroke his hair once the end of the tube is fully inserted, but the way he trembles when Eames turns the valve at the other end of it doesn’t inspire any confidence at all.

Eames sputters. “Fuck, sorry, are you—?”

“Just keep it gradual.” Arthur whispers, lifting his head. Even with the lines marring his forehead, he looks far more composed than Eames feels. “Stop and start when I tell you, baby, that’s all you have to worry about.”

Even the endearment doesn’t convince him completely. “You can’t possibly—you’re shaking like a bloody leaf,” Eames argues, watching as Arthur gingerly shifts onto his side, all lowered lashes and measured breathing.

One of Arthur’s hands creeps across the floor to seek out his own. “Yeah, it feels kind of strange right now, but that’s to be expected. I’m not used to this, you know?”

Eames would unquestionably be more disconcerted if he was.

Little by little, Eames feels himself unwind as Arthur does, rubbing carefully over his abdomen as he’s filled, marveling at the way his body eases to take it in. It isn’t as odd as he expected, though he most likely can’t say the same for Arthur.

“What’s it like?” he can’t resist asking when they reach enough of a rhythm to settle down a bit. Arthur is still lying on the floor, one leg drawn in and his head in Eames’s lap as Eames sits cross-legged by the door.

Arthur grunts and tightens his hold on Eames’s hand as the other rolls along his stomach. “Intimate. That’s a good word for it. Intimate with a healthy dose of demeaning.” After a minute, he quietly adds, “This is gonna sound stupid, but I like when you look out for me.”

Eames’s heart does a somersault. “You certainly can’t always be trusted to look out for yourself.”

Against his thigh, Arthur gives a snort and actually seems to rest, a palm splayed over his middle.

It’s a bit dull in the bathroom with nothing else occupying Eames’s time, especially once they fall into a regular system of stopping and starting and touching. “Maybe we should’ve gotten some music for this,” he muses. “I didn’t have time to make a playlist on such short notice.”

“Please don’t make one anyway,” Arthur mumbles grimly, and kisses his wrist. “I don’t want to know what you’d put on it.”

Eames concedes that point and keeps stroking over his stomach, now and then reaching far enough to run his fingertips up the insides of Arthur’s spread thighs, the smooth skin of his balls, but never quite touching the nozzle or his cock no matter how nicely Arthur sighs and arches for him. There’s something about the vulnerability of it all, the patience involved, the way Arthur looks up at him and says, “I make you jump through a lot of hoops, don’t I?”

“I was quite acrobatic in my day. Wouldn’t want to completely fall out of practice.”

“Hey, you’re still acrobatic when it counts.” It’s bizarre, bantering on the bathroom floor like this is no big deal. Eames has to remind himself again that, compared to some of the other situations they’ve gotten into, it really isn’t.


Eventually, the conversation trails off. Arthur’s face grows lined, his eyes slide shut, and his body tenses up even though Eames massages his temples, his stomach, pressing a hand flat to his belly to keep him from squirming where he lies. Arthur doesn’t utter a word about reaching the end of his capability, but it can’t be long in coming. And Eames, as ever, is able to talk enough for the both of them.

He keeps doing what he’s been doing, kneading soothing circles on Arthur’s abdomen, clucking over him in ways Arthur would never normally stand for. “Ease up for me, can you do that? You’re so lovely like this, taking everything in for me, letting me take care of you.” Arthur can take care of himself and they both know it, but that he lets Eames do it for him anyway speaks volumes. “Doing fine, darling, let me handle it, you just tell me whatever it is you need and I’ll do it for you.”

Arthur, by now, is dry-lipped and breathing so hard he’s practically panting, flushed and fitful and almost feverish, nipples hard little nubs on his pale chest. Eames kisses them softly, shifting to do the same to his mouth, his forehead, his closed eyes.

“You don’t have to—” Arthur starts, and Eames can just tell he’s about to say something stupid and unnecessary.

“Hush, sweetheart, it’s fine. Don’t be an idiot. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. You know I’ll give you whatever you need, all you have to do is ask.”

“I do know.” Arthur squeezes his hand, a hard spasm of fingers. “Oh. Fuck.”

“You’ve done so well,” Eames reassures him, daring to kiss the crest of his stomach, nuzzling at his half-erect cock, pausing when Arthur’s breath hitches wetly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not that.” There’s a long pause as Arthur swallows a few times. “I…I think I should stop.”

