Fic: Archimedes' Principle [Boardwalk Empire], Rothstein/Luciano NC-17
Title: Archimedes' Principle
Fandom: Boardwalk Empire
Pairing: Rothstein/Luciano
Rating: NC-17
Note the First: WARNING FOR WATERSPORTS OMGGG
Note the Second: written for boardwalkkink
Out of--propriety, oddly enough, Charles tells him about the below-belt problem.
"Since you're so keen on... cleanliness, you know. And caution." The youth is loosely cross-legged in Arnold's study, and although Charles would never blush, his eyes have that hooded look, as if his eyebrows were about to descend and pull his forehead over the rest of his face. It's irksome, the purposeful dullness that Charles assumes whenever he's embarrassed; Arnold will have to teach him the finer facial points of subtle apology (loud contrition, on the other hand, is something in which his protege needs no tutelage).
Arnold shuffles back at his desk, until his spine is flush against the hard backing of imported Arts & Crafts wood (the chairs for his guests are always more comfortable -- puts them at ease, at a disadvantage they can't see). "I appreciate you telling me. And I have just the thing," he says, as Charles' body relaxes at the first sentence and stiffens at the second one.
He has Charles strip down and kneel in the claw-footed bathtub, eyes open. Arnold lays a towel between his own feet and the milky chartreuse tile. The air is chill, even with the window shut, so he keeps his suit jacket on.
Charles yelps when the first splash hits him in the chest, but quickly shuts his mouth as the stream arcs up to his mouth, cheeks, and forehead. Arnold's piss has the gentle tint of Belgian ale, although it's hard to ascertain the color against Charles' flushed, furious skin. Droplets trap themselves in Charles' eyebrows, on the ridge of his upper lip, urine pinstriping down his shoulders and chin.
It's over within a minute. With a cursory motion, like loading a shotgun, Arnold jerks himself off in five pulls, squirting onto his protege's soaked chest. Charles wraps his arms around himself, gasping for air, and Arnold notes the bits of gold leaf under the boy's fingernails, from gripping the lip of the tub.
Arnold readjusts himself, washes his hands, and hangs up his jacket in the bedroom. He returns to the tub, rolls up his sleeves, and turns on the tap. With a hot washcloth, he cleans Charlie, who eventually stops shaking and scowling as the tub fills. He scrubs Charlie's face, then moves on to the chest, arms, legs, groin, and back. Finally, with a dab of pine-scented oil, he washes the boy's hair, even though he made sure not to piss in it.
"You didn't like that," he says, standing up.
"No," Charlie says, drying himself off with a green towel.
"Well. It was just an experiment," Arnold says. If he hadn't sullied Charlie, he never would have known the texture of the boy's curls when soapy, the exact temperature of his neck fresh from the bath, because nobody ever got anywhere treating one person the same way, all the time. "I'll get you a doctor."
They walk to the bedroom, where Charlie gets dressed. "I'd like to be in full commission soon," Charlie says as he buttons his shirt. "To avoid further inconvenience," he adds, head cocked, and maybe the boy has mastered subtle apology, after all.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Arnold asks, and his protege responds with a grin surprising in its openness.
"Provided you don't piss on me after dessert."
Fandom: Boardwalk Empire
Pairing: Rothstein/Luciano
Rating: NC-17
Note the First: WARNING FOR WATERSPORTS OMGGG
Note the Second: written for boardwalkkink
Out of--propriety, oddly enough, Charles tells him about the below-belt problem.
"Since you're so keen on... cleanliness, you know. And caution." The youth is loosely cross-legged in Arnold's study, and although Charles would never blush, his eyes have that hooded look, as if his eyebrows were about to descend and pull his forehead over the rest of his face. It's irksome, the purposeful dullness that Charles assumes whenever he's embarrassed; Arnold will have to teach him the finer facial points of subtle apology (loud contrition, on the other hand, is something in which his protege needs no tutelage).
Arnold shuffles back at his desk, until his spine is flush against the hard backing of imported Arts & Crafts wood (the chairs for his guests are always more comfortable -- puts them at ease, at a disadvantage they can't see). "I appreciate you telling me. And I have just the thing," he says, as Charles' body relaxes at the first sentence and stiffens at the second one.
He has Charles strip down and kneel in the claw-footed bathtub, eyes open. Arnold lays a towel between his own feet and the milky chartreuse tile. The air is chill, even with the window shut, so he keeps his suit jacket on.
Charles yelps when the first splash hits him in the chest, but quickly shuts his mouth as the stream arcs up to his mouth, cheeks, and forehead. Arnold's piss has the gentle tint of Belgian ale, although it's hard to ascertain the color against Charles' flushed, furious skin. Droplets trap themselves in Charles' eyebrows, on the ridge of his upper lip, urine pinstriping down his shoulders and chin.
It's over within a minute. With a cursory motion, like loading a shotgun, Arnold jerks himself off in five pulls, squirting onto his protege's soaked chest. Charles wraps his arms around himself, gasping for air, and Arnold notes the bits of gold leaf under the boy's fingernails, from gripping the lip of the tub.
Arnold readjusts himself, washes his hands, and hangs up his jacket in the bedroom. He returns to the tub, rolls up his sleeves, and turns on the tap. With a hot washcloth, he cleans Charlie, who eventually stops shaking and scowling as the tub fills. He scrubs Charlie's face, then moves on to the chest, arms, legs, groin, and back. Finally, with a dab of pine-scented oil, he washes the boy's hair, even though he made sure not to piss in it.
"You didn't like that," he says, standing up.
"No," Charlie says, drying himself off with a green towel.
"Well. It was just an experiment," Arnold says. If he hadn't sullied Charlie, he never would have known the texture of the boy's curls when soapy, the exact temperature of his neck fresh from the bath, because nobody ever got anywhere treating one person the same way, all the time. "I'll get you a doctor."
They walk to the bedroom, where Charlie gets dressed. "I'd like to be in full commission soon," Charlie says as he buttons his shirt. "To avoid further inconvenience," he adds, head cocked, and maybe the boy has mastered subtle apology, after all.
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Arnold asks, and his protege responds with a grin surprising in its openness.
"Provided you don't piss on me after dessert."