Incption Fic: The Game
Mar. 3rd, 2011 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: The Game
Word Count: 925
Pairing: Browning/Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cursing, implied incest
Summary: Peter and Robert play a game. Robert picks the target, and if Peter agrees, they lure him in. Eames happens to be said target this time around.
Author's Note: A few posts ago, I mentioned I wanted DP, damn it, and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kirstenlouise commented that then I should just write DP. So I did.
The game is a simple one. Robert chooses, and Peter Browning either admires or criticizes. “You must not give in to your desires so easily, boy,” he whispers tenderly, stroking Robert's hair as his cock rises deep into the slim, constricted throat. “Take it in slow.” There is not a hint of sound until he comes, and each wave crashes. They drown together. Only after, curled in the warmth of his uncle's arms, does Roberts speak.
“What about the representative from Mr. Townsend? Everett Forester?” he is good with names, and occasionally spot on with choosing. “New and temporary, if he gives in, it should be interesting.” A warm breath sends neck hairs on end, and he shivers, knowing the answer is yes.
Two days later, Eames stays late to finish some paperwork. It gives more time to study Peter Browning, after hours, when no one is around to keep up any form of masquerade. Pure, it is the kind of man Eames suspects would be best to connect with Robert Fischer. He sits at the desk were another assistant was, reading through papers, charts, and the like until something catches his eye. Or rather, his hearing. The sound is soft yet rhythmic and charged, likely dulled because of distance.
Curiosity brings him to his feet, knowing Mr. Browning will not return for at least another hour for lunch. It should be a time used well on details, to find out more about the mark, but he follows the sound, its erotic tension summoning need that has not been tended to since taking this bloody job.
By the door left casually open, his hand is upon the bulge pressing along his trousers. Fingers are light against it, to not give away his position, while the other hand pries open the entry further. The sight has him still, frozen except for fingers suddenly more tight around his throbbing cock.
Robert is raised up, erect with legs planted firm against the mattress, knees buried deep for balance and control. Each move is slow, drawn out to heavy, deep moans threaded with wet squelches from slick that trickles from his tight, red ring of muscle and down Peter's cock and balls. Already fucked hard at least twice, Eames imagines Robert full of Peter's come, sees the balm glisten across the pale skin. “I . . .” Robert moans, unable to hold in his breaths. His body falls forward a little, closer. “I need more . . .fuck, please, I need more . . .”
Aged hands pull around to the tight arse, pulling them apart even as Robert does not stop. How wide and wet he looks suddenly is too inviting for Eames to stand by. He steps into the room and coughs. It does not interrupt them, and he begins to wonder . . .
Bloody hell, is the last, lucid consideration he takes in before his tie comes undone in haste, followed by the shirt, slacks, shoes and other articles that leave a trail along the hardwood floors. Yet even if he tosses out logic that screams trap, he is careful, taking it in. His fingers cup Peter's balls, giving them a tug to see if there is any change. None pushes him further, up the bare inch of cock not pushed deep into Robert's arse, collecting slick that coats his fingers. It tastes sweet along his lips, warm along his tongue that laps it greedily, needing more.
Eames bends down, still on the floor, and teases perineum, dragging along the bare flesh to collect come that Robert cannot keep. Up, it reaches the ring, and Robert moans, begging him, “Please, fuck me . . .” his voice is so faint, drowning in moans and then deep kisses. Eames cannot help but comply, stroking his erection with the slick from watching. He climbs onto the bed and leans over Robert, guiding in. It is a struggle at first, Robert writhing and wracked in obvious pain that is swallowed by Peter's mouth, but eventually, he accommodates them both.
The rhythm is set slow at first, Eames' hands creeping along the small, pale body, taking in the ribs, the shaved plane. Then Robert lets go and falls back into him, is pulled back up while Peter lies back and observes. Eames' arms are supportive, holding onto Robert, feeling the trembles and cooing into his ear as if the man has never been fucked this hard before. It is the hands that tell him otherwise, the skeletal fingers prying him away to wrap around the erection that leaves a pool of come upon Peter's belly.
He thrusts harder, sending cries from Robert that only increase with each pull of his cock. “Fuck yes, fuck . . .” he moans through his orgasm, the warm slick trickling into Eames' hand. It is enough for Peter to come as well, a deeper groan following the high-pitch, leaving only Eames. Not far, each push becomes more easier, less controlled, more frantic and unaware of the mess or noises their bodies make while slapping together. Unaware until he feels his fingers moved into Robert's mouth to suck off his come. Then, he seizes, arching his back as he releases.
Awareness does not appear until long after, while soiled in sex that smells delightful and the feeling of warm surrounding his chest. Eames finds Robert has curled around his arm, keeping him there, anchoring him, and in the doorway Peter Browning watches, approving of his nephew's choice.