Eames presses a kiss against his temple. “Are you sure? You’ve managed beautifully so far, can’t you take just a little more? And look at how full you are.” His voice is low, all breathlessness and undisguised wonder when he molds a palm along the shape of Arthur’s belly. “So considerate, getting yourself so clean for me. Gonna fuck you until you can’t see straight when we’re done here, just wait.”

On the floor, Arthur writhes faintly and Eames has a hunch it isn’t from humiliation. “You feel all right, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it—it just feels strange. Not bad, but…full.” Arthur gives a laugh, but it’s weak, as though he doesn’t trust himself to make any sudden sounds or movements. “No one else has ever gotten me to…I mean, I don’t think I even would.”

He makes a vague gesture, curving his back and pushing into Eames’s hand when he kneads a little more firmly. “All of this…it’s all because of you.”

By now, Eames can’t tell if this is more about fastidiousness or foreplay. Arthur’s taken in over half the full enema bag; there are two bright spots in his cheeks and the towels beneath him are bunched from where he’s been seizing hold of them. Eames grazes his lips against Arthur’s forehead once more, watching attentively for the first signs of his crumbling resolve. He actually succeeds at holding out for a few more minutes—longer than Eames expected, considering how anxious he’d sounded before.

This time, Arthur sounds almost serene. “Okay, stop now. Need…please.”

Eames doesn’t push him any further. He closes the valve, then takes hold of the tube and goes about removing it as smoothly as he can, mouthing at the crease of Arthur’s thigh when he emits a strangled whimper anyway, his arsehole quivering and clenching up tight. Eames can’t help petting over it with one finger, quieting Arthur with kisses when he stumbles over what Eames suspects is meant to be a reprimand.

Lying beside him on the floor isn’t exactly comfortable, but Eames has been in circumstances far more disagreeable than these. Arthur, at least, certainly seems to find it comforting once Eames scrubs his hands, sets the hose aside, and settles in to hold him as close as he dares.

All his earlier agitation appears to have gone dormant. His color is still high, tongue flitting out to wet his lips so often it would be a terrible disservice if Eames didn’t volunteer any assistance of his own. The most obvious change of all is his stomach: a little distended, more so than Eames expected even allowing for Arthur’s build and the fact that his body isn’t used to this kind of treatment.

Eames can’t stop touching it. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind at all, passively accepting whatever Eames gives him.

“I wasn’t sure this would actually work,” Eames confesses after a few minutes, since he reckons the hardest part is over by now.

Arthur gives him a wry look. “Neither was I.” Wincing, he tries to work his knees back under him. “Give me a hand here?”

Together, they lift Arthur to his feet, Eames feeding little praises to him all the while, promising to leave him be as soon as Arthur tells him to. The instant he’s able to stand, Arthur faces away from him to lean over the sink, head ducked, hands gripping the lip of it.

Eames wavers, allowing him the chance to get his bearings before speaking again. “How long does it take before…?”

“Ten more minutes should do it,” Arthur says, “maybe even a few more if I can--ahfuck, Eames,” voice breaking when Eames gently circles a finger against his hole, touching without entering. “Don’t—I can’t.”

“You can. Tell me how it feels for you now.”

When he turns, Eames realizes that Arthur’s gone from half-hard to steel-hard, cock pressing the curve of his stomach, dribbling strands of precome down the length of himself. His pupils are dilated, his breaths coming in erratic shudders. “’s…not heavy, exactly, but…strange, like I’m stretched out and I can’t…”

“You can,” Eames repeats, taking Arthur’s face in his hands. “You will. Say you will.”

Arthur hisses and nods, eyes unfocused. “Gonna—yeah, I will, but you can’t do that again. Can’t just touch, not like that.”

Eames strokes his cheek. “That’s my boy.”

He doesn’t think twice about running a hand over Arthur’s belly, then lower to where his cock is red and straining, fluid still welling at the tip. “Bloody hell, it looks like I got you pregnant.” It’s an exaggeration; Arthur’s stomach is swollen to a noticeable degree, but not drastically so.

That remark just has Arthur blushing even more, color flaring across his cheekbones as Eames strokes him, cock dripping anew when Eames gives it a deliberate squeeze. Lazily, Eames drifts two fingers up the underside, smearing the mess beneath his navel. “You like that? You’re turned on by that?”

