Disclaimer: Neither Inception nor the characters therein are the property of the writer of this piece of fanfiction. No monetary compensation is received by the writer.

Notes: This was written for a kinkmeme prompt for "coffee porn." It's not porn, but it is a bit of writing in which I indulge two of my passions: coffee and challenging myself to write mundane tasks as sensually as possible. Plus, imagining Arthur doing this is a lovely image...

Arthur wrapped a bathrobe around a body still languid with sleep, even after his shower. The soft terrycloth of the robe wicked away the last drops of water beading his skin as he gave his eyes a last splash of cold water. He then scooped some water into his mouth, swished it around and gargled, removing the last sour aftertaste of a late night.

Coffee time, he thought as he made his way to the kitchen.

People who thought they knew Arthur were usually surprised when they discovered that his morning coffee was not the first thing he did in the morning. "I can barely open my eyes until I've had my first cup!" A classmate in university had once told him, wondering how Arthur, who called himself a coffee lover, was not the same.

Because I am a coffee lover - not some mere caffeine addict. It was a tragic waste to imbibe one's elixir of life when one was in no state to properly savor it.

And Arthur did savor it - every last step of preparation, every wisp of steam that rose off it, and every single drop in his cup, every morning he could find or make the time.

It being his day off, he had plenty of time this morning. He went straight to the stove, grabbed the kettle, and filled it halfway from the filtration tap. He took it back to the stove, turned on the heat under it, and then he moved to his coffee cupboard. He pulled the small door open and breathed in slowly through his nose, eyes slitting as he took in the enticing, aromatic mix of cedar and roasted coffee beans. He reached for the new bag of beans and his grinder, pulled them out, and moved to the counter, enjoying the low hissing and soft pinging of the kettle as the water started heating up.

"Good morning," he said softly, running his fingers slowly across the top of the bag as he opened the tabs with his thumbs, his sensitive fingertips taking in every fine dimple and crease of the brown paper. His lips parted as he opened the bag and he could almost taste the smoky, earthy fragrance of the beans. He reached in and pulled out a few beans, running them gently between fingers and thumb to heighten their aroma, enjoy their oily smoothness, and leave their bittersweet perfume on his hands. He placed the beans in the top of the grinder until he had enough for two or three cups.

Today's cup is going to be especially good. The beans were Mandheling, freshly imported from Indonesia and he'd had them roasted yesterday. Today, they should be at their peak. He bent down closer to keep taking in that aroma as he began turning the crank on his hand grinder. He refused to "upgrade" to an electric grinder. They were noisy, their grind was inconsistent, you couldn't smell the process, and it was all over far too quickly. With a manual grinder, though, you could savor the aroma as you worked... relax to the soft, soothing grind, and feel the resistance - the sweet friction - of every last bean passing between those metal teeth.

Arthur turned the crank until the fluid motion of his arm and the purely metallic sound of the grinder told him that his work was done, as far as grinding was concerned. He unscrewed the grinding mechanism from the glass jar base and he breathed deeply. Then again, jar shaking slightly in his hands as his eyes closed and he drew in a long shuddery breath. He released the breath in a low humming purr before his tongue darted out to lap at the tempting fragrance wafting in the air.

He stood there, lost in aromatic bliss, until the changing pitch in the kettle's hissing alerted him to the state of the water: almost to a boil. He set down the jar and moved back to the stove. He listened until the hissing of steam and bubbling of hot water mellowed to the whispering tones of water that had just come to a boil. He turned off the heat and moved the kettle to a cool burner. He went over to the sink then and grabbed his French press from where it rested upside down on the dish rack. He tenderly brushed imaginary dust from the bottom with the sleeve of his robe. Then he took it over to the stove, partially filled it with hot water, and gave it a few swirls with languid twists of his wrists before pouring the water out into the sink.

