Esurience - Inception - NC-17
Title: Esurience
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 2,216 words.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which Arthur and Eames are both gluttons of a sort.
Note: Many, many, many thanks to eternalsojourn for the very thorough beta. Any mistakes left are likely things she tried strenuously to talk me out of. For Fat Cock Vivant (foodporn fest).
Eames holds out the fork, perfect tiny bite of red-wine braised beef topped with a swirl of sweet potato puree. Arthur watched him do it, but he still doesn't know how Eames managed to come up with such a perfect forkful--it's like plating in miniature, like food television cameras are going to swoop in at any moment to film the delicate combination perched atop the silver tines.
Arthur leans in, mouth open, and very delicately wraps his lips around the mouthful of food on the end of the fork. His elbows are off the table, and the starched white linen napkin is folded precisely across Arthur's lap, dick hard and pressed up against the seam of his pants. His eyes never leave Eames's: as he chews, swallows, and sits back again.
Eames prepares another forkful.
This one is a delicate biteful of Brussels sprout, cooked till it's tender, till all the bitterness is gone. Its flavour is complimented by the black truffle sauce, and Arthur bites back a groan as his teeth close over the tines and Eames pulls the fork away again.
Eames gives him a bite, and then another, until he's full. Until he's past full, and everything's gone. Until his dick's so hard it's a kind of torture. Eames makes him wait, but only a little, splitting the last of the wine between their glasses.
“Quite a lovely meal, don’t you think?” Eames says, leaning back in his chair. He’s hardly eaten anything, but of course that’s not the point.
Arthur sits back as well, posture perfect, and lifts the napkin from his lap. He folds it, once, twice and sets it on the table, to the side of his absent place-setting.
“No dessert tonight?” he asks.
"The shop was out of that cake you like,” Eames says.
Arthur frowns and hums acknowledgement, but he's not disappointed. Dessert on these nights is even worse than dinner. Eames draws the affair out into the most exquisite torment, heightening everything: the weight of the fork in his mouth, the way his teeth close down on the silver, the texture of the chocolate mousse spreading out over his tongue. Eames would feed it to him in tiny, perfect bites, not too big nor too small, the perfect balance of cake and mousse every time--and in exchange, Arthur would put on a show for Eames: perfect manners, every bite enjoyed, every bite controlled, all of Arthur’s movements reined in.
That's what this is about: Arthur controlling himself, and Eames getting to watch.
They don't waste time getting from the table to the bedroom, and they don't waste time once they're there. There's nothing frantic about it, though, for all Arthur's endless patience at dinner. He's deliberate with his buttons; not desperate. He's meticulous with the prep, but almost clinical about it, no tease to it. When he's ready, he settles himself on his back on the bed so he's comfortable. Eames climbs up over him and then Eames breaks character for a moment. The kiss he presses to Arthur's lips is nothing like anything else they'll do all night. It's tender, and unstudied, and Arthur uses every trick he knows to try to memorize it.
Eames fucks into Arthur slow and careful, all the precision, all the control from earlier with the fork and knife still playing through every movement. He hits Arthur just right--sometimes; but there's nothing haphazard about it. He knows exactly what he's doing. Arthur grunts when Eames gets it right, as encouragement. He pushes back for more regardless.
Eames just keeps it up--slow and careful and steady, bearing down on Arthur's prostate in a pattern Arthur can't predict, until Arthur lets out a noise he'd intended to keep back. It's more growl than groan, more than a little frustration mixed in with his pleasure. Then Eames drives into him, just once, sharp, and quick, and so sudden that Arthur feels filled up with it in a way he hadn't before. Arthur makes another noise, this one almost a surprise, and Eames does it again--slams into him once, twice, thrice--mercilessly pressing his advantage.
Arthur doesn't let it surprise him this time, though, and even though he arches back into it, enjoys it, it's not more than enjoyment, not past what Arthur's prepared himself to take. Eames slows back down, still deep, but so careful, tantalizingly slow and so much less than what Arthur wants. Eames will continue, pace mild and steady until Arthur snaps and tries to take it, until Arthur gives up and lets it take him over. That's what this is about: Arthur's perfect control, and Eames getting to break it.
Eames keeps his hands on Arthur's hips, to steady him, and moves like he could keep it up all night. Arthur knows he can--they've done it, Eames just fucking him until his control shreds itself. It's always like a rubber band breaking on nights like these, the snap sharp and sudden. Arthur will take as much as he can, holding everything back--his reactions, his fraying self-control--until he just can't anymore. Until everything rushes out at once because he can't stop it. Can't control it, can't control his voice, can't control the shaking in his limbs, can't control himself.
