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azuremewTitle: This is what you do to me . . .
Word Count: 1,770
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nadda! (Say what?)
Summary: Eames goes off to a job, and Robert doesn't like being alone. Basically, pure porn to fill a certain prompt on the Kink Meme that got away from me. Unbeta'd. <3
He leaves messages. The first time, Robert exits a meeting, tired from the lack of sleep. It weighs heavy on his shoulders. He goes to the small office two floors down from the building's conference room. The space barely big enough to fit his desk, it is a start since dissolving an empire, the first brick laid by his own, two hands. He sits and checks his messages. There is an unknown number, likely a payphone, or maybe it's a telemarketer. The latter almost stops him from pressing play.
“Robert, you there? Of course not,” he chuckles, warm, and Robert smiles. “You are sitting in another meeting, knocking their bloody socks off, I'm sure, while I'm here. Well, I thought about our conversation and left you a little something. It should arrive in the post in a day or two. Enjoy.”
Their conversation. Robert remembers quite clear. Not quite a conversation, he would say, and that was the understatement of a century. More like an argument. His fault, really, telling Eames to stay, to not go wherever it is he goes on these . . . jobs. “There are simpler things you could be doing that don't include the possibility at staying over night at a hospital in some third world country.”
The laughter, it is clear. He closes his eyes and hears the word 'adorable' and scowling at it. “Bastard. Fine. Get out.” The door closes shortly there after. He has not slept well since.
It has nothing to do with the job, he knows. It is the quiet, being alone again, and having nothing but the work. There is nothing exciting about crunching numbers anymore, starting up a business, when he has no one to share it with. Robert, he realizes, no longer thinks for himself anymore.
Strange, really, this notion. It is almost unheard of. No wonders it has him so . . . uncomfortable.
After the last papers are filed away, he takes a handful of large, orange packages that need to be sent abroad to another, potential partner. The woman behind the counter smiles at him, “Mr. Fischer, something arrived for you this morning.”
“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow. It is small, the brown paper taped with handwriting unknown. He stares at it while muttering off shipping and swiping his credit card. “Thank you.”
It sits on the table at first. Not a bomb, obviously. It makes little sound when he rattles it like a child. “You're being stupid,” he concludes after several minutes and tears passed the large print of Robert Fischer and the post office box he uses for work only.
This . . . it is not work. He unfolds the tissue paper to find photographs. Poorly taken, obviously from holding it at arm's length, but nevertheless effective, he knows, from the warmth in his belly, the tightness that moves into his trousers. “Eames, you bastard,” he grins, letting his fingers roam over his erection at the hint of black ink, the hair along the belly that smells so delightful when he nuzzles it, and the hard cock on display for him. Written in more recognizable handwriting are the words, “You like? Show me.” and a disposable camera. An address is given as well, with a note that he has until Friday, four days away.
Robert slips off the leather belt from its buckle and unfolds his trousers. That layer gone, his fingers feel more prominent against his hard cock, pulling louder moans at soft, gentle strokes. Even while sitting at the dining room table, he lets it fall down, careless. The images in his head have him on edge, and it does not take long before the spurt of come covers his belly and darkens his crisp, white shirt. He sighs at such a terrible display and brings unwraps the camera. The last of the film is used on a piece of scrap paper he finds after cleaning up: This is what you do to me.
A week later, there is another message, only this one is left on the house phone, “Robert, you dirty . . .” his words halt from moans. “Wish you were here, babe, so I could fuck your tight, hot arse against this table. I would leave marks, you know. Bruises along your legs. Your knuckles would be white. Your voice . . .” another cut, and he breathes heavily before the click.
It is played a hundred times until the voice is imbedded permanently into his mind, the raw tension sweet enough to invade his dreams, his thoughts. While filling out an order, he sees them on the other side and gets off. The thought of someone knocking, walking in, is intriguing, too difficult to deny.
“You like that, don't you?” another message.
“Yes,” Robert moans.
“I have another package for you. It should be there by the end of the week, and I, on Monday.” A pause, his voice dark, sultry. “Do make sure you're ready for me, yeah?”
