[December 18th] Oh, the Weather Outside
Oh, the Weather Outside
R
Author :
mirabella | Artist : sereneshrimp
"It's not my fault," Arthur snaps. "…Okay, it is, but I'm not doing it on purpose. The heat must have gone out topside."
Eames abandons dignity and peels his shirt off. Arthur's subconscious, usually gratifyingly accommodating, has put a fireplace the size of a small cottage right in one wall of Ariadne's lovely hotel room, complete with a roaring fire in proportion. Eames is pretty sure he can feel his skin blistering. "So your brain's creating fireplaces right out of Versailles to compensate? You're not going to burn the hotel down next, are you?"
"No, Eames," Arthur says. He's trying for a tone of iron patience, Eames can tell. It's foiled by the way Arthur can't quite take his eyes off the droplet of sweat rolling down Eames' neck. Eames loves it when Arthur's libido sends his sarcasm to stand in the corner. "Look, let's kick out of the dream and I'll find a blanket or something. We'll be back in five minutes."
"Now, darling," Eames says reproachfully, reeling Arthur in by the tie.
Arthur gives him a glare that does achieve steeliness this time, if only just. "Eames, you give me a line about body heat being the best way to warm -"
"No, shh, just…" Eames turns Arthur around, presses close against his back, and reaches around to slip his tie loose. Opposite the fireplace is a solid wall of windows; outside, snow is falling in thick lacy whirls, and Fifth Avenue is brilliant with Christmas lights and holiday storefronts. Inside it's close and hot, and Eames is starting not to mind.
"Cobb's waiting for us," Arthur observes, but he leans back into Eames anyway and reaches up to bring Eames' palm to his lips.
"Cobb knows when to exercise judicious blindness," Eames whispers against that lovely spot just behind Arthur's ear. He's right, though, so Eames abandons the tie and slides his hand down the front of Arthur's trousers.
Arthur makes a soft, happy sound and tilts his hips forward, hardening under the slow stroke of Eames' fingers. He's starting to sweat a little, just enough to turn the skin of his collarbone salt-sweet, but the fire isn't dying down. Just as well; the heat makes Eames' grip a little slick, makes Arthur's cock slide through his fingers with just the right amount of friction to make Arthur's breath catch in his throat.
Eames is torn, as he often is, between relieving Arthur of all that lovely bespoke tailoring and watching him fall apart while he's wearing it. This time the dilemma seems almost insurmountable. Watch Arthur's reflection in the firelit window, gorgeously debauched in night-black Dior? Strip it all off and take him to bed, watch the firelight turn his skin golden and carve shadows along his muscles while the heat tracks sweat down his chest and makes his hips slippery under Eames' grip?
What the hell, 'tis the season. Eames tightens his hand around Arthur's cock and sets about making sure there's time for both.