In his grip, Arthur’s erection pulses out another stream of wetness. Dutifully, Eames doesn’t touch his arsehole again, but anywhere else is fair game. Arthur’s balls are drawn in tightly, smooth and firm and perfect for Eames to kneel and take into his mouth, sucking and curling his tongue around each one, making Arthur beg so sweetly for him to stop. He pushes that thought to the back of his mind, perhaps something to consider sometime in the future once they’ve both had more practice at this and Arthur’s been trained to last longer.

It doesn’t occur to him at first that he’s seriously considering going through this again, maybe even anticipating it.

Holding Arthur like this is strange. He’s thrumming with energy again even with Eames wrapping his arms around him and smoothing the small of his back, and the convexity of his stomach is even more evident now that he’s upright and pressed to Eames’s front.

It’s a bit of an indulgence, the way he turns to see them both in the mirror, but well worth it: there’s Arthur, eyes glazed and mouth parted, naked and exposed while Eames is still fully dressed and composed everywhere except in his pants. And his mouth, it seems, since the next thing he knows it’s pressed to Arthur’s ear. “The things you do for me, love. I’ll make it so good for you, you’ll be begging for my tongue inside you once we finish up, I swear you will.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, just kisses him until Eames is gripping his shoulders and gasping. It takes a herculean amount of effort to pry himself away, but Arthur’s going to need time to himself in a matter of minutes and it isn’t fair to work him up all over again just yet. Eames strokes his belly once more before disengaging, keeping a bit of distance between them though he has no reservations about dragging a finger through the precome on Arthur’s skin and licking it clean.

When Arthur’s tongue flutters out for a moment, Eames does it again, this time holding his finger out for Arthur to suckle. And he does, hot-mouthed and hungry for it, laving the remnants of himself from Eames’s skin. Somehow, it seems more indecent than anything that’s happened thus far.

“Oh, Arthur.” Eames tangles his other hand in Arthur’s messy hair, slowly withdrawing the finger from between his lips. Arthur gives a displeased little groan and blindly inclines his head after it, chasing the taste. “We’ll get back to this later.”


It doesn’t take much longer before Arthur chases him off and shuts the door, making Eames promise he’ll go away and watch television or inventory his weapons or offer to walk the neighbors’ dogs or something so Arthur knows he’s not setting up camp in the hall. Eames swears to give him all the time he needs, despite his own impatience. He does manage it, somehow, not going back upstairs to check on him until he hears the shower running.

When Arthur answers his knock by calling for him to come in, Eames is pleasantly surprised to find him touching himself under the spray. The picture Arthur makes is an excellent answer to any question Eames could possibly ask about his state of being, but he can’t help putting one forward anyway. “You’re enjoying this a little more than you thought you would, aren’t you?”

“I have a competency kink,” Arthur says unceremoniously. “And you’re competent at a lot of things.” There’s a cheeky little grin on his face as Eames strips off and joins him. “Some more unexpected than others.”

Eames presses up behind him, letting Arthur grip him by the wrist and guide his hand down between his legs. “Does this mean you don’t want to have another go?”

Arthur gets a beautifully dazed look in his eyes. Eames curls his fingers a bit more firmly around the width of his cock and starts up a smooth, steady rhythm. “Um.”

“Or,” Eames says, “should we work up to that?”

“Shit,” Arthur chokes, and comes all over his hand in less than a minute.

In the time it takes for him to graciously let Arthur return the favor, let Arthur crush him close and kiss him like he’s starving for it, and let Arthur take his sweet time toweling the both of them off, Eames is more than ready to usher him into bed and take his own sweet time riling him up just to unravel him all over again. But then Arthur looks at him with a worrisome glint in his eyes and goes, “You know you’re supposed to wait a couple hours instead of jumping straight to the fucking, right?”

The reading Eames did corroborates this, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it or even be entirely sold on it. “When do you ever do anything you’re supposed to?”

“I’d rather err on the side of caution for this. It seems—”

“Masochistic?” Eames supplies.

Prudent,” Arthur finishes witheringly.

