Inception Kink Fest
Welcome to the Inception fandom Kink Fest!
This fandom puts out some seriously amazing fic on a regular basis, but I am of the opinion that there should always always ALWAYS be more kinky porn. You guys, our fandom has guns and bondage and daddy issues and dream forgery. I say it's time to bring on the kink, yes?
♥ Inception Kink Fest ♥You can ( Read more... )
This fandom puts out some seriously amazing fic on a regular basis, but I am of the opinion that there should always always ALWAYS be more kinky porn. You guys, our fandom has guns and bondage and daddy issues and dream forgery. I say it's time to bring on the kink, yes?
♥ Inception Kink Fest ♥You can ( Read more... )
If this was, in truth, meant to make Eames stop staring, it misses the mark entirely.
"I mean, it wasn't exactly the same," Arthur says, thoughtfully. "There was generally more wearing cut-off jeans and things like that."
Eames managed to find the breath to say, "When, exactly, did you get around to doing that?"
Arthur shrugs. "When I was seventeen."
The image of this - fuck, the thought of it is burning into Eames' brain, red-hot. Arthur, seventeen. Not cocksure, he wouldn't be, but not shy, either. Eames can't imagine that at seventeen Arthur had all his present confidence, but -
No, scrap that, Eames can full well imagine it, though he doesn't think it particularly likely. It's not imagining it, at this point, that's becoming difficult. "Isn't that illegal?"
"Only if you get caught." Arthur smiles, and for once Eames can leans close and kiss the corner of his mouth, licking at it for a minute until Arthur flushes. Doesn't push Eames away, though. Not today. Today they're alone, and planning, and this job is just the two of them. It's an old-fashioned con, if it can even be called that. In complete honesty, it's nothing but a glorified pickpocketing.
Eames would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it, the return to his old line of work. He is, however, a bit stymied by Arthur's ready capitulation to his proposed scheme.
Maybe he shouldn't be. Arthur never was one to hold him back.
"So we're agreed, then," Eames says. "You'll do it?"
Arthur nods. He inspects the immaculate white shirt he's wearing, the fine detailing on the cufflinks Eames brought him from Berlin. "Will this do?" he says, indicating his outfit.
"Oh, yes," Eames says, quiet, taking hold of Arthur's wrist, feeling the rush of his pulse beneath the thin fabric. "It will do very well."
~~
It's not a strip club, not by any definition of the term. It's a gentlemen's club, certainly, one with a very specific clientele in mind, and very specific forms of entertainment. Their mark is one of the club's most important patrons, and he's all but impossible to come into contact with otherwise.
Getting an invite is the easy part, since Eames can create his own. Getting Arthur in would have been more complicated, except that they had an opening. A very specific type of opening.
"Are you sure," Eames says, as he watches Arthur getting dressed. If anything, Arthur's looking more formal than ever, serious and beautiful, from the crisp line of his starched collar to his shoes, buffed to a high shine.
"What do you think?" Arthur says in place of an answer. His hands go up to his hair, and he frowns momentarily. "Should I slick it back?"
"No," Eames says, breath catching in his throat for some reason. "Leave it loose, I think."
Arthur nods, and it's his serious expression, his work face. Eames dearly hopes Arthur can manage to make himself look the part. Professionalism is good and well, but not exactly what their audience is bound to expect.
"Hey." Arthur's hand is soft on Eames cheek. "Trust me, okay?"
"Of course I trust you," Eames says, indignant. He sighs, turns his face to kiss Arthur's palm. "You know I do," he says, quieter. But - well. It's their first job together in the real world, to Eames' knowledge Arthur's first taste of real world crime. It's not Arthur's job, generally, to be the distraction, unless the distracting involves explosions.
"I know what to do, Eames," Arthur says. "I can work an audience, if I have to."
It's one of Arthur's myriad virtues that he never over- or underestimates himself, sure in his knowledge of his abilities, of himself. Eames bows to his superior judgement.
