[Inception] Fic: A new shine
Title: A new shine
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Explicit/NC-17
Length: 1700 words
Content Notes: Leather kink, glove kink, barebacking, unhygienic sex
Summary: Arthur wears leather gloves. Eames likes.
Notes: Beta'd by
anatsuno (who made me post this and also came up with the title) and
bottledminx
The gloves come out the first time for business.
They’re behind some bushes, waiting for the text from an associate of Arthur’s that’ll tell them the security system has been disabled. Arthur reaches into his pocket. It’s black against his black shirt, in the dark, so Eames can’t tell what it is until Arthur’s pulling them on his hands. Black gloves.
Inside, Arthur lets Eames deal with the mechanical locks. Any barrier interferes with the subtle vibrations of lockpicking. But Eames leaves everything else to Arthur, lets him touch door handles and rifle through their mark’s desk. Arthur has very steady hands. And the gloves are leather, thin but tough. Watching him flip through papers, Eames wonders what the texture is like, what the doorknobs have been feeling all this time.
Well, he never claimed his mind was normal, did he?
***
Arthur sits on the couch and reaches to peel off his gloves, scowling at them. Eames doesn’t know where he was, but it’s pouring rain and there’s mud caked along the outside edge of his left hand.
"Wait," says Eames, and Arthur looks up, confused, "it's easier to clean them on you."
The fact that Eames knows Arthur owns leather care supplies and where he keeps them is due more to Eames' tendency to case a residence the first time he's left alone there than anything deeper. He grabs the shoebox from the back of the hall closet, stopping in the kitchen for a cup of water, and comes to kneel on the hardwood floor in front of Arthur, who still looks bemused. He doesn't want to get anything on the couch, Eames tells himself, that's why he's sitting at Arthur's feet. Not that it would actually damage it, since the couch is also covered in black leather.
"Better not to let anything get dried on," Eames keeps justifying as he wets a brush and dips it in soap, pulling Arthur's hand forward over the floor, in case it drips. He scrubs gently, careful of the soft leather, separating Arthur's fingers to soap between them.
"Eames..." Arthur starts, but trails off. He should know better by now than to question Eames' nicer impulses, being that they are impulses. Arthur takes care of people. He’s very good at it; Eames wouldn’t dream of treading on his territory.
Eames rubs the soap off with a cloth dampened in water, and starts on the other hand. Arthur gives up and lays back, apparently deciding to shut up and enjoy the attention.
As soon as Eames opens the tin of conditioner, the smell hits him, piney and smoky and delicious. He dips a clean cloth in then starts rubbing it into Arthur's right glove, switching to his bare hands to massage the palm, working the greasy substance in until the leather is buttery-soft. He finds himself unconsciously leaning into it as he works over each of Arthur's elegant fingers, bringing the hand to his face so he can smell the leather. He looks up and sees that Arthur's eyes are closed, and takes the opportunity to dart his tongue out and taste. He has no excuse; it's not like high-shine polish that needs moisture to spread, but it won’t damage anything and it tastes good, musky and bitter not-skin under his tongue. He sucks a finger into his mouth and feels Arthur's eyes on him, his sharp intake of breath as he watches.
Eames sucks languorously on each finger in turn, looking up through his eyelashes at Arthur, watching him shift in his seat. When he's put his mouth everywhere, he moves to the other hand and repeats the process: thin layer of conditioner, rubbing it in with his hands, then his mouth, putting on a show. As he finishes the left side, Eames slides a hand up Arthur's thigh and rubs through his trousers, feeling Arthur grow harder under his hand. It's only appropriate then to work his button and zip open one-handed (Eames is very good with his hands, too, thank you very much), push down his briefs, and switch his mouth's attention to that perfect cock.
He licks his lips and parts them slowly, so slowly, over the head, swirling his tongue just below the corona as he slides down to take it all the way in. Arthur's hand creeps towards him, cupping his jaw with the soft leather, and Eames moans theatrically, letting Arthur's cock hit the back of his throat so he can feel it. Eames teases, working lips and tongue and moving up and down just a little too slowly, daring Arthur to do something about it.
After a minute Arthur breaks, pushing Eames off him and then pulling him up to where Arthur can start tugging at his clothes, opening the buttons of Eames' shirt - surprisingly fast given for one still wearing gloves. Then he's got Eames' trousers off, gripping his arse with leather-clad hands.
"Ass in the air," Arthur says softly, and it wouldn't be an order, but Eames knows Arthur, knows him and wants it to be. Arthur gets up and presses between Eames' shoulder blades, forcing his face into the leather cushion, and Eames arches his back helpfully.