And because Arthur is prudent at all the most maddening times and maybe enjoys making Eames suffer a bit too much, he then proceeds to get dressed, insisting all the while that he’ll be fine and being around Eames in the meantime won’t do anything but distract him. Eames fails to see any sort of problem with this. Arthur, undaunted, just makes some uncalled-for quip about Eames needing a few hours to get it up again anyway and slips out to run errands, which for Arthur could mean anything from taking advantage of a sale at Costco to meeting an arms dealer down by the docks. In another town.

If it wouldn’t be counterproductive and if Arthur weren’t a dab hand at breaking and entering anyway, Eames might seriously consider changing the locks on the front door.


It’s a drawn-out, elaborate way of torturing them both, that’s what this is. He suspects Arthur finds it all very amusing.

Just as Eames fears, the time ticks by much too slowly before Arthur comes back, but when he does there doesn’t appear to be a speck of amusement about him. He seems more impatient than anything when he sinks down beside Eames on the couch, stretching his legs out to rest on the coffee table where Eames has set up his laptop and been trying, rather fruitlessly, to work.

For a few moments, Arthur just lies there with his limbs splayed and his head lolling towards Eames’s shoulder. “I really don’t understand why you aren’t naked,” he says flatly, and then he’s dragging Eames to him and kissing him too hard for Eames to get out an answer.

In no time at all, Arthur is groaning and grasping and well on his way to squirming right up onto his lap. Eames gets an arm around him, hauls him the rest of the way. “Some idiot thought it was a wonderful idea to leave me high and dry.” Deliberately, he strokes down the front of his jeans. “Did you go anywhere interesting, at least?”

“Tried a few bookstores at first, ended up at the shooting range instead.” As if determined to make up for lost time, he leaves off on kissing long enough to yank Eames’s shirt off, instantly latching onto a nipple. “I needed something to keep my focus.” And he bites, just enough teeth to have Eames’s hips bucking.

“Any luck?”

“Not really.” Arthur undoes his flies and slides a hand down the front of Eames’s pants. “Had a hard time thinking about anything that wasn’t you.”

Arthur can spin lies as easily as breathing, Eames knows this very well. That only makes his honesty such a beautiful thing. “Shouldn’t have let you,” he says decisively. And even now, Arthur’s eyes close and his lips part and he leans into every touch Eames gives, responsive as if it’s the first time. “Should’ve just tied you down and teased you for hours, really worked you over, then fucked you.”

“No more waiting,” Arthur announces, and pulls him to his feet.

Eames lets him, allowing Arthur to push him to the wall and strip him bare and kiss him over and over, and eventually he manages to steer him upstairs and into their bed. Arthur leaves clothes in a haphazard trail across the floor and clambers up onto the mattress, already fumbling with the lube and flushed all over again.

He’s all set to start teasing Arthur about what a slut he is for anything inside him, whether it’s fingers, cock, a clever shape of silicone, something else altogether. Unexpectedly, Arthur beats him to the punch.

“You’ve made me kind of a tramp.” He sounds perfectly glib about it. “All you have to do is suggest fucking me with something and I’ll go with it, as long as it’s you.”

Eames wants to point out that it took a bit more than just a casual suggestion for Arthur to consent to this, but he knows when to keep quiet. “Maybe I should plug you up just to keep you ready for me.” They’ve experimented some with that sort of thing, but never for very long. He nudges Arthur’s legs open wider, stroking over the tight little clutch of muscle, tonguing the tip of his erection. “Do you think you’d enjoy that, being able to keep my come in you? Maybe I’d even fuck you a second time, as many times as we can go at it in one night, until you’re such an awful mess, all stretched open and it’s like fucking a girl.”

Arthur whimpers as Eames bends to suck him, babbling that yes, he’d let him, let Eames do whatever he liked. Something about his candor, how responsive he always is, makes Eames patently unable to shut up.

“You’d beg me for it, wouldn’t you? Beg so nicely for me to pull the plug out and play with you. You’d be leaking all over the sheets and loving every minute.” Arthur’s hand is slick and practiced on his cock, mouth tight and slow around it when he squirms in for a taste, letting Eames talk and touch and be as dirty as he likes. “Or I could take you to bed with it still inside you and fuck you awake. You’d love that, too, I know it. Just a wet little hole that can’t get enough of it.”

He’s still harboring a fascination with Arthur’s stomach, flat and firm once again. Eames lays him out and kisses him there, tongue flitting over the delicate hollow of his belly button, biting gently as he guides a slick finger inside him.

