(no subject)
Title: The price of perfection
Author/Artist: immoral-crow and red-rahl
Team: ROMANCE
Prompt: Hold
Word count: 1758
Rating: NC17
Warnings: D/s, pony play
A/N: I wrote 88-90 of the 100 things where Eames was a horse that Arthur rode in a job to extract riding secrets. The delicious red-rahl said that if I wrote a prolonged grooming scene she would illustrate it for me. The world, I decided, and this match in particular, could do with a healthy dose of ponyboy!Eames chomping (as it were) at the bit. red-rahl? Your art is delicious and I hope my poor words do it some justice. Many thanks to my beautiful beta who led me through this and made it a much better constructed story. The whole list, should you want it, is here.
The price of perfection
It hurt. He had spent hours on this job, perfecting every detail, every mannerism, becoming the dressage horse that Arthur needed to make this work. Exercises and training repeated over and over until Eames couldn’t remember if he was the man or the horse he was forging. Everything was effort: effort to perform, to subdue his will, to obey his rider - to please Arthur.
It was the price he paid for being the best. And he was the best. He had mastered his craft, was sought after and courted by teams who wanted him to work with them.
He remembered once reading that the price of being the best was exactly that: it meant you had to be the best, always, without excuse or apology. So he worked at making it appear effortless, at being efficiently, competently, completely in control. Even the little jobs, the ones that others might see as a break or rest, demanded the same perfection from him that a gruelling inception job did.
Sometimes he could even ask for help - could find someone he could learn with, who could school him along the rocky path from acceptable to brilliant. Who he could trust enough to let them see him forging form and genius out of mediocrity.
His muscles were burning with fatigue, boots and bonds keeping him in posture even now, so that he trembled with the effort of staying upright, keeping still. His skin was red - a different burn to remind him of when he’d been slow to learn and Arthur had had to guide him with the riding crop. Physical exhaustion was like a weight on him, fogging his mind to everything but gratitude for the relative relaxation of grooming.
The bit between his teeth filled his mouth with the taste of metal, and his breathing was harsh around it. He shifted on the balls of his feet, a slight movement to ease the strain in his muscles, but even this pushed the heavy, invasive tail plug against his prostate, and he fought to still himself.
‘You did well today.’ Arthur’s voice came from the back of the stall, and though Eames’s blinkered vision meant he couldn’t see Arthur, his voice sounded warm and pleased.
‘You should see yourself out there,’ Arthur said, and Eames heard his boots on the flagstones as he came closer. ‘You look beautiful. Like you’re made for this.’
Arthur ran his hand down Eames’s sweat-drenched back, stepping in close enough that Eames could feel the brush of Arthur’s riding jacket against his sun-warmed skin. For a moment he missed the horse’s form - his human body felt weak and vulnerable in comparison - but Arthur had asked for this, and Eames obliged.
He tried to force words out - something about the job, something professional and insightful - but they garbled into nothing, blocked by the bit and his tiredness.
‘Shhhh.’ Arthur’s voice was comforting. ‘You did well out there for me. Let me look after you now.’
There was a flicker of concern in Eames’s mind, but then Arthur ran his hand over Eames’s skin again and Eames needed this, needed to forget the job and the debrief waiting for him when he woke up. And this was Arthur. Arthur who had his back in every fire-fight they faced together, who provoked and cajoled and supported in his inimitable way until Eames was the best in every job. Who had spent hours coaching him for this job, leading Eames by the mouth, by the pressure of his thighs, by the weight of his words, until obedience became second nature in the ring.
Arthur started running the damp cloth over his skin in long, methodical strokes, and Eames relaxed into the sensation, goosebumps prickling his flesh in the wake of each stroke, until he could feel that the worst of the sweat and the dust had been cleaned away.
‘Look down,’ Arthur said, and though his long fingers wrapped in Eames’s hair, Eames didn’t need their guidance to obey him. He dropped his chin, submissive, to his chest and Arthur undid the blinkers, pulling them free, but leaving the bit between Eames’s teeth.
The stall was nearly silent, just the splash of cool water in a jug to break the stillness. Everything narrowed down to the pressure of Arthur’s hands on his scalp as he massaged some woody scented shampoo through Eames’s hair, scrubbing away the sweat and dust.
And it felt good, Arthur’s attention on him. No one could focus quite like Arthur, and now every drop of that was being given to Eames. He felt himself respond, his cock lengthening and hardening, even though Arthur had been diligent in ignoring it so far.
‘You’re so good for me, so responsive.’ Arthur’s voice sounded full of possessive pride and Eames pushed towards him, seeking the warmth of his body. Arthur ran a hand over the smooth skin of Eames’s hip, reaching down to cup his arse. ‘I should get you branded,’ he whispered, the words like a virus infecting Eames with desire. ‘Mark you as mine, so everyone would know, so no one would ever touch you apart from me.’
