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May. 17th, 2011 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phenylicbecause I have an essay tomorrow morning on carbohydrates that I've not started, HAVE A POST:
so I guess the important question here is, WHAT HAVE I DONE THIS WEEK. Well, not much, except I started working in a psych lab (\o/!!!). We're testing learning behavior in rats, and well, the rats are kind of cute?? IDK, BUT THEY LOOK LIKE THIS. They sort of remind me of Remy from Ratatouille *_*
also, my mom is turning 57 this weekend, and I GOT HER TICKETS TO SEE LES MIZ. :DDD except, except sdlfhasdf i have to keep this a secret for four more days asldkhfaskldjfd
anyway, most importantly, I've properly lost all shame and wrote tentacle porn for Tentacular Spectacular.
This is not real.
This is what Arthur tells himself. This is a dream. He's aware that he's spread out on his knees on a bed, his hands bound behind his back with something a hell of a lot smoother than twine. He is blindfolded and thankful for it, because some things need to be remain unknown--things like whatever it is that is tracing the curve of his spine.
Arthur swallows.
"Christ, Arthur," he hears Eames murmur and turns to face the direction of his voice. The--The Thing moves lower, skimming across an ass cheek, and Arthur has to force himself to keep his breaths steady. It's eerily smooth, fleshy, but in the way that a fingertip would be without its indented whorls.
"Eames," Arthur says without thinking, straining to hear Eames' movements, desperate to pinpoint his exact position.
There is a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him up, and Arthur goes with it. He relaxes somewhat when Eames settles himself in front of Arthur with his knee knocking into Arthur's shoulder.
He lets himself be pulled up until he's kneeling between Eames' thighs, his head resting against Eames' neck, biting back a moan as Eames strokes once, twice. He can still feel The Thing rubbing against him, but he also feels Eames' hand running soothing strokes up and down his back.
He lets Eames kiss him open-mouthed and sloppy, lets Eames rub figure eights into the inside of his arm.
"Eames," he says, and he's sure Eames is smiling at him.
"You alright there?" Eames asks him, voice rough, and Arthur nods.
The Thing circles his hole, and he shudders, this time more in anticipation than anything. Eames bites the shell of his ear. "Fuck, Arthur," he says. "You've no idea just how fucking gorgeous you are right now."
Arthur would reply except, a finger slips inside, and whatever words he might've said dissolve into small gasps. He pushes back, wanting more, until he realizes it isn't a finger at all. It glides over his prostate, and he could care less what it was. He feels Eames' hands at his ass, spreading his cheeks wider as the tentacle delves deeper, and Arthur is panting harshly against Eames' shoulder.
"Fuck," he says. "Oh fuck."
He feels another one, ghosting over him, and has just a second to think, Holy shit before it slips inside, and he lets out a restrained groan, grinding down as hard as he can, gasping when his hard cock slides over Eames', and feels a trail of saliva trickle down the corner of his mouth.
And he doesn't care.
"Eames," he says, just to say it.
"One more, darling," says Eames. "Let me see you take one more."
Arthur shakes his head, says no, says I can't, only Eames is kissing him, nipping at his lower lip, murmuring You can. Just one more, and Eames reaches in between them, wraps a hand around his cock and presses the slit, and Arthur keens for him.
"Oh god," Arthur gasps, breathless. "Oh god. Oh holy fuck."
And he's taking a third, moaning and panting as it stretches him until it burns, until he throws his head back and hisses at the pain, but rocks himself back into it.
He feels them moving inside him, wriggling in a way a dick never would, and it leaves him shaking in Eames' arms and he's mumbling incoherently, stringing random syllables together until they all mean more, more, more.
When Eames begins to stroke him, a bit too rough, Arthur almost screams. His toes curl, and pleasure shoots up and down his spine like he's never known it to, and it lasts too long and should be too painful, and all he knows is--
*
Arthur immediately reaches up, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. "Jesus," he says, voice hoarse.
Eames runs a hand down his side, calm and soothing. Arthur shivers. "It's just me," says Eames, pressing lightly against his hip.
"Mm," Arthur grunts, lowering his hands and blinking blearily. "It fucking better be just you."