Then Eames will fuck him hard and deep and fast, pulling him off one-handed as he slams into him, and Arthur will fucking wail with it, fucking cry with it, thrashing helplessly, taking it, overwhelmed by it. It's not a simple giving himself up to it; it's being unable to get his control back whenever he wants it.
Tonight Eames is thorough, more than anything else, and it feels good, but it's never--quite--enough. Arthur sinks into it, but he doesn't lose himself to it, the way Eames shoves his hips forward, the way he fills him up. Arthur pushes back to meet him, braces a hand on the headboard above them and shoves back down, trying to take more. Eames eases the pace back, holds his hips down; he gets in deeper, but does it slower. It leaves Arthur in a state of always wondering when--yes, there--Eames is going to thrust in, when Eames--fuck--will hit him just right.
Eames pulls out, nearly all the way, blunt head of his cock just stretching Arthur, just barely in, holding him open. And Eames waits. The weight Eames puts on his hips holds him in place, keeps him from shoving himself back on Eames's dick, and Arthur feels himself tense despite himself, feels himself straining for it. Eames shifts his grip, but Arthur still can't get an inch, doesn't have the leverage.
Suddenly Arthur doesn't think he's going to last very long tonight. This is going to kill him. The wait through dinner was bearable because it was anticipatory; this is just torture. He's so close to what he wants, so close to Eames fucking him, filling him up, but all he has is feeling stretched and open and empty.
It's not enough. He's so close, and it's not enough, and it's going to kill him, just waiting. Arthur's thighs tense, and he tries to fuck himself back onto Eames's dick, but he can't get the fucking leverage, and-
And then Eames thrusts in, and oh shit oh shit oh shit, Arthur doesn't know what he says, if he manages to say anything at all--if they're words coming out and not just sounds--because Eames doesn't stop, he pounds into Arthur, and Arthur arches his back and forgets everything for a few moments because it's like he feels everything: every fucking inch of Eames, filling him up, the slide of Eames's skin against his. It's so good after the agony of waiting, so good that Arthur forgets himself for a moment, caught up in the relief. But then he remembers, and it's not going to be that easy. He's not going to break that fast, and he reigns himself back in.
Eames can tell the moment he does, can tell the instant he's back under control, and he pulls himself back too. Slows down into something calm and collected. Arthur bites down on a groan that's pure frustration. Eames knows what he's doing; Arthur's not giving him that satisfaction either.
"Fuck, Eames, fuck me," Arthur says, but he snaps it, doesn't beg it, doesn't sob it out or babble it, so Eames doesn't. Eames doesn't deign to answer either, doesn't even put his lips to Arthur's skin, just keeps rolling his hips forward in that infuriating pace. The frustration will break Arthur faster than anything else, and he clenches down around Eames vindictively, trying to make him break first.
Eames grunts, and Arthur smiles, nearly vicious with triumph, even as Eames leans back a bit to change the angle and hits Arthur's prostate three times in quick succession. Arthur groans and lets his head fall back. Eames leans in and scrapes his teeth over the stubble on Arthur's jaw, and Arthur leans into it.
Eames catches Arthur's lips, pushes his tongue into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur pants into it. He lets Eames break away, lets him kiss down his throat, caught up in the frenetic contrast between the soft slick of his mouth, and the prickly burn of his scruff, and the whole time Eames keeps up the steady pace of his hips. Holding Arthur down, and driving into him. He can feel himself cracking already.
He holds it in. Arthur tests Eames's hold again, and tries to squirm his way down onto Eames's cock. He gets nowhere again, and it makes him harder, makes him want it more. He hooks a leg around the backs of Eames's thighs--he gets that much at least, because Eames can hold his hips down to the mattress, or he can keep Arthur’s legs down, but he can't do both.
Eames lets himself be pulled, for once, licking over Arthur's nipple and then mouthing his way back up Arthur's chest to his throat. Something shorts out in Arthur's brain, just for a moment, and fuuuuck, he whimpers, because that's cheating. Eames sinks his teeth into the junction between neck and shoulder, and sweet fucking yes shifts his grip on Arthur's hips, and Arthur slams himself down and opens up under Eames.