Eames shivered and Arthur pulled away, walking round so Eames could see him as he dried his hands and pulled on his leather gloves.
‘I’m going to groom you now,’ Arthur said, his eyes fixed on Eames’s. ‘You know what to do if you want me to stop.’
Eames did know. He was the best after all, and there was no knot, no chain that could hold him in a dream if he didn’t want it to.
Arthur walked around him and started running a brush over his back, the scratch of the bristles strangely calming. He was gentle with it, never tearing Eames’s skin - not even when he groomed the soft skin over the curve of Eames’s hip-bone - but each brush stroke made Eames’s skin burn, made desire pool low and hot in his stomach.
Eames moaned when Arthur groomed his chest, letting the bristles catch on his nipples in little stabs of pleasure that weren’t enough, weren’t nearly enough.
‘Patience,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
He drew back slightly from Eames and put a hand at the base of his tail, where Eames was stretched tight around it.
‘Ready?’ he asked, and Eames didn’t even nod, just relaxed into Arthur’s touch.
Arthur started grooming the tail, every slow brushstroke moving the plug inside Eames. He was hard now, aching with Arthur’s touch and the force of his attention, and the pressure of the plug shifting inside him.
Eames whined around the bit, canting his hips, thrusting into nothing. His prick slapped, wet-tipped and needy, against his stomach and Arthur gentled him with a light touch to his shoulder, the leather of his glove warm and soft against Eames skin.
‘Be calm,’ he said, reaching round to stroke his hand down Eames’s abdomen. ‘You don’t get to decide this right now.’
He ran his gloved hand over the planes of Eames’s stomach, keeping his touch firm and pausing where Eames’s cock had smeared precome against the muscle.
‘You make such a mess,’ he said, the words sounding fond.
Eames shivered at the feel of Arthur’s leather-covered fingers running through the slickness and Arthur huffed a soft laugh into the skin of his neck. He brought his fingers, slick with Eames’s taste, up to Eames’s lips and pressed them over the bit to rest on Eames’s tongue.
Hampered by the metal, Eames suckled them as best as he could, the taste of the leather and himself momentarily overwhelming the metallic flavour of the bit.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ Arthur said, his voice hushed, like he was taking advantage of Eames’s exhausted silence to say all the things he usually held back. ‘You put everything of yourself into a job like this, you never hold back for me at all.’
And if Eames could talk he would have told him it wasn’t the job he did this for, it was Arthur, except all the words had fallen away now. There was nothing for him to do but to relax into Arthur’s touch, and his words, heavy against Eames’s skin as his hands were.
He was aware of Arthur speaking, but the words were almost a comforting hum, grounding Eames as Arthur finally took Eames’s cock in his gloved hand and started stroking him, a gentle, rhythmic pressure that drove everything from Eames’s mind. He moaned again, and Arthur took the tail in his other hand, pushing it gently in a deliberate counterpoint to his strokes.
Eames, torn between the leather gripping his prick and the insistent pressure of the plug, was unsure whether to push backwards or buck forwards. He abandoned himself to Arthur’s movements, Arthur’s rhythm until he was dizzy with pleasure and need.
‘Oh, my good boy,’ Arthur said, something very close to reverence in the words. ‘C’mon, Eames. Come for me.’
He bit at Eames’s neck, sucking a mark into the skin and held Eames as he came, stroking gently till Eames was completely spent, the leather of Arthur’s glove now gliding frictionless against Eames’s over-sensitive skin. Eames stumbled, heavy-legged, and Arthur knelt, bearing him down to the floor, arranging him kneeling and vulnerable.
He let Eames lick the glove clean, watching him the whole time with dark eyes, but he made no move to free his own erection. He’d wait now till they were back in the waking world, had made it back to their hotel room, before he’d let himself fall on Eames, licking the memories of dreams from his mouth and replacing them with solid things, real world things that Eames could hold on to forever.
‘The dream will collapse soon,’ he said, starting to undo the bridle, slipping the bit from between Eames’s teeth.
Eames let his head fall back onto Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur kissed him, and even though the angle was awkward, Eames let himself melt into it.
‘Do you want to wait this out?’ Arthur asked, and Eames nodded, willing to put up with anything for a little more of this, just him and Arthur and a space without judgement.
‘Let me untie you then,’ Arthur said, and though it wasn’t necessary, Eames let him; let him unlace his arms and rub feeling back into them, let him cradle Eames like he was something special, something precious.
‘You’re my best,’ he said, and Eames, watching the dream start to crack around them, could believe that, yes, maybe he was.
