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The hotel room that they’re using as a base for this job is definitely not soundproofed enough for how angry Arthur is getting. It’s delightful, really, he keeps rising almost to a shout, catching himself, reigning it all in with a sharp line, and then Eames gives him a second before pointing out another issue, and then the whole thing goes around and around again.
He’s not properly, truly angry- Arthur doesn’t get loud when he’s really pissed, just when Eames is winding him up like this. And that hasn’t happened much since the Fischer job, since Cobb left the game. Eames will take Arthur yelling at him that he’s an idiot over the sharp snaps that happened on jobs led by Cobb.
It’s been a while since Eames has done this, poked and prodded and wound the tiger tight. Most of the time, his jobs with Arthur are smooth and delightful and only casually snarky. But when the chemist Aridane had recommended, Sekou, had asked him a string of bafflingly useless questions, Arthur had tightened and nearly vibrated in a way he usually managed to keep under wraps. Eames had been confused for a moment, and then checked his calendar.
And holy shit, Eames’ research might be right. Okay, it definitely was, but it was also utterly ludicrous. But everything had checked out and been hard enough to find that it definitely wasn’t a false lead, and holy fuck, it was nearing the full moon and Arthur was more on edge than ever. It had only taken a quick skim of past jobs to work out that Arthur’s jobs for the past year or so had neatly dodged around each full moon, and the one instance a job hadn’t, he’d ducked out for a long weekend on ‘research purposes’. Knowing Arthur, he’d probably returned with a thick dossier of information, but Eames also knew that he didn’t need to step away from the team for any real length of time to do so. Eames’ research was right, Arthur was a werewolf, and he was clearly being affected by the coming full moon.
So, he’d gone online and bought the mug. A direct approach would absolutely not work here, so Eames went online and bought a bloody mug that said, in big proud text, “I don’t need therapy, I need to get fucked in the ass by fourteen werewolves.”
If Eames hadn’t already realised how bloody gone for Arthur he was, paying for express shipping on that thing would probably have done it all by itself.
It’s warm, so Arthur’s taken off his suit jacket, and the fit of his soft grey waistcoat and the neatly pressed white shirt underneath it are ruining Eames, the way all of Arthur’s suits do. Arthur, meanwhile, is glaring at the plans Eames had drawn up, slicing furiously through lines of writing with a red pen. “Why does everything have to be so fucking complex and yet so utterly, uselessly simple? ”
“Hm,” Eames tilts his head, reaching for his mug of tea. Arthur glances up at him, and Eames stares right into his eyes and takes a good, long drink. He can pinpoint the exact moment when he reads the thing, a tightening right in the corner of his eyes followed by a careful, subtle shift of his spine. “Because, darling, it often is rather effective.”
Arthur’s eyes stay locked on him as he carefully sets the mug down and settles forward in his chair. They stay like that for a long beat, and Eames wishes he could get inside that pretty head, watch all the possibilities he’s undoubtedly running through.
“That mug is disgustingly tacky, Eames,” He says, concealing the little tremor in his voice well enough that anyone but Eames would miss it. But Eames has heard him terrified and bleeding out and drugged up and before his morning coffee and quietly content on a rooftop and laughing at him across a bar, so Eames picks up on it.
“Yeah?” Eames smiles, taking another drink. “I had a chance to visit a lovely woman, Maddie, was it? Who had quite the collection of similarly horrible mugs. Must’ve rubbed off,”
And then Arthur was gripping his elbow, tugging him out of his chair and heading for the door. His face was carefully blank, sharp lines even more than usual. “Back soon,” He tosses the words towards Sekou, not even glancing to the corner where the chemist was messing with his laptop.
Eames shifts Arthur’s grip on him into something that will read as casual to the passing observer, but otherwise lets Arthur lead him down the hall and into the elevator. “Where to?” He asks, keeping his voice gentle.
“Shut up.” Arthur is curt, stabbing the number for a floor a couple levels above their workspace. Eames inclines his head, but stays quiet until Arthur tugs him into a room and shuts the door. Arthur stalks inside a few paces, before whirling around. “What do you know? What do you think you know?”
