FIC: Inception: Undone (Eames/Arthur, NC-17)

Jul 23, 2010 08:19

Title: Undone
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: rough sex
Word count: ~2200
Spoilers: None, really. Just porn.
Summary: Suit porn, straight up. Arthur takes Eames to his tailor. (Based on two prompts from inception_kink.)
A/N: Thank you to gryffindor_j for answering all of my questions about fine tailoring, to nova33 for humoring me as I sent her 853 drafts, and to momebie for catching all of my typos! ♥ All remaining errors are mine.

Undone
*****

Arthur imagines that Eames fucks like a porn star. There is something obscenely sensual about him, and Arthur wonders if anyone is able to tear their eyes away from his mouth when he talks, or his fingers when he is working on something delicate. He wears his clothes like they don’t suit him, like he’s meant to always be naked, and Arthur thinks that he probably is naked whenever he is alone. That he sleeps naked, walks around his flat naked, eats yogurt from his fridge with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Is there something wrong with my shirt?” Eames asks, and Arthur starts. “You’ve been staring at my collar for ages.”

Arthur has actually been staring at his throat, and the small white scar hidden under the trail of stubble. “You should have your clothes tailored,” he says, picking up a stack of papers and walking to the other side of the table. “They would fit better.”

Eames looks up from the machine he is working on, slowly, and his eyes skim the placket of Arthur’s shirt before settling on his face. “My shirt fits fine.”

“It’s too tight around your shoulders,” Arthur says, but doesn’t add, and loose around your stomach. “I could recommend someone, if you’d like.”

Eames doesn’t say anything to this. He looks back down at the machine and pinches a cable between two fingers, studying it carefully. “Give me that knife,” he says finally, motioning to a small tool case on the far end of the table.

Arthur fishes a utility knife out of the case, and Eames accepts it without a word. Arthur watches the veins on his hands flex as he cuts into into the cable, slicing open the plastic like the belly of a fish. His fingernails are thick and flat, with only the thinnest crescent of white along the tips.

“All right,” Eames says finally, without looking up. “Let’s go see your tailor.”

*****

Eames’s clothing is expensive. Arthur can tell from the fabric, even if he can’t see the labels. It doesn’t fit properly, but then, it’s not meant to be worn by men like Eames. He imagines Eames wandering into couture shops in France and Italy, buying whatever the salesmen recommended, too impatient to have it tailored.

“This is a very fine suit,” says Mr. Belmundo, stretching the measuring tape along the width of Eames’s shoulders. He is a short man with dark grey hair and frameless bifocals. Arthur met him when he was still working for the Bureau, nearly eight years previous.

“Thank you.” Eames shifts his weight as Mr. Belmundo makes notes on his clipboard. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, just bored. He catches Arthur watching him and holds his gaze until Arthur looks down at his shoes.

“It will fit very nicely when I am finished,” says Mr. Belmundo.

“I’m sure it will,” says Eames, and Arthur can tell from the throw of his voice that he is still watching him. Arthur slides a hand into his trouser pocket and fingers the die, searching for the side with three dots.

Mr. Belmundo jots down another note to himself. “You may remove your clothing now. I am finished.”

Eames takes his time removing his suit. He lays it out piece by piece as Mr. Belmundo cleans up around him. He removes his jacket first, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. His chest and stomach are covered in thick, light brown hair, and he has a tattoo of something in French on one bicep. When Eames reaches for the fly of his trousers, Arthur presses his fingernail into the groove of the die and looks away.

“Well,” Eames says cheerfully, when he is dressed again. “That wasn’t too painful.”

*****

The box arrives 3 days later, sent over by a courier. It is wrapped in white tissue paper and accompanied by a notecard that reads, Please enjoy your suit, Mr. Eames. in small, precise handwriting.

“Shall I try it on then?” asks Eames, tossing the note to the side. “Model it for you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and sets down the file he was working on. “If you want.”

Eames grins and sets the box on the edge of the work table. He strips in front of Arthur without an ounce of shame, tossing his shirt onto his chair. Arthur resists the urge to fold it for him.

“Suppose I can’t roll my sleeves up,” says Eames, and Arthur looks up. His starched white shirt is loose and unbuttoned, and he is tugging the dark grey trousers over his hips. Arthur glimpses the edge of a tattoo curling over his hipbone, but it disappears when Eames zips up his fly.

“That would look stupid,” Arthur agrees as Eames fiddles with the buttons on his sleeves, then finally reaches for the placket of his shirt. Arthur reaches into the box and passes Eames the jacket. The lining whispers as as Eames pushes his arms through the sleeves.

“How do I look?” he asks, smoothing a hand over his stomach. “Don’t have a mirror.”

“It looks nice.” Better than nice, actually. All clean lines and sharp angles, showcasing his body the way a suit is meant to. Arthur steps in front of him and runs a hand over Eames’s chest, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in the fine Italian wool. “Do you have a tie?”

“No. Don’t think I need one, really.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “How do you not own a tie?”

“Well, I never said I didn’t own one, did I? Just don’t keep them folded up in my briefcase like other people.”

Arthur reaches up to loosen his own tie. “You can’t wear a suit like this without a tie,” he says, and Eames’s eyes follow his hands as he removes the tie from his neck. “Do you need me to do it?”

“I spent four years in boarding school,” Eames replies curtly, snatching the tie from his hands. His fingers work quickly as he folds the tie into a double Windsor knot, one hand holding the tie firmly and the other sliding the red silk up to his Adam’s apple. The bottom of the tie brushes his belt buckle, like an arrow pointing to his cock. He keeps the knot loose, and at Arthur’s impatient expression says, “It’s constricting.”