Of course, Arthur notices. “You really liked it, didn’t you? Is your biological clock ticking or is it just another fetish?”

“Hardly a fetish, love. I just very much enjoy seeing how much you can stand. Take that in for me now.” And he guides two of his fingers into Arthur’s mouth, letting him suck and tease. Arthur is capable of ungodly things with his mouth. “Maybe some other time I’ll make you come that way. Get you ready for me, then have you keep all that water inside while you come all over yourself”

Fuck,” Arthur says, breath ragged as Eames lets his fingers drop free.

He arranges Arthur before him on hands and knees, making it that much easier to go about spreading his arse open with one hand as he eases a second finger into him. “Good boy. Let me see it all.”

And Arthur obliges, asking for more without any words at all. Spreading his legs even though Eames is still holding him apart and exposing him completely, there where he’s small and pink and slick with lube. A third finger slips inside easily. Arthur’s back curves when Eames slides them out and rides the thickness of his cock against his arse. Not entering, just rubbing precome over the tight little hole, watching the way it clenches at nothing. “Want it so badly, don’t you? Such a sweet boy, handling everything so well.”

The grunt Arthur utters isn’t remotely sweet. “Please. Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor. We both know this is about you wanting to eat me out like the filthy freak of nature you are.” He twists around to catch Eames’s earlobe between his teeth, voice roughened. “Go on. Fuck me. Fill me up.”

Eames sinks into him without needing to be told twice.

Oh,” breathes Arthur and Eames is without words.

He’s burning, tight and vulnerable inside and out, writhing until his back is pressed to Eames’s front and his head is dropping back on Eames’s shoulder. Eames reaches around to twist and pinch at his nipples, palm his abdomen like it’s full all over again, catching a fingertip at his navel but never venturing below it. Arthur inhales deeply, stomach pushing out, and Eames just knows it’s on purpose.

“Can you feel that, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I’m gonna come in you, knock you up, make these lovely little tits swell up nice and big for me.” Cupping them, rolling Arthur’s nipples between his fingers.

Arthur sounds horrorstruck. “Eames, Jesus Christ.” But he’s hard and gasping, letting Eames press deeper on every thrust, and Eames can’t stop now.

“You’ve been dying for something in you, right here, could probably take my whole hand up into you. Can’t keep your legs closed to save your life; you’ll spread your greedy cunt for anyone who wants a piece, won’t you?”

“No,” Arthur says, and Eames thinks at first he’s going to demand Eames scale it back a notch. But Arthur kisses him then, soft lips and softer words. “Not for anyone. Just for you.”

A tremor rips through him. “Say that again.”

Arthur takes orders very well even though he doesn’t take them from just anyone. “Just you. Nobody else.”


When Arthur gives back little gems like this, Eames’s stamina tends to sail right out the window. But because it’s Arthur, he can’t bring himself to be bothered. Judging by the way Arthur’s jaw goes slack and his eyes roll back when Eames spills inside him, he doesn’t seem bothered at all either.

Arthur loves to be kissed while Eames is still in him and Eames indulges him to the best of his ability until he feels the trickle of come starting to leak down the shaft of his cock. There must be a horribly uncouth expression when he draws out because Arthur is rolling his eyes.

That makes it even better when Eames presses a final kiss to his hot little mouth and flips him onto his back like a rag doll.

He’s not hesitating, not after everything else; by this stage in the game, Eames is hell-bent on showing him how good this can be, making him love it, making him compose sonnets and odes and epic poetry about how grateful he is Eames talked him into it at all. He doesn’t squander a second, throwing Arthur’s legs over his shoulders and mouthing right up against him.

All the air rushes from Arthur’s lungs in a shocked gust, his body going first taut and then pliable, relenting to let Eames in. “God, that feels weird.”

He sounds a little awed and a little surprised, but not disgusted, and that’s the truly important thing. Eames hums just to make him tremble and gets to work—he can do far better than weird.

Shamelessness has its merits and Eames makes use of them all--groaning against the tight clench of Arthur’s hole just to hear him gasp, hefting him up so he’s nearly bent in half, thumbing him open and teasing at him as long as he can stand, giving hot quick little licks like he’s savoring him. Occasionally, when he can’t withstand the temptation another second, he drives his tongue deeper only to ease back and tease lightly at him all over again. Arthur, pinned in place, writhes like a whore and blushes like an ingénue and emits a noise that might very well be a growl. Eames rewards him with a grin.

