fic: lose control
Title: lose control
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): PWP
Word Count: ~620
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Warnings / Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception; the characters belong to the awesome mind of Christopher Nolan.
Summary: Arthur + Eames + kitchen + sex. Really, that's it - no mindfucks, no dreams, just - shameless porn. Written for the lovely visbranndrage - because there can never be enough porn, especially of the Forger and the Point Man, Y/Y?
Arthur’s head smashes into the fridge.
“Fuck!” Arthur groans, and his fingernails dig deep moons into Eames’ shoulder as he clings on, legs wrapped around Eames’ waist and locked tight. His hair, dark and damp, hangs over his eyes in an uncharacteristic mess, and he breathes harshly against Eames’ mouth, “You fucker.”
Eames gives a particularly hard thrust, plastering Arthur against the cold metal of the fridge and causing whimpers to fall out of Arthur’s lips. “But I’m your fucker, darling,” Eames smirks, sly and smug, and Arthur hates him for it. “And you love it really.”
Arthur smiles, eyes closed, as Eames continues to fuck into him. His hole is tight, clutching at Eames’ cock, and it’s starting to hurt after so many hours of rough, relentless sex, but Arthur doesn’t care. “Yes,” he pants, whining. “There, right there, yes-”
Eames complies as always - grabs Arthur’s hips, presses his fingers in, and fucks forward, the head of his cock perfect, and he always finds the right place that has Arthur’s head thrown back, banging it against the wall and chanting a litany of filth that surprises even Eames, makes him cackle with delight, but most of all turns him on like nothing can.
Eames pushes Arthur’s leg, spreads him wide in an attempt to thrust deeper, and then his hands are on Arthur’s forehead, pushing strands of black aside to bend down and kiss Arthur hard, sucking his tongue and biting his bottom lip ravenously. “God, I love doing this to you,” Eames growls, his rhythm unfaltering, come and lube mixed together sliding down Arthur’s arse. “Love making you lose control, love reducing you to your knees, begging for me to fuck you like a whore.” He nips at Arthur’s jaw and holds Arthur up higher with a grunt. “Love you, love you Arthur, darling.”
“I’m close, Eames, God,” Arthur groans, and he tries to buck forwards, wants more, needs friction for his abandoned cock, trapped against their stomachs, leaking at the head and painfully hard. “Please, Eames, please,” he gasps, and Eames knows what he wants - they’ve done this so many times before, yet it’s different every time - and he fucks Arthur in earnest. The fridge tilts beneath Arthur’s spine, but they pay it no heed as their breathing grows laboured, until Arthur moans his release, come painting their chests.
“Fuck.” They don’t know who says it - Arthur, with his head hanging, heart in his throat, spent; or Eames, achingly hard still in Arthur’s arse, desperate to finish and staring at Arthur’s face hungrily.
“Come on,” Arthur says eventually, his voice rough and his fingers tickling the back of Eames’ neck, touching the tips of his hair. “You want to come, don’t you? Come inside of me, come on.”
Eames chuckles under his breath and resumes his pace, fucking Arthur against the fridge with primal grunts, until finally, after a few thrusts, he comes inside him, with the broken word of Arthur on his tongue, that has Arthur shivering against him, feeling the come slip down his thighs.
As Eames gathers his breath, Arthur unwraps his thighs, and Eames immediately lets him go, lets him drop into the fridge, legs unsteady. Eames holds Arthur still, presses his naked body against him, until he turns to Arthur with a sly smile. Before Arthur can say a word, Eames has him backed into metal again, and is ravaging his mouth as his wandering fingers pry against his wet, abused hole.
“Eames,” Arthur says warningly, but his throat is heavy with lust, and if Eames’ shit-eating grin is anything to go by, he can tell.
“Shut up, darling,” Eames whispers, and kisses Arthur quiet with his tongue.
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): PWP
Word Count: ~620
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Warnings / Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception; the characters belong to the awesome mind of Christopher Nolan.
Summary: Arthur + Eames + kitchen + sex. Really, that's it - no mindfucks, no dreams, just - shameless porn. Written for the lovely visbranndrage - because there can never be enough porn, especially of the Forger and the Point Man, Y/Y?
Arthur’s head smashes into the fridge.
“Fuck!” Arthur groans, and his fingernails dig deep moons into Eames’ shoulder as he clings on, legs wrapped around Eames’ waist and locked tight. His hair, dark and damp, hangs over his eyes in an uncharacteristic mess, and he breathes harshly against Eames’ mouth, “You fucker.”
Eames gives a particularly hard thrust, plastering Arthur against the cold metal of the fridge and causing whimpers to fall out of Arthur’s lips. “But I’m your fucker, darling,” Eames smirks, sly and smug, and Arthur hates him for it. “And you love it really.”
Arthur smiles, eyes closed, as Eames continues to fuck into him. His hole is tight, clutching at Eames’ cock, and it’s starting to hurt after so many hours of rough, relentless sex, but Arthur doesn’t care. “Yes,” he pants, whining. “There, right there, yes-”
Eames complies as always - grabs Arthur’s hips, presses his fingers in, and fucks forward, the head of his cock perfect, and he always finds the right place that has Arthur’s head thrown back, banging it against the wall and chanting a litany of filth that surprises even Eames, makes him cackle with delight, but most of all turns him on like nothing can.
Eames pushes Arthur’s leg, spreads him wide in an attempt to thrust deeper, and then his hands are on Arthur’s forehead, pushing strands of black aside to bend down and kiss Arthur hard, sucking his tongue and biting his bottom lip ravenously. “God, I love doing this to you,” Eames growls, his rhythm unfaltering, come and lube mixed together sliding down Arthur’s arse. “Love making you lose control, love reducing you to your knees, begging for me to fuck you like a whore.” He nips at Arthur’s jaw and holds Arthur up higher with a grunt. “Love you, love you Arthur, darling.”
“I’m close, Eames, God,” Arthur groans, and he tries to buck forwards, wants more, needs friction for his abandoned cock, trapped against their stomachs, leaking at the head and painfully hard. “Please, Eames, please,” he gasps, and Eames knows what he wants - they’ve done this so many times before, yet it’s different every time - and he fucks Arthur in earnest. The fridge tilts beneath Arthur’s spine, but they pay it no heed as their breathing grows laboured, until Arthur moans his release, come painting their chests.
“Fuck.” They don’t know who says it - Arthur, with his head hanging, heart in his throat, spent; or Eames, achingly hard still in Arthur’s arse, desperate to finish and staring at Arthur’s face hungrily.
“Come on,” Arthur says eventually, his voice rough and his fingers tickling the back of Eames’ neck, touching the tips of his hair. “You want to come, don’t you? Come inside of me, come on.”
Eames chuckles under his breath and resumes his pace, fucking Arthur against the fridge with primal grunts, until finally, after a few thrusts, he comes inside him, with the broken word of Arthur on his tongue, that has Arthur shivering against him, feeling the come slip down his thighs.
As Eames gathers his breath, Arthur unwraps his thighs, and Eames immediately lets him go, lets him drop into the fridge, legs unsteady. Eames holds Arthur still, presses his naked body against him, until he turns to Arthur with a sly smile. Before Arthur can say a word, Eames has him backed into metal again, and is ravaging his mouth as his wandering fingers pry against his wet, abused hole.
“Eames,” Arthur says warningly, but his throat is heavy with lust, and if Eames’ shit-eating grin is anything to go by, he can tell.
“Shut up, darling,” Eames whispers, and kisses Arthur quiet with his tongue.