Piano Porn: Impromptu

[eternalsojourn]

Hanging around cherrybina's journal can end up giving a person kinks they didn't know they had. Fingers, for example; JGL's / Arthur's fingers in particular. Stack that with a little of Eames's mouth, a little more of Arthur's ass and some felching, and you've got the makings of a fetish fic. Stack all of that on top of 30 years of piano playing and a music degree? You get this, apparently. This was originally posted over at cherrybina 's journal as a commentfic.

Rating: NC-17
Word Count:~3600
Warnings: Anal sex, felching and the defiling of a dream-level piano
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Eames doesn't know that Arthur plays the piano. When he finds out, he sees Arthur's fingers (and Arthur himself) in a new light.
Beta: All the hearts to my incredible beta night_reveals  who kicks around ideas with me, pretties up my little bits and pieces of scraps, helps me wrestle unruly sentences to the ground, and generally keeps me writing actual words. (If only I had her to beta my posts, and stop me from mixing metaphors with appalling frequency).

IMPROMPTU


The piece Arthur is playing is Schubert Impromptu in E-flat, Op. 90-2



Arthur plays the piano. Arthur plays the goddamned piano. How did Eames not know this?

They had come down to Ariadne’s first level, Arthur to take one last look over the escape routes and Eames to check the final details of his forge. The level was designed as a lounge, a painfully swish place all sparkling crystal, deep mahogany, frightfully expensive-looking decor, and a grand piano off to the side.

Eames finished up his work, satisfied that he’d perfected the mark’s business partner down to the last quirky gesture, and decided to see if Arthur wanted a hand.

And as he approached the lounge area, he heard music, which was curious. When he turned into the broad arch of a doorway, there was Arthur, jacket removed, sleeves of his pinstriped shirt rolled to his elbows, slightly hunched and yes... playing the piano.

He stands for a moment in shock before approaching cautiously, afraid to interrupt. He stays just within range of Arthur’s peripheral vision so as not to startle him, and halts a few feet away, transfixed.

The music’s marvelous, whatever it is, tinkling and fast. Arthur inclines his head slightly towards Eames but doesn’t look up. Satisfied that Arthur isn’t going to stop on his account, Eames steps closer and stares at Arthur’s hands.

His right hand is astonishing, dancing over the keys, practically tickling them. They fly right and left, a dazzling array of notes and his fingers are perfectly arched as though wrapped around a ball.

His left hand bounces back and forth between two spots, fewer notes than the right and the quality of touch is different. Arthur is caressing the keys lovingly, coaxing out notes with gentle pets of the ivory.

And his fingers, god, his fingers. Eames knew they were dexterous; he’d seen them assemble and disassemble weapons with practiced confidence. He’d even had the pleasure of feeling those gorgeous digits inside him on several memorable occasions. But he hadn’t realized just what a treasure they were until now, seeing them seduce this shiny black beast into producing such delightful sounds.

He moves in to stand beside Arthur and places a cautious hand on his neck. Arthur smiles and leans into it, not missing a single note. Eames gently ruffles his hands through the short hairs at Arthur’s nape and watches, marvelling at how Arthur’s fingers know which notes to press.

But perhaps more fascinating than this mysterious skill is Arthur himself. Eames prides himself on knowing Arthur better than anyone; he knows his tics and his tells, he knows what drives him. But as far as Eames can tell, Arthur is the quintessential man-behind-the-man. He’s the stage crew, the support, never the performer. As impeccable as he is, he never dresses to outshine but to complement, to project utter competency. But this. Look at him. Arthur shines. He’s perking up like a freshly watered flower under Eames’s attention, and it’s more than rare. It’s unprecedented. Eames wonders how far he can push his adulation before Arthur deflects attention off himself again.

He stands there as the music swells to something more furious. He sees Arthur frown intently as his fingers spread, stretching over the climax. And he stills his own ruffling fingers when Arthur’s hands fall to the left, jabbing out the last chords before landing with absolute finality on the last one.