“Bloody hell, I love the things you let me do to you.” He turns his attention to Arthur’s balls, passing the flat of his tongue against them and feeling a dizzying flare of triumph when Arthur whines. “Hands off yourself, by the way.”

Arthur is showing no sign of doing anything with his hands but clawing at the covers for dear life, his wrists torqueing in the sheets and his breath jarring in almost pain. The evil mastermind in Eames still likes the idea of making him come from nothing but his tongue inside him, fluttering against his hole, lapping up each drop of his own come as he draws it from him

Under his mouth, Arthur is smooth and stretched and he wants to stay there, tormenting him until his hole is red and swollen and abused, just like his lips after Arthur goes down on him. Again and again, the tender little opening contracts under his tongue until Eames coaxes it into submission. He’s slow about it, easing his way in, kissing there as if he’s done it countless times before.

Arthur’s practically hyperventilating when he pushes all the way in. Eames’s fingers are splayed hard over his arse and his neck is starting to ache but Arthur—bloody fucking hell, Arthur— is quivering beneath him and Eames can hear every little sound he tries to choke down.

He has to be sure. “Still with me?”

And Arthur—well-ordered, hard-hitting, tough-as-nails Arthur—holds himself behind both knees and tells him to keep going, tells him with fragments of “please” and “want it” and “oh god, Eames. Eames.”

Eames knows better than to try and kiss him, but he strokes his fingertips across Arthur’s lips, lets him mouth at them, eyes glazed and motions automatic as they’d been in the bathroom when Eames fed him the taste of himself. Arthur keeps gripping at his knees, at the sheets, at his own hair, prick full and reddened and untouched against his belly. It’s killing Eames that he can’t say a word, not while he’s wriggling his tongue deeper still. He draws back, presses the tip to his opening, and Arthur only squirms and tries to drive himself down for more and all at once it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing in any language that could adequately convey it. All that matters is making Arthur crumble.

Eames works a finger up into him, slippery, filthy, pressing at his rim with the pad of a thumb to spread him open that much more. The come drips out of him more easily this way, leaking free with each stroke. Eames laps it up eagerly, eases in a second finger, forces him wider, forces his tongue back in alongside them.

And Arthur is clutching Eames’s hair, twisting hard, making Eames utter a long low moan that must resonate right through him because then Arthur is keening and shuddering and I’ll come, I’ll come, I’ll come, please don’t, too much, can’t—need—oh fuck, god, oh my god, please until Eames thrusts his tongue in as far as he can, slicks both fingers in along with it to crook and seek and press.

Seconds later, Arthur jerks like a livewire and climaxes with a wail.

Eames doesn’t see it, but he can tell.

Arthur comes while Eames has his lips pursed against him in an obscene kiss, sucking ever so lightly and causing him to cry out all over again.

When Eames raises his head, Arthur’s cock is still half hard in his grip. He can’t hold it against him for touching himself. He can’t hold anything against him now. “

Too drained to do anything but collapse, Eames curls a hand over Arthur’s hip and surveys him. Mussed to the limit and shining with sweat.

Decimated. Perfectly.

Eames does the only logical thing to do. He revels.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Arthur finally asks. His voice sounds lazy, throatier, and even though his eyes are barely open he can’t seem to take them off Eames’s mouth. If that’s not success, Eames doesn’t know what is.

“Better than I imagined,” Eames says honestly. “And I imagined frequently and creatively.”

“For some reason, I’m not surprised.”

Eames is too pleased to hold off on goading him a little. “See, aren’t you sorry you waited so long to let me try this? I’ll do my best not to hold it over you.” He shifts up to rest an arm on Arthur’s middle, come and sweat cooling under his fingers. “If you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll share other questionable acts I’d like to try on you.”

Arthur fixes him with a long, level look.

“I can elaborate,” Eames promises.

“All I want you to do now,” says Arthur, far too serious for someone who just got off so spectacularly, “is kiss me.” He gives him a shove that’s too weak to do much of anything and a smile that has the dangerous power of binding Eames to its every whim. “Mouthwash. Lots of it. Then get your ass back in here.”