It almost worries Robert, but he checks the post office daily, enough that he is asked if he's expecting something special. “Most definitely,” he responds, holding back the red that wishes to rise in his cheek. His smile tells nothing, having kept himself together before.
The package arrives the last day of the week, and Robert manages to wait until the door is locked behind him and he is on the couch with a glass of wine. He takes a sip before opening, expecting more photographs and the unfortunate desire that has spun around him like rope. It tights in his lungs when he does see that Eames sent more. His finger caresses the cold, ribbed glass, pulling back as it becomes wider. The very thought of it has trembles that he sees and curses beneath his breath.
“Clean up. I want to fuck you senseless, and it's not going to be pretty unless you start things off hard. I want to smell you, Robert. Your sweat, no cologne. I want you so fucking stiff with need that a single touch will make you explode.
I need you.”
There is a date and time, and Robert knows how he is about those details. Not a minute earlier or late, he gets to work twenty-four hours early with meals and an enema to cleanse his body. Then, the morning of he sets the plug on the bed and lubricates his fingers. Prying the tight hole open has his breathing hard, and two fingers in summons moans, but it hardly prepares him for the fullness. It takes twists and movement of his body, the thought repeatedly surfacing that it is too fucking much, but Eames is larger. His mouth opens desperately to taste droplets of come, watering as Eames watches him just inches away. “Fuck, let me have it, love. Please . . .” he hisses until it nestles deep enough that his hole clenches around the end.
The phone rings an hour after his first attempt: “Hello?”
“Robert,” Eames smiles.
He can hear it through the phone, “Where are you?”
“Can't tell you that, love. How are you?”
How do you think I am – “Fine”
“Liar,” Eames murmurs. “By now, you have fucked yourself, haven't you? Your fingers, all wet inside of you, then that little gift --”
“Hardly little,” Robert mutters.
Eames chuckles, “Have you come?”
“Yes,” Robert replies. “And I need a shower.”
“It can wait until after I'm done. First, I want you to come again, and again. I want it to hurt from all those times so that the glass feels good in your arse while it keeps you spread for me. You're going to keep it in that last hour, Robert, all hard and needy. I won't be late.”
Robert opens his mouth to say something, but the line cuts off. He considers the option of not following these orders, but then the image of Eames lying disappointed on the couch to sleep comes to mind.
It is an hour before, and Robert sits in a haze of sweat and weakness in his legs. He sits on the couch for its cushions do not try and press the plug to scrape against the thin layer to bone. Such a feeling is jarring. The television is a good distraction from the bulge in his trousers. Eames better not be lying, he thinks, but the smile on his face knows. He leans back to rest for a moment, having spent most of his energy just to be in this state of being. It falls to darkness quickly.
Robert wakes to the feeling of lips traveling across his chest and the sudden bite upon his nipple. He squirms and cries out, opening his eyes to the black cover of a blindfold. “Eames,” he whimpers soft, and a hand ghosts over his cock. “Fuck . . . yes, please.”
“Tell me how it's been.”
“Torture,” Robert grins. “But better than before. Thank you.”
“Good,” his tongue laps up the taste greedily, to the very shaft that he swirls around at the head. “Come for me, Robert.” He moves between the legs, pressing hard against the perineum that sends Robert arching his back. It throws his hips up and cock deep into Eames's throat. A loud moan fills the room, and it is over at the slightest twist of the plug. Robert writhes in orgasm as it is pulled fully out, his cock never leaving Eames's mouth until he is fully spent and breathing hard.
He moves to the slightest direction of Eames's , turned to his stomach and then brought to his knees. Obscene sounds pour from his lungs in whimpers and chokes from being explored by fingers and the slick warmth of tongue. His fingers dig deep, and slick stains his legs already wanting to spill. “Eames, please,” he cries into the pillow. “Fuck me. Hard. Please.”
Eames is quick to respond to such begging, the torment while lovely to his ears hard to resist as he waited just as long for this moment. He lines up and buries his fingers into Robert's hips to plummet relentless strokes that take him whole instantly. Each sweep has a cacophony of squelches and creeks that are almost lost to the resounding cries of both men.