Eames groans and pushes back just as hard, never gentle to start with and almost brutal now. Arthur's flying to pieces and he doesn't care, doesn’t even try to grab for the last shreds of his control because fuck, fuck, fuck, don't you ever stop. Eames doesn't disappoint, slamming into him while Arthur runs his mouth. He has no idea what he's saying, too caught up in the feeling to pay attention to anything that isn't the hot drag of Eames's cock filling him up. He's close, close and fraying fast, and his hands are dragging at Eames's shoulders as his legs scrabble for more purchase around Eames's back, trying to drag him closer, harder, further; and when Eames gets a hand on his dick, Arthur comes, screaming, back snapping taut so fast he half thinks he pulled something.
Arthur can't even ride it out--all he can do is come and come and come. There's come splashed up Arthur's chest all the way to his collarbones. He's wet and messy and absolutely broken, Eames's hands on his hips the only thing holding him together. This is what Eames gets for his trouble; this is what Eames wanted all along.
When he comes back to himself, Eames is done too, panting into the curve of his collarbone, and the neighbours are still pounding on the wall for them to keep it the fuck down. They're going to get another note shoved under their door mat in the morning, pointedly polite, telling them that the entire block doesn't want to hear them fucking and that a complaint's going to be registered with the landlord.
Unfortunately for the neighbours, Arthur is the landlord, so nothing's ever done about the noise.
Arthur hisses when Eames pulls out, edging towards sore now. He feels wet and far, far too empty, and his legs shake when he unwraps them from around Eames's waist. Eames pets his thigh absently and then levers himself up onto his elbows so he's propped up above Arthur again. He leans down and licks out the come that’s pooled in Arthur's bellybutton, lapping at his skin until it's spit-slick but otherwise clean. Eames presses a kiss to the skin, hot against the evaporation chill, and the muscles in Arthur's stomach jump.
Arthur drags a leg up over Eames’s shoulder and uses it to pull him closer just to feel him there. Eames presses a kiss to the inside of Arthur’s thigh this time, and says, “I’ve grapes in the freezer.” Arthur actually shivers, thinking about the cold, cold slide of a frozen grape against his skin, pebbling over a nipple, followed by the heat of Eames’s mouth. Thinking about Eames feeding them to him with his mouth, the sharp contrast between the melting grape and Eames’s tongue.
Eames licks the spot he’d just kissed, and then blows, very gently, and goosebumps break out over Arthur’s skin. He shivers again. “Yeah? I love grapes.”
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Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 2,216 words.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which Arthur and Eames are both gluttons of a sort.
Note: Many, many, many thanks to eternalsojourn for the very thorough beta. Any mistakes left are likely things she tried strenuously to talk me out of. For Fat Cock Vivant (foodporn fest).
Eames holds out the fork, perfect tiny bite of red-wine braised beef topped with a swirl of sweet potato puree. Arthur watched him do it, but he still doesn't know how Eames managed to come up with such a perfect forkful--it's like plating in miniature, like food television cameras are going to swoop in at any moment to film the delicate combination perched atop the silver tines.
Arthur leans in, mouth open, and very delicately wraps his lips around the mouthful of food on the end of the fork. His elbows are off the table, and the starched white linen napkin is folded precisely across Arthur's lap, dick hard and pressed up against the seam of his pants. His eyes never leave Eames's: as he chews, swallows, and sits back again.
Eames prepares another forkful.
This one is a delicate biteful of Brussels sprout, cooked till it's tender, till all the bitterness is gone. Its flavour is complimented by the black truffle sauce, and Arthur bites back a groan as his teeth close over the tines and Eames pulls the fork away again.
Eames gives him a bite, and then another, until he's full. Until he's past full, and everything's gone. Until his dick's so hard it's a kind of torture. Eames makes him wait, but only a little, splitting the last of the wine between their glasses.
“Quite a lovely meal, don’t you think?” Eames says, leaning back in his chair. He’s hardly eaten anything, but of course that’s not the point.
Arthur sits back as well, posture perfect, and lifts the napkin from his lap. He folds it, once, twice and sets it on the table, to the side of his absent place-setting.
“No dessert tonight?” he asks.
"The shop was out of that cake you like,” Eames says.
Arthur frowns and hums acknowledgement, but he's not disappointed. Dessert on these nights is even worse than dinner. Eames draws the affair out into the most exquisite torment, heightening everything: the weight of the fork in his mouth, the way his teeth close down on the silver, the texture of the chocolate mousse spreading out over his tongue. Eames would feed it to him in tiny, perfect bites, not too big nor too small, the perfect balance of cake and mousse every time--and in exchange, Arthur would put on a show for Eames: perfect manners, every bite enjoyed, every bite controlled, all of Arthur’s movements reined in.
