undisclosed desires (1/1) (facial fest fic)
Title: Undisclosed Desires
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,201
Summary: Eames and Arthur do have some things in common, whether or not they realize it yet.
A/N: Originally written for the facial fest. Rather bodice-ripper title is from a Muse song. Thanks to coruscera and ladderax for beta-ing.
DW || A03
-------
Eames finds himself looking at Arthur as Arthur absently unbuttons his cuffs, rolls up his sleeves to reveal sinewy forearms, loosens his tie, and runs a long finger under his collar. It can get stuffy in the warehouse during the full sun of the Parisian day, and Arthur gets a bit flushed, Eames has noticed.
Eames watches him frequently: while Arthur leans back in his chair, or gets up to stretch, or looks over some models. He tries to do it surreptitiously, and thinks he succeeds. No one says anything, anyway.
Eames considers himself to be quite good at mental self-discipline. It was trained into him in the Royal Marines and is a necessity in the dreamshare world. But Arthur steals his attention, like he always has. They haven’t worked this closely together in years, and something between them is different now that they’re on the same team all this time later, and in such close proximity.
It's when Arthur gets on his knees, crouching to open cases and that sort of thing, that Eames finds himself most attentive. He scoffs inwardly at himself for being so cliche, but there he is anyway, blatantly staring as Arthur, with his beautifully serious expression, hunts through a case for something or other, or sits back on his heels with a little frown as he tries to remember where something is.
As Arthur's on the floor, searching the contents of a case, Eames watches from his chaise yet again. Arthur tilts his head back just slightly, biting his lip in thought, closing his eyes for a moment with a little sigh, face a touch pink from the afternoon heat. Eames realizes just what it is his subconscious has been thinking about, and has to swallow hard.
As clear as day, he can picture Arthur on the floor before him, shoulders straight and neat, both of them almost fully dressed; Arthur's tie is loose, his shirt rumpled like it is now. Eames remembers vividly from a photograph how Arthur’s hair curls when there’s no gel in it, so he lets himself think of it that way.
He thinks of Arthur’s hands behind his back, either because Eames tied them there or because Arthur's just wanting to show Eames how good he can be (at that thought, Eames' cock gives a little twitch that makes him blink).
Maybe he’d ask Arthur if he wanted it. Eames is good at artful dirty talk, florid strings of words tailored to the preferences of whoever he’s with, though often the embellishment is due less to a desire to please than it is to enjoyment of seeing what he can come up with. Generally, the more over the top he is, the less he really means it. The sight of Arthur on his knees before him would probably have Eames getting straight to the point.
“Please, Eames,” Arthur might answer, voice low, polite, but ragged at the edges, breathy when he says Eames’ name. Eames does love hearing Arthur say his name, in that unexpectedly deep voice. He pictures Arthur -- composed, disciplined Arthur -- squirming for a moment in eagerness, impatience, before taking a deep breath and stilling himself again, waiting.
Although he doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, Eames doesn’t think he could deny Arthur something he wants, even in his own fantasies.
Eames can almost feel himself stroking his cock rapidly in a tight fist as he intently watches Arthur's upturned face, eyes closed, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He pictures that lovely pouting cupid's-bow mouth closed at first, then with lips parted when -- Eames inhales and shifts in his seat -- Eames comes on his flushed face, spurting on his strong chin, his cheeks. Maybe some would decorate those dark curls, or slip down his elegant neck.
Eames can practically see Arthur opening his lust-black eyes to stare up at Eames as his slick pink tongue glides out to lick up whatever it can reach. He can almost feel that tongue hot on his fingertips, Arthur sucking Eames’ thumb into his mouth when Eames touches his face, feels where he’s marked him.
Eames lets himself also imagine a self-satisfied smile curling Arthur’s lips as he releases Eames’ thumb: the cat who ate the cream. Christ, his come would get in Arthur’s dimples.
Eames has to press a palm against himself for a moment.
He won’t quite let himself try to picture naked bliss on Arthur’s face instead of pleased smugness. Eames doesn’t actually know what naked bliss looks like on Arthur’s face, and although Eames has an excellent imagination, he can’t help wanting the real thing over a forgery, this time.
Arthur is in actuality still rifling through the case, oblivious to Eames’ thoughts. Arthur looks over at Eames then, mouth opening to ask a question before their eyes meet and he closes his mouth again, brow creasing.