Arthur takes a breath and sits up straight, turning to face Eames. He raises his eyebrows questioningly, ghost of a proud smile quirking his lips up, just barely revealing those heartstopping dimples.

Eames doesn’t answer. He just picks up one of Arthur’s hands from where they’ve come to rest in his lap and holds it with one of his own. With his other hand he traces the contours of Arthur’s fingers, along their graceful strength, the angles of his knuckles. He flips his own hand to reach underneath and gently graze the pads of Arthur’s fingers. He lifts that gloriously artful hand to his mouth and kisses Arthur’s knuckles, tender little pecks that he imagines feel warm and soft against cool skin.

Arthur takes control of his own hand back then. He reaches out to touch Eames’s upper lip, tracing the line of it. He repeats the touch on his lower lip, dragging it impossibly slowly from one side to the other.

Eames opens his mouth just slightly and reaches his tongue out just enough to barely greet the tip of Arthur’s finger. Arthur’s mouth falls open as he stares with blatant lust at Eames’s lips and tongue. He pushes his finger in to the first knuckle and Eames obligingly closes his lips over it, swirling his tongue around it. He imagines, perhaps ridiculously, licking the music off the pad of Arthur’s finger, as if tasting the last bit of sweet sauce after dessert.

Arthur adds a second finger, pushing past Eames’s lips and penetrating his mouth to the second knuckles. Eames feels his gaze go heavy with desire watching Arthur so mesmerized. He suckles and strokes, making it wet and sloppy. He licks up between Arthur’s fingers, forcing them to separate. He feels Arthur’s fingers exploring, running lightly along his teeth. Eames coats Arthur’s fingers as slick as he can and when Arthur removes his fingers a thin silvery line connects them briefly.

Eames reaches down and with a few deft movements undoes Arthur’s belt and trousers, pushing them over the shapely swell of Arthur’s delectable arse and dropping them in a puddle on the floor.

“Step out of these,” he says, running a thick finger under the waistband of Arthur’s boxer briefs. Arthur arches an eyebrow at him, but waits only a beat before complying. Divested of his briefs, Arthur’s shirt tails hang to cover him in a parody of modesty even as miles of graceful leg brazenly beg for attention. Eames maneuvers Arthur back to the piano bench, sitting him down. He bends down and hooks a hand under Arthur’s knee to prop his foot up on the corner of the bench.

He picks Arthur’s hand up again, messily mouthing the already-wet fingers until they’re dripping. With a final kiss to a fingertip, Eames says, “Prepare yourself for me, love. I want to see those fingers disappear inside you.” Eames’s voice sounds rough to his own ears, like he just woke up.

Arthur looks up at him, watching himself being watched and drops his knee to the side to expose himself more fully. He loosens his tie and slowly unbuttons his shirt, peering intently at Eames as if to ensure he has his full attention. He drags it out, caressing the buttons, a slow build.

Arthur flicks his shirt open and places his hands on both knees. The hand that rests on the leg that supports him on the floor begins to drag, agonizingly slowly, up his thigh. His sodden fingers leave a glistening trail and Arthur pushes his hips up to inch himself closer to the edge of the piano bench. He uses his propped leg to lever himself upwards slightly and begins to tease his dripping fingers around his hole.

Eames is the perfect audience, hanging on Arthur’s every gesture, absorbing every detail.

Arthur bites his lower lip in a curiously coquettish expression. But if his face is demure, his fingers are pure filth, pushing in two at once and pulsing in small circles to spiral further inwards. Arthur’s fingers crook at the knuckles at a strangely compelling angle, and Eames is mesmerized by the shameless movement of them. It is as though Arthur is simply pleasuring himself, his fingers giving his sensitive skin exactly what they desire; it is as though the display of it has allowed him to forget his inhibitions to just indulge his carnal greed. He is stretching the muscle, testing its limits, playing around to find his true edges.

