I Can Never Tell With You
Title: I Can Never Tell With You
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fill for inception_kink prompt Arthur finds it hot when Eames is wearing his glasses
Arthur is sitting at his desk in their makeshift headquarters, an unfinished floor of a newly renovated office building in downtown Chicago, when he hears the elevator’s signature ‘ding.’
“Where is everyone?” an unusually irritated Eames asks.
Not looking up from the papers he was reading, Arthur answers, “Dom took Ariadne and Yusuf for sushi.”
“And I missed dinner, too. Tell me this professor is bloody brilliant and that we’re extracting a cure for cancer or some shite.”
Arthur looks up then, and nearly drops his file folder. He had known that Eames was pretending to be an associate professor, but leaning on the desk across from him is an Eames that Arthur had never expected to see in the real world. His hair is parted, rather unflatteringly, and he’s wearing a simple button down with a sweater vest, brown corduroys, and brown loafers. And silver rimmed glasses.
Arthur’s mouth goes dry.
“I had office hours today. Cobb didn’t say anything about bloody office hours.” Eames goes to rub his eyes, but his fingers brush against the wire frames. He lets out a sharp laugh, grabbing them by the corner and flinging them to the floor.
Instinctively, Arthur rises from his seat, looking for them.
“I had eight students come in today wanting me to look over their papers on Russian Futurism. By the time I was done with the third, I wanted to shoot myself in the face so that I could wake up from this nightmare.”
Retrieving the glasses from where they had slid under his desk, Arthur perches on the edge of it, trying to maintain an impression of indifference. He taps the rims on his thigh, tiny tremors that manage to work their way all the way up his spine.
“Arthur, they write like twelve year olds. The educational system in this country is complete crap.” Eames looks at him plaintively, desperate for some validation.
Arthur crosses the space between them, less nonchalantly than he likes, and ends up standing probably too close to Eames than is professional. He holds out the glasses. “Let me guess, all of your students were girls?”
Eames takes them, putting them back on with practiced ease. “Seven. There was one lad, too serious for his own good. Reminded me a bit of you, actually.” Even with the odd hair, and the glasses, Eames’ smirk is unmistakable. “Is it possible that you might be implying that I am attractive in this get up?”
Arthur tilts his head, as if to give the other man the once over. “You look smart,” he concludes.
“And the implication there is I don’t on most days. Darling, you wound me.” Eames crosses his arms, but sneaks a hand up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. The smirk never falters, and Arthur knows he should move, stop invading Eames’ personal space but his legs won’t work.
“Mr. Eames, I have never once doubted your intelligence, resourcefulness, or creativity. But for some reason, you seem to take great pains to disguise this on a daily basis.” Arthur meets Eames’ gaze with a challenging one of his own. “It is simply another entry on my list of frustrations caused by you.”
There is a moment that seems to stretch into eternity while Eames considers his words. Then he stands, the gap between the men is reduced to inches.
He bends his head slightly, lips brushing against Arthur’s ear, as he whispers, “And how exactly do I frustrate you?”
Arthur kisses him then, hard enough that they end up backing into the desk, the thin wire frames of Eames’ glasses pressing lines into his cheeks. Eames’ hands wind into Arthur’s hair, fingers curling when their tongues meet. Arthur’s hands are pulling at the layers of Eames’ vest and shirt, and they break apart momentarily so that his long fingers can do the work properly.
The vest is thrown aside, and Arthur kisses along his throat, as he unbuttons the shirt with alacrity. Their hips grind together, and Eames doesn’t know if he’s ever been this hard before, and attempts to say so, but it comes out as a groan because Arthur is licking his nipple.
Eames grabs his hips, holding him against him with one strong hand on his ass, the other trying to figure out the infernal buckle of Arthur’s belt. He manages, and rubs Arthur through the cotton of his briefs, making him buck against his hand. Their mouths are on each other again, and they’re nearly panting for breath.
Arthur pulls away first, eyes never leaving Eames’, lips swollen and looking well ravaged. “Mr. Eames, please don’t disappoint me, because I want very badly to fuck you right now.”
“Arthur, you charmer, you,” Eames says, breathless, and not meaning the sarcasm.