-------
Arthur finds Eames distracting.
It's fine, it really is. Arthur's capable of keeping more than one thing on his mind; he has to be. He actually enjoys it. Having a lot of things to think about keeps him sharp.
Eames, though; thinking about Eames doesn't seem to be improving his mental faculties, per se. For as long as Arthur’s known Eames, he’s managed to trip Arthur up, on purpose or not.
For example, just now Arthur had been kneeling on the floor, and he'd looked up at Eames to ask him a question. Then he couldn't remember what he’d been going to ask. Eames has always been extraordinarily handsome, but as he looked back at Arthur just then, his cheeks and ears were pink, his lips parted, and his pupils wide. In that flash while their eyes were locked, Arthur had forgotten what he was going to ask, and Eames had looked away.
Arthur was left to wonder what could have brought that on. Eames looking at him wasn’t anything new, but Arthur had clearly interrupted some reverie.
Unaccustomed to feeling flustered, Arthur fakes smoothly going back to what he was doing, but he can't help looking over at Eames; he's reviewing some of his papers, the rest in his lap. Eames sits up a bit, pulling his lower lip with his teeth before releasing it, looking restless in spite of his seemingly relaxed posture on the chaise.
The last time Arthur had gotten a blowjob, he'd been thinking about Eames' lips, and hadn't felt the slightest bit bad about it. As he’d watched the guy from the bar whose name he could no longer remember, he'd suddenly imagined Eames' mouth wrapped around him instead, those plush lips clinging to his cock, and had shuddered and came.
Truth be told, he’s thought about Eames’ lips -- and Eames -- rather often since they’d met. No one could blame him.
Now, it's so easy to imagine going over to Eames on the chaise: telling him to sit up, watching him undo Arthur's pants and take Arthur's cock out of his boxers.
Rooting through a jumbled pile of PASIV spare parts, Arthur pictures dragging the head of his cock over Eames' full lower lip, leaving a gleam of moisture on it. Closing his eyes, he imagines Eames taking him in, wet and messy, eager.
Arthur is pretty sure Eames would be very eager.
Eames would hum and moan around Arthur's cock; suck him hard and take him down to the root, getting him slick. Arthur’s fingertips would rest on Eames’ cheek, feeling his cock move in Eames’ mouth. Eames’ fingers would dig into Arthur’s hips.
Arthur would let Eames work until he knew he was close. When Arthur pulled out, Eames would start to protest. But he'd watch avidly as Arthur jerked off, and then close his eyes. And then Arthur would come on Eames' face, on those beautiful lips.
And Eames, breathless, would smile at him, eyes bright and hot, his face painted with streaks of Arthur’s come.
Eames would suck and lick the last of Arthur’s come from the head of his cock, wanting it all. Then Arthur wouldn’t be able to keep himself from kneeling to stroke the pad of his thumb over Eames’ lips, to kiss him, and taste himself.
When Arthur at last finds what he's looking for in the case, he's sure to pick up a smaller case as he stands, and to casually hold it in front of himself as he goes to sit in his chair by the long table.
He can't help glancing over his shoulder at Eames, and a little shock snaps through him when he realizes Eames is looking at him again. He raises his eyebrows, and Eames actually blushes before quickly but visibly gathering himself and returning to reading.
Arthur can’t remember ever having before seen Eames blush like a schoolgirl. If asked, Arthur might well have said he didn’t know the man was capable of it.
Curiosity and determination in tandem have served Arthur well in his life, generally speaking. If there weren’t other people with them in the warehouse, he’d get to the bottom of this right now. But they aren’t alone, so instead, after taking a few minutes to calm himself down, Arthur strides casually over to Eames and offhandedly asks if Eames can go over some ideas with him this evening.
Glancing up, Eames replies, “Certainly, Arthur,” with equal casualness. “Happy to help with whatever you need.” Arthur catches the slight raise in his brow. Just that bare hint of suggestion has Arthur getting hard again.
Arthur nods briskly and goes back over to his chair, and sits to think, not about the job but about Eames. He’s wondered to himself before why he and Eames have never slept together. It’s always felt inevitable, he now realizes. Maybe he once thought if he could keep putting it off, he’d eventually stop wanting to. Maybe he thought he’d eventually master his tendency to be so distracted, so flustered, really, around Eames.