“Exactly,” says Arthur, and reaches up to tighten the knot. He can feel Eames’s Adam’s apple working under his fingertips, the sharp edge of Eames’s collarbone under his thumb as he straightens his collar. When he looks up, Eames is watching him with piercing eyes, lips parted. Arthur wants to thread his hands through Eames’s hair and push his cock into his mouth.

“You get off on this, don’t you, Arthur?” Eames says quietly, and it is not a question. He reaches up to smooth Arthur’s collar back into place. “Everything strapped in. Everything in its place.” He pauses thoughtfully. “But I have to tell you, I don’t like being strapped in.”

Arthur feels the blood throbbing in his temples, his chest, his cock. “What do you like then?”

Eames considers this for a moment, and a smile flickers over his features before he leans in, cups Arthur’s head in his hands, and kisses him. His mouth is hot, and his tongue tastes like tobacco and the barest hint of mint. Arthur tries to breathe, but it’s like sucking air through a straw, and Eames kisses like he’s starving, like he couldn’t do anything halfway if he tried. He crowds Arthur against the work table and slides his fingers through Arthur’s slicked-back hair, his stubble rasping over Arthur’s closely-shaven cheek.

Eames starts unbuttoning Arthur’s vest, then his shirt, tugging the bottom of the shirt out of his trousers as he moves his mouth down to Arthur’s jaw and then his throat. He scrapes his teeth over Arthur’s fluttering pulse and then licks it, as if in apology. Arthur feels Eames’s fingers at his belt buckle, deftly unhooking it with one hand as the other cups the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur reaches for Eames’s tie - his tie - but Eames grabs his hand firmly and presses him back into the table.

“Can’t wear a suit like this without a tie, remember?” His voice is low, making Arthur shiver, and Arthur’s reply dies in his throat when Eames tugs his belt buckle loose and lets it drop to the floor. Then he flips open the fly of Arthur’s trousers and grasps him firmly in one hand.

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps, and feels Eames’s lips curl into a smile against his throat. His hand is thick and warm, despite the chill, and he touches Arthur like he knows exactly how Arthur likes to be touched, earning a low hiss when he swipes a calloused thumb over the slit of Arthur’s cock.

“Easy now, darling,” Eames says when Arthur starts pushing into his fist. Eames tugs Arthur’s trousers and briefs down further, then reaches back behind him, fumbling in the table drawer for a moment until he pulls out a small tube of lube and a condom. Arthur frowns in confusion, but Eames’s smirk tells him exactly who put it there.

“Just in case?” Arthur asks with raised eyebrows, and Eames just says, “Turn around.”

Arthur doesn’t know why he doesn’t argue, but his heart is thumping wildly and he feels like he’s never been this hard in his life. He lays his hands flat on the table, his jacket pulling tight across his back and the sleeves wrinkling at the elbows. Eames’s palm slides over his hips, gently, and then wet fingers slip between his cheeks. He gasps at the cold, then at the intrusion when Eames pushes two fingers inside of him.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” says Eames, lips tickling Arthur’s neck, and Arthur closes his eyes as a shiver rolls through his body. There is a bit of fumbling, the sound of a zipper and the condom wrapper being ripped open, and then Eames adds another finger. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Arthur tries to say something, but then Eames pulls his fingers out and holds him open with the pads of his thumbs. Arthur feels the tip of Eames’s cock against his entrance, and he braces himself against the table as Eames pushes in with one long, smooth stroke, burying himself completely.

It’s been a while since Arthur did this, and fuck, it hurts. But if Eames notices he doesn’t give any indication. He fucks into him again, harder this time, grasping Arthur’s hips so hard that there are certain to be bruises. His thighs hit the edge of the table with each stroke.

“You look so perfect like this.” Eames leans his forehead against the back of Arthur’s neck and presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss along the top of Arthur’s spine. “A perfect mess just for me.”

Arthur chokes back a groan, and Eames pushes into him again, adjusting the angle of his thrusts so that his cock slides in deeper, finding the spot that makes Arthur bite his lip so hard he nearly draws blood. He can feel Eames’s trousers brushing the backs of his thighs, the flaps of his jacket fluttering against his hips. Eames thrusts into him again, and this time the moan feels like it is ripped from Arthur’s throat.

“That’s it,” says Eames, pushing Arthur’s legs open as wide as he can with the trousers pooled around Arthur’s ankles. He runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair and cups the side of his face with sticky fingers. “Just like that--”

Arthur feels his balls tightening, and he knows he’s getting close. “Fuck,” he says when Eames quickens his pace, his fingertips digging into Arthur’s hips. “Fuck, fuck--” He’s babbling now, clawing at the table for purchase, rocking back to meet Eames’s thrusts as best as he can. “Eames--”

He comes so hard his vision goes blurry, and with Eames’s hot breath in his ear, panting obscene things that Arthur would think about later, with his hand wrapped around his cock and his sheets twisted up around his legs. Eames doesn’t stop. He pushes in again and again, and finally buries himself inside of Arthur one last time, sinking his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder as he comes.

Arthur drops his elbows onto the table and takes a few deep breaths to compose himself. He feels Eames pull out and reaches down to pull up his trousers, which are stained with his own come. A lock of hair falls into his eyes, and he realizes that he must look utterly wrecked.

“You shouldn’t use so much hair gel,” says Eames, brushing the lock of hair away from Arthur’s forehead. He still looks perfect, with Arthur’s tie knotted snugly against his Adam’s apple. “If you want, I can take you to my hair dresser. She does excellent work.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, his cheeks flushing as he buttons his shirt. “No, thanks.”

Eames smirks. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he says, and reaches up to tighten the knot on Arthur’s tie as he walks away.

*****

Fan art by platina! Scroll to the end, and it is the NSFW link. ♥

More Inception fic!

inception, character: arthur, fic: slash, pairing: eames/arthur, character: eames, fic: inception, fic

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