There's a clattering behind him and then a slick something rubbing at his arse. Arthur must be using the grease, and fuck if that isn't disgusting and perfect, Arthur's finger teasing his hole and then slipping easily inside, thicker than normal thanks to the bulk of the glove.
"God, you're kinky," Arthur murmurs, almost to himself. "You really love this."
"Yeah. Your hands..."
"My hands?" Arthur prompts. He works another finger in, kneading at Eames' arse with his other hand.
"They're just -- fucking sexy." Eames imagines what Arthur is seeing right now, Eames' arse stretched around black-gloved fingers. He rolls his hips, trying to push himself farther down, to fuck himself on Arthur's hand.
Arthur does move faster at that, curls his fingers down until it's justrightthere, slapping unexpectedly with the other hand to make Eames jerk and clench around him.
"Again," Eames begs, surprised with himself because he's not usually into this-- but the dull smack of the glove, the sting-throb of his arse... it feels so good right now.
"Okay, okay," Arthur sounds breathless too now, hitting Eames in an irregular rhythm as he fingers him. Eames is drooling onto Arthur's expensive couch, grinding his cheek against the black leather that matches Arthur's gloves on him. Inside him. His cock is rubbing on the leather, too, trapped between the cushions and his belly, but he can clean that later, or Arthur will. At the moment the idea of coming all over it, of Arthur holding him down with a gloved hand to the back of his neck and ordering him to lick it up, is...
Arthur's fingers pulling out of him interrupt Eames' fantasies.
"Get up, turn around, want to see your face," Arthur's saying, pushing Eames up onto the couch. "Can I fuck you?"
"Yeah, come on..."
Arthur drags his fingers through the leather grease and wraps them around his cock; he looks unconcerned for anything that isn't getting his dick inside something right now. Eames loves having him like this, so worked up that all his brilliant focus is turned to one thing, to Eames, and he's really glad they have an arrangement about this, because the stuff that's already inside him is in no way compatible with condoms.
It's awkward, doing this on the couch, Eames lying along it and Arthur almost slipping off with knees wide-set on the seat, grabbing Eames' thighs and folding him up so he can push inside. It's a hot intrusion, so much hotter than the gloves pressed, stark black, against the pale skin of his thighs. They're both panting as Arthur bottoms out. Eames feels full and amazing.
Before he starts moving, Arthur wraps a hand around Eames' cock and starts stroking him roughly, just the right side of uncomfortable. The glove is soft and slick with grease; the sight of the head of his cock emerging from the ring of Arthur's fingers, red and swollen-looking against the black leather, makes Eames clamp down. He thrusts his hips into Arthur's fucking perfect hand.
Arthur doesn't stop jacking Eames off as he fucks him, and it's overwhelming, watching Arthur's abs flex as he moves, the perfect line of his collarbone, the way he ducks his head and closes his eyes as he falls apart.
And, of course, the gloves.
Eames reaches down, he wants... he wants. He tugs Arthur's hand off him and up to his lips, filling his mouth with three fingers, the taste of pine tar, and precum, as he slips his tongue into the crevices between them. His own hand steals back to take over where he stopped Arthur, chasing the mirage of orgasm that keeps receding farther ahead.
“How long can you...” Eames asks, pulling his mouth away and looking up at Arthur’s face. He’s flushed and scrunched up in that way that’s somehow hot during sex but unattractive at any other time.
Arthur slows down. “I’ll try to wait, okay?”
Eames didn’t want it slower, but he’ll take it. He takes it and keeps taking it, wants to come before Arthur gives out. Arthur presses his fingers into Eames’ mouth again, hard, and that-- works, that’s good, he’s over the edge now, clenching around Arthur and probably biting.
As he comes down, Eames feels the couch shake, both of them inching up it as Arthur lets himself take what he wants.
“Well,” Arthur gasps, “that was interesting.”
He’s kind enough to pull out of Eames and sprawl back on the couch rather than just collapsing on top of him. Arthur is conscientious that way.
“I’m not likely to start molesting the seats of your car or your jacket, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” Eames says blithely. Not that he never thought about it at all, but he probably revealed enough depravity for one day. Give Arthur some time to get used to it.
“How about the couch?”
Or perhaps Arthur really has no problem taking it in stride.
“I make no promises, except that you will always be involved. I wouldn’t cheat on a man with his own possessions.”
Arthur laughs.
“Good to hear,” he says. “Though if it came to that, I suppose I could always retaliate for such misbehavior...”
He gives Eames a sly glance from the corner of his eye, and Eames’s heart skips a beat. This sounds very promising, indeed.