That's what this is about: Arthur controlling himself, and Eames getting to watch.
They don't waste time getting from the table to the bedroom, and they don't waste time once they're there. There's nothing frantic about it, though, for all Arthur's endless patience at dinner. He's deliberate with his buttons; not desperate. He's meticulous with the prep, but almost clinical about it, no tease to it. When he's ready, he settles himself on his back on the bed so he's comfortable. Eames climbs up over him and then Eames breaks character for a moment. The kiss he presses to Arthur's lips is nothing like anything else they'll do all night. It's tender, and unstudied, and Arthur uses every trick he knows to try to memorize it.
Eames fucks into Arthur slow and careful, all the precision, all the control from earlier with the fork and knife still playing through every movement. He hits Arthur just right--sometimes; but there's nothing haphazard about it. He knows exactly what he's doing. Arthur grunts when Eames gets it right, as encouragement. He pushes back for more regardless.
Eames just keeps it up--slow and careful and steady, bearing down on Arthur's prostate in a pattern Arthur can't predict, until Arthur lets out a noise he'd intended to keep back. It's more growl than groan, more than a little frustration mixed in with his pleasure. Then Eames drives into him, just once, sharp, and quick, and so sudden that Arthur feels filled up with it in a way he hadn't before. Arthur makes another noise, this one almost a surprise, and Eames does it again--slams into him once, twice, thrice--mercilessly pressing his advantage.
Arthur doesn't let it surprise him this time, though, and even though he arches back into it, enjoys it, it's not more than enjoyment, not past what Arthur's prepared himself to take. Eames slows back down, still deep, but so careful, tantalizingly slow and so much less than what Arthur wants. Eames will continue, pace mild and steady until Arthur snaps and tries to take it, until Arthur gives up and lets it take him over. That's what this is about: Arthur's perfect control, and Eames getting to break it.
Eames keeps his hands on Arthur's hips, to steady him, and moves like he could keep it up all night. Arthur knows he can--they've done it, Eames just fucking him until his control shreds itself. It's always like a rubber band breaking on nights like these, the snap sharp and sudden. Arthur will take as much as he can, holding everything back--his reactions, his fraying self-control--until he just can't anymore. Until everything rushes out at once because he can't stop it. Can't control it, can't control his voice, can't control the shaking in his limbs, can't control himself.
Then Eames will fuck him hard and deep and fast, pulling him off one-handed as he slams into him, and Arthur will fucking wail with it, fucking cry with it, thrashing helplessly, taking it, overwhelmed by it. It's not a simple giving himself up to it; it's being unable to get his control back whenever he wants it.
Tonight Eames is thorough, more than anything else, and it feels good, but it's never--quite--enough. Arthur sinks into it, but he doesn't lose himself to it, the way Eames shoves his hips forward, the way he fills him up. Arthur pushes back to meet him, braces a hand on the headboard above them and shoves back down, trying to take more. Eames eases the pace back, holds his hips down; he gets in deeper, but does it slower. It leaves Arthur in a state of always wondering when--yes, there--Eames is going to thrust in, when Eames--fuck--will hit him just right.
Eames pulls out, nearly all the way, blunt head of his cock just stretching Arthur, just barely in, holding him open. And Eames waits. The weight Eames puts on his hips holds him in place, keeps him from shoving himself back on Eames's dick, and Arthur feels himself tense despite himself, feels himself straining for it. Eames shifts his grip, but Arthur still can't get an inch, doesn't have the leverage.
Suddenly Arthur doesn't think he's going to last very long tonight. This is going to kill him. The wait through dinner was bearable because it was anticipatory; this is just torture. He's so close to what he wants, so close to Eames fucking him, filling him up, but all he has is feeling stretched and open and empty.
It's not enough. He's so close, and it's not enough, and it's going to kill him, just waiting. Arthur's thighs tense, and he tries to fuck himself back onto Eames's dick, but he can't get the fucking leverage, and-
And then Eames thrusts in, and oh shit oh shit oh shit, Arthur doesn't know what he says, if he manages to say anything at all--if they're words coming out and not just sounds--because Eames doesn't stop, he pounds into Arthur, and Arthur arches his back and forgets everything for a few moments because it's like he feels everything: every fucking inch of Eames, filling him up, the slide of Eames's skin against his. It's so good after the agony of waiting, so good that Arthur forgets himself for a moment, caught up in the relief. But then he remembers, and it's not going to be that easy. He's not going to break that fast, and he reigns himself back in.