...and then because that wasn't bad enough, I wrote some more.
Theoretically speaking, Arthur could blame this on the Somnacin. It's been a while since he mixed his own compounds so, statistically speaking, it's more than likely he'd fucked up somewhere.
Statistically speaking, anyway.
Eames, however, knows enough chemistry and more than enough math to know that probability-wise, Arthur doesn't fuck up.
Arthur, with his arms around Eames' neck and legs around Eames' waist, is light-headed because he's being fucked open. He's gasping for breath because he's riding Eames hard, and Eames is meeting him thrust for thrust. He's flushed because he is so fucking turned on.
Truthfully speaking, Arthur wants to be fucked, and his subconscious has gladly complied.
Arthur doesn't remember how they got here, or how he'd ended up shoving Eames down on the nearest flat surface and riding him with a fervor that leaves Eames breathless and panting, with his nails digging into Arthur's ass with a sharp sting that burns too much, but just right.
So no, Arthur doesn't remember, but he also doesn't care. If they're dreaming, then he can draw it out, can have Eames fuck him again and again until he can't even move, and he wonders for a moment, if maybe it's possible to time an orgasm with the kick.
He moans loudly, unrestrained, when Eames bites just under his ear, shivers when Eames licks a line down his jaw.
"Christ," says Eames. "Do you even know--"
"No," he says, biting at Eames' lower lip. "No, I don't."
Eames kisses him hard then, and Arthur leans into it, sighing. "Arthur," he murmurs, quiet, and Arthur clenches around him. His grip tightens, spreading Arthur wide.
"Fuck yeah, you love that," Arthur grins with a twist of his hips.
Eames doesn't answer, just traces a finger against Arthur's hole, and Arthur stutters, says "Eames." with a broken off groan, and feels Eames smirk against the corner of his mouth.
"That's not me," he says, in a way that should be teasing, but just sounds raw. "That's all you, darling."
The finger pushes inside, and Arthur can't help the whimper that escapes him. It moves with them, shallowly at first, until it sinks in, matching the length of Eames cock, pressing against his prostate until Arthur goes boneless in Eames' arms.
He feels another tentacle pressing against his entrance, but it feels different, ridged. He shivers, clawing at Eames back as it slips inside much too slowly, dragging out a long moan.
Eames stills and only breathes a warning of "Shit," before he comes, and Arthur rocks them through it, whimpering quietly when Eames gently eases himself out.
He rolls Arthur onto his back, grinning down at him. He feels some of Eames' come drip out, but then the tentacles surge forward, and Arthur nearly chokes, arching into every thrust as they push against his spot again and again, keeping the come inside him.
Eames reaches down and gives his cock a few quick strokes, and Arthur can't even think, fucked raw and reeling, doesn't even know what his body is doing anymore. Every thrust feels like too much, like he's going to come apart, and Eames is whispering into his ear, how lovely, how filthy, how absolutely stunning--and then his grip is vice-tight, and Arthur bucks, whines from the back of his throat, wanting anything for that last bit of friction that will push him over.
But Eames won't give it to him. He lets the tentacles pound into Arthur, and it's so good it hurts, and Arthur can't fight it, fists his hands into the sheets, and throws his head back, making incoherent noises that border on animalistic while Eames says "One more, Arthur, just one more."
He can't, it's not possible, except that is, it must be, because then he feels impossibly full, feels the tentacles sliding against each other, slick with the leftovers of Eames' come, and he writhes into it. When Eames slackens his grip and gives him that twist that he needs, he comes with a scream.
AND NOW I THINK MAYBE I'LL GO WRITE SOME CATBOY!ARTHUR. ♥
so I guess the important question here is, WHAT HAVE I DONE THIS WEEK. Well, not much, except I started working in a psych lab (\o/!!!). We're testing learning behavior in rats, and well, the rats are kind of cute?? IDK, BUT THEY LOOK LIKE THIS. They sort of remind me of Remy from Ratatouille *_*
also, my mom is turning 57 this weekend, and I GOT HER TICKETS TO SEE LES MIZ. :DDD except, except sdlfhasdf i have to keep this a secret for four more days asldkhfaskldjfd
anyway, most importantly, I've properly lost all shame and wrote tentacle porn for Tentacular Spectacular.