Eames approaches, his itching need to touch overriding the risk of interrupting this performance. He stares at the spectacle between Arthur’s long legs and reaches a tentative hand out. Arthur drops his legs even wider in silent permission, so Eames closes the distance and traces blunt fingers gently around where Arthur is stretched. Arthur’s hand continue to move, to slide in and out, and on an out-slide Arthur smoothly adds a third, slipping in and incidentally brushing Eames’s fingers on its way.

Those elegant digits are drenched, and Eames thinks Arthur has to be dreaming up more fluid, but the thought is fleeting because he doesn’t care. All he cares about is this lithe, lean body and the terrifying volume of skill it contains. He leans down and claims a kiss.

Arthur lets his mouth be entered. He licks back, just enough to provide encouragement but Eames has the distinct sense that Arthur wants to be adored. So Eames puts everything he has into this kiss with an abandon he’s never allowed himself before with Arthur.

One hand is still wrapped around Arthur’s between his legs, while Eames’s other arm curls around Arthur’s back, supporting him on his precarious perch on the piano bench. He breaks the kiss to glance down and Arthur looks with him. He notes the glistening saliva has dripped down Arthur’s crease and is leaving shiny smears on the black padded surface of the bench. Arthur’s cock is a solid rod resting askew on his belly, a bead of precome undisturbed on his slit -- a mere overture to the imminent main event.

Eames’s own erection is aching to be released from the confines of his trousers, every part of him clamouring for more. Eames thinks, Arthur, you absolute marvel. Why, after all this time, are you only now letting me worship you like you deserve?

But as brave as Eames is in his criminal career, he would never dare to vocalize such dangerous thoughts, so he says instead, “Stand up, darling.” He steps back a little to help Arthur do so. Eames uses one foot to kick the bench roughly to one side, the loud scraping on the floor a shocking discord. Eames pushes Arthur backward until that peach of a bum clangs out a jumble of notes on the keyboard.

Eames hooks his hands under Arthur’s flesh, strong fingers gripping into the crease between arse and thigh. He lifts Arthur until he’s perched on the keys and Arthur obligingly wraps his legs around Eames’s waist.

Bracing one hand on the keys beside him -- another tuneless jangle of notes -- Arthur reaches his other hand between them to undo Eames’s trousers with clever fingers.

With a few adroit movements Eames is springing free, the second theme of the exposition. And with a talented hand and a needy cock in such close proximity, Eames assumes he knows what comes next, but Arthur, the cheeky devil, once again proves this evening that perhaps Eames is a little too self-assured in his conclusions regarding Arthur. Because Arthur bypasses Eames’s throbbing member to focus instead on cradling his testicles, skilled hands applying just enough pressure to roll them slightly.

Eames has a flash of a memory: Arthur, straddling a hostile projection, crushing her trachea with ruthless, unrelenting malice. And the quality of that touch in his memory is antithetical to this: this soft, affectionate caress when Eames is at his most vulnerable. The fingers that petted and coaxed the keys are now pulling a low, lyrical purr from Eames.

As those confident digits work their curious way lower, Eames thanks god he dreamed himself in loose trousers. Arthur’s fingers find their target, kneading the sensitive skin of Eames’s puckered arse, and Eames widens his stance a little to facilitate the exploration. His fingers still have a film of saliva, just enough to ease their rub against Eames’s skin, but with a hint of delicious friction. And Arthur must dream up more liquid because a bold finger is nudging its way inside.

Eames hangs his head over Arthur’s shoulder, nosing his way into that warm neck and brushing his lips across the skin. The noises he’s making can’t be helped and his awareness focuses downwards to a single point of entry. The angle isn’t ideal but Arthur is making the best of it, pulsing a rhythmic beat into Eames’s flesh.

But this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. It’s not about him, and Eames isn’t finished watching Arthur yet. So he reaches down and gently extracts Arthur’s hand.