Word Count: 1,770
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nadda! (Say what?)
Summary: Eames goes off to a job, and Robert doesn't like being alone. Basically, pure porn to fill a certain prompt on the Kink Meme that got away from me. Unbeta'd. <3
He leaves messages. The first time, Robert exits a meeting, tired from the lack of sleep. It weighs heavy on his shoulders. He goes to the small office two floors down from the building's conference room. The space barely big enough to fit his desk, it is a start since dissolving an empire, the first brick laid by his own, two hands. He sits and checks his messages. There is an unknown number, likely a payphone, or maybe it's a telemarketer. The latter almost stops him from pressing play.
“Robert, you there? Of course not,” he chuckles, warm, and Robert smiles. “You are sitting in another meeting, knocking their bloody socks off, I'm sure, while I'm here. Well, I thought about our conversation and left you a little something. It should arrive in the post in a day or two. Enjoy.”
Their conversation. Robert remembers quite clear. Not quite a conversation, he would say, and that was the understatement of a century. More like an argument. His fault, really, telling Eames to stay, to not go wherever it is he goes on these . . . jobs. “There are simpler things you could be doing that don't include the possibility at staying over night at a hospital in some third world country.”
The laughter, it is clear. He closes his eyes and hears the word 'adorable' and scowling at it. “Bastard. Fine. Get out.” The door closes shortly there after. He has not slept well since.
It has nothing to do with the job, he knows. It is the quiet, being alone again, and having nothing but the work. There is nothing exciting about crunching numbers anymore, starting up a business, when he has no one to share it with. Robert, he realizes, no longer thinks for himself anymore.
Strange, really, this notion. It is almost unheard of. No wonders it has him so . . . uncomfortable.
After the last papers are filed away, he takes a handful of large, orange packages that need to be sent abroad to another, potential partner. The woman behind the counter smiles at him, “Mr. Fischer, something arrived for you this morning.”
“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow. It is small, the brown paper taped with handwriting unknown. He stares at it while muttering off shipping and swiping his credit card. “Thank you.”
It sits on the table at first. Not a bomb, obviously. It makes little sound when he rattles it like a child. “You're being stupid,” he concludes after several minutes and tears passed the large print of Robert Fischer and the post office box he uses for work only.
This . . . it is not work. He unfolds the tissue paper to find photographs. Poorly taken, obviously from holding it at arm's length, but nevertheless effective, he knows, from the warmth in his belly, the tightness that moves into his trousers. “Eames, you bastard,” he grins, letting his fingers roam over his erection at the hint of black ink, the hair along the belly that smells so delightful when he nuzzles it, and the hard cock on display for him. Written in more recognizable handwriting are the words, “You like? Show me.” and a disposable camera. An address is given as well, with a note that he has until Friday, four days away.
Robert slips off the leather belt from its buckle and unfolds his trousers. That layer gone, his fingers feel more prominent against his hard cock, pulling louder moans at soft, gentle strokes. Even while sitting at the dining room table, he lets it fall down, careless. The images in his head have him on edge, and it does not take long before the spurt of come covers his belly and darkens his crisp, white shirt. He sighs at such a terrible display and brings unwraps the camera. The last of the film is used on a piece of scrap paper he finds after cleaning up: This is what you do to me.
A week later, there is another message, only this one is left on the house phone, “Robert, you dirty . . .” his words halt from moans. “Wish you were here, babe, so I could fuck your tight, hot arse against this table. I would leave marks, you know. Bruises along your legs. Your knuckles would be white. Your voice . . .” another cut, and he breathes heavily before the click.
It is played a hundred times until the voice is imbedded permanently into his mind, the raw tension sweet enough to invade his dreams, his thoughts. While filling out an order, he sees them on the other side and gets off. The thought of someone knocking, walking in, is intriguing, too difficult to deny.
“You like that, don't you?” another message.
“Yes,” Robert moans.
“I have another package for you. It should be there by the end of the week, and I, on Monday.” A pause, his voice dark, sultry. “Do make sure you're ready for me, yeah?”
