Inception: Best of All Differences
Title: Best of All Differences
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Summary: For this prompt at Inception Kink Meme: Arthur is attracted to Eames, but only when he's not making snide comments and shooting him sly grins or smirks. As it happens, the only time Eames isn't doing those things, he's asleep. At first he's content just to look at Eames, but before he knows it, he's touching him as well.
Warnings: dubcon
Eames has never made it a secret how much he would like to bed Arthur. It's not like he leans into Arthur's personal space to whisper florid, over-the-top descriptions into his ear with a hot breath and and hotter hand, but neither does he bother to hide the heat in his eyes or the way he sucks his lower lip between his teeth whenever Arthur loosens his tie. It would be flattering -- really -- if Eames could just leave the indication of his interest at that.
Eames is a handsome man, but everything about him grates along Arthur's nerves until the tightness around his spine is less bone-deep attraction and more because he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and snapping the other man's neck. Every second that he endures under the lewd comments and the pet names and the lingering and completely inappropriate looks is a second he will never get back, and Arthur wonders how a man so ridiculously smarmy can also be so damned good at what he does. He ducks out from the room whenever Eames walks in, avoids sharing cabs, and stands rather than sits in the chair Eames leaves next to him. Yet, despite Arthur's shut-downs and dismissals, Eames only cranks up the behavior to an even raunchier and slimier personality to the point that Arthur wonders if that kind of thing sticks around even when Eames is asleep.
It doesn't.
The differences are fascinating. One minute, Eames is flicking his eyes over Arthur's body, undressing him with a look and a dirty grin while he puts the cannula in Eames's wrist, and in the next, the older man's slumped in the arms of the lawn chair, slack and unconscious. His face is this side of expressionless -- eyes whirling behind his lids, mouth slightly parted and none of the filthy thoughts, all of which Arthur knows are there, are apparent at all. He backs away, relief and easiness finally allowing him a few moments to relax, but the forge that Eames is working on is taking a great deal of time and Arthur's gaze keeps swinging back, curious.
Eames's breathing is quiet -- a soft, steady rise and fall under Arthur's palm -- and Arthur wonders if Eames could ever choose to be so calm and collected in reality. (The answer is yes, he tells himself, so long as Eames was getting paid.) Arthur rubs his thumb in the hollow of Eames's hand. There's only soft skin under his fingers -- the sign of a man who has never had to do physical work in his life -- but his broad fingers are dry, a little rough. Arthur's hands move up to Eames's wrist. It's never occurred to him before this moment how vulnerable someone can look with their wrists exposed; does it take a lot of Eames's trust -- Arthur wonders -- to fall into dreams? Is it a blow to his confidence every time Arthur takes over the PASIV device from him and puts the cannula in?
Arthur doesn't stop himself from sliding his hands up Eames's arm. Eames has always been a rather broad man -- wider than Arthur in both shoulder and chest; stockier and with a lower center of gravity than him -- but he's prone to hunching. He folds the breadth of his body into his chest a little and looks up at Arthur from a ducked head; the effect is sly and frankly, wicked and makes Arthur feel like he should scrub off the first layer of his skin at the nearest opportunity (maybe two layers). But here, Eames's body is pliant and boneless; his shoulders are squared back and his neck is limp when Arthur curves his fingers underneath.
Before he knows it, he's crawling over Eames's body with his legs on either side of the man's waist and looming over his sleeping face, unaware of the intense focus in his eyes. Arthur cradles his face in both hands, touches his mouth with his thumbs and rubs at his full lower lip. He registers the softness and the way his lips part at the touch just before he's kissing Eames -- open mouthed but not deep, enough to feel Eames sigh into his mouth and yield under the pressure -- and it is this compliance more than anything that has his spine trembling with want.
Glancing at the PASIV to see how much time he has -- enough, just enough perhaps -- Arthur starts plucking at Eames's buttons. He works down Eames's body one step at at time. He reveals the curled ink lines of tattoos and the light tangle of his chest hair. Eames's breathing sharpens once when Arthur cards his fingers through the hair but falls back into stillness in the next second, so Arthur spreads the shirt to either side of his ribs and spreads his fingers in the spaces between, feeling the shallow movement of bone and muscle before thumbing Eames's nipples. They become tight brown pebbles with a few tweaks and Arthur tugs playfully at them because it makes a little blush crawl up Eames's neck and into the scruff of his beard. Eames's body twitches under his touches -- trembles in his belly, fluctuating tenses in the thighs Arthur has hitched over his legs -- but best of all, there's a heavy bulge straining between Eames's legs.