“What would you like, love? What can I do for you?” In response Arthur produces a bottle of lube from Eames’s pocket and dribbles it generously on his own upturned palm. He reaches down to Eames’s impossibly engorged cock, part preparation, part fascinated fondle. He works the lube all over Eames’s foreskin, shifting it back little by little with practiced ease. In a few short pulses he has the head unsheathed, obscenely wet and flushed a deep red. He grazes the taut skin there with this thumb for a moment before slipping the foreskin back over it and tugs gently to position Eames over his hungry entrance. With a firm grip he rubs it up and down over his hole, eyes fixed on that fevered point of contact. With a brief glance up to Eames’s eyes he says: “Push”.

Eames does but doesn’t lean in with his whole body as he wants to, lest he obstruct the view. Eames has done this before, been captivated by the view of his own girth being swallowed up inside, but only from behind, safely out of Arthur’s line of vision. He has never shared this view with Arthur, or had Arthur aware of this display and repeatedly checking to see that Eames is still watching. So Eames keeps it slow and steady, eyes glued to the scene while his own hands knead the flesh of Arthur’s hips and slide upwards to weightily pet his sides. He’d love to kiss but can’t bear to disturb the show, so he transmutes that expression into the touch of his hands.

Arthur is digging into Eames’s back with his heels and dropping his knees wide. He repositions both hands on the keys, the clash of tones loud in the vast emptiness of the room, and he uses the stability to push himself harder into Eames’s thrusts. The movement of his arse clumsily presses out softer notes, a pianissimo accent under the harmony of their breaths.

The bead of precome on Arthur’s tip has overflowed now, smearing onto his belly where he’s bent over observing his own penetration. Eames runs a reverent thumb up the thick vein on the underside of Arthur’s cock before grasping it fully and jacking with firm strokes.

They ride an accelerando, their breaths becoming frantic. Eames can feel himself cresting, the clenching warmth enveloping his cock pushing him to his climax. Arthur is uttering delicious noises, his timbre signalling his matching counterpoint and Eames adjusts his grip to jerk in earnest.

Arthur’s body clamps down hard as he shudders, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He looks up and as his mouth drops open and his frown deepens in an approximation of disbelief, he looks Eames directly in the eyes, pins him there with his gaze as if reassuring himself of his audience. His cock convulses in Eames’s hand as hot strings of come burst out of him. But it is the look on Arthur’s face, the bare, open ecstasy that he has never shown so plainly that tips Eames over. He buries himself to the hilt, spurting his seed deep into this incredible body before him.

It’s only then that Eames allows himself to bridge the distance and hold on. He drops his head forward onto Arthur’s shoulder, cock beginning to soften slightly but he doesn’t bother to remove it yet. Arthur’s arms encircle him and Eames feels warm lips press into the skin of his neck.

Arthur gently pushes Eames back just enough to join their lips together, tongues tangling lazily. But it’s too short a time before Arthur is pulling back and looking down between then again. Eames pulls back slowly as they both witness his cock coming into full view, smeared and messy, come, lube and spit dripping out around his circumference.

It spills down to the keys, dripping viscously out of Arthur’s tender hole and down his sodden skin. The black and white keys are already slightly damp, but now Arthur is making a holy mess of the instrument.

Biting his lip, Arthur reaches down and dips a single finger in, exploratory. With two fingers he scoops some of the slippery mix and brings it up to Eames’s mouth, his face a picture of curious wonder . Eames takes the hint and sucks his fingers in, hungrily cleaning Arthur of the slick concoction. And Eames doesn’t need any further clues to know what Arthur is after here, so he obligingly bends over and in a small tease, first licks a come-smeared key, the ivory cool and hard, his tongue bare inches from Arthur’s sullied hole.

Arthur shoves himself closer to the edge of the keys, an unsubtle demand and Eames allows himself a sly smile before complying. He begins with tentative licks with the tip of his tongue, but such a tiny motion does nothing more than push the puddle back inside. Eames feels Arthur’s hand press warmly on his shoulder, guiding him down into an obedient kneel, then one long, lean thigh rests on his shoulder while the other knee pushes wide -- wider than Eames would have thought possible. It’s an indecent spread and the thought of Arthur showing off like this makes Eames’s head spin.

