nipplekink pornlet, 1/2 (hopefully)
Aug. 8th, 2011 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_ragnarokBit of hasty, unedited, unfinished nipplekink /o\ contains mentions of piercing play, S/M relationship, a little humiliation, some feminization and a whole lot of hurtin' poor Eames' nipples.
In spite of whatever Arthur might say, the situation wasn't in the least Eames' fault. It was the weather, and their bloody co-workers. Eames was only reacting to circumstances.
That these circumstances happened to include Arthur is admittedly true, but that doesn't change the following basic facts:
1) Sydney is bloody hot this time of year, bordering on unbearable; and
2) Their architect insisted on keeping the office just above freezing temperature.
Eames is quite grateful to the wonder that is modern air-conditioning, truly he is, but he thinks there's something to be said for natural adjustment to the local climes. For one thing, it would mean he doesn't have to keep a bloody jacket in his briefcase to guard him from frostbite.
Or, as it happens, should he forget the sodding jacket, he can work in peace without errant parts of his anatomy intruding.
He tried his best to avert the situation. But when he'd reached for the air conditioner's remote (just to raise the temperature, nothing more, honestly) Claire-the-architect glared at him such daggers that his hand just about wilted where it clutched the remote. His attempts to change the overall weather via prayer and interpretive rain-dance have proven similarly useless, except for the hilarity it invoked in their team mates.
So, yes, Eames is sitting in a freezing cold office. And, yes, his nipples are hard as bloody rocks. That's no cause for Claire to snicker at him, or for their chemist to give him a wide-eyed innocent look and ask him whether those are pencil erasers under his shirt, "Or are you just happy to see me?"
"Nothing could be farther from the truth," Eames assures him.
That was all for that. Eames even managed to get some work done in the half-hour that passed before Arthur bends to whisper into his ear, "Get those things to lie flat before I'll put something sharp through them."
Eames manages to keep his lazy, slouching posture, but he can't help the shudder that passes through it. He knows very well that Arthur means it, as a threat and a promise both.
"Don't see how I could do that," Eames says, in a deliberately casual voice. "Kindly remember that it's not exactly a voluntary response."
Arthur straightens up. He lets a folder he's holding slide from his hand, falling unto Eames' desk with a muted thwap. "Make it happen," he says, at normal volume.
Then adds, lower, "Or I will."
~~
So Eames tries, because Arthur did ask and Eames hates to disappoint, and because it's annoying besides.
An old method comes to mind; if a body part persists in doing something undesirable, make it perform the same action harder and it'll subside. Works for pulled muscles and jittery hands – a physical sort of reverse psychology, Eames thinks.
He sneaks into the bathroom and unbuttons his shirt, staring at his nipples in the mirror. Stiff as Arthur's cock when he's been looking at Eames' mouth, and nearly as reddened. Eames pinches them, forces them to stand up further in hopes that once the silly things had a taste of standing tall and proud - so to speak - they'll retreat like normal civilized body parts.
It doesn't bloody work, of course. His nipples stand harder than ever, and even more eager for touch than when he'd started. Eames reflects sourly that it's fitting enough, given that reverse psychology never worked that well on his psyche, either. As a wise woman once said, you don't use aversion therapy on a masochist; one never knows how that will turn out.
Eames buttons up his shirt and returns to the work area, resigned to face the mockery of his co-workers and the viciousness of whatever punishment Arthur will devise for him. The latter almost makes up for the former.
~~
Arthur doesn't disappoint. His scowl is downright fierce when he sees Eames' involuntary bodily reactions have failed to achieve what he expected of them. It's like that business with Eames' refractory period in microcosm. He all but drags Eames away by the nape of his neck.
"Meeting," Eames gasps, convincing absolutely no one, but where would they be in a world without polite fiction? Besides, it's only good manners to give your team mates sufficient plausible deniability so that they won't have to think of you having kinky sex with their point man.
They go to the upstairs room, where Arthur keeps a cot for when he stays to work late, which is nearly all the time, in spite of everything Eames had to say on the subject. Well, never mind, at least it's handy now that they need it.
Arthur straightens up when he closes the door, a calm settling over him, almost palpable to Eames, in subtle ripples like walking into still water.
It's mostly an act. Eames can still spot the minor hitches in Arthur's breath, the almost invisible spots of color in his cheeks. Arthur's excitement isn't obvious, but it's clear enough to Eames, who's made a living of reading men and knows Arthur far too well to be misled.
The signs are plain. Arthur's going to make Eames suffer, and he's going to enjoy every second of it.
Eames finds an expectant smile etching itself onto his lips. "Well?" he says, angling his body to show himself off, the curves of his pecs, trying to play nonchalant without really putting any effort into it.