Author/Artist: immoral-crow and red-rahl
Team: ROMANCE
Prompt: Hold
Word count: 1758
Rating: NC17
Warnings: D/s, pony play
A/N: I wrote 88-90 of the 100 things where Eames was a horse that Arthur rode in a job to extract riding secrets. The delicious red-rahl said that if I wrote a prolonged grooming scene she would illustrate it for me. The world, I decided, and this match in particular, could do with a healthy dose of ponyboy!Eames chomping (as it were) at the bit. red-rahl? Your art is delicious and I hope my poor words do it some justice. Many thanks to my beautiful beta who led me through this and made it a much better constructed story. The whole list, should you want it, is here.
The price of perfection
It hurt. He had spent hours on this job, perfecting every detail, every mannerism, becoming the dressage horse that Arthur needed to make this work. Exercises and training repeated over and over until Eames couldn’t remember if he was the man or the horse he was forging. Everything was effort: effort to perform, to subdue his will, to obey his rider - to please Arthur.
It was the price he paid for being the best. And he was the best. He had mastered his craft, was sought after and courted by teams who wanted him to work with them.
He remembered once reading that the price of being the best was exactly that: it meant you had to be the best, always, without excuse or apology. So he worked at making it appear effortless, at being efficiently, competently, completely in control. Even the little jobs, the ones that others might see as a break or rest, demanded the same perfection from him that a gruelling inception job did.
Sometimes he could even ask for help - could find someone he could learn with, who could school him along the rocky path from acceptable to brilliant. Who he could trust enough to let them see him forging form and genius out of mediocrity.
His muscles were burning with fatigue, boots and bonds keeping him in posture even now, so that he trembled with the effort of staying upright, keeping still. His skin was red - a different burn to remind him of when he’d been slow to learn and Arthur had had to guide him with the riding crop. Physical exhaustion was like a weight on him, fogging his mind to everything but gratitude for the relative relaxation of grooming.
The bit between his teeth filled his mouth with the taste of metal, and his breathing was harsh around it. He shifted on the balls of his feet, a slight movement to ease the strain in his muscles, but even this pushed the heavy, invasive tail plug against his prostate, and he fought to still himself.
‘You did well today.’ Arthur’s voice came from the back of the stall, and though Eames’s blinkered vision meant he couldn’t see Arthur, his voice sounded warm and pleased.
‘You should see yourself out there,’ Arthur said, and Eames heard his boots on the flagstones as he came closer. ‘You look beautiful. Like you’re made for this.’
Arthur ran his hand down Eames’s sweat-drenched back, stepping in close enough that Eames could feel the brush of Arthur’s riding jacket against his sun-warmed skin. For a moment he missed the horse’s form - his human body felt weak and vulnerable in comparison - but Arthur had asked for this, and Eames obliged.
He tried to force words out - something about the job, something professional and insightful - but they garbled into nothing, blocked by the bit and his tiredness.
‘Shhhh.’ Arthur’s voice was comforting. ‘You did well out there for me. Let me look after you now.’
There was a flicker of concern in Eames’s mind, but then Arthur ran his hand over Eames’s skin again and Eames needed this, needed to forget the job and the debrief waiting for him when he woke up. And this was Arthur. Arthur who had his back in every fire-fight they faced together, who provoked and cajoled and supported in his inimitable way until Eames was the best in every job. Who had spent hours coaching him for this job, leading Eames by the mouth, by the pressure of his thighs, by the weight of his words, until obedience became second nature in the ring.
Arthur started running the damp cloth over his skin in long, methodical strokes, and Eames relaxed into the sensation, goosebumps prickling his flesh in the wake of each stroke, until he could feel that the worst of the sweat and the dust had been cleaned away.
‘Look down,’ Arthur said, and though his long fingers wrapped in Eames’s hair, Eames didn’t need their guidance to obey him. He dropped his chin, submissive, to his chest and Arthur undid the blinkers, pulling them free, but leaving the bit between Eames’s teeth.
The stall was nearly silent, just the splash of cool water in a jug to break the stillness. Everything narrowed down to the pressure of Arthur’s hands on his scalp as he massaged some woody scented shampoo through Eames’s hair, scrubbing away the sweat and dust.
And it felt good, Arthur’s attention on him. No one could focus quite like Arthur, and now every drop of that was being given to Eames. He felt himself respond, his cock lengthening and hardening, even though Arthur had been diligent in ignoring it so far.
‘You’re so good for me, so responsive.’ Arthur’s voice sounded full of possessive pride and Eames pushed towards him, seeking the warmth of his body. Arthur ran a hand over the smooth skin of Eames’s hip, reaching down to cup his arse. ‘I should get you branded,’ he whispered, the words like a virus infecting Eames with desire. ‘Mark you as mine, so everyone would know, so no one would ever touch you apart from me.’
