Fic: Dance (Inception, NC-17)
title: Dance [damn it, I need to get better titles]
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: PWP, straight up. This is very, very explicit and very NSFW. And it's technically het since Eames is a girl. Um, why am I writing this stuff? *facepalm* Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: Arthur and Eames get it on, sheesh. Inspired by this SCORCHING fan art from fuckyeaharthurandeames.tumblr.com. I mean, WOW. Go lookie!
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
When Arthur opens his eyes he's standing in a doorway. There's a faintly pulsing light ahead, and total darkness behind.
He takes a moment to shrug his shoulders, tap his toes: this lets him figure out what he's wearing, here. And what he's wearing is an untucked button-down shirt - he can feel the cuffs around his wrists, the line of the collar around his neck. Pants, of course, and his current favorite Oxfords.
Arthur smiles, knowing he's probably still overdressed for the occasion - whatever it might be - and walks forward.
Suddenly the world around him explodes into a riot of light and sound.
He's looking down at a dance floor and it is packed with people, men and women dancing energetically to a bass-beat that is even now threatening to take over his pulse completely. Shouts and laughter from all sides, smiling faces, a roaring good time all around.
He pushes through the dancers.
It's so easy to find Eames in all of this.
There, his mind says.
The woman on the ledge is wearing an overbust corset with slim-cut pants, riding boots with a nearly-flat heel. As she dances, a long braid of hair whips around her shoulders.
Arthur climbs up and slides in behind her, the ledge just barely wide enough for the two of them, strokes his hands along her waist until they come to rest on her hips.
She tips her head back onto his shoulder. The voice that comes out of her lush mouth is not Eames's by a long shot, except for the playful burr around the words "Hello, darling, what took you so long?"
"Happy to watch," Arthur says, and catches her earlobe in his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive skin.
He feels the shudder go through her, smiles and nuzzles her temple.
"Let's dance," he whispers.
And the music changes to something insidious: a breathy moan of a voice weaving into and around a thumping growl of a bass-beat. Arthur glances at the dance floor, watches as people form and reform into pairs.
She turns around in his arms and kisses him, her ripe mouth opening up for him like a flower.
Arthur yanks the ribbon at the end of her braid free, and down comes her hair, prettily curled and quickly unruly as she bends backward, hands braced on his arms, shaking her shoulders as she comes back up slowly.
So he bends down to her, meets her halfway. He molds himself to her impossible frame, mouths at the sweaty skin of her neck. One of his hands slides back and down, pushing her forward - into his cock. He's been hard since he saw her dancing on the ledge.
"That's ... interesting," she remarks as they slowly lever themselves back upright. She grinds against him, hands slithering beneath his shirt. "We could do it here...."
"No," and Arthur knows his voice has dropped at least one octave, all the way down to a rasp, and is not ashamed of it. "Not enough room, not for all the things I want to do to you."
"Well then let's move someplace else," she says, and slips away into the throng.
By the time Arthur catches up to her the scenery has rippled and changed around them. He's back in the room where he started and it's all lit up, faint golden light showing off the plum-dark draped walls, the pure white beddings on the four-poster in the corner.
Eames is there, still female, corset and boots and all.
Arthur takes a moment to appreciate the contrasts: black leather, blue and black lace, the wild tangle of her dark copper hair.
"Fuck," Arthur finally allows himself to say as he looks her in the eyes. Her pupils are completely blown, and there is a high, hot flush in her cheeks.
Eames runs her tongue carefully over her lips and crooks a finger at Arthur, and he goes to her.
On his knees in front of her, watching her loom over him, braced on her arms on the bed. He runs a finger down the front of her corset, down to the crotch of her pants, and she hitches out a breath and gasps out his name.
Arthur smiles, unzips her carefully. She is, naturally, not wearing panties. The thick, smoky scent of her arousal fills the space between them, dark desire clouding her eyes.
He has to force her to close her legs so he can get the boots and the pants off, but once that's done he buries his nose, his mouth, in the fine curls surrounding her.
"Oh god," she whispers, and it's that tiny sound that drives him into action like the crack of a whip.
Fuck, she's so wet. Arthur pushes his tongue deep between her folds, laps up her juices. When he closes his mouth over her clit she screams and tries to buck off the bed, but he's holding her down with strong hands on her waist and she whimpers, held prisoner by her need, by his lust.
"Arthur, Arthur," she chants, voice broken and obscene now, and he moves one hand down, fingers dipping into her, delicately thrusting, wringing out a strangled cry of "Fuck!" as she comes, hard, around him.
By the time he lies down next to her he's naked, the pieces of his costume discarded all around the foot of the bed.
"Oh, god," she whispers, rakes her eyes up and down his bare flesh, and rolls over to expose her back, the laces on her corset.
Arthur is infinitely gentle as he frees her, one hand loosening the ribbons and the other smoothing over the slowly bared skin.
When she's naked before him he leans over and places a reverent kiss between her shoulderblades, stays for a moment to breathe in the rich musk of her.