"Now that we're all warmed up," Arthur crooned as he set the press down on the counter. He picked up the jar, tipped it slowly over the press, and lovingly tapped the rim to add the grounds, little by little. When he had the right amount, he closed the jar to keep the remaining grounds for his second cup, giving the smooth plastic lid a soft caress before pulling his hand back. He carried the press over to the kettle and added just enough hot water to cover the grounds, then held it under his nose. When the lazily rising steam brushed his olfactory receptors with the first tantalizing hints of java, he pulled it back, tipped it, and slowly, painstakingly poured in the rest of the water. Next, the press was set on the counter again and its filter and cover were placed over it. He stroked around the glass rim of the carafe and plastic of the lid, making sure they were perfectly in place.

"Not long now," he promised his coffee as, with a last tap on the lid, he went to prepare his mug while the dark, alluring fluid brewed and settled. He took a cup from its hook on his mug tree and poured the last of the hot water into it to make sure it was hot and ready for his coffee. He crouched down in front of the counter then, head cocked and resting on his hands, and followed every last swirl of grounds in the press with his eyes. When their dark, sensuous dance was over, Arthur got to his feet, firmly grasped the top of the carafe, and ever so slowly and lovingly pressed down on the plunger with the heel of his right hand. He relished every vibration against his fingertips, every moment of friction, as metal slid beguilingly against glass. Then, with a tiny final rush and a small spurt of creamy foam past the filter to the top of the carafe, his coffee reached completion. Arthur dumped the water from his cup and gently tipped the press over it. With fully whetted anticipation, his eyes took in the small, enticingly dark fall of liquid into his mug while his nose absorbed the inviting smell that rose with its steam. He stopped before the last, gritty dregs could fall in and spoil sensory perfection.

"Mmm," he groaned as he pulled himself away from the cup, impatient to feel the richness of its contents filling him, but knowing it was still too hot to drink. One couldn't taste properly with burnt taste buds, after all. So, he instead cleaned up his French press and set another half-pot of water to slowly boil for his second cup. That done, he returned to the mug, cupped its seductive warmth in his hands, and carried it to his kitchen table, breathing in the teasing, heady steam with every step. He didn't set it down - just slowly settled himself in a chair with it still in the small, firm embrace of his hands.

At last. He raised the cup to lips parted in eager anticipation. His tongue slipped out to lap up one, two preparatory sips as the moist, aromatic steam filled mouth and nose, dizzyingly wonderful. Finally, he slowly tipped the mug and let the first heavenly mouthful slide in. It gave his tongue a delicious and deliciously heated caress before gliding down his throat, making a hot, wet trail down his esophagus to luxuriantly fill his stomach with warmth.

"Aahh," Arthur breathed, the sound catching in his nose and coming out as a moan. His eyes fluttered closed and he took another long sip, and another, never lowering the cup. His fingers tightened around the cup as the coffee's richness and heat radiated out from his belly, intoxicating, exhilarating, life-giving. The heat, the velvety smooth texture, the rich chocolatey color, the robust earthy flavor, the smoky, delightful aroma... This was sensory bliss.

When Arthur got to the very last mouthful, he held it in his mouth for a moment before slowly raising his tongue to let it slip, drop by drop, down his throat. Then he sat there, leaned back, eyes closed, one hand dropping to hold the warmth in his abdomen, mug still cupped in the now relaxed grip of the other, until the last hint of aftertaste faded from his mouth.

"Mmm," he purred, sated. "Time for a second cup."

-BONUS-

"Oh. My. God," Ariadne finally managed to say. "That was... That was..." Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she searched for an adequate descriptor of the video she'd just watched. "Pornographic."

"Isn't it though?" Eames responded with a slow smirk.

"How did you get this?"

"A master never reveals his secrets for free."

"Well, can I at least-" she cut herself off, flushing.

"Ye-es?"

The continuation was quiet and rushed. "Can I get a copy?"

The smirk widened. "Nothing for free, sweetheart. Especially not Arthur."

This will absolutely be the last coffee-based Inception fic for me. It will!