Fic: Follow You Down (Inception, NC-17)
title: Follow You Down
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 1372
fandom: Inception
rating: NC-17
notes: BDSM, rope bondage, objectification and feminization. It looks like dub-con, but it's not.
Information on ropes and hogties graciously provided by krytella and anatsuno. Title and cut text from the Gin Blossoms song.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: humiliation [situational]. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
It starts with a simple request.
It's a week or so to their anniversary and Arthur is sitting on the carpet between Eames's legs. Eames has a battered paperback of The Hound of the Baskervilles in his hands and he's reading it very quietly, and Arthur is drinking in his accent and his third tumbler of scotch.
“Is there anything in particular you'd like us to do next week, Eames?”
There is nothing but silence at first, and when it drags on longer than it should Arthur twists partly around and cranes back to look at Eames. Eames, whose hands are white-knuckled around the book. Eames, who is looking down at him, his face a tangled knot of expressions: desire, fear, honesty, deceit. Eames, who looks like he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry, but will settle for blushing in the meantime.
“Serious question, right,” Eames asks after he takes a deep breath.
“It was,” Arthur says, and he puts his hand on Eames's knee, tries to look reassuring. “Have I said something wrong?”
Eames gives him a crooked smile, kisses him once, slides down onto the carpet to join him. “No, nothing wrong; you've just surprised me.”
“So what else is new,” Arthur chuckles, and he laughs when Eames punches him lightly in the shoulder in retaliation.
They smile at each other for a few moments, and then Eames sobers and looks Arthur in the eyes. “You're going to think I've finally gone round the twist.”
“No, Eames, I promise I won't. Tell me.”
And he watches Eames lean forward, hears him whisper, and Arthur catches his breath.
///
I want you to use me.
///
Eames has to fly home for a quick visit with his grandmother, and Arthur has to stay in Chicago to sniff out a few leads for jobs they can do together in the next three months.
But when he drives back to their apartment from the airport, he finds a sheaf of papers on the bed, and a note in Eames's handwriting: For you, pet, if you're really serious about this.
Medical documentation: the results of Eames's past few checkups. A clean bill of health, if one ignored the repeated admonitions to cut down on the alcohol.
A list of dos and don'ts: Please hit me [with your hands, with a whip, whatever you have on hand.] No blades unless we have a good long discussion beforehand. You may use me as an ashtray, but only on certain areas, nothing that will show in public. Degrading language: YES PLEASE.
A typewritten page: a consent form, most of the fields already filled in by Eames himself. The blank space at the bottom for Arthur's own signature and the date.
The legalese is something only Eames could have come up with. ...permission granted to be used, abused and misused....
And he has to stop and look away and swallow hard. The words are rearranging themselves behind his closed eyes. He's thinking about things he's never allowed himself to seriously consider before. Humiliate me. Treat me like something disposable. Objectify me.
Arthur's been in relationships like this before; he'd been initiated into the scene by one of his college boyfriends. What is new, what is crashing through his mind at the moment, is that Eames wants anything - and quite possibly everything.
The knowledge is at once extremely arousing and profoundly humbling. Eames trusts him. Eames needs him.
Arthur's hands are shaking as he signs off on the papers, and he spends the rest of the night making plans.
///
He makes sure he's turned away from the door when Eames's key scrapes in the lock; he's made sure that the study is mostly dark. There is a coil of jute rope at his feet, and he is wearing his leather gloves.
He senses rather than sees Eames's shock, the sudden intake of breath, the soft thump of bags being dropped.
And now he knows he's got him, now he knows he can act, and the first words out of his mouth are as sharp as a whip being cracked: “Come here. Get on your knees.”
Arthur opens his eyes. There's no one there. He tilts his head to one side. “Don't make me come over there and get you, bitch.” A quick breath that does not belong to him. “And don't run away. You know I can find you.”
The Eames who appears before him has his eyes downcast.
Arthur breaks character for a moment, gets to his feet and pushes Eames's chin up. “You know our safeword,” he says, gently, allowing a genuine smile into his eyes for a moment. “Say it, Eames, say it and I'll stop. We'll do something else.”
He watches Eames shake his head, slowly, and his smile slowly turns feral, and he falls back so easily into his role. His hand now heavy on Eames's shoulder, and Arthur is deliberately pushing him down with all of his strength.
He feels Eames resist him - and who is he kidding, he might be quicker in a fight but he knows Eames can take him out through sheer strength - and he clears his throat, deliberately glares at Eames.
And oh, he can feel his own pulse jumping as he watches Eames break eye contact and sink slowly to his knees. Muscles bunching under his hand.