This method of avoidance clearly hasn’t been working, so it’s time to try something new. If being distracted and flustered by Eames turns out to be a permanent condition, so be it. He’s felt like this for years as it is; he has to know how this plays out.
If the adrenaline’s making him shake a little in his chair, no one has to know.
-------
Sex with Arthur is not as good as Eames assumed it would be.
It’s better.
Arthur’s clumsier than Eames expected him to be, and more eager, and he makes little sounds in his throat Eames hadn’t thought to imagine. Eames doesn’t come on Arthur’s face that night, comes instead in a condom buried deep inside his arse, but that’s not because Eames hadn’t been thinking about coming on his face since before they left the warehouse for drinks and then went to Arthur’s flat.
It’s just that, thoughts aside, he hasn’t any idea whether that’s what Arthur wants. And it’s a bit much for a first time. He simply can’t assume Arthur wants that level of possessiveness displayed toward him, though he hadn’t seemed to mind the feeling of Eames’ teeth on the smooth slope of his shoulder or the pull of Eames’ fingers in the silky dark hair at his nape.
Staying the night is a bit much for a first time as well (at least for Eames), but Arthur was, astonishingly, almost shy when he told Eames he could stay if he wanted, and Eames just couldn’t bring himself to leave.
-------
Arthur wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows, and the realization that he is sleeping on Eames, halfway at least, his arm flung over Eames and his face tucked into the crook of his neck. He raises his head to look at his face, finds himself staring, and hopes Eames won’t wake up just yet.
In the full morning sun, this close up, Eames is nothing short of beautiful, flushed with sleep. Arthur feels his mouth pinch into a little frown of concern at this line of thought, and decides to instead remember what he’d been thinking about the day before, his come decorating Eames’ face. He can almost see it now.
Feather light, he draws a fingertip down from the tip of Eames’ nose over his lips, and doesn’t expect it when Eames blinks awake, looking startled at first, eyes softening when he sees Arthur.
Arthur’s poker face must not apply itself quite fast enough; Eames is grinning drowsily when he says, “Penny for your thoughts?”
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,201
Summary: Eames and Arthur do have some things in common, whether or not they realize it yet.
A/N: Originally written for the facial fest. Rather bodice-ripper title is from a Muse song. Thanks to coruscera and ladderax for beta-ing.
DW || A03
-------
Eames finds himself looking at Arthur as Arthur absently unbuttons his cuffs, rolls up his sleeves to reveal sinewy forearms, loosens his tie, and runs a long finger under his collar. It can get stuffy in the warehouse during the full sun of the Parisian day, and Arthur gets a bit flushed, Eames has noticed.
Eames watches him frequently: while Arthur leans back in his chair, or gets up to stretch, or looks over some models. He tries to do it surreptitiously, and thinks he succeeds. No one says anything, anyway.
Eames considers himself to be quite good at mental self-discipline. It was trained into him in the Royal Marines and is a necessity in the dreamshare world. But Arthur steals his attention, like he always has. They haven’t worked this closely together in years, and something between them is different now that they’re on the same team all this time later, and in such close proximity.
It's when Arthur gets on his knees, crouching to open cases and that sort of thing, that Eames finds himself most attentive. He scoffs inwardly at himself for being so cliche, but there he is anyway, blatantly staring as Arthur, with his beautifully serious expression, hunts through a case for something or other, or sits back on his heels with a little frown as he tries to remember where something is.
As Arthur's on the floor, searching the contents of a case, Eames watches from his chaise yet again. Arthur tilts his head back just slightly, biting his lip in thought, closing his eyes for a moment with a little sigh, face a touch pink from the afternoon heat. Eames realizes just what it is his subconscious has been thinking about, and has to swallow hard.
As clear as day, he can picture Arthur on the floor before him, shoulders straight and neat, both of them almost fully dressed; Arthur's tie is loose, his shirt rumpled like it is now. Eames remembers vividly from a photograph how Arthur’s hair curls when there’s no gel in it, so he lets himself think of it that way.
He thinks of Arthur’s hands behind his back, either because Eames tied them there or because Arthur's just wanting to show Eames how good he can be (at that thought, Eames' cock gives a little twitch that makes him blink).