Eames toes off his shoes, but stays in the doorway. “At the risk of sounding a bit of a fool, I believe you might be a werewolf, darling,”
And there was that flash in his eyes, the same as before, with the mug, and maybe Eames should’ve done this differently, more subtly- but then he’d be able to wheedle his way out, or brush him off, or pretend he didn’t understand. No, bait and a joke and a direct answer, that was the best. It was too late now, either way.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Eames continues, “I’m probably the only one who is capable of finding out,”
“There are many better researchers than you, Eames,” Arthur’s jaw is clenched tight, and oh, oh, the way he looks-
Eames steps forward, carefully moving into Arthur’s space and raising a hand to cup his face gently. “But none of them watch you in quite the same way that I do you,” Of that, he was sure. He never would have found this out if he wasn’t so carefully tuned to Arthur’s every move, every breath, every word, in a way that only came about from years of friendship and years of, well, pining.
There must be something in his face, because Arthur’s eyes are softer, yet more confused. “Eames?”
“I don’t need therapy, or even fourteen werewolves. Apparently all it takes is just one.”
Arthur laughs, a sharp, short thing, and Eames feels his mouth twist as Arthur steps away.
“That is absolutely the most cheesy bullshit- Eames, that-” Arthur raises a hand up, gesturing uselessly. “That cannot be something you’ve just said to me,”
Eames smiles, a small little thing. “Arthur, I needed to tell you both that I’m in love with you and that I know you’re a werewolf, there isn’t exactly a good way to do that. So I went for, well, whatever this is,”
Eames must’ve blinked wrong or something of the sort, because his vision was blurring and filled with Arthur, all the tension gone from his spine, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, not pushing, just gripping tight. He blinked again, and there was Arthur, staring at him, looking like he might topple over if not for his hold on Eames.
“You can’t just-”
“It seems I can.”
“Eames,”
And Arthur was kissing him, dragging him in by his shoulder in a clash of teeth, rough at first but softening with time, until it was light and teasing and Eames pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against Arthur’s.
“I’m sorry for finding out. I do try not to look into all your secrets, you know,”
“It’s fine. I wanted you to know, just never would’ve been able to tell you. You would’ve just laughed at me,” Arthur opens his eyes and stares into Eames’, and Eames can’t help but smile and tip his head in agreement.
“How much about full moons is real?” Eames asks, stepping away but pulling Arthur back with him, guiding the pair of them to sit on the bed. This must be Arthur’s room, for the rare time that he doesn’t just pass out at his desk.
“Not all of it. I get more irritable, but you noticed that, I’m sure. Everything becomes more intense in the leadup, the change is involuntary but I have a fair amount of control after that. Also, stop distracting me from the part where you said you were in love with me .” Arthur shoves at his shoulder, and then leans in again, tracing his jaw. “Are you really-”
“Completely and utterly gone for you? I’m afraid I am, darling. Have been for a while now, really,” Eames shrugs, unable to look away from Arthur, the wideness of his eyes, the looseness of his shoulders.
Arthur growls, actually growls, and they’re kissing again, Arthur tugging Eames to face him properly and refusing to let him set the pace of the kiss, gripping the back of his neck and the fabric of his (delightfully hideous) shirt. His mouth is warm and wet and utterly delicious, and this exactly what Eames has been aching for, longing for in quiet darkened aeroplanes and in hotel lobbies and in the streets of every damned city he visits.
The way he looks when he pulls back has Eames twitching in his trousers, Arthur’s mouth all red and eyes unfocused. Arthur’s face twists at that, eyes seeming to catch fire. “Eames, the way you smell, fuck, it’s unfair,”
It takes him a second, but then Eames realises; Arthur can smell that he’s getting aroused. Because he’s a bloody werewolf. Well, he did start this by asking to be fucked by fourteen of them, so, in for a penny, in for a pound?
He locks eyes with Arthur again, before carefully trailing a hand up his own chest, and then undoing one of his buttons, then another, letting the challenge show clearly on his face. He gets to the third, and pauses, the air between the two of them going electric. “Should I continue?”
And that must be it, the challenge he’s been looking for the entire time they’ve known each other, because Arthur is tackling him to the bed, burying his face in the crook of Eames’ neck, making quick work of the rest of his buttons with one hand. He drags his mouth down towards his chest, and Eames spreads his legs to let Arthur settle between them, let him shift his weight so both of his hands can run down his chest greedily, and it’s all Eames can do to curve into the touch and try not to choke when Arthur bites him.
