Play Me and Put Me Away - Inception - NC-17
Title: Play Me and Put Me Away
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,582 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Eames gets Arthur on Skype in the middle of a job. Arthur doesn't hang up on him.
Note: Pure, unadulterated porn. Title taken from 'Hands All Over' by Maroon 5.
What are you doing? pops up in the corner of Arthur's Gmail. It's Eames. Arthur's not doing anything, or he wouldn't be in Gmail.
Waiting for the architect to decide if venetian blinds are too gauche, probably, Arthur types back.
Good. Put your headphones in and get on skype. And well, Arthur shouldn't, but he does anyway.
"Why, hello there, Arthur," Eames says, like he hadn't just ordered him to get on. A moment later the video starts up. Eames doesn't appear to be wearing a shirt, so Arthur can just barely see the black curl of ink at Eames's collarbone.
"I am theoretically working, so what's up?" Arthur says.
Eames arches one sardonic eyebrow at him. Arthur can practically hear the really terrible dirty joke hanging in the silence. He doesn't turn his own camera on.
"Headphones in then, yes?"
"Eames," Arthur says, suddenly feeling like something is stuck in his throat, making it hard to breathe. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, pushing the tightness in his chest out with it.
"Yes, Arthur?" Eames asks, far too sweetly.
"Eames, what are you doing?"
"Oh, Arthur, you know. You know exactly." Arthur's face flames up right away, and he's glad the only person who’d be able to see him is under right now, thirty minutes on the clock, because Arthur does know. He's half hard at just the thought. Eames is going to get himself off and Arthur will listen to him do it. Arthur will just have to sit there, right out in the open in the warehouse in the middle of a job, and hope no one wandering by figures out what he's doing.
The camera shakes and shifts and zooms then, and Arthur loses his view. When it finally settles, Eames has the camera angled badly, on purpose, because he’s a cock tease. The only thing Arthur can see is Eames’s mouth, but that’s more than enough. He’s not even doing anything overtly obscene, not on camera. Arthur just knows him--knows what he’s doing to himself when his lips part, wet and red, as he gasps for breath. Arthur can picture it all, Eames’s thighs spread, the head of his cock wet and red like his lips, peeking out between his fingers as he pulls himself off.
When Eames bites the edge of one full lip, he’s pushing that first slick finger in, and Arthur stops breathing for a moment, chest tight with it, with the way Eames always is like this, spread out and gorgeous. Arthur can’t see the way Eames looks with a finger pushing slow and inexorable into himself, with the way he’s relentless, the way he leans back into it, but he knows what that looks like; Arthur’s got it burned into his brain.
Eames’s teeth finally release; he’s in, starting the slow stretch and burn as he fucks himself open, and Arthur sucks in a grateful breath, like the release of pressure’s his instead of Eames’s. Arthur can't tear his eyes away from the screen, even though he knows he should minimize it in case someone walks behind him. The extractor's out, though, and the architect's under, and the chemist is in one of her mental zones, where she's so focused on tweaking the blend she's working on that she only leaves to eat and sleep if Arthur makes her. Arthur leaves the window up and watches Eames’s tongue flick out over the corner of his mouth.
Arthur makes a noise at that, can't hold it in. Eames must hear him, because he breaks into a grin and says, "Oh, did you like that, Arthur?" He licks, very deliberately, at the corner of his mouth again.
Arthur mutes his mic.
"Don't be like that pet," Eames says, full lips pouting. He's doing it for show, the ass. He just wants Arthur to think about those gorgeous lips wrapped around his cock. Arthur doesn't turn his mic back on.
No fucking way, he types. There are other people here.
"Fine, have your way," Eames says, like he thought it was going to go any other way. Like he didn't know--just like Arthur could hang up if he didn't want this--that he wasn't going to get sound when he started playing this game.
It's quiet for a long moment, and Arthur strains to listen, trying to figure out what Eames is doing. He can feel the sweat starting to prickle between his shoulder blades, eyes locked on the view he's got of Eames's mouth. The silence is killing him, the open video window that’s telling him nothing now doing nothing to help. Arthur focuses on the static in his ears, his mind supplying all the things Eames could be doing, all the things he's not getting to see, or hear, or touch.
Eames, spread out on the bed, head tilted to the side so he can see the screen, so the camera catches his face. Knees bent, one hand on his cock and one hand further down, working himself open. Or, Eames curled up in the desk chair, one leg thrown up over the desk to hold himself open so he has space to work. Fingers pushing into himself slowly, savouring it. Teasing, like he's teasing Arthur.