Maybe he’d ask Arthur if he wanted it. Eames is good at artful dirty talk, florid strings of words tailored to the preferences of whoever he’s with, though often the embellishment is due less to a desire to please than it is to enjoyment of seeing what he can come up with. Generally, the more over the top he is, the less he really means it. The sight of Arthur on his knees before him would probably have Eames getting straight to the point.
“Please, Eames,” Arthur might answer, voice low, polite, but ragged at the edges, breathy when he says Eames’ name. Eames does love hearing Arthur say his name, in that unexpectedly deep voice. He pictures Arthur -- composed, disciplined Arthur -- squirming for a moment in eagerness, impatience, before taking a deep breath and stilling himself again, waiting.
Although he doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, Eames doesn’t think he could deny Arthur something he wants, even in his own fantasies.
Eames can almost feel himself stroking his cock rapidly in a tight fist as he intently watches Arthur's upturned face, eyes closed, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He pictures that lovely pouting cupid's-bow mouth closed at first, then with lips parted when -- Eames inhales and shifts in his seat -- Eames comes on his flushed face, spurting on his strong chin, his cheeks. Maybe some would decorate those dark curls, or slip down his elegant neck.
Eames can practically see Arthur opening his lust-black eyes to stare up at Eames as his slick pink tongue glides out to lick up whatever it can reach. He can almost feel that tongue hot on his fingertips, Arthur sucking Eames’ thumb into his mouth when Eames touches his face, feels where he’s marked him.
Eames lets himself also imagine a self-satisfied smile curling Arthur’s lips as he releases Eames’ thumb: the cat who ate the cream. Christ, his come would get in Arthur’s dimples.
Eames has to press a palm against himself for a moment.
He won’t quite let himself try to picture naked bliss on Arthur’s face instead of pleased smugness. Eames doesn’t actually know what naked bliss looks like on Arthur’s face, and although Eames has an excellent imagination, he can’t help wanting the real thing over a forgery, this time.
Arthur is in actuality still rifling through the case, oblivious to Eames’ thoughts. Arthur looks over at Eames then, mouth opening to ask a question before their eyes meet and he closes his mouth again, brow creasing.
-------
Arthur finds Eames distracting.
It's fine, it really is. Arthur's capable of keeping more than one thing on his mind; he has to be. He actually enjoys it. Having a lot of things to think about keeps him sharp.
Eames, though; thinking about Eames doesn't seem to be improving his mental faculties, per se. For as long as Arthur’s known Eames, he’s managed to trip Arthur up, on purpose or not.
For example, just now Arthur had been kneeling on the floor, and he'd looked up at Eames to ask him a question. Then he couldn't remember what he’d been going to ask. Eames has always been extraordinarily handsome, but as he looked back at Arthur just then, his cheeks and ears were pink, his lips parted, and his pupils wide. In that flash while their eyes were locked, Arthur had forgotten what he was going to ask, and Eames had looked away.
Arthur was left to wonder what could have brought that on. Eames looking at him wasn’t anything new, but Arthur had clearly interrupted some reverie.
Unaccustomed to feeling flustered, Arthur fakes smoothly going back to what he was doing, but he can't help looking over at Eames; he's reviewing some of his papers, the rest in his lap. Eames sits up a bit, pulling his lower lip with his teeth before releasing it, looking restless in spite of his seemingly relaxed posture on the chaise.
The last time Arthur had gotten a blowjob, he'd been thinking about Eames' lips, and hadn't felt the slightest bit bad about it. As he’d watched the guy from the bar whose name he could no longer remember, he'd suddenly imagined Eames' mouth wrapped around him instead, those plush lips clinging to his cock, and had shuddered and came.
Truth be told, he’s thought about Eames’ lips -- and Eames -- rather often since they’d met. No one could blame him.
Now, it's so easy to imagine going over to Eames on the chaise: telling him to sit up, watching him undo Arthur's pants and take Arthur's cock out of his boxers.
Rooting through a jumbled pile of PASIV spare parts, Arthur pictures dragging the head of his cock over Eames' full lower lip, leaving a gleam of moisture on it. Closing his eyes, he imagines Eames taking him in, wet and messy, eager.
Arthur is pretty sure Eames would be very eager.