Eames shivered and Arthur pulled away, walking round so Eames could see him as he dried his hands and pulled on his leather gloves.
‘I’m going to groom you now,’ Arthur said, his eyes fixed on Eames’s. ‘You know what to do if you want me to stop.’
Eames did know. He was the best after all, and there was no knot, no chain that could hold him in a dream if he didn’t want it to.
Arthur walked around him and started running a brush over his back, the scratch of the bristles strangely calming. He was gentle with it, never tearing Eames’s skin - not even when he groomed the soft skin over the curve of Eames’s hip-bone - but each brush stroke made Eames’s skin burn, made desire pool low and hot in his stomach.
Eames moaned when Arthur groomed his chest, letting the bristles catch on his nipples in little stabs of pleasure that weren’t enough, weren’t nearly enough.
‘Patience,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
He drew back slightly from Eames and put a hand at the base of his tail, where Eames was stretched tight around it.
‘Ready?’ he asked, and Eames didn’t even nod, just relaxed into Arthur’s touch.
Arthur started grooming the tail, every slow brushstroke moving the plug inside Eames. He was hard now, aching with Arthur’s touch and the force of his attention, and the pressure of the plug shifting inside him.
Eames whined around the bit, canting his hips, thrusting into nothing. His prick slapped, wet-tipped and needy, against his stomach and Arthur gentled him with a light touch to his shoulder, the leather of his glove warm and soft against Eames skin.
‘Be calm,’ he said, reaching round to stroke his hand down Eames’s abdomen. ‘You don’t get to decide this right now.’
He ran his gloved hand over the planes of Eames’s stomach, keeping his touch firm and pausing where Eames’s cock had smeared precome against the muscle.
‘You make such a mess,’ he said, the words sounding fond.
Eames shivered at the feel of Arthur’s leather-covered fingers running through the slickness and Arthur huffed a soft laugh into the skin of his neck. He brought his fingers, slick with Eames’s taste, up to Eames’s lips and pressed them over the bit to rest on Eames’s tongue.
Hampered by the metal, Eames suckled them as best as he could, the taste of the leather and himself momentarily overwhelming the metallic flavour of the bit.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ Arthur said, his voice hushed, like he was taking advantage of Eames’s exhausted silence to say all the things he usually held back. ‘You put everything of yourself into a job like this, you never hold back for me at all.’
And if Eames could talk he would have told him it wasn’t the job he did this for, it was Arthur, except all the words had fallen away now. There was nothing for him to do but to relax into Arthur’s touch, and his words, heavy against Eames’s skin as his hands were.
He was aware of Arthur speaking, but the words were almost a comforting hum, grounding Eames as Arthur finally took Eames’s cock in his gloved hand and started stroking him, a gentle, rhythmic pressure that drove everything from Eames’s mind. He moaned again, and Arthur took the tail in his other hand, pushing it gently in a deliberate counterpoint to his strokes.
Eames, torn between the leather gripping his prick and the insistent pressure of the plug, was unsure whether to push backwards or buck forwards. He abandoned himself to Arthur’s movements, Arthur’s rhythm until he was dizzy with pleasure and need.
‘Oh, my good boy,’ Arthur said, something very close to reverence in the words. ‘C’mon, Eames. Come for me.’
He bit at Eames’s neck, sucking a mark into the skin and held Eames as he came, stroking gently till Eames was completely spent, the leather of Arthur’s glove now gliding frictionless against Eames’s over-sensitive skin. Eames stumbled, heavy-legged, and Arthur knelt, bearing him down to the floor, arranging him kneeling and vulnerable.
He let Eames lick the glove clean, watching him the whole time with dark eyes, but he made no move to free his own erection. He’d wait now till they were back in the waking world, had made it back to their hotel room, before he’d let himself fall on Eames, licking the memories of dreams from his mouth and replacing them with solid things, real world things that Eames could hold on to forever.
‘The dream will collapse soon,’ he said, starting to undo the bridle, slipping the bit from between Eames’s teeth.
Eames let his head fall back onto Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur kissed him, and even though the angle was awkward, Eames let himself melt into it.
‘Do you want to wait this out?’ Arthur asked, and Eames nodded, willing to put up with anything for a little more of this, just him and Arthur and a space without judgement.
‘Let me untie you then,’ Arthur said, and though it wasn’t necessary, Eames let him; let him unlace his arms and rub feeling back into them, let him cradle Eames like he was something special, something precious.
‘You’re my best,’ he said, and Eames, watching the dream start to crack around them, could believe that, yes, maybe he was.