He’s glad they’re nearly on top of his desk, because he is able to lean back, stretching for his drawers. His hips tilt upwards, and Arthur takes the opportunity to run his hands along the length of him through his trousers. Eames groans, and his hand gropes about for a few minutes in his top right drawer as Arthur deftly unzips his fly. Arthur sinks to his knees, nipping at the skin above his boxers. Finally, he frees Eames’ cock, running his tongue along its length, licking at his slit, using his thumb to spread precum and saliva over the sensitive head. He sucks Eames’ cock into his mouth, all of it, too quick for Eames to do anything but gasp silently, and then lets it pop out, replacing it with two of his own fingers.
When he feels those slick fingers pressing gently at his asshole, Eames remembers what he was looking for, but it’s difficult to concentrate with Arthur’s tongue on his dick and those long digits inside him.
The tiny bottle of lube nearly hits Arthur in the head; Arthur gives Eames’ cock one last long lick before he stands. Eames sits properly on his desk, scooting forward as far as he can, hands gripping the side of the desk. Watching Arthur fist his erection, knowing exactly what is coming next, his own cock jumps.
Arthur enters him slowly, but without stopping and he can already tell it’s going to be over quickly. Eames’ hands are all over him now, clutching at his waistcoat, jerking himself off, further messing up his hair. He tries to keep it deliberate as he builds a rhythm but they’re both so far gone that he can’t help but speed up.
“Fuck, Arthur. There!” Eames bites out before kissing him violently.
Arthur moans into his mouth as Eames comes messily between their bodies, and it sets off his own orgasm, the world fading black and then back again. He regains his eyesight slowly, focusing on the crook of Eames’ neck, where he’s buried his head.
Eames’ arms are still wrapped around him, the stubble of his cheek brushing gently across his ear.
“Darling, if you don’t mind me asking, was it the glasses or the Russian futurists that brought this on?”
Arthur laughs into the hot skin of his lover’s shoulder. “Both. No,” he allows himself a moment of whimsical affection and kisses along the ink of Eames’ tattoo, “neither.”
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fill for inception_kink prompt Arthur finds it hot when Eames is wearing his glasses
Arthur is sitting at his desk in their makeshift headquarters, an unfinished floor of a newly renovated office building in downtown Chicago, when he hears the elevator’s signature ‘ding.’
“Where is everyone?” an unusually irritated Eames asks.
Not looking up from the papers he was reading, Arthur answers, “Dom took Ariadne and Yusuf for sushi.”
“And I missed dinner, too. Tell me this professor is bloody brilliant and that we’re extracting a cure for cancer or some shite.”
Arthur looks up then, and nearly drops his file folder. He had known that Eames was pretending to be an associate professor, but leaning on the desk across from him is an Eames that Arthur had never expected to see in the real world. His hair is parted, rather unflatteringly, and he’s wearing a simple button down with a sweater vest, brown corduroys, and brown loafers. And silver rimmed glasses.
Arthur’s mouth goes dry.
“I had office hours today. Cobb didn’t say anything about bloody office hours.” Eames goes to rub his eyes, but his fingers brush against the wire frames. He lets out a sharp laugh, grabbing them by the corner and flinging them to the floor.
Instinctively, Arthur rises from his seat, looking for them.
“I had eight students come in today wanting me to look over their papers on Russian Futurism. By the time I was done with the third, I wanted to shoot myself in the face so that I could wake up from this nightmare.”
Retrieving the glasses from where they had slid under his desk, Arthur perches on the edge of it, trying to maintain an impression of indifference. He taps the rims on his thigh, tiny tremors that manage to work their way all the way up his spine.
“Arthur, they write like twelve year olds. The educational system in this country is complete crap.” Eames looks at him plaintively, desperate for some validation.
Arthur crosses the space between them, less nonchalantly than he likes, and ends up standing probably too close to Eames than is professional. He holds out the glasses. “Let me guess, all of your students were girls?”
Eames takes them, putting them back on with practiced ease. “Seven. There was one lad, too serious for his own good. Reminded me a bit of you, actually.” Even with the odd hair, and the glasses, Eames’ smirk is unmistakable. “Is it possible that you might be implying that I am attractive in this get up?”