Word Count: 925
Pairing: Browning/Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cursing, implied incest
Summary: Peter and Robert play a game. Robert picks the target, and if Peter agrees, they lure him in. Eames happens to be said target this time around.
Author's Note: A few posts ago, I mentioned I wanted DP, damn it, and
kirstenlouise commented that then I should just write DP. So I did. The game is a simple one. Robert chooses, and Peter Browning either admires or criticizes. “You must not give in to your desires so easily, boy,” he whispers tenderly, stroking Robert's hair as his cock rises deep into the slim, constricted throat. “Take it in slow.” There is not a hint of sound until he comes, and each wave crashes. They drown together. Only after, curled in the warmth of his uncle's arms, does Roberts speak.
“What about the representative from Mr. Townsend? Everett Forester?” he is good with names, and occasionally spot on with choosing. “New and temporary, if he gives in, it should be interesting.” A warm breath sends neck hairs on end, and he shivers, knowing the answer is yes.
Two days later, Eames stays late to finish some paperwork. It gives more time to study Peter Browning, after hours, when no one is around to keep up any form of masquerade. Pure, it is the kind of man Eames suspects would be best to connect with Robert Fischer. He sits at the desk were another assistant was, reading through papers, charts, and the like until something catches his eye. Or rather, his hearing. The sound is soft yet rhythmic and charged, likely dulled because of distance.
Curiosity brings him to his feet, knowing Mr. Browning will not return for at least another hour for lunch. It should be a time used well on details, to find out more about the mark, but he follows the sound, its erotic tension summoning need that has not been tended to since taking this bloody job.
By the door left casually open, his hand is upon the bulge pressing along his trousers. Fingers are light against it, to not give away his position, while the other hand pries open the entry further. The sight has him still, frozen except for fingers suddenly more tight around his throbbing cock.
Robert is raised up, erect with legs planted firm against the mattress, knees buried deep for balance and control. Each move is slow, drawn out to heavy, deep moans threaded with wet squelches from slick that trickles from his tight, red ring of muscle and down Peter's cock and balls. Already fucked hard at least twice, Eames imagines Robert full of Peter's come, sees the balm glisten across the pale skin. “I . . .” Robert moans, unable to hold in his breaths. His body falls forward a little, closer. “I need more . . .fuck, please, I need more . . .”
Aged hands pull around to the tight arse, pulling them apart even as Robert does not stop. How wide and wet he looks suddenly is too inviting for Eames to stand by. He steps into the room and coughs. It does not interrupt them, and he begins to wonder . . .
Bloody hell, is the last, lucid consideration he takes in before his tie comes undone in haste, followed by the shirt, slacks, shoes and other articles that leave a trail along the hardwood floors. Yet even if he tosses out logic that screams trap, he is careful, taking it in. His fingers cup Peter's balls, giving them a tug to see if there is any change. None pushes him further, up the bare inch of cock not pushed deep into Robert's arse, collecting slick that coats his fingers. It tastes sweet along his lips, warm along his tongue that laps it greedily, needing more.
Eames bends down, still on the floor, and teases perineum, dragging along the bare flesh to collect come that Robert cannot keep. Up, it reaches the ring, and Robert moans, begging him, “Please, fuck me . . .” his voice is so faint, drowning in moans and then deep kisses. Eames cannot help but comply, stroking his erection with the slick from watching. He climbs onto the bed and leans over Robert, guiding in. It is a struggle at first, Robert writhing and wracked in obvious pain that is swallowed by Peter's mouth, but eventually, he accommodates them both.
The rhythm is set slow at first, Eames' hands creeping along the small, pale body, taking in the ribs, the shaved plane. Then Robert lets go and falls back into him, is pulled back up while Peter lies back and observes. Eames' arms are supportive, holding onto Robert, feeling the trembles and cooing into his ear as if the man has never been fucked this hard before. It is the hands that tell him otherwise, the skeletal fingers prying him away to wrap around the erection that leaves a pool of come upon Peter's belly.
He thrusts harder, sending cries from Robert that only increase with each pull of his cock. “Fuck yes, fuck . . .” he moans through his orgasm, the warm slick trickling into Eames' hand. It is enough for Peter to come as well, a deeper groan following the high-pitch, leaving only Eames. Not far, each push becomes more easier, less controlled, more frantic and unaware of the mess or noises their bodies make while slapping together. Unaware until he feels his fingers moved into Robert's mouth to suck off his come. Then, he seizes, arching his back as he releases.
Awareness does not appear until long after, while soiled in sex that smells delightful and the feeling of warm surrounding his chest. Eames finds Robert has curled around his arm, keeping him there, anchoring him, and in the doorway Peter Browning watches, approving of his nephew's choice.