“Arthur,” He gasps, taking a second to steady his voice, “You’ll fuck me, won’t you?”
In a heartbeat, Arthur’s cradling his face with both hands, leaning forwards to kiss him thoroughly. “God, Eames, I love you, you’re having far too much fun with this. Yes, I will, but first-” He trails off, and Eames can die happy now. He might die right this instant, incinerate on the spot from the way Arthur is looking at him.
Eames can’t die, though, because Arthur is tugging off his shirt and tossing it behind him, then moving down to make quick work of his trousers and his pants in one go. He doesn’t get a chance to catch his breath before Arthur is hitching up his legs, splaying them wide and planting rough kisses down each of his thighs.
After a couple of lovely little bites that make Eames whine and scrabble for something to do with his hands, Arthur’s hands shift to underside of his knees, pushing his legs back and, oh god, exposing his hole. Eames barely gets a second to question what he’s about to do before he’s moaning and arching his back, trying to resist the urge to grind himself down on Arthur’s tongue.
He doesn’t even spend any real time teasing, just diving in and systematically, feverishly, destroying any last semblance of control Eames might’ve still had. He doesn’t ride Arthur’s face, but that’s only because he absolutely will not take the risk that that might throw off the way he is masterfully eating Eames out, utterly destroying him with each new trick, like when he alternates between gentle flutters and solid, lethal pressure with his tongue.
And then Arthur’s pulling back, and Eames begins to complain, but oh dear fuck, his face is red and mouth wet and hanging open and he’s still in his bloody waistcoat, which probably isn’t even rumpled at all. “You’re going to ride my face, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t think. Any objections?”
Eames should’ve known Arthur might be like this in bed, but it still knocks the wind out of him. “I’m not sure I can hold myself up very well right now,” He offers, breathlessly.
“Good to know.” And fuck, Eames loves him.
All thoughts are quickly out of his head again, though, because Arthur is teasing him with the tip of one finger, replacing it with his tongue when Eames swears and bears down on it with his hips. His arms fly up to grab at the headboard, and this time, he doesn’t hold back from grinding down against Arthur’s tongue, searching for more and damn well getting it.
He’s writhing in the bed, muscles in his arms straining as he pushes down, when Arthur shifts his legs to hook over his shoulders, hands moving to his ass and lifting, pulling him so he slides down the bed, most of his back in the air and his weight split between his shoulders and Arthur’s hands, holding him up and open as he rips Eames apart with his mouth.
Eames rides the sensation for a while, unsure if it’s him that’s guiding the movement of his hips or Arthur, whose nails are biting deliciously into his skin. If he could come from just this, he would have, several times over, and as it is he feels drunk, staring up at the ceiling with half open eyes.
Arthur pulls away and unhooks his legs from his shoulders and Eames whines, turning his face into the pillow and trying to catch his breath. Eames manages to open his eyes after a few seconds, and is rewarded with the sight of Arthur, still indeed in all his fancy clothes, albeit impressively hard, as he takes long gulps from a water bottle. Arthur wipes his hand across his face, screws the bottle shut, and exchanges it for a condom and a small bottle of lube.
“God, how are you so good at this?” Eames can’t help but ask. His legs feel like they will never recover. His stomach is covered in precome and his dick hasn’t been touched even once.
“Thorough planning and dedication are transferable skills, Eames,” He returns, looking both fond and somewhat wrecked. Eames just laughs and pulls one of his legs up to his chest, arm hooking around it to keep it in place. Arthur kicks his shoes off, and doesn’t seem to care where they land. Eames can feel his face going smug and lascivious.
That earns him another kiss from Arthur, sloppy and good enough to send tingles down his spine. He loses himself in it, and moans openly into Arthur’s mouth when one, then quickly two, lubed fingers slip into him.
“Are you always like this, or is it the moon?” He manages to break away to ask.
Arthur huffs and crooks his fingers inside him deliciously. “I’d say usually I had more restraint, but I never really do with you, do I?”
It takes a second, because his mind goes blank and sloppy when Arthur adds another finger. “You shoot me a lot more than you shoot anyone else,”
“That’s because I love you, Eames,” Arthur whispers into his ear, and Eames is dead, officially deceased, the funeral will be in three days.
