Fic: Evening Surrender to a Scoundrel
Evening Surrender to a Scoundrel
Inspired by motetus' fantastic Victorian AU art here. Title an amusing mashup of popular words found in Victorian romances.
Wordcount: 1550
It is possible that Eames has had more to drink than is advisable.
He stumbles along filthy, dark streets, squinting in the sullen moonlight for anything that could be termed familiar. He finds nothing.
After an enjoyable evening of cards, wine, and carousing, he appears to have been abandoned by Lord Fischer and Lord Nash in a disreputable area of London.
Eames trips over a loose cobblestone and nearly falls into a pile of refuse. He steadies himself with a hand on the plain brick façade of a nearby building, fingers coming away sticky with a substance he is certain he does not wish to know the nature of.
As he staggers forward another few steps, world spinning precariously before him, a shoulder collides with his. The shoulder could well be made of iron as it moves without pause and knocks him immediately off balance again.
"Careful," a voice-male, with an accent Eames struggles against intoxication to place-says, as an arm shoots out to wrap round his waist, prevent Eames from pitching forward. "In an area like this, you might not want to lose your balance. Could be difficult to get back up again."
Eames blinks, the blur beside him resolving itself into one of the most handsome men he has ever seen. But perhaps it is the alcohol and the moonlight.
"Indeed. Thank you for your... assistance." The words are slow to form on Eames' tongue, though his hands roam quickly over the man's body out of trained habit. The man is lean and strong, pleasing in proportion. Also, he carries what Eames guesses to be approximately fifty pounds sterling and a half-empty cigarette case in his pockets.
American, Eames' mind finally supplies in regards to the man's accent, still a half-beat behind.
The American gives Eames a long, canny look, as if the quick grope through pockets and elsewhere has not gone unnoticed. "Are you alright to stand?"
Eames has no particular desire to be released from the firm hold around his waist-is rather enjoying it, in fact. "Terribly poor form, but I'm afraid I find myself at a loss as to where I am. I also seem to have misplaced my evening's earlier companions."
The man gives Eames another assessing look, though this one is of a different quality than before. There is a specific intent to this second gaze-particularly when it comes to rest upon Eames' mouth. "I see. I'm a visitor to this city, as you might have already guessed, otherwise I'd give you directions myself. But I have a-residence not too far from here. I can fetch my errand boy to return you to your estate."
"Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan," Eames agrees, his own hand sliding down the American's hip, noting no protest as it does. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance..."
"Arthur," the American replies. He keeps one arm wrapped around Eames' waist, though fingers brush inward and skim across Eames' upper thighs, alluding to a motive other than balance assistance.
"Eames," Eames replies, inexplicably charmed by the lack of titles and other identifying information.
Arthur is clearly a man of some means, given the fine weave of his clothing and the way he carries himself. Though what a man of some means is doing out at night in a dangerous part of London is perhaps a question worth asking.
They walk what could be five feet or five hundred feet; Eames is in no condition to judge. Especially not with the way Arthur's fingers brush ever more boldly along Eames' abdomen, his inner thighs. In fact, by the time they cross a doorway into what appears to a be plain, one room flat, Arthur is almost entirely behind Eames, hands sliding across clothing in ways entirely un-conducive to maintaining good balance.
The door shuts and Eames steps backwards until Arthur's back is pressed to it, and Eames' back to Arthur's front. "This is your residence?" Eames murmurs, luxuriating in Arthur's wandering touch as he scans the room. There's a lit fireplace at one end, burning briskly, a low bed in the corner, a few pieces of miscellaneous furniture, and a curious contraption filled with several vials and tubes resting on the table.
"For now." There's a hint of lips along Eames' neck, at the sliver of skin between his high collar and hairline. "Oh, I forgot that I gave my errand boy the night off. But I do have a map that we could consult."
"Is it over on the bed?" Eames push his arse back against the firm line in Arthur's trousers.
"I think it might be over on the table," Arthur replies, taking Eames' hands and guiding them to the buttons of Eames' waistcoat.