This is not real.
This is what Arthur tells himself. This is a dream. He's aware that he's spread out on his knees on a bed, his hands bound behind his back with something a hell of a lot smoother than twine. He is blindfolded and thankful for it, because some things need to be remain unknown--things like whatever it is that is tracing the curve of his spine.
Arthur swallows.
"Christ, Arthur," he hears Eames murmur and turns to face the direction of his voice. The--The Thing moves lower, skimming across an ass cheek, and Arthur has to force himself to keep his breaths steady. It's eerily smooth, fleshy, but in the way that a fingertip would be without its indented whorls.
"Eames," Arthur says without thinking, straining to hear Eames' movements, desperate to pinpoint his exact position.
There is a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him up, and Arthur goes with it. He relaxes somewhat when Eames settles himself in front of Arthur with his knee knocking into Arthur's shoulder.
He lets himself be pulled up until he's kneeling between Eames' thighs, his head resting against Eames' neck, biting back a moan as Eames strokes once, twice. He can still feel The Thing rubbing against him, but he also feels Eames' hand running soothing strokes up and down his back.
He lets Eames kiss him open-mouthed and sloppy, lets Eames rub figure eights into the inside of his arm.
"Eames," he says, and he's sure Eames is smiling at him.
"You alright there?" Eames asks him, voice rough, and Arthur nods.
The Thing circles his hole, and he shudders, this time more in anticipation than anything. Eames bites the shell of his ear. "Fuck, Arthur," he says. "You've no idea just how fucking gorgeous you are right now."
Arthur would reply except, a finger slips inside, and whatever words he might've said dissolve into small gasps. He pushes back, wanting more, until he realizes it isn't a finger at all. It glides over his prostate, and he could care less what it was. He feels Eames' hands at his ass, spreading his cheeks wider as the tentacle delves deeper, and Arthur is panting harshly against Eames' shoulder.
"Fuck," he says. "Oh fuck."
He feels another one, ghosting over him, and has just a second to think, Holy shit before it slips inside, and he lets out a restrained groan, grinding down as hard as he can, gasping when his hard cock slides over Eames', and feels a trail of saliva trickle down the corner of his mouth.
And he doesn't care.
"Eames," he says, just to say it.
"One more, darling," says Eames. "Let me see you take one more."
Arthur shakes his head, says no, says I can't, only Eames is kissing him, nipping at his lower lip, murmuring You can. Just one more, and Eames reaches in between them, wraps a hand around his cock and presses the slit, and Arthur keens for him.
"Oh god," Arthur gasps, breathless. "Oh god. Oh holy fuck."
And he's taking a third, moaning and panting as it stretches him until it burns, until he throws his head back and hisses at the pain, but rocks himself back into it.
He feels them moving inside him, wriggling in a way a dick never would, and it leaves him shaking in Eames' arms and he's mumbling incoherently, stringing random syllables together until they all mean more, more, more.
When Eames begins to stroke him, a bit too rough, Arthur almost screams. His toes curl, and pleasure shoots up and down his spine like he's never known it to, and it lasts too long and should be too painful, and all he knows is--
*
Arthur immediately reaches up, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. "Jesus," he says, voice hoarse.
Eames runs a hand down his side, calm and soothing. Arthur shivers. "It's just me," says Eames, pressing lightly against his hip.
"Mm," Arthur grunts, lowering his hands and blinking blearily. "It fucking better be just you."
...and then because that wasn't bad enough, I wrote some more.
Theoretically speaking, Arthur could blame this on the Somnacin. It's been a while since he mixed his own compounds so, statistically speaking, it's more than likely he'd fucked up somewhere.
Statistically speaking, anyway.
Eames, however, knows enough chemistry and more than enough math to know that probability-wise, Arthur doesn't fuck up.
Arthur, with his arms around Eames' neck and legs around Eames' waist, is light-headed because he's being fucked open. He's gasping for breath because he's riding Eames hard, and Eames is meeting him thrust for thrust. He's flushed because he is so fucking turned on.
Truthfully speaking, Arthur wants to be fucked, and his subconscious has gladly complied.