But he takes Arthur's pocket square out, even so, straightens it and folds it over, tucking it back in.
"There," Eames says, surveying Arthur.
Arthur puts on his jacket, one clean economical motion. "Let's go."
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This is already too brilliant.
THEY ARE JUST SO SWEET.
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Arthur was meant to be the warm-up to whatever top attraction the club generally featured, but for some mysterious reason said attraction was unable to make it, so Arthur shall be the sole focus of attention tonight. (Well, the reason is mysterious to Eames, at least. He finds it best not to ask Arthur about these things.)
The room is set up like a boardroom, with a modest stage set up where the speaker's stand would be, merging into what looks like a very large mahogany conference table. The other patrons are sitting around it, arrayed in a horseshoe shape, various glasses in their hands kept filled by discreet waitstaff.
A man in a dark navy double-breasted suit comes to the stage, clearing his throat. This place wouldn't have anything to do with anything so bourgeois as a microphone, relying instead on good acoustics and their patrons' manners.
"I would like to present to you," the announcer says, "a newcomer to our fine establishment. We are very impressed with his skills, and hope you will find him pleasing."
The announcer leaves the stage to some polite applause. Eames is starting to wish he'd snuck Arthur in as one of the waiters. Unnoticed, smooth, Arthur could have fit right in there. Eames could have relied on the mark's preoccupation with the entertainment as it was.
But the plan is what it is. Too late to change it now, as Arthur rises to the stage. Eames blinks, because for a moment he has a vertigo-inducing sense of deja-vu.
Arthur stands on the stage looking at the patrons, expression serene. He looks just like he always does at the end of a well-executed briefing. For a moment Eames expects him to say "Any questions?"
Rather, Arthur steps to the front of the stage, and slowly removes a single cufflink.
The silence in the room is tense, palpable. Eames wishes for the distraction of background music, bright lights, the cozy haze of drunkeneness. Anything but the grace of Arthur's familiar movements as he takes off his jacket, leaving it folded neatly on the stage floor.
Then Arthur walks up the table, heavy shoes clacking on the wooden surface, right up to Pinkerton, their mark, at his seat at Eames' left.
Pinkerton looks up, meeting Arthur's eyes. He does nothing so crass as offer Arthur money. Instead, he inquires, in a deep polite voice, "May I remove your shoes?"
"You may," Arthur says, oddly grave.
The mark's fingers are slow on Arthur's shoelaces, careful. Arthur extends one foot, balancing on the other one with complete ease.
Arthur's not wearing socks, and for some reason that hits Eames, a ridiculous pang of longing when he sees the pale flash of Arthur's ankles.
Ankles. For the love of God. Eames is quite glad he never bothered to be worried about his sanity, because it's very clear he lost all of it somewhere along the lines. Worse still, he can't bring himself to regret it in the least.
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Pinkerton takes both Arthur's shoes off. His hands linger on Arthur's bare foot, only for a moment, but long enough for Eames to notice.
Eames isn't given to possessiveness. He trusts Arthur implicitly, both on matters of work and beyond it. But Pinkerton had his hands on Arthur, for just that fleeting second, as if was reasonable that Arthur would allow it. As if Pinkerton had any right.
But Arthur's walking away from them, barefoot, to introduce himself to the other patrons, and Eames camouflages his distaste with a gulp of drink. A single sip's not likely to hurt anything.
Arthur knows what he's doing, Eames reminds himself. Arthur's in control, devastatingly so, not a hair out of place. Figuratively, at least. Eames feels a sharp pang of regret at that - he should've asked Arthur to slick it back, put it away.
This, as it is, the contradiction of Arthur's severe expression and the soft fall of his hair, tears at Eames. He's an actor, for crying out loud. He responds to cues. He knows Arthur-at-work and Arthur-at-play are two completely difference creatures, and this blurring of the lines is making him desperately uncomfortable. It's quite detrimental to the fit of his trousers, too.