This entry was originally posted at http://krytella.dreamwidth.org/17624.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Explicit/NC-17
Length: 1700 words
Content Notes: Leather kink, glove kink, barebacking, unhygienic sex
Summary: Arthur wears leather gloves. Eames likes.
Notes: Beta'd by
anatsuno (who made me post this and also came up with the title) and
bottledminx
The gloves come out the first time for business.
They’re behind some bushes, waiting for the text from an associate of Arthur’s that’ll tell them the security system has been disabled. Arthur reaches into his pocket. It’s black against his black shirt, in the dark, so Eames can’t tell what it is until Arthur’s pulling them on his hands. Black gloves.
Inside, Arthur lets Eames deal with the mechanical locks. Any barrier interferes with the subtle vibrations of lockpicking. But Eames leaves everything else to Arthur, lets him touch door handles and rifle through their mark’s desk. Arthur has very steady hands. And the gloves are leather, thin but tough. Watching him flip through papers, Eames wonders what the texture is like, what the doorknobs have been feeling all this time.
Well, he never claimed his mind was normal, did he?
***
Arthur sits on the couch and reaches to peel off his gloves, scowling at them. Eames doesn’t know where he was, but it’s pouring rain and there’s mud caked along the outside edge of his left hand.
"Wait," says Eames, and Arthur looks up, confused, "it's easier to clean them on you."
The fact that Eames knows Arthur owns leather care supplies and where he keeps them is due more to Eames' tendency to case a residence the first time he's left alone there than anything deeper. He grabs the shoebox from the back of the hall closet, stopping in the kitchen for a cup of water, and comes to kneel on the hardwood floor in front of Arthur, who still looks bemused. He doesn't want to get anything on the couch, Eames tells himself, that's why he's sitting at Arthur's feet. Not that it would actually damage it, since the couch is also covered in black leather.
"Better not to let anything get dried on," Eames keeps justifying as he wets a brush and dips it in soap, pulling Arthur's hand forward over the floor, in case it drips. He scrubs gently, careful of the soft leather, separating Arthur's fingers to soap between them.
"Eames..." Arthur starts, but trails off. He should know better by now than to question Eames' nicer impulses, being that they are impulses. Arthur takes care of people. He’s very good at it; Eames wouldn’t dream of treading on his territory.
Eames rubs the soap off with a cloth dampened in water, and starts on the other hand. Arthur gives up and lays back, apparently deciding to shut up and enjoy the attention.
As soon as Eames opens the tin of conditioner, the smell hits him, piney and smoky and delicious. He dips a clean cloth in then starts rubbing it into Arthur's right glove, switching to his bare hands to massage the palm, working the greasy substance in until the leather is buttery-soft. He finds himself unconsciously leaning into it as he works over each of Arthur's elegant fingers, bringing the hand to his face so he can smell the leather. He looks up and sees that Arthur's eyes are closed, and takes the opportunity to dart his tongue out and taste. He has no excuse; it's not like high-shine polish that needs moisture to spread, but it won’t damage anything and it tastes good, musky and bitter not-skin under his tongue. He sucks a finger into his mouth and feels Arthur's eyes on him, his sharp intake of breath as he watches.
Eames sucks languorously on each finger in turn, looking up through his eyelashes at Arthur, watching him shift in his seat. When he's put his mouth everywhere, he moves to the other hand and repeats the process: thin layer of conditioner, rubbing it in with his hands, then his mouth, putting on a show. As he finishes the left side, Eames slides a hand up Arthur's thigh and rubs through his trousers, feeling Arthur grow harder under his hand. It's only appropriate then to work his button and zip open one-handed (Eames is very good with his hands, too, thank you very much), push down his briefs, and switch his mouth's attention to that perfect cock.
He licks his lips and parts them slowly, so slowly, over the head, swirling his tongue just below the corona as he slides down to take it all the way in. Arthur's hand creeps towards him, cupping his jaw with the soft leather, and Eames moans theatrically, letting Arthur's cock hit the back of his throat so he can feel it. Eames teases, working lips and tongue and moving up and down just a little too slowly, daring Arthur to do something about it.
After a minute Arthur breaks, pushing Eames off him and then pulling him up to where Arthur can start tugging at his clothes, opening the buttons of Eames' shirt - surprisingly fast given for one still wearing gloves. Then he's got Eames' trousers off, gripping his arse with leather-clad hands.
"Ass in the air," Arthur says softly, and it wouldn't be an order, but Eames knows Arthur, knows him and wants it to be. Arthur gets up and presses between Eames' shoulder blades, forcing his face into the leather cushion, and Eames arches his back helpfully.