Eames smiles, amused, as he undoes his waistcoat buttons. The drunken haze has begun to lift from his mind, arousal sharpening his senses. "I suppose we shall have to search for it?"
"Don't worry, it's in here somewhere." Arthur helps Eames slide out of his waistcoat and coat, undoes the buttons of Eames's shirt with what feels like impossible slowness. "I wouldn't want you to wander, lost, forever."
Eames sighs, tilting his head back to rest on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's skin has barely touched his yet and already Eames feels feverish warm, the front of his trousers tight. "Is this an American sort of generosity, then? To bring lost gentlemen into your homes in order to help them find their way?"
Arthur chuckles, low and deep in Eames' ear as he undoes the buttons of Eames' trousers. "Sure. We Americans just love saving any gentlemen in distress in we come upon."
Eames' trousers and drawers drop to the floor with a quiet rustle, and he closes his eyes when Arthur's hands wrap around Eames' prick, cradle his bollocks. "I take it I'll be saved only after you-come upon me?"
"Come inside, actually," Arthur says, the line of his cock thrusting unmistakably along the cleft Eames' buttocks.
"I see-the maps, now," Eames says as Arthur bends him over the table, paper a few inches away from his face.
This is certainly not how he expected his evening to end, Eames thinks, as Arthur slicks his hole with an unknown, oily substance. A sordid rendezvous with an American who is likely a criminal or smuggler of some sort. How scandalous.
Arthur's cock is blunt and feels absolutely massive against Eames' entrance. Eames sucks in deep breaths as Arthur pushes in, slowly but without hesitation. The width and length of Arthur thrills Eames, frightens him, makes him lightheaded with arousal.
"God," Arthur says when he's fully sheathed, forehead resting between Eames' shoulder blades. "Who knew I'd find something this tight on the streets around here. Fuck."
"Are you implying that I am a common-"
"There is nothing common about this ass." Arthur takes hold of Eames' hips, pulling out and thrusting back in with a stroke what leaves Eames breathless. "Firstborn son like yourself, who stands to inherit a sizable estate in three short years."
"How do you-" Eames' words melt into moans as Arthur begins to rock back and forth, prick summoning sensations Eames has never in his life experienced or dreamt of. Perhaps it is time for a trip to the New World, if this is the sort of thing they are accustomed to dispensing there.
"Everyone knows of the young Lord Eames," Arthur murmurs, his thrusts increasing in speed, the wool of his trousers scratching the back of Eames' legs. "Gambler, drinker, philanderer. But do they know about the round ass that's desperate to be filled with cock? The mouth that's begging for it?"
Eames wishes he could argue these crude accusations, but the mixture of whines and desperate pleas issuing from his lips, "yes, harder, yes," put the lie to any defense he would mount. It's all he can do to hold onto the table while Arthur fucks him with his beautiful, enormous prick.
Eames' elbows give out under the onslaught of pleasure and he collapses forward onto the table, cheek mashed against the wood. Even this discomfort and indignity matter little in comparison to the feeling of Arthur, filling him, brushing something inside that makes Eames orgasm with a shout.
The minutes after climax are always hazy for Eames. He believes he hears a muttered curse from Arthur before liquid coats his insides, trickles down his leg. There's also the sting of a bite on his shoulder, bruising on his waist and hips.
Arthur slumps on top of Eames, a heavy hot weight, still fully dressed aside from the opening in his trousers. It does make it rather difficult to breathe, but Eames feels no urge to move quite yet.
"What is this machine?" Eames' eyes fall on the contraption lying on the table and he idly reaches out to stroke the tubes, the sleek chrome edges.
Arthur stirs. "Do you know much about the nature of dreams, Mr. Eames?"
Eames rolls his shoulders and straightens, Arthur sliding off him. As he turns, he feels Arthur's gaze sweeping up and down the front of his body. It occurs to Eames that he and Arthur haven't kissed, even once. "No, but consider me intrigued."
fin
Poll Fic: Evening Surrender to a Scoundrel
Inspired by motetus' fantastic Victorian AU art here. Title an amusing mashup of popular words found in Victorian romances.