"God, Eames," he says very softly.
Her shoulders shake in a laugh. "Not really. Hard to forge someone or something you don't believe in."
"True," Arthur concedes, and runs his hand down the dip of her spine, over the rise of her buttocks.
"Shall I take care of you, then?" she asks, and when Arthur nods he watches her push herself onto her hands and knees and crawl toward him. She steals a kiss that takes his breath away, and then drops to his cock and takes him in in one long swallow.
It's like the breath's been sucked out of his lungs.
Arthur watches her mouth move on him, but can't keep looking because whatever she's doing with her lips and her tongue is too damn good and he has to close her eyes and consciously will himself away from the edge.
Sparks dance behind his clenched eyelids; he feels his hands close hard around her shoulders. Were this the real world, he'd leave her - or indeed Eames himself - bruised.
"Stop, stop - oh god," he grits out, and he makes the mistake of looking down just as she levers herself back upright and then licks a long, hot stripe up his shaft before finally releasing him.
It makes him see stars.
She laughs, swipes the back of one hand against her mouth - Arthur has only now just noticed that her nails are lacquered in an elaborate peacock-feather pattern - and lies back against the pillows, hands behind her head.
"That's not fair," and Arthur surprises himself with a laugh. "You know I like the Maja."
"And I know you like the clothed one better," she says. Pause. She bites her lip. "Pervert."
"Says you," Arthur says, and reaches for her, gathers her close. They're skin to skin from shoulder to foot, and it is a short distance to fall - into her eyes, into her body, into her mouth.
They kiss for several minutes until he feels her pushing her hips against him, instinctively, and he groans and sinks into her, feeling her open up to him, feeling her brace her heels on the small of his back.
"What do you want," he rasps into the hollow of her throat.
"I want everything," she says.
And the first thrust is so good, so good, but it leaves him wanting more as Eames always does, and soon they're moving together - he feels her push up to meet him, stroke for stroke, sinks his hands into her hair, closes them around her already bruised shoulders. He has just enough presence of mind to fold himself almost in half and suckle at her breasts, and she keens a desperate cry beneath him, faster and harder they go and then she's screaming his name - "Arthur, Arthur, please!" - and she's gone, coming hard around him, and he lets himself go and the force of his release hits like a hammer blow all down his spine. It's like his brain is liquefying into a molten rush, and he's gasping, breathless again.
As they're falling exhausted toward each other the music comes back - Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien - and they smile at each other, link their hands, close their eyes as the kick takes them.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: PWP, straight up. This is very, very explicit and very NSFW. And it's technically het since Eames is a girl. Um, why am I writing this stuff? *facepalm* Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: Arthur and Eames get it on, sheesh. Inspired by this SCORCHING fan art from fuckyeaharthurandeames.tumblr.com. I mean, WOW. Go lookie!
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
When Arthur opens his eyes he's standing in a doorway. There's a faintly pulsing light ahead, and total darkness behind.
He takes a moment to shrug his shoulders, tap his toes: this lets him figure out what he's wearing, here. And what he's wearing is an untucked button-down shirt - he can feel the cuffs around his wrists, the line of the collar around his neck. Pants, of course, and his current favorite Oxfords.
Arthur smiles, knowing he's probably still overdressed for the occasion - whatever it might be - and walks forward.
Suddenly the world around him explodes into a riot of light and sound.
He's looking down at a dance floor and it is packed with people, men and women dancing energetically to a bass-beat that is even now threatening to take over his pulse completely. Shouts and laughter from all sides, smiling faces, a roaring good time all around.
He pushes through the dancers.
It's so easy to find Eames in all of this.
There, his mind says.
The woman on the ledge is wearing an overbust corset with slim-cut pants, riding boots with a nearly-flat heel. As she dances, a long braid of hair whips around her shoulders.
Arthur climbs up and slides in behind her, the ledge just barely wide enough for the two of them, strokes his hands along her waist until they come to rest on her hips.
She tips her head back onto his shoulder. The voice that comes out of her lush mouth is not Eames's by a long shot, except for the playful burr around the words "Hello, darling, what took you so long?"
"Happy to watch," Arthur says, and catches her earlobe in his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive skin.
He feels the shudder go through her, smiles and nuzzles her temple.
"Let's dance," he whispers.
And the music changes to something insidious: a breathy moan of a voice weaving into and around a thumping growl of a bass-beat. Arthur glances at the dance floor, watches as people form and reform into pairs.
She turns around in his arms and kisses him, her ripe mouth opening up for him like a flower.
Arthur yanks the ribbon at the end of her braid free, and down comes her hair, prettily curled and quickly unruly as she bends backward, hands braced on his arms, shaking her shoulders as she comes back up slowly.
So he bends down to her, meets her halfway. He molds himself to her impossible frame, mouths at the sweaty skin of her neck. One of his hands slides back and down, pushing her forward - into his cock. He's been hard since he saw her dancing on the ledge.