Arthur's mouth remains impassive, but Eames can see a smile in the crinkles around his eyes. "Take your shirt off." Arthur's better at controlling his voice than his face, has it at a low, commanding tone that makes Eames flush.
He obeys, not even pausing to run hands over himself seductively. Arthur's good at specific orders. If he wanted Eames to give him a show he'd have said so.
The shirt lands on the bed, and Arthur comes closer, looking at Eames like he's a problem waiting to be solved. Eames thrusts his chest forward, just a little bit, and Arthur's fingers close over his left nipple in a sudden, cruel twisting pinch.
Eames gasps. Arthur's grasp only tightens. Eames feels himself start to sweat, shivering in the chill of the office and trying to be still against the burn of Arthur's touch.
"Does it hurt?" There's a hunger in Arthur's voice, a dark curiosity.
"Yes," Eames hisses, and Arthur rewards him by twisting just a little harder. Eames shouts, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Arthur slaps him, light and open handed.
"They'll hear you downstairs," he says. It's a warning, except it doesn't work like one because all Eames can think is they'll know, they'll know everything and his hips thrust of their own volition.
Arthur looks amused now. "Do I need to shut you up?" He sounds exasperated, and oddly hopeful.
"You might," Eames says, and lets Arthur push him down to his knees with only a token resistance.
Most irritatingly, Arthur actually seems to settle down some with his cock in Eames' mouth. Eames is spurred to work harder, keep his lips tight and wet and his tongue mobile. Arthur responds by hooking his clever fingers in the hinges of Eames' jaw, forcing it open, and shoving into Eames' throat with a tightly controlled rhythm completely foreign to Eames' own haphazard motions.
Eames is getting into it, though, which makes it that much less pleasant when Arthur pulls away with a grunt and an obscene pop.
"Stay where you are." Arthur turns away, but pauses before moving to do whatever he intended. He whisks the blanket off the cot and onto Eames' shoulders. "Okay, now stay where you are."
The floor is hard and cold, but the blanket is warm and smells of Arthur and sleep. Eames turns his cheek into it and breathes, deep and slow, until Arthur returns.
"Close your eyes," he says, and Eames does. He takes the blanket off, but Eames barely has time to shiver before Arthur puts his hands on him, sliding something made of fabric over his chest.
Arthur pulls and snaps it into place, and Eames doesn't need to open his eyes to know he's wearing a bra.
"There," Arthur says, voice thick with arousal. He's not even trying to hide it anymore, and that gets to Eames like nothing else. "Now you won't poke anyone's eye out by mistake."
"Or draw your eye, hm?" Eames says sweetly, and sticks out his arse so Arthur can more easily swat it.
In spite of whatever Arthur might say, the situation wasn't in the least Eames' fault. It was the weather, and their bloody co-workers. Eames was only reacting to circumstances.
That these circumstances happened to include Arthur is admittedly true, but that doesn't change the following basic facts:
1) Sydney is bloody hot this time of year, bordering on unbearable; and
2) Their architect insisted on keeping the office just above freezing temperature.
Eames is quite grateful to the wonder that is modern air-conditioning, truly he is, but he thinks there's something to be said for natural adjustment to the local climes. For one thing, it would mean he doesn't have to keep a bloody jacket in his briefcase to guard him from frostbite.
Or, as it happens, should he forget the sodding jacket, he can work in peace without errant parts of his anatomy intruding.
He tried his best to avert the situation. But when he'd reached for the air conditioner's remote (just to raise the temperature, nothing more, honestly) Claire-the-architect glared at him such daggers that his hand just about wilted where it clutched the remote. His attempts to change the overall weather via prayer and interpretive rain-dance have proven similarly useless, except for the hilarity it invoked in their team mates.
So, yes, Eames is sitting in a freezing cold office. And, yes, his nipples are hard as bloody rocks. That's no cause for Claire to snicker at him, or for their chemist to give him a wide-eyed innocent look and ask him whether those are pencil erasers under his shirt, "Or are you just happy to see me?"
"Nothing could be farther from the truth," Eames assures him.
That was all for that. Eames even managed to get some work done in the half-hour that passed before Arthur bends to whisper into his ear, "Get those things to lie flat before I'll put something sharp through them."
Eames manages to keep his lazy, slouching posture, but he can't help the shudder that passes through it. He knows very well that Arthur means it, as a threat and a promise both.
"Don't see how I could do that," Eames says, in a deliberately casual voice. "Kindly remember that it's not exactly a voluntary response."
Arthur straightens up. He lets a folder he's holding slide from his hand, falling unto Eames' desk with a muted thwap. "Make it happen," he says, at normal volume.
Then adds, lower, "Or I will."
~~
So Eames tries, because Arthur did ask and Eames hates to disappoint, and because it's annoying besides.
An old method comes to mind; if a body part persists in doing something undesirable, make it perform the same action harder and it'll subside. Works for pulled muscles and jittery hands – a physical sort of reverse psychology, Eames thinks.