Eames would hum and moan around Arthur's cock; suck him hard and take him down to the root, getting him slick. Arthur’s fingertips would rest on Eames’ cheek, feeling his cock move in Eames’ mouth. Eames’ fingers would dig into Arthur’s hips.
Arthur would let Eames work until he knew he was close. When Arthur pulled out, Eames would start to protest. But he'd watch avidly as Arthur jerked off, and then close his eyes. And then Arthur would come on Eames' face, on those beautiful lips.
And Eames, breathless, would smile at him, eyes bright and hot, his face painted with streaks of Arthur’s come.
Eames would suck and lick the last of Arthur’s come from the head of his cock, wanting it all. Then Arthur wouldn’t be able to keep himself from kneeling to stroke the pad of his thumb over Eames’ lips, to kiss him, and taste himself.
When Arthur at last finds what he's looking for in the case, he's sure to pick up a smaller case as he stands, and to casually hold it in front of himself as he goes to sit in his chair by the long table.
He can't help glancing over his shoulder at Eames, and a little shock snaps through him when he realizes Eames is looking at him again. He raises his eyebrows, and Eames actually blushes before quickly but visibly gathering himself and returning to reading.
Arthur can’t remember ever having before seen Eames blush like a schoolgirl. If asked, Arthur might well have said he didn’t know the man was capable of it.
Curiosity and determination in tandem have served Arthur well in his life, generally speaking. If there weren’t other people with them in the warehouse, he’d get to the bottom of this right now. But they aren’t alone, so instead, after taking a few minutes to calm himself down, Arthur strides casually over to Eames and offhandedly asks if Eames can go over some ideas with him this evening.
Glancing up, Eames replies, “Certainly, Arthur,” with equal casualness. “Happy to help with whatever you need.” Arthur catches the slight raise in his brow. Just that bare hint of suggestion has Arthur getting hard again.
Arthur nods briskly and goes back over to his chair, and sits to think, not about the job but about Eames. He’s wondered to himself before why he and Eames have never slept together. It’s always felt inevitable, he now realizes. Maybe he once thought if he could keep putting it off, he’d eventually stop wanting to. Maybe he thought he’d eventually master his tendency to be so distracted, so flustered, really, around Eames.
This method of avoidance clearly hasn’t been working, so it’s time to try something new. If being distracted and flustered by Eames turns out to be a permanent condition, so be it. He’s felt like this for years as it is; he has to know how this plays out.
If the adrenaline’s making him shake a little in his chair, no one has to know.
-------
Sex with Arthur is not as good as Eames assumed it would be.
It’s better.
Arthur’s clumsier than Eames expected him to be, and more eager, and he makes little sounds in his throat Eames hadn’t thought to imagine. Eames doesn’t come on Arthur’s face that night, comes instead in a condom buried deep inside his arse, but that’s not because Eames hadn’t been thinking about coming on his face since before they left the warehouse for drinks and then went to Arthur’s flat.
It’s just that, thoughts aside, he hasn’t any idea whether that’s what Arthur wants. And it’s a bit much for a first time. He simply can’t assume Arthur wants that level of possessiveness displayed toward him, though he hadn’t seemed to mind the feeling of Eames’ teeth on the smooth slope of his shoulder or the pull of Eames’ fingers in the silky dark hair at his nape.
Staying the night is a bit much for a first time as well (at least for Eames), but Arthur was, astonishingly, almost shy when he told Eames he could stay if he wanted, and Eames just couldn’t bring himself to leave.
-------
Arthur wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows, and the realization that he is sleeping on Eames, halfway at least, his arm flung over Eames and his face tucked into the crook of his neck. He raises his head to look at his face, finds himself staring, and hopes Eames won’t wake up just yet.
In the full morning sun, this close up, Eames is nothing short of beautiful, flushed with sleep. Arthur feels his mouth pinch into a little frown of concern at this line of thought, and decides to instead remember what he’d been thinking about the day before, his come decorating Eames’ face. He can almost see it now.
Feather light, he draws a fingertip down from the tip of Eames’ nose over his lips, and doesn’t expect it when Eames blinks awake, looking startled at first, eyes softening when he sees Arthur.
Arthur’s poker face must not apply itself quite fast enough; Eames is grinning drowsily when he says, “Penny for your thoughts?”