Mothballs don't actually smell BAD, you know
Title: I Can't Title All This Shit (Week 2, Prompt Covers)
Author: platina and weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Covers
Word count: 1557
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
[text] by weatherfront
Probate lawyering is difficult work. Eames has insinuated himself into unearned trust before, posed as an expert in more fields than he can keep track of, but even his easy adaptability is a scant substitute for several years of law school and a license to practice. It's essentially touch-and-go, most days, and he spends his time at the estate ignoring a constant chill at the back of his neck. Infiltration is worth the effort; he's got a good eye on the mark, the eldest son of the bereaved family. But by the time he heads back home, he's wound so tight it's a wonder he hasn't run his car into something yet.
Home -- at the moment -- is a spacious Victorian summer house that the owners have let for the cooler months. A quick commute, and something picturesque to look forward to every evening. Eames tugs the keys out of the ignition. Speaking of picturesque, he thinks, Arthur must be waiting.
It's been several months since they've started pulling jobs together, only a little longer than they've been pulling each other into bed. Eames was loath to mention this case to Arthur, the extractor too peremptory to recognize his need for a good point, only the single forger slot open for his taking-- but so lucrative, and such a dance. In the end it was Arthur who got a hold of the news and called him a number of very insulting names for not having agreed to it yet. All I need is a goddamn wireless connection, said Arthur. Let's get a place somewhere, I'll work from home, warm your bed until you get back at night.
That word again, home. Strange and thrilling on his tongue. Eames jogs up to the front door, throws it open, and skids into the parlor calling, "Honey, I'm home."
"Welcome back," says Arthur, straightening up from where he's bent over the fireplace.
Eames trips on the doorsill. They don't use the fireplace, really, preferring to keep it ornamental on account of the hassle of cleaning and upkeep. But now it's the only bit of light in the room, the flame jumping and flickering in its cove, casting long shadows across the line of Arthur's back, the cling of the satin dress against his body.
"You--" stammers Eames, "where did you--"
"Do you like it?" asks Arthur, and cocks his hip. The dress only barely comes down to the swell of his arse, a smooth span of thigh visible above the lacy hem of his stockings. Legs slender and colt-sleek in a pair of black heels.
"God, you weren't joking," says Eames, weakly. "I mean, I did say that it would help, but I can't in good conscience assert that this is the most efficient way to learn how to forge-- where on Earth did you get those shoes?"
"Picked a couple locks and found the dress in the closet," says Arthur. "Don't worry, I'll get it dry cleaned later. The shoes, no problem, just a brief trip out into the city. Was it worth the effort? What do you think?"
He sets the poker down next to the mantelpiece, and falls gracefully back onto a chaise, dress riding up as he shifts. The open sprawl of his legs would never do for any sort of verisimilitude, but that looseness is so distinctively Arthur, so carelessly depraved, that it makes Eames's mouth run dry. Arthur is gorgeous like this, his hair in wisps across his forehead, the firelight wicked in his eyes. Eames climbs onto the chaise, between Arthur's knees. He buries his nose into the lace at Arthur's collarbones, taking in the faint scent of powder from seasons past, the hint of woodsy smoke.
"I want to fuck you," he whispers. He feels the shudder run through Arthur's body, the hitch in his breath.
"Well, you do deserve it," says Arthur, and squirms out from underneath him, propping himself up. He takes up Eames's tie, pulling it tight. "And I do want it."
Slowly, he lifts one lean leg, hitching it over Eames's shoulder. Beckoning him closer, the little devil. Eames circles his fingers around Arthur's ankle, caught by the arch of fine bones there, something very suggestive in the elegant curve of his foot. He runs his hand down the silky length of stocking, muscles long and taut under his touch. When he reaches naked skin, Eames slides his hand under Arthur's arse, palming it as he leans in for a kiss.
Arthur makes a soft sound and goes slack under him, lips parting, head tipping back to bare his throat. One arm danging off the edge of the armrest, he lets his hand fall from Eames's tie, sliding it up past the hem of the dress.
"Not there," says Eames, breaking the kiss. "I'll get you off, thank you very much."
"Please," groans Arthur. He tugs Eames's hand toward him, sucking his fingers into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. Eames feels his cock jump at the close, wet heat of it, that clever tongue tracing the grooves between his fingers.
"God, you're too much," Eames tells him, and means it-- Arthur's lashes flutter closed, thick and damp, the peaked outline of his nipples pressing against the satin. It takes so little to get him like this, sweet and beautifully eager, every inch of him begging to be touched and toyed with. In the glow of the fire he's more lush than ever, his edges melted away.
Meticulous down to every last detail, Arthur's wearing a frilly, fancy black thing underneath the dress, alarmingly titillating but a poor fit for his hardening cock. Even that's somehow filthier than it has any right to be, the scrap of fabric already soaked clean through. It smells dark and musky, undeniably male, and -- suddenly voracious -- Eames fairly tears it off of him, does tear it off of him, the underwear ripping into a long shred of lace.
"I hope that wasn't one of the things you found in the closet," says Eames, and pushes a finger into him.