Wordcount: 1550
It is possible that Eames has had more to drink than is advisable.
He stumbles along filthy, dark streets, squinting in the sullen moonlight for anything that could be termed familiar. He finds nothing.
After an enjoyable evening of cards, wine, and carousing, he appears to have been abandoned by Lord Fischer and Lord Nash in a disreputable area of London.
Eames trips over a loose cobblestone and nearly falls into a pile of refuse. He steadies himself with a hand on the plain brick façade of a nearby building, fingers coming away sticky with a substance he is certain he does not wish to know the nature of.
As he staggers forward another few steps, world spinning precariously before him, a shoulder collides with his. The shoulder could well be made of iron as it moves without pause and knocks him immediately off balance again.
"Careful," a voice-male, with an accent Eames struggles against intoxication to place-says, as an arm shoots out to wrap round his waist, prevent Eames from pitching forward. "In an area like this, you might not want to lose your balance. Could be difficult to get back up again."
Eames blinks, the blur beside him resolving itself into one of the most handsome men he has ever seen. But perhaps it is the alcohol and the moonlight.
"Indeed. Thank you for your... assistance." The words are slow to form on Eames' tongue, though his hands roam quickly over the man's body out of trained habit. The man is lean and strong, pleasing in proportion. Also, he carries what Eames guesses to be approximately fifty pounds sterling and a half-empty cigarette case in his pockets.
American, Eames' mind finally supplies in regards to the man's accent, still a half-beat behind.
The American gives Eames a long, canny look, as if the quick grope through pockets and elsewhere has not gone unnoticed. "Are you alright to stand?"
Eames has no particular desire to be released from the firm hold around his waist-is rather enjoying it, in fact. "Terribly poor form, but I'm afraid I find myself at a loss as to where I am. I also seem to have misplaced my evening's earlier companions."
The man gives Eames another assessing look, though this one is of a different quality than before. There is a specific intent to this second gaze-particularly when it comes to rest upon Eames' mouth. "I see. I'm a visitor to this city, as you might have already guessed, otherwise I'd give you directions myself. But I have a-residence not too far from here. I can fetch my errand boy to return you to your estate."
"Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan," Eames agrees, his own hand sliding down the American's hip, noting no protest as it does. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance..."
"Arthur," the American replies. He keeps one arm wrapped around Eames' waist, though fingers brush inward and skim across Eames' upper thighs, alluding to a motive other than balance assistance.
"Eames," Eames replies, inexplicably charmed by the lack of titles and other identifying information.
Arthur is clearly a man of some means, given the fine weave of his clothing and the way he carries himself. Though what a man of some means is doing out at night in a dangerous part of London is perhaps a question worth asking.
They walk what could be five feet or five hundred feet; Eames is in no condition to judge. Especially not with the way Arthur's fingers brush ever more boldly along Eames' abdomen, his inner thighs. In fact, by the time they cross a doorway into what appears to a be plain, one room flat, Arthur is almost entirely behind Eames, hands sliding across clothing in ways entirely un-conducive to maintaining good balance.
The door shuts and Eames steps backwards until Arthur's back is pressed to it, and Eames' back to Arthur's front. "This is your residence?" Eames murmurs, luxuriating in Arthur's wandering touch as he scans the room. There's a lit fireplace at one end, burning briskly, a low bed in the corner, a few pieces of miscellaneous furniture, and a curious contraption filled with several vials and tubes resting on the table.
"For now." There's a hint of lips along Eames' neck, at the sliver of skin between his high collar and hairline. "Oh, I forgot that I gave my errand boy the night off. But I do have a map that we could consult."
"Is it over on the bed?" Eames push his arse back against the firm line in Arthur's trousers.
"I think it might be over on the table," Arthur replies, taking Eames' hands and guiding them to the buttons of Eames' waistcoat.