So he dives in with gusto, dragging his tongue along the saturated skin all around Arthur’s hole, broad strokes lapping up the mess and working his way over Arthur’s pink puckered ring of muscle. He takes occasional detours up to Arthur’s loosened sac, licking and gently suckling him. When he returns his attention to Arthur’s tender centre, Arthur joins his fingers with Eames’s tongue, helping him to scoop out the oozing liquid, feeding it to Eames before letting him resume his lapping.

When Eames has exhausted the flavour and is down to just the taste of Arthur’s skin, he licks inside Arthur’s loosened arse, excavating him, mining for the last remnants of his own spillage. Once the slow drip has stopped and Eames cannot get any further inside, he makes a circle of his lips to create a seal and sucks, tongue dipping just inside to catch any fluid that remains. This draws a low guttural moan from Arthur, a final coda punctuated by a few subtle twitches of Arthur’s softened prick.

When Arthur lifts his leg off Eames’s shoulder to return both feet to the ground, Eames stands, tucks himself away and does up his trousers. And in a gesture that borders on grand, Eames tucks his hand under Arthur’s, lifts his arm out to the side and motions for him to move into the lounge area where there are a few plush loveseat-size sofas arranged around small tables. When Arthur smiles and begins to move, Eames drops his hand to reach up under Arthur’s loose shirt-tails and ghosts his fingers over the creases and dents in Arthur’s plump cheeks where he was sitting on the keys.

He doesn’t know if the performance is over, if Arthur’s going to retreat to the sidelines again. But he’s going to try to push it that last little bit, to see if Arthur will graciously stand through the applause and soak it in.

Eames leads them to one of the sofas, surreptitiously nicking a cloth napkin off a table, and positions himself against one of the arms. He pulls Arthur down to rest between his legs, and to his surprise and delight Arthur doesn’t even hesitate. He just settles in while Eames mops up the sticky mess on Arthur’s chest and belly. When he finishes and drops the cloth to one side, Arthur takes Eames’s arms to wrap around himself.

The motion is so contrary to everything Eames knows of Arthur’s post-coital behaviour, Eames finds himself baffled. He replays past instances in his mind and detects faint strains of a new tune he hadn't previously noticed. He pictures himself extracting himself from Arthur’s arms, them laying panting and sweaty side by side on the bed. He sees himself getting up, exempting Arthur from the awkwardness of asking him to leave. Many scenes like this play out, a theme and variations. And now what felt like Eames giving Arthur his necessary space resolves into Eames preserving his own, and somewhere in his head a soft voice says, “Oh”.

And the spatial shift plants an idea: Eames makes a mental note to maybe buy a piano for his flat in Paris, perhaps remove his antique radio and vintage pinball set to make room for a baby grand. But it’s just a seed of a thought, so he won’t mention it yet. Instead he simply says, “What was that song?”

Arthur tilts his head to the side as if thinking, and if it happens to nudge his head a little further against Eames’s jaw, neither of them comment on it.

“Mmm. It’s by Schubert, one of his Impromptus. I probably couldn’t play most of my performance pieces now, but that one was always easy to memorize.”

“I didn’t even know you played,” Eames says inanely. Arthur laughs, deeply amused.

“Yeah, I’m an enigma, Eames. A mystery wrapped in a conundrum wrapped in a suit,” and Eames can’t see his face be he can feel Arthur’s exasperated eye-roll.

“Well, not always in a suit, lucky for me,” Eames replies, giving Arthur’s loose tie a playful tug.

And although Eames knows Arthur is joking, he thinks he’s exactly half right. Arthur is an enigma, if only because Eames evidently makes him so unnecessarily. But perhaps it’s a simpler matter than he anticipated getting Arthur to reveal himself. He just has to let him.

--End--