In the low light the blush creeping up Eames's face is beautiful.
“Out of your clothes,” Arthur says, and he falls back into his armchair, deliberately sprawls out so he's right up in the space Eames is occupying. “Shirt, tie, belt. Leave everything else.”
Eames visibly steels himself, and he complies in fits and starts.
Arthur lazily runs a hand over his cock, hot and hard now, and he watches Eames furtively following his movements before turning hurriedly away.
He gets to his feet, slowly, and he deliberately tugs out one end of the rope as he beckons Eames closer. He ignores Eames shaking his head.
Easy to do that when he can read Eames's little twitching smiles, see the assent burning in his eyes.
///
Arthur has to take a step back, a deep breath, when he's done with the knots.
Eames is hogtied at his feet, bruises all over his upper arms from Arthur wrestling him into position. A paisley sleeve wrapped firmly around Eames's mouth for a gag.
If he concentrates, if he looks closely enough, he thinks he can see Eames's cock twitching with need.
“Aren't you just a slut after all,” Arthur drawls, and that tears a muffled groan from Eames. “Look at how much you're enjoying yourself. I wonder how many others have thrown you down and bound you just like this? So many hands. So many men? Well, I'll be the last, and you're going to feel it, you're going to know it. Want that?”
Eames is shaking his head and the tears are streaking down his cheeks, but he looks like he'd be grinning, if only the gag weren't in the way.
“I'm going to fuck you now,” and Arthur produces his combat knife, starts cutting away Eames's trousers and boxers. He lifts a condom and the bottle of lube into Eames's line of sight - and then he flips the condom over his shoulder, out of sight, and Eames thrashes on the carpet. He's trying to get closer. “Hey, stop that, I'm not cutting you tonight.”
///
“You're so tight, and now you're mine.”
“Yes, yes, oh....”
///
After, Arthur smooths his hands over the red welts from the rope, promises to take Eames to Ozwald Boateng for new suits, looks every inch of Eames's skin over for any injury. He sighs when he finds nothing, and drops apologetic kisses all over his shoulders and tattoos.
After, Eames smiles while reading over his sheaf of papers: the signed contract, the second set of medical certificates. The unusual wobbles in Arthur's signature.
“Happy anniversary,” Arthur says. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Very much. Thank you,” Eames says. “Thank you so much, Arthur.”
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 1372
fandom: Inception
rating: NC-17
notes: BDSM, rope bondage, objectification and feminization. It looks like dub-con, but it's not.
Information on ropes and hogties graciously provided by krytella and anatsuno. Title and cut text from the Gin Blossoms song.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: humiliation [situational]. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
It starts with a simple request.
It's a week or so to their anniversary and Arthur is sitting on the carpet between Eames's legs. Eames has a battered paperback of The Hound of the Baskervilles in his hands and he's reading it very quietly, and Arthur is drinking in his accent and his third tumbler of scotch.
“Is there anything in particular you'd like us to do next week, Eames?”
There is nothing but silence at first, and when it drags on longer than it should Arthur twists partly around and cranes back to look at Eames. Eames, whose hands are white-knuckled around the book. Eames, who is looking down at him, his face a tangled knot of expressions: desire, fear, honesty, deceit. Eames, who looks like he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry, but will settle for blushing in the meantime.
“Serious question, right,” Eames asks after he takes a deep breath.
“It was,” Arthur says, and he puts his hand on Eames's knee, tries to look reassuring. “Have I said something wrong?”
Eames gives him a crooked smile, kisses him once, slides down onto the carpet to join him. “No, nothing wrong; you've just surprised me.”
“So what else is new,” Arthur chuckles, and he laughs when Eames punches him lightly in the shoulder in retaliation.
They smile at each other for a few moments, and then Eames sobers and looks Arthur in the eyes. “You're going to think I've finally gone round the twist.”
“No, Eames, I promise I won't. Tell me.”
And he watches Eames lean forward, hears him whisper, and Arthur catches his breath.
///
I want you to use me.
///
Eames has to fly home for a quick visit with his grandmother, and Arthur has to stay in Chicago to sniff out a few leads for jobs they can do together in the next three months.
But when he drives back to their apartment from the airport, he finds a sheaf of papers on the bed, and a note in Eames's handwriting: For you, pet, if you're really serious about this.
Medical documentation: the results of Eames's past few checkups. A clean bill of health, if one ignored the repeated admonitions to cut down on the alcohol.
A list of dos and don'ts: Please hit me [with your hands, with a whip, whatever you have on hand.] No blades unless we have a good long discussion beforehand. You may use me as an ashtray, but only on certain areas, nothing that will show in public. Degrading language: YES PLEASE.