It almost worries Robert, but he checks the post office daily, enough that he is asked if he's expecting something special. “Most definitely,” he responds, holding back the red that wishes to rise in his cheek. His smile tells nothing, having kept himself together before.
The package arrives the last day of the week, and Robert manages to wait until the door is locked behind him and he is on the couch with a glass of wine. He takes a sip before opening, expecting more photographs and the unfortunate desire that has spun around him like rope. It tights in his lungs when he does see that Eames sent more. His finger caresses the cold, ribbed glass, pulling back as it becomes wider. The very thought of it has trembles that he sees and curses beneath his breath.
“Clean up. I want to fuck you senseless, and it's not going to be pretty unless you start things off hard. I want to smell you, Robert. Your sweat, no cologne. I want you so fucking stiff with need that a single touch will make you explode.
I need you.”
There is a date and time, and Robert knows how he is about those details. Not a minute earlier or late, he gets to work twenty-four hours early with meals and an enema to cleanse his body. Then, the morning of he sets the plug on the bed and lubricates his fingers. Prying the tight hole open has his breathing hard, and two fingers in summons moans, but it hardly prepares him for the fullness. It takes twists and movement of his body, the thought repeatedly surfacing that it is too fucking much, but Eames is larger. His mouth opens desperately to taste droplets of come, watering as Eames watches him just inches away. “Fuck, let me have it, love. Please . . .” he hisses until it nestles deep enough that his hole clenches around the end.
The phone rings an hour after his first attempt: “Hello?”
“Robert,” Eames smiles.
He can hear it through the phone, “Where are you?”
“Can't tell you that, love. How are you?”
How do you think I am – “Fine”
“Liar,” Eames murmurs. “By now, you have fucked yourself, haven't you? Your fingers, all wet inside of you, then that little gift --”
“Hardly little,” Robert mutters.
Eames chuckles, “Have you come?”
“Yes,” Robert replies. “And I need a shower.”
“It can wait until after I'm done. First, I want you to come again, and again. I want it to hurt from all those times so that the glass feels good in your arse while it keeps you spread for me. You're going to keep it in that last hour, Robert, all hard and needy. I won't be late.”
Robert opens his mouth to say something, but the line cuts off. He considers the option of not following these orders, but then the image of Eames lying disappointed on the couch to sleep comes to mind.
It is an hour before, and Robert sits in a haze of sweat and weakness in his legs. He sits on the couch for its cushions do not try and press the plug to scrape against the thin layer to bone. Such a feeling is jarring. The television is a good distraction from the bulge in his trousers. Eames better not be lying, he thinks, but the smile on his face knows. He leans back to rest for a moment, having spent most of his energy just to be in this state of being. It falls to darkness quickly.
Robert wakes to the feeling of lips traveling across his chest and the sudden bite upon his nipple. He squirms and cries out, opening his eyes to the black cover of a blindfold. “Eames,” he whimpers soft, and a hand ghosts over his cock. “Fuck . . . yes, please.”
“Tell me how it's been.”
“Torture,” Robert grins. “But better than before. Thank you.”
“Good,” his tongue laps up the taste greedily, to the very shaft that he swirls around at the head. “Come for me, Robert.” He moves between the legs, pressing hard against the perineum that sends Robert arching his back. It throws his hips up and cock deep into Eames's throat. A loud moan fills the room, and it is over at the slightest twist of the plug. Robert writhes in orgasm as it is pulled fully out, his cock never leaving Eames's mouth until he is fully spent and breathing hard.
He moves to the slightest direction of Eames's , turned to his stomach and then brought to his knees. Obscene sounds pour from his lungs in whimpers and chokes from being explored by fingers and the slick warmth of tongue. His fingers dig deep, and slick stains his legs already wanting to spill. “Eames, please,” he cries into the pillow. “Fuck me. Hard. Please.”
Eames is quick to respond to such begging, the torment while lovely to his ears hard to resist as he waited just as long for this moment. He lines up and buries his fingers into Robert's hips to plummet relentless strokes that take him whole instantly. Each sweep has a cacophony of squelches and creeks that are almost lost to the resounding cries of both men.
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