Arthur doesn't remember how they got here, or how he'd ended up shoving Eames down on the nearest flat surface and riding him with a fervor that leaves Eames breathless and panting, with his nails digging into Arthur's ass with a sharp sting that burns too much, but just right.
So no, Arthur doesn't remember, but he also doesn't care. If they're dreaming, then he can draw it out, can have Eames fuck him again and again until he can't even move, and he wonders for a moment, if maybe it's possible to time an orgasm with the kick.
He moans loudly, unrestrained, when Eames bites just under his ear, shivers when Eames licks a line down his jaw.
"Christ," says Eames. "Do you even know--"
"No," he says, biting at Eames' lower lip. "No, I don't."
Eames kisses him hard then, and Arthur leans into it, sighing. "Arthur," he murmurs, quiet, and Arthur clenches around him. His grip tightens, spreading Arthur wide.
"Fuck yeah, you love that," Arthur grins with a twist of his hips.
Eames doesn't answer, just traces a finger against Arthur's hole, and Arthur stutters, says "Eames." with a broken off groan, and feels Eames smirk against the corner of his mouth.
"That's not me," he says, in a way that should be teasing, but just sounds raw. "That's all you, darling."
The finger pushes inside, and Arthur can't help the whimper that escapes him. It moves with them, shallowly at first, until it sinks in, matching the length of Eames cock, pressing against his prostate until Arthur goes boneless in Eames' arms.
He feels another tentacle pressing against his entrance, but it feels different, ridged. He shivers, clawing at Eames back as it slips inside much too slowly, dragging out a long moan.
Eames stills and only breathes a warning of "Shit," before he comes, and Arthur rocks them through it, whimpering quietly when Eames gently eases himself out.
He rolls Arthur onto his back, grinning down at him. He feels some of Eames' come drip out, but then the tentacles surge forward, and Arthur nearly chokes, arching into every thrust as they push against his spot again and again, keeping the come inside him.
Eames reaches down and gives his cock a few quick strokes, and Arthur can't even think, fucked raw and reeling, doesn't even know what his body is doing anymore. Every thrust feels like too much, like he's going to come apart, and Eames is whispering into his ear, how lovely, how filthy, how absolutely stunning--and then his grip is vice-tight, and Arthur bucks, whines from the back of his throat, wanting anything for that last bit of friction that will push him over.
But Eames won't give it to him. He lets the tentacles pound into Arthur, and it's so good it hurts, and Arthur can't fight it, fists his hands into the sheets, and throws his head back, making incoherent noises that border on animalistic while Eames says "One more, Arthur, just one more."
He can't, it's not possible, except that is, it must be, because then he feels impossibly full, feels the tentacles sliding against each other, slick with the leftovers of Eames' come, and he writhes into it. When Eames slackens his grip and gives him that twist that he needs, he comes with a scream.
AND NOW I THINK MAYBE I'LL GO WRITE SOME CATBOY!ARTHUR. ♥
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-20 06:43 am (UTC)VIVI!
oh my god, I finally got to read the second part of your fic, JFC it's so hott <3 you can blame me all you want, I am your ROCK OF BLAME. :P
Also, CATBOY!ARTHUR?! Guess what?! I'm going to clean my catboy!arthur up one day and give it some semblence of a plot. JUST A HINT, DON'T WORRY, THERE WILL STILL BE RIDICULOUS AMOUNTS OF MILK-COME. :D So, basically, please write that, because I need more catboy like fire always.
PLEASE WRITE MORE TENTACLE PORN, TOO.
I'm not demanding at all. >_>
~
in other news: I GOT HER TICKETS TO SEE LES MIZ
that's so awesome! I saw it in London when I was 10 and it's stayed with me...<3 I hope you both have a great time!
~em
no subject
Date: 2011-05-21 04:17 am (UTC)I'm going to clean my catboy!arthur up one day and give it some semblence of a plot.
:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD I WILL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH CATBOY!ARTHUR
i...i guess there should be more tentacle porn featuring catboy!arthur?? *_*
aaaaaa, yes, we saw it when we were in london last year! ♥ I got tickets for the 25th Anniversary tour. \o/