A typewritten page: a consent form, most of the fields already filled in by Eames himself. The blank space at the bottom for Arthur's own signature and the date.
The legalese is something only Eames could have come up with. ...permission granted to be used, abused and misused....
And he has to stop and look away and swallow hard. The words are rearranging themselves behind his closed eyes. He's thinking about things he's never allowed himself to seriously consider before. Humiliate me. Treat me like something disposable. Objectify me.
Arthur's been in relationships like this before; he'd been initiated into the scene by one of his college boyfriends. What is new, what is crashing through his mind at the moment, is that Eames wants anything - and quite possibly everything.
The knowledge is at once extremely arousing and profoundly humbling. Eames trusts him. Eames needs him.
Arthur's hands are shaking as he signs off on the papers, and he spends the rest of the night making plans.
///
He makes sure he's turned away from the door when Eames's key scrapes in the lock; he's made sure that the study is mostly dark. There is a coil of jute rope at his feet, and he is wearing his leather gloves.
He senses rather than sees Eames's shock, the sudden intake of breath, the soft thump of bags being dropped.
And now he knows he's got him, now he knows he can act, and the first words out of his mouth are as sharp as a whip being cracked: “Come here. Get on your knees.”
Arthur opens his eyes. There's no one there. He tilts his head to one side. “Don't make me come over there and get you, bitch.” A quick breath that does not belong to him. “And don't run away. You know I can find you.”
The Eames who appears before him has his eyes downcast.
Arthur breaks character for a moment, gets to his feet and pushes Eames's chin up. “You know our safeword,” he says, gently, allowing a genuine smile into his eyes for a moment. “Say it, Eames, say it and I'll stop. We'll do something else.”
He watches Eames shake his head, slowly, and his smile slowly turns feral, and he falls back so easily into his role. His hand now heavy on Eames's shoulder, and Arthur is deliberately pushing him down with all of his strength.
He feels Eames resist him - and who is he kidding, he might be quicker in a fight but he knows Eames can take him out through sheer strength - and he clears his throat, deliberately glares at Eames.
And oh, he can feel his own pulse jumping as he watches Eames break eye contact and sink slowly to his knees. Muscles bunching under his hand.
In the low light the blush creeping up Eames's face is beautiful.
“Out of your clothes,” Arthur says, and he falls back into his armchair, deliberately sprawls out so he's right up in the space Eames is occupying. “Shirt, tie, belt. Leave everything else.”
Eames visibly steels himself, and he complies in fits and starts.
Arthur lazily runs a hand over his cock, hot and hard now, and he watches Eames furtively following his movements before turning hurriedly away.
He gets to his feet, slowly, and he deliberately tugs out one end of the rope as he beckons Eames closer. He ignores Eames shaking his head.
Easy to do that when he can read Eames's little twitching smiles, see the assent burning in his eyes.
///
Arthur has to take a step back, a deep breath, when he's done with the knots.
Eames is hogtied at his feet, bruises all over his upper arms from Arthur wrestling him into position. A paisley sleeve wrapped firmly around Eames's mouth for a gag.
If he concentrates, if he looks closely enough, he thinks he can see Eames's cock twitching with need.
“Aren't you just a slut after all,” Arthur drawls, and that tears a muffled groan from Eames. “Look at how much you're enjoying yourself. I wonder how many others have thrown you down and bound you just like this? So many hands. So many men? Well, I'll be the last, and you're going to feel it, you're going to know it. Want that?”
Eames is shaking his head and the tears are streaking down his cheeks, but he looks like he'd be grinning, if only the gag weren't in the way.
“I'm going to fuck you now,” and Arthur produces his combat knife, starts cutting away Eames's trousers and boxers. He lifts a condom and the bottle of lube into Eames's line of sight - and then he flips the condom over his shoulder, out of sight, and Eames thrashes on the carpet. He's trying to get closer. “Hey, stop that, I'm not cutting you tonight.”
///
“You're so tight, and now you're mine.”
“Yes, yes, oh....”
///
After, Arthur smooths his hands over the red welts from the rope, promises to take Eames to Ozwald Boateng for new suits, looks every inch of Eames's skin over for any injury. He sighs when he finds nothing, and drops apologetic kisses all over his shoulders and tattoos.
After, Eames smiles while reading over his sheaf of papers: the signed contract, the second set of medical certificates. The unusual wobbles in Arthur's signature.
“Happy anniversary,” Arthur says. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Very much. Thank you,” Eames says. “Thank you so much, Arthur.”