He sneaks into the bathroom and unbuttons his shirt, staring at his nipples in the mirror. Stiff as Arthur's cock when he's been looking at Eames' mouth, and nearly as reddened. Eames pinches them, forces them to stand up further in hopes that once the silly things had a taste of standing tall and proud - so to speak - they'll retreat like normal civilized body parts.
It doesn't bloody work, of course. His nipples stand harder than ever, and even more eager for touch than when he'd started. Eames reflects sourly that it's fitting enough, given that reverse psychology never worked that well on his psyche, either. As a wise woman once said, you don't use aversion therapy on a masochist; one never knows how that will turn out.
Eames buttons up his shirt and returns to the work area, resigned to face the mockery of his co-workers and the viciousness of whatever punishment Arthur will devise for him. The latter almost makes up for the former.
~~
Arthur doesn't disappoint. His scowl is downright fierce when he sees Eames' involuntary bodily reactions have failed to achieve what he expected of them. It's like that business with Eames' refractory period in microcosm. He all but drags Eames away by the nape of his neck.
"Meeting," Eames gasps, convincing absolutely no one, but where would they be in a world without polite fiction? Besides, it's only good manners to give your team mates sufficient plausible deniability so that they won't have to think of you having kinky sex with their point man.
They go to the upstairs room, where Arthur keeps a cot for when he stays to work late, which is nearly all the time, in spite of everything Eames had to say on the subject. Well, never mind, at least it's handy now that they need it.
Arthur straightens up when he closes the door, a calm settling over him, almost palpable to Eames, in subtle ripples like walking into still water.
It's mostly an act. Eames can still spot the minor hitches in Arthur's breath, the almost invisible spots of color in his cheeks. Arthur's excitement isn't obvious, but it's clear enough to Eames, who's made a living of reading men and knows Arthur far too well to be misled.
The signs are plain. Arthur's going to make Eames suffer, and he's going to enjoy every second of it.
Eames finds an expectant smile etching itself onto his lips. "Well?" he says, angling his body to show himself off, the curves of his pecs, trying to play nonchalant without really putting any effort into it.
Arthur's mouth remains impassive, but Eames can see a smile in the crinkles around his eyes. "Take your shirt off." Arthur's better at controlling his voice than his face, has it at a low, commanding tone that makes Eames flush.
He obeys, not even pausing to run hands over himself seductively. Arthur's good at specific orders. If he wanted Eames to give him a show he'd have said so.
The shirt lands on the bed, and Arthur comes closer, looking at Eames like he's a problem waiting to be solved. Eames thrusts his chest forward, just a little bit, and Arthur's fingers close over his left nipple in a sudden, cruel twisting pinch.
Eames gasps. Arthur's grasp only tightens. Eames feels himself start to sweat, shivering in the chill of the office and trying to be still against the burn of Arthur's touch.
"Does it hurt?" There's a hunger in Arthur's voice, a dark curiosity.
"Yes," Eames hisses, and Arthur rewards him by twisting just a little harder. Eames shouts, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Arthur slaps him, light and open handed.
"They'll hear you downstairs," he says. It's a warning, except it doesn't work like one because all Eames can think is they'll know, they'll know everything and his hips thrust of their own volition.
Arthur looks amused now. "Do I need to shut you up?" He sounds exasperated, and oddly hopeful.
"You might," Eames says, and lets Arthur push him down to his knees with only a token resistance.
Most irritatingly, Arthur actually seems to settle down some with his cock in Eames' mouth. Eames is spurred to work harder, keep his lips tight and wet and his tongue mobile. Arthur responds by hooking his clever fingers in the hinges of Eames' jaw, forcing it open, and shoving into Eames' throat with a tightly controlled rhythm completely foreign to Eames' own haphazard motions.
Eames is getting into it, though, which makes it that much less pleasant when Arthur pulls away with a grunt and an obscene pop.
"Stay where you are." Arthur turns away, but pauses before moving to do whatever he intended. He whisks the blanket off the cot and onto Eames' shoulders. "Okay, now stay where you are."
The floor is hard and cold, but the blanket is warm and smells of Arthur and sleep. Eames turns his cheek into it and breathes, deep and slow, until Arthur returns.
"Close your eyes," he says, and Eames does. He takes the blanket off, but Eames barely has time to shiver before Arthur puts his hands on him, sliding something made of fabric over his chest.
Arthur pulls and snaps it into place, and Eames doesn't need to open his eyes to know he's wearing a bra.
"There," Arthur says, voice thick with arousal. He's not even trying to hide it anymore, and that gets to Eames like nothing else. "Now you won't poke anyone's eye out by mistake."
"Or draw your eye, hm?" Eames says sweetly, and sticks out his arse so Arthur can more easily swat it.