Arthur gasps, trembling, lost for an answer. Gently Eames searches him out, spreading his thighs apart. He's pliant with the warmth of the room, slick with spit and precome, opening easy for Eames when he crooks a finger and strokes inside him. When Eames aims for his spot and works the finger in deeper, nudging against it, Arthur's response is electric-- he moans out loud, the flush spreading across pale skin like a drop of ink in water, back curving off the chaise.
"You love it," murmurs Eames. "You love getting fingered so much-- even more than my cock, maybe. You could come from this, couldn't you? This would be enough--"
"Don't you dare," Arthur grits out. "I-- I know you want it, want to shove your cock inside me-- like you could ever say no to my ass--"
He's right, Eames has to admit. But it's the sort of arse that renders self-control meaningless, tight and luscious, filling out a stolen dress as irresistibly as a well-cut pair of trousers. And so sensitive, quivering deliciously under the least amount of attention. Arthur might never make a very good woman, too steadfast in himself and too scrupulous to paint anything in approximation, too sure of the fit of his body-- but he's always ready to make room when it comes to Eames, more malleable for him than in any other way.
He might be a little in love with me, thinks Eames as he fills him, Arthur's arm thrown over his eyes like he can hardly bear it, tiny moans slipping through his parted lips. I might be a very lucky man.
Draped off the edge of the armrest, Arthur rocks with every thrust, shoes barely hanging off the curl of his toes. Eames feels like he's been given a fortune in a currency he doesn't recognize; unsure of the value of what he holds in his hands, convinced of its immeasurable worth, and a bit terrified to wonder whether he's good enough to keep it safe.
"I want," stammers Eames, gingerly brushing Arthur's arm off of his face, "I want to be good for you, Arthur. I want to be-- how can I--?"
"Eames, you untimely asshole-- ah, god," says Arthur, in something between a laugh and a gasp, "you're-- you're plenty good for me, or-- just bad enough to be good, I don't care, only-- you need to fuck me better, right now, or I'm going to-- mm, ah-- fuck--"
"Yes," breathes Eames, "okay," and drives into him, closing his teeth around the clip-on strand of gold at Arthur's earlobe, yanking it off with a jerk of his head. He spits it to the floor like a grenade pin, and Arthur -- like it sets him off, like it shakes him loose -- shudders in his arms and comes, his fingers pressing into Eames's hair, tremulous and unsure.
Just before he comes, himself, Eames hears his name in his ear, a gust of warm, wet love-- and yeah, that little devil, that scrape of teeth is just bad enough to be good. That's just right.
+
[art] by platina ( full size version)
Author: platina and weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Covers
Word count: 1557
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
[text] by weatherfront
Probate lawyering is difficult work. Eames has insinuated himself into unearned trust before, posed as an expert in more fields than he can keep track of, but even his easy adaptability is a scant substitute for several years of law school and a license to practice. It's essentially touch-and-go, most days, and he spends his time at the estate ignoring a constant chill at the back of his neck. Infiltration is worth the effort; he's got a good eye on the mark, the eldest son of the bereaved family. But by the time he heads back home, he's wound so tight it's a wonder he hasn't run his car into something yet.
Home -- at the moment -- is a spacious Victorian summer house that the owners have let for the cooler months. A quick commute, and something picturesque to look forward to every evening. Eames tugs the keys out of the ignition. Speaking of picturesque, he thinks, Arthur must be waiting.
It's been several months since they've started pulling jobs together, only a little longer than they've been pulling each other into bed. Eames was loath to mention this case to Arthur, the extractor too peremptory to recognize his need for a good point, only the single forger slot open for his taking-- but so lucrative, and such a dance. In the end it was Arthur who got a hold of the news and called him a number of very insulting names for not having agreed to it yet. All I need is a goddamn wireless connection, said Arthur. Let's get a place somewhere, I'll work from home, warm your bed until you get back at night.
That word again, home. Strange and thrilling on his tongue. Eames jogs up to the front door, throws it open, and skids into the parlor calling, "Honey, I'm home."
"Welcome back," says Arthur, straightening up from where he's bent over the fireplace.
Eames trips on the doorsill. They don't use the fireplace, really, preferring to keep it ornamental on account of the hassle of cleaning and upkeep. But now it's the only bit of light in the room, the flame jumping and flickering in its cove, casting long shadows across the line of Arthur's back, the cling of the satin dress against his body.
"You--" stammers Eames, "where did you--"
"Do you like it?" asks Arthur, and cocks his hip. The dress only barely comes down to the swell of his arse, a smooth span of thigh visible above the lacy hem of his stockings. Legs slender and colt-sleek in a pair of black heels.
"God, you weren't joking," says Eames, weakly. "I mean, I did say that it would help, but I can't in good conscience assert that this is the most efficient way to learn how to forge-- where on Earth did you get those shoes?"
"Picked a couple locks and found the dress in the closet," says Arthur. "Don't worry, I'll get it dry cleaned later. The shoes, no problem, just a brief trip out into the city. Was it worth the effort? What do you think?"