Arthur tilts his head, as if to give the other man the once over. “You look smart,” he concludes.
“And the implication there is I don’t on most days. Darling, you wound me.” Eames crosses his arms, but sneaks a hand up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. The smirk never falters, and Arthur knows he should move, stop invading Eames’ personal space but his legs won’t work.
“Mr. Eames, I have never once doubted your intelligence, resourcefulness, or creativity. But for some reason, you seem to take great pains to disguise this on a daily basis.” Arthur meets Eames’ gaze with a challenging one of his own. “It is simply another entry on my list of frustrations caused by you.”
There is a moment that seems to stretch into eternity while Eames considers his words. Then he stands, the gap between the men is reduced to inches.
He bends his head slightly, lips brushing against Arthur’s ear, as he whispers, “And how exactly do I frustrate you?”
Arthur kisses him then, hard enough that they end up backing into the desk, the thin wire frames of Eames’ glasses pressing lines into his cheeks. Eames’ hands wind into Arthur’s hair, fingers curling when their tongues meet. Arthur’s hands are pulling at the layers of Eames’ vest and shirt, and they break apart momentarily so that his long fingers can do the work properly.
The vest is thrown aside, and Arthur kisses along his throat, as he unbuttons the shirt with alacrity. Their hips grind together, and Eames doesn’t know if he’s ever been this hard before, and attempts to say so, but it comes out as a groan because Arthur is licking his nipple.
Eames grabs his hips, holding him against him with one strong hand on his ass, the other trying to figure out the infernal buckle of Arthur’s belt. He manages, and rubs Arthur through the cotton of his briefs, making him buck against his hand. Their mouths are on each other again, and they’re nearly panting for breath.
Arthur pulls away first, eyes never leaving Eames’, lips swollen and looking well ravaged. “Mr. Eames, please don’t disappoint me, because I want very badly to fuck you right now.”
“Arthur, you charmer, you,” Eames says, breathless, and not meaning the sarcasm.
He’s glad they’re nearly on top of his desk, because he is able to lean back, stretching for his drawers. His hips tilt upwards, and Arthur takes the opportunity to run his hands along the length of him through his trousers. Eames groans, and his hand gropes about for a few minutes in his top right drawer as Arthur deftly unzips his fly. Arthur sinks to his knees, nipping at the skin above his boxers. Finally, he frees Eames’ cock, running his tongue along its length, licking at his slit, using his thumb to spread precum and saliva over the sensitive head. He sucks Eames’ cock into his mouth, all of it, too quick for Eames to do anything but gasp silently, and then lets it pop out, replacing it with two of his own fingers.
When he feels those slick fingers pressing gently at his asshole, Eames remembers what he was looking for, but it’s difficult to concentrate with Arthur’s tongue on his dick and those long digits inside him.
The tiny bottle of lube nearly hits Arthur in the head; Arthur gives Eames’ cock one last long lick before he stands. Eames sits properly on his desk, scooting forward as far as he can, hands gripping the side of the desk. Watching Arthur fist his erection, knowing exactly what is coming next, his own cock jumps.
Arthur enters him slowly, but without stopping and he can already tell it’s going to be over quickly. Eames’ hands are all over him now, clutching at his waistcoat, jerking himself off, further messing up his hair. He tries to keep it deliberate as he builds a rhythm but they’re both so far gone that he can’t help but speed up.
“Fuck, Arthur. There!” Eames bites out before kissing him violently.
Arthur moans into his mouth as Eames comes messily between their bodies, and it sets off his own orgasm, the world fading black and then back again. He regains his eyesight slowly, focusing on the crook of Eames’ neck, where he’s buried his head.
Eames’ arms are still wrapped around him, the stubble of his cheek brushing gently across his ear.
“Darling, if you don’t mind me asking, was it the glasses or the Russian futurists that brought this on?”
Arthur laughs into the hot skin of his lover’s shoulder. “Both. No,” he allows himself a moment of whimsical affection and kisses along the ink of Eames’ tattoo, “neither.”