The muted thud of Arthur's belt hitting the table snaps Eames back to the situation in front of him. At a man's subtle sign, Arthur kneels (so graceful, so easy it makes Eames' heart ache), thighs splayed wide to allow the patron access to Arthur's zipper.
Arthur's expression doesn't change at all as the man unbuttons his trousers. Eames isn't certain whether he's relieved by that or not.
This patron is apparently more careful of Arthur's personal space, because Arthur remains there after the patron takes his hands away, legs spread, a hint of his white pants showing through the unbuttoned top of his trousers, a sliver of exposed skin just above it that makes Eames' mouth water.
By all rights, Eames shouldn't be reacting like this. It's not like he doesn't have regular access to Arthur in his full, glorious nakedness. Eames shouldn't be like those men around him who are growing wide-eyed, sweating discreetly into their three-piece suits.
But Arthur is Arthur, and Eames can't help the way he reacts to him, never could nor ever wanted to. He allows himself to lean back in his seat and watch as Arthur bends down, a perfect straight right angle, his arse thrust out, to let a man loosen his tie for him.
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The rules here aren't standard strip club rules, exactly. No one would ask for a lap dance, for one thing. Which, looked at one way, is a crying shame; Eames is certain Arthur could lap-dance like nobody's business.
But on the other hand, the way Arthur could theoretically perform a lap dance should quite literally be nobody's business. Or nobody but Eames', to cling to the precision that Arthur demands from him. From anyone, really, but from Eames most of all. Eames would say it's a dreadful burden, but he hates to be obvious when he's lying.
At any rate, the rules of the club do not outright specify no touching between the clients and the workers. It was expected that the patrons use their discretion, and in the event that it was found lacking, sufficient compensation could be arranged.
And still, the last thing Eames expected when Arthur came to stand in front of them was for him to extend his foot to Pinkerton, like a lady extending her hand to be kissed.
Pinkerton hesitates for a moment, and - No, nevermind, the last thing Eames expected is Arthur frowning slightly at Pinkerton's lack of response and raising his foot to Pinkerton's lips.
Eames hears Pinkerton exhale, sees his hand rise to grasp Arthur's ankle, and for a dizzy moment he can't remember why he shouldn't punch Pinkerton's piggish face out.
Then Eames blinks, slips back into the mask of polite interest he's tried to wear all evening, and reaches under the table to swap the briefcase he's brought with him with the one to which Pinkerton's been holding tight until just this very moment.
When Eames can focus on them again, Pinkerton is holding Arthur's foot in his palm, entranced. Arthur doesn't look even inconvenienced, seems perfectly content to stand where he is and let Pinkerton admire him.
Then the moment passes, and Arthur walks a few steps back. He's standing in the middle of the stage, and with brisk movements he strips off his shirt, flinging it to land on Eames' face, the little bastard.
Eames struggles - with the shirt, somewhat, but mostly with his urge to leave that where it is, to soak in Arthur's scent and ignore the rest of it, Arthur's body bared for strangers' eyes. Then he shakes himself and removes it, privately rolling his eyes at his own sense of melodrama.
By the time Eames wrestles the shirt off, Arthur's entirely naked and entirely hard, touching himself without even the faintest hint of self-consciousness. There's a different quality, now, to the silence in the room, thick as it is with the patrons' heavy breathing.
If one of them requests it, Arthur might lie down and bring himself off, right there where they all can see him. Arthur looks like he doesn't even care, rubbing himself absently, as if he doesn't know every man in the room wants to do it for him. Although that may be only Eames' biased assessment of the subject.
Eames hasn't even notice the announcer come back to the stage. He doubts anybody did, really.
"Well done," the annoucer says. "Everyone please show your appreciation to Mr. Charles."
Eames is very nearly too busy trying not to choke to think, Ask them to stand up, mate. That'll show you appreciation.
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