The differences in Eames between his waking moments and when he sleeps are vast, but the biggest one lies between them -- not the thick cock that Arthur is pulling from behind Eames's undone fly, but their balance. When awake, Eames can throw Arthur off his game, can take Arthur's gliding ease and run him ragged, but here, Arthur is the one with the leverage. He can wrap his fingers around Eames and jerk him -- slow or fast; with a twist on the upstroke or a tightening on the down stroke; any way he wants without Eames telling him one way or another how he likes it. He does it fast and tight the whole way, slicking his palm with the leaking precum and delighting himself in the subdued responses he drags out of Eames's lax form. Eames's hands stay palm up, but his fingers jerk like they're looking for something to grasp. His breathing hitches like it's caught. His head rolls to the side and he gasps and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth.
Arthur leans forward, hefting Eames's legs higher onto his lap and bracing himself with one arm on the back of the lawn chair. He watches Eames's lashes flutter, takes in the high flush of red across his cheekbones, and... and -- Eames makes a quiet sound -- nothing more than a short burst of air through his throat -- but afterward, streaks of white are all over Arthur's hand and in Eames's chest hair. Eames's hips roll a little against Arthur's weight and his toes curl and his eyes seem to open half way, but only the white show and Eames is once again still -- asleep and breathing deep. Arthur sits back on his heels, breathing hard and aching between his legs, and looks to the PASIV device.
Arthur watches Eames as he stirs. He wakes slowly -- his eyes are sharp when he opens them, always, but he takes his time getting to his feet. His legs seem shaky at first and he walks gingerly. He doesn't look away, even when Eames lifts the collar of his shirt to his nose and breathes. A sly little smile spreads across his full mouth and his eyes flick up to Arthur, more smoldering than before.
"Always a pleasure working with you, Arthur," Eames says as he slides past him to the bathroom. His tone is dripping with knowledge of what Arthur's been up to, which doesn't stop Arthur's eyes from lingering on his mouth even if it makes every shred of patience he has burn to ash. "Glad to see you've loosened up a bit."
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Summary: For this prompt at Inception Kink Meme: Arthur is attracted to Eames, but only when he's not making snide comments and shooting him sly grins or smirks. As it happens, the only time Eames isn't doing those things, he's asleep. At first he's content just to look at Eames, but before he knows it, he's touching him as well.
Warnings: dubcon
Eames has never made it a secret how much he would like to bed Arthur. It's not like he leans into Arthur's personal space to whisper florid, over-the-top descriptions into his ear with a hot breath and and hotter hand, but neither does he bother to hide the heat in his eyes or the way he sucks his lower lip between his teeth whenever Arthur loosens his tie. It would be flattering -- really -- if Eames could just leave the indication of his interest at that.
Eames is a handsome man, but everything about him grates along Arthur's nerves until the tightness around his spine is less bone-deep attraction and more because he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and snapping the other man's neck. Every second that he endures under the lewd comments and the pet names and the lingering and completely inappropriate looks is a second he will never get back, and Arthur wonders how a man so ridiculously smarmy can also be so damned good at what he does. He ducks out from the room whenever Eames walks in, avoids sharing cabs, and stands rather than sits in the chair Eames leaves next to him. Yet, despite Arthur's shut-downs and dismissals, Eames only cranks up the behavior to an even raunchier and slimier personality to the point that Arthur wonders if that kind of thing sticks around even when Eames is asleep.
It doesn't.
The differences are fascinating. One minute, Eames is flicking his eyes over Arthur's body, undressing him with a look and a dirty grin while he puts the cannula in Eames's wrist, and in the next, the older man's slumped in the arms of the lawn chair, slack and unconscious. His face is this side of expressionless -- eyes whirling behind his lids, mouth slightly parted and none of the filthy thoughts, all of which Arthur knows are there, are apparent at all. He backs away, relief and easiness finally allowing him a few moments to relax, but the forge that Eames is working on is taking a great deal of time and Arthur's gaze keeps swinging back, curious.