Eames can tell the moment he does, can tell the instant he's back under control, and he pulls himself back too. Slows down into something calm and collected. Arthur bites down on a groan that's pure frustration. Eames knows what he's doing; Arthur's not giving him that satisfaction either.
"Fuck, Eames, fuck me," Arthur says, but he snaps it, doesn't beg it, doesn't sob it out or babble it, so Eames doesn't. Eames doesn't deign to answer either, doesn't even put his lips to Arthur's skin, just keeps rolling his hips forward in that infuriating pace. The frustration will break Arthur faster than anything else, and he clenches down around Eames vindictively, trying to make him break first.
Eames grunts, and Arthur smiles, nearly vicious with triumph, even as Eames leans back a bit to change the angle and hits Arthur's prostate three times in quick succession. Arthur groans and lets his head fall back. Eames leans in and scrapes his teeth over the stubble on Arthur's jaw, and Arthur leans into it.
Eames catches Arthur's lips, pushes his tongue into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur pants into it. He lets Eames break away, lets him kiss down his throat, caught up in the frenetic contrast between the soft slick of his mouth, and the prickly burn of his scruff, and the whole time Eames keeps up the steady pace of his hips. Holding Arthur down, and driving into him. He can feel himself cracking already.
He holds it in. Arthur tests Eames's hold again, and tries to squirm his way down onto Eames's cock. He gets nowhere again, and it makes him harder, makes him want it more. He hooks a leg around the backs of Eames's thighs--he gets that much at least, because Eames can hold his hips down to the mattress, or he can keep Arthur’s legs down, but he can't do both.
Eames lets himself be pulled, for once, licking over Arthur's nipple and then mouthing his way back up Arthur's chest to his throat. Something shorts out in Arthur's brain, just for a moment, and fuuuuck, he whimpers, because that's cheating. Eames sinks his teeth into the junction between neck and shoulder, and sweet fucking yes shifts his grip on Arthur's hips, and Arthur slams himself down and opens up under Eames.
Eames groans and pushes back just as hard, never gentle to start with and almost brutal now. Arthur's flying to pieces and he doesn't care, doesn’t even try to grab for the last shreds of his control because fuck, fuck, fuck, don't you ever stop. Eames doesn't disappoint, slamming into him while Arthur runs his mouth. He has no idea what he's saying, too caught up in the feeling to pay attention to anything that isn't the hot drag of Eames's cock filling him up. He's close, close and fraying fast, and his hands are dragging at Eames's shoulders as his legs scrabble for more purchase around Eames's back, trying to drag him closer, harder, further; and when Eames gets a hand on his dick, Arthur comes, screaming, back snapping taut so fast he half thinks he pulled something.
Arthur can't even ride it out--all he can do is come and come and come. There's come splashed up Arthur's chest all the way to his collarbones. He's wet and messy and absolutely broken, Eames's hands on his hips the only thing holding him together. This is what Eames gets for his trouble; this is what Eames wanted all along.
When he comes back to himself, Eames is done too, panting into the curve of his collarbone, and the neighbours are still pounding on the wall for them to keep it the fuck down. They're going to get another note shoved under their door mat in the morning, pointedly polite, telling them that the entire block doesn't want to hear them fucking and that a complaint's going to be registered with the landlord.
Unfortunately for the neighbours, Arthur is the landlord, so nothing's ever done about the noise.
Arthur hisses when Eames pulls out, edging towards sore now. He feels wet and far, far too empty, and his legs shake when he unwraps them from around Eames's waist. Eames pets his thigh absently and then levers himself up onto his elbows so he's propped up above Arthur again. He leans down and licks out the come that’s pooled in Arthur's bellybutton, lapping at his skin until it's spit-slick but otherwise clean. Eames presses a kiss to the skin, hot against the evaporation chill, and the muscles in Arthur's stomach jump.
Arthur drags a leg up over Eames’s shoulder and uses it to pull him closer just to feel him there. Eames presses a kiss to the inside of Arthur’s thigh this time, and says, “I’ve grapes in the freezer.” Arthur actually shivers, thinking about the cold, cold slide of a frozen grape against his skin, pebbling over a nipple, followed by the heat of Eames’s mouth. Thinking about Eames feeding them to him with his mouth, the sharp contrast between the melting grape and Eames’s tongue.
Eames licks the spot he’d just kissed, and then blows, very gently, and goosebumps break out over Arthur’s skin. He shivers again. “Yeah? I love grapes.”
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