“Darling, if you don’t fuck me right now, I am going to lose my mind,”
Arthur laughs, and Eames can feel his grin pressed into the crook of his neck as he enters him, slowly and carefully and earthshatteringly.
They pant together for a second, and then Eames wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist and tugs him impossibly closer, and Arthur’s moaning and pulling back, and the fucker is still in the suit, still, just pulled his trousers down enough to get his cock out, and what a glorious cock it is.
Eames resolves to come all over it as payback. Not like that will be hard, with the way Arthur is slamming back into him, moaning brokenly into Eames’ neck.
Which won’t do at all, as good as it is, because Eames needs to be kissing Arthur, right the fuck yesterday. He grabs his subtly patterned grey tie and tugs him up, keeping him there as he attacks his mouth with his tongue, until Arthur hits a particularly good angle and Eames can’t help but break away to moan, his hands flying to Arthur’s shoulders and digging in. Distantly Eames hears a thud coming from the next room.
Arthur looks utterly lost in him. Eames rocks his hips back to meet one of his thrusts, and he whines, meeting his eyes, and Eames isn’t sure what he sees in them, but it seems to break Arthur even more. He’s flushed and his hair is coming loose and the desperation in his face is enough to convince even the most self-doubting part of Eames that Arthur loves him. He hadn’t doubted it, but the intensity, the careful, considerate, yet endlessly greedy way that he moves, the way his lips wordlessly form Eames’ name- it is magical and it could destroy worlds.
There’s another thud, and then the sound of a door slamming shut. Eames will burn this whole building down if someone tries to interrupt them.
Eames flips them over, shoving Arthur onto his back, and it’s a testament to both of their strength and flexibility that Arthur’s cock doesn’t slide out of him as he does. But from there, Eames can rise up, eyes fluttering closed at the delicious drag and pull, and then he can snap his hips down, delighting in the way Arthur’s hands immediately fly to his hips, guiding his movements.
Every workout he’s ever done has been for this, for the ability to slam himself down on Arthur’s dick, over and over again until he’s just greedily pursuing sensation, all thoughts of rhythm gone long out of his head.
Arthur is thrusting up to meet him, tugging his hips down and groaning right along with him when he bottoms out. Eames sits back, putting his hands on Arthur’s shoulders for balance and there, now he can snap his hips even faster, his head tipping back and spine arching.
“Eames,” Arthur moans, and from the look on his face, the tightness of his jaw, Eames can tell he’s close. He feels something flash throughout his gut, and he can’t help but reach for his cock, jacking it furiously, just how he likes.
He holds himself up enough for Arthur to have enough leverage to thrust properly into him, and the look of him, all buttoned up and falling apart, that’s what finally does him in, and he’s losing his mind and coming all over Arthur’s nice soft waistcoat.
He loses the next few seconds to the wake of his orgasm, but manages to tear himself away from the full body sensation enough to catch Arthur’s face when he comes, slamming up into Eames and groaning, all shuddery and low.
Eames slides off of him after a beat, collapsing to the side and pressing his face against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur tilts his face up, tugging him up the bed just enough to kiss him, sloppy and gentle and loose.
“Holy fuck,” Eames mutters into his mouth. “We are never leaving this bed,”
Arthur smiles, and Eames wants to bottle it, store every one of his smiles in a safe that no one could ever crack.
They breathe together for a long time, one of his hands lazily tracing invisible lines on Arthur’s neck.
“I’d ask if it was necessary for you to ruin this shirt, but I have a feeling I already know the answer,” Arthur grimaces as he looks down and begins to unbutton the thing, finally. That gives Eames a lot more skin to play with, but after a moment, he wraps his arm around his waist, under the shirt, and tugs Arthur close.
“I’m going to have to get a lot more bad mugs. Do you turn into a wolf, or some sort of terrier? That will definitely influence my options,”
“I’m not a terrier. I’d shoot you, but this isn’t a dream. I even checked,” Eames looks up at that, and Arthur shrugs. “When I went for water. Had to be sure, I guess,”
“I’m sure anybody in the world would come up with something better than whatever bollocks I said earlier,”
“Anybody except you, which is why you have me on jobs, to make your bullshit make sense,”
“And you do it so well, darling,”