"That's ... interesting," she remarks as they slowly lever themselves back upright. She grinds against him, hands slithering beneath his shirt. "We could do it here...."
"No," and Arthur knows his voice has dropped at least one octave, all the way down to a rasp, and is not ashamed of it. "Not enough room, not for all the things I want to do to you."
"Well then let's move someplace else," she says, and slips away into the throng.
By the time Arthur catches up to her the scenery has rippled and changed around them. He's back in the room where he started and it's all lit up, faint golden light showing off the plum-dark draped walls, the pure white beddings on the four-poster in the corner.
Eames is there, still female, corset and boots and all.
Arthur takes a moment to appreciate the contrasts: black leather, blue and black lace, the wild tangle of her dark copper hair.
"Fuck," Arthur finally allows himself to say as he looks her in the eyes. Her pupils are completely blown, and there is a high, hot flush in her cheeks.
Eames runs her tongue carefully over her lips and crooks a finger at Arthur, and he goes to her.
On his knees in front of her, watching her loom over him, braced on her arms on the bed. He runs a finger down the front of her corset, down to the crotch of her pants, and she hitches out a breath and gasps out his name.
Arthur smiles, unzips her carefully. She is, naturally, not wearing panties. The thick, smoky scent of her arousal fills the space between them, dark desire clouding her eyes.
He has to force her to close her legs so he can get the boots and the pants off, but once that's done he buries his nose, his mouth, in the fine curls surrounding her.
"Oh god," she whispers, and it's that tiny sound that drives him into action like the crack of a whip.
Fuck, she's so wet. Arthur pushes his tongue deep between her folds, laps up her juices. When he closes his mouth over her clit she screams and tries to buck off the bed, but he's holding her down with strong hands on her waist and she whimpers, held prisoner by her need, by his lust.
"Arthur, Arthur," she chants, voice broken and obscene now, and he moves one hand down, fingers dipping into her, delicately thrusting, wringing out a strangled cry of "Fuck!" as she comes, hard, around him.
By the time he lies down next to her he's naked, the pieces of his costume discarded all around the foot of the bed.
"Oh, god," she whispers, rakes her eyes up and down his bare flesh, and rolls over to expose her back, the laces on her corset.
Arthur is infinitely gentle as he frees her, one hand loosening the ribbons and the other smoothing over the slowly bared skin.
When she's naked before him he leans over and places a reverent kiss between her shoulderblades, stays for a moment to breathe in the rich musk of her.
"God, Eames," he says very softly.
Her shoulders shake in a laugh. "Not really. Hard to forge someone or something you don't believe in."
"True," Arthur concedes, and runs his hand down the dip of her spine, over the rise of her buttocks.
"Shall I take care of you, then?" she asks, and when Arthur nods he watches her push herself onto her hands and knees and crawl toward him. She steals a kiss that takes his breath away, and then drops to his cock and takes him in in one long swallow.
It's like the breath's been sucked out of his lungs.
Arthur watches her mouth move on him, but can't keep looking because whatever she's doing with her lips and her tongue is too damn good and he has to close her eyes and consciously will himself away from the edge.
Sparks dance behind his clenched eyelids; he feels his hands close hard around her shoulders. Were this the real world, he'd leave her - or indeed Eames himself - bruised.
"Stop, stop - oh god," he grits out, and he makes the mistake of looking down just as she levers herself back upright and then licks a long, hot stripe up his shaft before finally releasing him.
It makes him see stars.
She laughs, swipes the back of one hand against her mouth - Arthur has only now just noticed that her nails are lacquered in an elaborate peacock-feather pattern - and lies back against the pillows, hands behind her head.
"That's not fair," and Arthur surprises himself with a laugh. "You know I like the Maja."
"And I know you like the clothed one better," she says. Pause. She bites her lip. "Pervert."
"Says you," Arthur says, and reaches for her, gathers her close. They're skin to skin from shoulder to foot, and it is a short distance to fall - into her eyes, into her body, into her mouth.
They kiss for several minutes until he feels her pushing her hips against him, instinctively, and he groans and sinks into her, feeling her open up to him, feeling her brace her heels on the small of his back.
"What do you want," he rasps into the hollow of her throat.
"I want everything," she says.
And the first thrust is so good, so good, but it leaves him wanting more as Eames always does, and soon they're moving together - he feels her push up to meet him, stroke for stroke, sinks his hands into her hair, closes them around her already bruised shoulders. He has just enough presence of mind to fold himself almost in half and suckle at her breasts, and she keens a desperate cry beneath him, faster and harder they go and then she's screaming his name - "Arthur, Arthur, please!" - and she's gone, coming hard around him, and he lets himself go and the force of his release hits like a hammer blow all down his spine. It's like his brain is liquefying into a molten rush, and he's gasping, breathless again.
As they're falling exhausted toward each other the music comes back - Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien - and they smile at each other, link their hands, close their eyes as the kick takes them.