He sets the poker down next to the mantelpiece, and falls gracefully back onto a chaise, dress riding up as he shifts. The open sprawl of his legs would never do for any sort of verisimilitude, but that looseness is so distinctively Arthur, so carelessly depraved, that it makes Eames's mouth run dry. Arthur is gorgeous like this, his hair in wisps across his forehead, the firelight wicked in his eyes. Eames climbs onto the chaise, between Arthur's knees. He buries his nose into the lace at Arthur's collarbones, taking in the faint scent of powder from seasons past, the hint of woodsy smoke.
"I want to fuck you," he whispers. He feels the shudder run through Arthur's body, the hitch in his breath.
"Well, you do deserve it," says Arthur, and squirms out from underneath him, propping himself up. He takes up Eames's tie, pulling it tight. "And I do want it."
Slowly, he lifts one lean leg, hitching it over Eames's shoulder. Beckoning him closer, the little devil. Eames circles his fingers around Arthur's ankle, caught by the arch of fine bones there, something very suggestive in the elegant curve of his foot. He runs his hand down the silky length of stocking, muscles long and taut under his touch. When he reaches naked skin, Eames slides his hand under Arthur's arse, palming it as he leans in for a kiss.
Arthur makes a soft sound and goes slack under him, lips parting, head tipping back to bare his throat. One arm danging off the edge of the armrest, he lets his hand fall from Eames's tie, sliding it up past the hem of the dress.
"Not there," says Eames, breaking the kiss. "I'll get you off, thank you very much."
"Please," groans Arthur. He tugs Eames's hand toward him, sucking his fingers into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. Eames feels his cock jump at the close, wet heat of it, that clever tongue tracing the grooves between his fingers.
"God, you're too much," Eames tells him, and means it-- Arthur's lashes flutter closed, thick and damp, the peaked outline of his nipples pressing against the satin. It takes so little to get him like this, sweet and beautifully eager, every inch of him begging to be touched and toyed with. In the glow of the fire he's more lush than ever, his edges melted away.
Meticulous down to every last detail, Arthur's wearing a frilly, fancy black thing underneath the dress, alarmingly titillating but a poor fit for his hardening cock. Even that's somehow filthier than it has any right to be, the scrap of fabric already soaked clean through. It smells dark and musky, undeniably male, and -- suddenly voracious -- Eames fairly tears it off of him, does tear it off of him, the underwear ripping into a long shred of lace.
"I hope that wasn't one of the things you found in the closet," says Eames, and pushes a finger into him.
Arthur gasps, trembling, lost for an answer. Gently Eames searches him out, spreading his thighs apart. He's pliant with the warmth of the room, slick with spit and precome, opening easy for Eames when he crooks a finger and strokes inside him. When Eames aims for his spot and works the finger in deeper, nudging against it, Arthur's response is electric-- he moans out loud, the flush spreading across pale skin like a drop of ink in water, back curving off the chaise.
"You love it," murmurs Eames. "You love getting fingered so much-- even more than my cock, maybe. You could come from this, couldn't you? This would be enough--"
"Don't you dare," Arthur grits out. "I-- I know you want it, want to shove your cock inside me-- like you could ever say no to my ass--"
He's right, Eames has to admit. But it's the sort of arse that renders self-control meaningless, tight and luscious, filling out a stolen dress as irresistibly as a well-cut pair of trousers. And so sensitive, quivering deliciously under the least amount of attention. Arthur might never make a very good woman, too steadfast in himself and too scrupulous to paint anything in approximation, too sure of the fit of his body-- but he's always ready to make room when it comes to Eames, more malleable for him than in any other way.
He might be a little in love with me, thinks Eames as he fills him, Arthur's arm thrown over his eyes like he can hardly bear it, tiny moans slipping through his parted lips. I might be a very lucky man.
Draped off the edge of the armrest, Arthur rocks with every thrust, shoes barely hanging off the curl of his toes. Eames feels like he's been given a fortune in a currency he doesn't recognize; unsure of the value of what he holds in his hands, convinced of its immeasurable worth, and a bit terrified to wonder whether he's good enough to keep it safe.
"I want," stammers Eames, gingerly brushing Arthur's arm off of his face, "I want to be good for you, Arthur. I want to be-- how can I--?"
"Eames, you untimely asshole-- ah, god," says Arthur, in something between a laugh and a gasp, "you're-- you're plenty good for me, or-- just bad enough to be good, I don't care, only-- you need to fuck me better, right now, or I'm going to-- mm, ah-- fuck--"
"Yes," breathes Eames, "okay," and drives into him, closing his teeth around the clip-on strand of gold at Arthur's earlobe, yanking it off with a jerk of his head. He spits it to the floor like a grenade pin, and Arthur -- like it sets him off, like it shakes him loose -- shudders in his arms and comes, his fingers pressing into Eames's hair, tremulous and unsure.
Just before he comes, himself, Eames hears his name in his ear, a gust of warm, wet love-- and yeah, that little devil, that scrape of teeth is just bad enough to be good. That's just right.
+
[art] by platina ( full size version)