Eames's breathing is quiet -- a soft, steady rise and fall under Arthur's palm -- and Arthur wonders if Eames could ever choose to be so calm and collected in reality. (The answer is yes, he tells himself, so long as Eames was getting paid.) Arthur rubs his thumb in the hollow of Eames's hand. There's only soft skin under his fingers -- the sign of a man who has never had to do physical work in his life -- but his broad fingers are dry, a little rough. Arthur's hands move up to Eames's wrist. It's never occurred to him before this moment how vulnerable someone can look with their wrists exposed; does it take a lot of Eames's trust -- Arthur wonders -- to fall into dreams? Is it a blow to his confidence every time Arthur takes over the PASIV device from him and puts the cannula in?
Arthur doesn't stop himself from sliding his hands up Eames's arm. Eames has always been a rather broad man -- wider than Arthur in both shoulder and chest; stockier and with a lower center of gravity than him -- but he's prone to hunching. He folds the breadth of his body into his chest a little and looks up at Arthur from a ducked head; the effect is sly and frankly, wicked and makes Arthur feel like he should scrub off the first layer of his skin at the nearest opportunity (maybe two layers). But here, Eames's body is pliant and boneless; his shoulders are squared back and his neck is limp when Arthur curves his fingers underneath.
Before he knows it, he's crawling over Eames's body with his legs on either side of the man's waist and looming over his sleeping face, unaware of the intense focus in his eyes. Arthur cradles his face in both hands, touches his mouth with his thumbs and rubs at his full lower lip. He registers the softness and the way his lips part at the touch just before he's kissing Eames -- open mouthed but not deep, enough to feel Eames sigh into his mouth and yield under the pressure -- and it is this compliance more than anything that has his spine trembling with want.
Glancing at the PASIV to see how much time he has -- enough, just enough perhaps -- Arthur starts plucking at Eames's buttons. He works down Eames's body one step at at time. He reveals the curled ink lines of tattoos and the light tangle of his chest hair. Eames's breathing sharpens once when Arthur cards his fingers through the hair but falls back into stillness in the next second, so Arthur spreads the shirt to either side of his ribs and spreads his fingers in the spaces between, feeling the shallow movement of bone and muscle before thumbing Eames's nipples. They become tight brown pebbles with a few tweaks and Arthur tugs playfully at them because it makes a little blush crawl up Eames's neck and into the scruff of his beard. Eames's body twitches under his touches -- trembles in his belly, fluctuating tenses in the thighs Arthur has hitched over his legs -- but best of all, there's a heavy bulge straining between Eames's legs.
The differences in Eames between his waking moments and when he sleeps are vast, but the biggest one lies between them -- not the thick cock that Arthur is pulling from behind Eames's undone fly, but their balance. When awake, Eames can throw Arthur off his game, can take Arthur's gliding ease and run him ragged, but here, Arthur is the one with the leverage. He can wrap his fingers around Eames and jerk him -- slow or fast; with a twist on the upstroke or a tightening on the down stroke; any way he wants without Eames telling him one way or another how he likes it. He does it fast and tight the whole way, slicking his palm with the leaking precum and delighting himself in the subdued responses he drags out of Eames's lax form. Eames's hands stay palm up, but his fingers jerk like they're looking for something to grasp. His breathing hitches like it's caught. His head rolls to the side and he gasps and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth.
Arthur leans forward, hefting Eames's legs higher onto his lap and bracing himself with one arm on the back of the lawn chair. He watches Eames's lashes flutter, takes in the high flush of red across his cheekbones, and... and -- Eames makes a quiet sound -- nothing more than a short burst of air through his throat -- but afterward, streaks of white are all over Arthur's hand and in Eames's chest hair. Eames's hips roll a little against Arthur's weight and his toes curl and his eyes seem to open half way, but only the white show and Eames is once again still -- asleep and breathing deep. Arthur sits back on his heels, breathing hard and aching between his legs, and looks to the PASIV device.
Arthur watches Eames as he stirs. He wakes slowly -- his eyes are sharp when he opens them, always, but he takes his time getting to his feet. His legs seem shaky at first and he walks gingerly. He doesn't look away, even when Eames lifts the collar of his shirt to his nose and breathes. A sly little smile spreads across his full mouth and his eyes flick up to Arthur, more smoldering than before.
"Always a pleasure working with you, Arthur," Eames says as he slides past him to the bathroom. His tone is dripping with knowledge of what Arthur's been up to, which doesn't stop Arthur's eyes from lingering on his mouth even if it makes every shred of patience he has burn to ash. "Glad to see you've loosened up a bit."