Eames smiles, amused, as he undoes his waistcoat buttons. The drunken haze has begun to lift from his mind, arousal sharpening his senses. "I suppose we shall have to search for it?"
"Don't worry, it's in here somewhere." Arthur helps Eames slide out of his waistcoat and coat, undoes the buttons of Eames's shirt with what feels like impossible slowness. "I wouldn't want you to wander, lost, forever."
Eames sighs, tilting his head back to rest on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur's skin has barely touched his yet and already Eames feels feverish warm, the front of his trousers tight. "Is this an American sort of generosity, then? To bring lost gentlemen into your homes in order to help them find their way?"
Arthur chuckles, low and deep in Eames' ear as he undoes the buttons of Eames' trousers. "Sure. We Americans just love saving any gentlemen in distress in we come upon."
Eames' trousers and drawers drop to the floor with a quiet rustle, and he closes his eyes when Arthur's hands wrap around Eames' prick, cradle his bollocks. "I take it I'll be saved only after you-come upon me?"
"Come inside, actually," Arthur says, the line of his cock thrusting unmistakably along the cleft Eames' buttocks.
"I see-the maps, now," Eames says as Arthur bends him over the table, paper a few inches away from his face.
This is certainly not how he expected his evening to end, Eames thinks, as Arthur slicks his hole with an unknown, oily substance. A sordid rendezvous with an American who is likely a criminal or smuggler of some sort. How scandalous.
Arthur's cock is blunt and feels absolutely massive against Eames' entrance. Eames sucks in deep breaths as Arthur pushes in, slowly but without hesitation. The width and length of Arthur thrills Eames, frightens him, makes him lightheaded with arousal.
"God," Arthur says when he's fully sheathed, forehead resting between Eames' shoulder blades. "Who knew I'd find something this tight on the streets around here. Fuck."
"Are you implying that I am a common-"
"There is nothing common about this ass." Arthur takes hold of Eames' hips, pulling out and thrusting back in with a stroke what leaves Eames breathless. "Firstborn son like yourself, who stands to inherit a sizable estate in three short years."
"How do you-" Eames' words melt into moans as Arthur begins to rock back and forth, prick summoning sensations Eames has never in his life experienced or dreamt of. Perhaps it is time for a trip to the New World, if this is the sort of thing they are accustomed to dispensing there.
"Everyone knows of the young Lord Eames," Arthur murmurs, his thrusts increasing in speed, the wool of his trousers scratching the back of Eames' legs. "Gambler, drinker, philanderer. But do they know about the round ass that's desperate to be filled with cock? The mouth that's begging for it?"
Eames wishes he could argue these crude accusations, but the mixture of whines and desperate pleas issuing from his lips, "yes, harder, yes," put the lie to any defense he would mount. It's all he can do to hold onto the table while Arthur fucks him with his beautiful, enormous prick.
Eames' elbows give out under the onslaught of pleasure and he collapses forward onto the table, cheek mashed against the wood. Even this discomfort and indignity matter little in comparison to the feeling of Arthur, filling him, brushing something inside that makes Eames orgasm with a shout.
The minutes after climax are always hazy for Eames. He believes he hears a muttered curse from Arthur before liquid coats his insides, trickles down his leg. There's also the sting of a bite on his shoulder, bruising on his waist and hips.
Arthur slumps on top of Eames, a heavy hot weight, still fully dressed aside from the opening in his trousers. It does make it rather difficult to breathe, but Eames feels no urge to move quite yet.
"What is this machine?" Eames' eyes fall on the contraption lying on the table and he idly reaches out to stroke the tubes, the sleek chrome edges.
Arthur stirs. "Do you know much about the nature of dreams, Mr. Eames?"
Eames rolls his shoulders and straightens, Arthur sliding off him. As he turns, he feels Arthur's gaze sweeping up and down the front of his body. It occurs to Eames that he and Arthur haven't kissed, even once. "No, but consider me intrigued."
fin
Poll Fic: Evening Surrender to a Scoundrel