There's a clattering behind him and then a slick something rubbing at his arse. Arthur must be using the grease, and fuck if that isn't disgusting and perfect, Arthur's finger teasing his hole and then slipping easily inside, thicker than normal thanks to the bulk of the glove.
"God, you're kinky," Arthur murmurs, almost to himself. "You really love this."
"Yeah. Your hands..."
"My hands?" Arthur prompts. He works another finger in, kneading at Eames' arse with his other hand.
"They're just -- fucking sexy." Eames imagines what Arthur is seeing right now, Eames' arse stretched around black-gloved fingers. He rolls his hips, trying to push himself farther down, to fuck himself on Arthur's hand.
Arthur does move faster at that, curls his fingers down until it's justrightthere, slapping unexpectedly with the other hand to make Eames jerk and clench around him.
"Again," Eames begs, surprised with himself because he's not usually into this-- but the dull smack of the glove, the sting-throb of his arse... it feels so good right now.
"Okay, okay," Arthur sounds breathless too now, hitting Eames in an irregular rhythm as he fingers him. Eames is drooling onto Arthur's expensive couch, grinding his cheek against the black leather that matches Arthur's gloves on him. Inside him. His cock is rubbing on the leather, too, trapped between the cushions and his belly, but he can clean that later, or Arthur will. At the moment the idea of coming all over it, of Arthur holding him down with a gloved hand to the back of his neck and ordering him to lick it up, is...
Arthur's fingers pulling out of him interrupt Eames' fantasies.
"Get up, turn around, want to see your face," Arthur's saying, pushing Eames up onto the couch. "Can I fuck you?"
"Yeah, come on..."
Arthur drags his fingers through the leather grease and wraps them around his cock; he looks unconcerned for anything that isn't getting his dick inside something right now. Eames loves having him like this, so worked up that all his brilliant focus is turned to one thing, to Eames, and he's really glad they have an arrangement about this, because the stuff that's already inside him is in no way compatible with condoms.
It's awkward, doing this on the couch, Eames lying along it and Arthur almost slipping off with knees wide-set on the seat, grabbing Eames' thighs and folding him up so he can push inside. It's a hot intrusion, so much hotter than the gloves pressed, stark black, against the pale skin of his thighs. They're both panting as Arthur bottoms out. Eames feels full and amazing.
Before he starts moving, Arthur wraps a hand around Eames' cock and starts stroking him roughly, just the right side of uncomfortable. The glove is soft and slick with grease; the sight of the head of his cock emerging from the ring of Arthur's fingers, red and swollen-looking against the black leather, makes Eames clamp down. He thrusts his hips into Arthur's fucking perfect hand.
Arthur doesn't stop jacking Eames off as he fucks him, and it's overwhelming, watching Arthur's abs flex as he moves, the perfect line of his collarbone, the way he ducks his head and closes his eyes as he falls apart.
And, of course, the gloves.
Eames reaches down, he wants... he wants. He tugs Arthur's hand off him and up to his lips, filling his mouth with three fingers, the taste of pine tar, and precum, as he slips his tongue into the crevices between them. His own hand steals back to take over where he stopped Arthur, chasing the mirage of orgasm that keeps receding farther ahead.
“How long can you...” Eames asks, pulling his mouth away and looking up at Arthur’s face. He’s flushed and scrunched up in that way that’s somehow hot during sex but unattractive at any other time.
Arthur slows down. “I’ll try to wait, okay?”
Eames didn’t want it slower, but he’ll take it. He takes it and keeps taking it, wants to come before Arthur gives out. Arthur presses his fingers into Eames’ mouth again, hard, and that-- works, that’s good, he’s over the edge now, clenching around Arthur and probably biting.
As he comes down, Eames feels the couch shake, both of them inching up it as Arthur lets himself take what he wants.
“Well,” Arthur gasps, “that was interesting.”
He’s kind enough to pull out of Eames and sprawl back on the couch rather than just collapsing on top of him. Arthur is conscientious that way.
“I’m not likely to start molesting the seats of your car or your jacket, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” Eames says blithely. Not that he never thought about it at all, but he probably revealed enough depravity for one day. Give Arthur some time to get used to it.
“How about the couch?”
Or perhaps Arthur really has no problem taking it in stride.
“I make no promises, except that you will always be involved. I wouldn’t cheat on a man with his own possessions.”
Arthur laughs.
“Good to hear,” he says. “Though if it came to that, I suppose I could always retaliate for such misbehavior...”
He gives Eames a sly glance from the corner of his eye, and Eames’s heart skips a beat. This sounds very promising, indeed.
This entry was originally posted at http://krytella.dreamwidth.org/17624.html. Please comment there using OpenID.