And then Eames gasps, and it's so loud in Arthur's ears that he almost swears aloud, teeth caught on the f. That's it; one tiny little sound, and Arthur's losing it. Eames is going to kill him.
Eames hips start rocking. Arthur knows even though he's still being quiet because of the way the picture moves. Steady little thrusts, slow and shallow. Arthur swallows, hyperaware of his cock in his pants. Of how hard he is, how much he wants to just fuck into Eames.
Their extractor comes back--noisy, careless. Arthur jerks, dropping one of the ear buds and then fumbling stupidly trying to get it back in. Fuck, Arthur types once he has, Fuck, fuck, extractor's back. The extractor settles over into 'his' part of the work area, digging out a pile of notes and shuffling through them.
"Oh? Oh, do you want to stop, then?" Eames says, sly. He moans, broken, right after, the way he does when something hits his prostate just right. Arthur shivers, and types, No, keep going.
"Oh, fuck yes," Eames says, breathless. Another sound catches in his throat, and Arthur's own throat tightens up again as he tries to control his breathing. "Fuck, if you'd wanted to stop, you'd have had to hang up on me. I wouldn't be able to stop now, need it too much."
Christ, what are you doing to me? Arthur types, fingers moving almost angrily over the keys. Desperation, that's what it is. He's so hard, and he's getting no relief. He wants to pull his fly down, just jam a hand down into the clean cut of his trousers and fuck up into his fist. Instead, Arthur concentrates on the muscles in his back, on making them relax one by one. Eames gasps, mouth open, this totally thoughtless sound, and undoes all the work Arthur had done.
Arthur knows the instant Eames reads the message, because he groans, and the camera jerks. Eames fucking into himself harder, deeper. It's all intent now, no more teasing. "Fuck, you should be here," Eames says. "You should be fucking me, oh fuck, oh fuck, fucking-" and then breaks off with these great heaving gasps. He's so close, and he's fighting it--Arthur knows by the way he's breathing--and he's going to break Arthur like his.
Arthur clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other, and breathes hard through his nose. "Christ, I need to hear you, Arthur. Want to feel you, want you here touching me. Ah- oh fuck, yes, fuck, come on. Fuck me right proper, fuck me till I'm-" Eames's voice chokes as he comes, strangles up into this noise Arthur can't describe but goes straight to his cock anyway. Twists up into this silence so tense that Arthur catches himself leaning forward into it, towards the computer screen.
When Eames finally shudders a breath in, all the muscles in Arthur's shoulders relax. He's harder than he thinks he's ever been; amazed, in a way, that he can be this turned on just from listening to Eames. He sucks in a shaky breath of his own, and resists the need burning in his bones to just rub off right there, behind the flimsy cover of his desk.
The camera zooms back out, so Arthur's got a view of Eames's head and shoulders, the flush on his chest. The camera quality isn't good enough for him to see the sheen of sweat over Eames's body, and Arthur's not sure if he's grateful for it or annoyed about it. Eames lifts a hand to his mouth and makes a big show of sucking at his fingers, licking come off it Arthur realizes, with a shudder. Fuck. "Hurry home," Eames says, and signs off. The bastard. The fucking bastard.
Arthur shifts in his seat, and the seam of his pants rub up against him in a delicious, frustrating frisson. Arthur gasps, and stops his hips from snapping forward into nothing by sheer force of will. He takes a deep breath, and then another, until he's calmer, until he doesn't feel like the smallest movement might set him off. This is going to be the longest work day of Arthur's life.
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,582 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Eames gets Arthur on Skype in the middle of a job. Arthur doesn't hang up on him.
Note: Pure, unadulterated porn. Title taken from 'Hands All Over' by Maroon 5.
What are you doing? pops up in the corner of Arthur's Gmail. It's Eames. Arthur's not doing anything, or he wouldn't be in Gmail.
Waiting for the architect to decide if venetian blinds are too gauche, probably, Arthur types back.
Good. Put your headphones in and get on skype. And well, Arthur shouldn't, but he does anyway.
"Why, hello there, Arthur," Eames says, like he hadn't just ordered him to get on. A moment later the video starts up. Eames doesn't appear to be wearing a shirt, so Arthur can just barely see the black curl of ink at Eames's collarbone.
"I am theoretically working, so what's up?" Arthur says.
Eames arches one sardonic eyebrow at him. Arthur can practically hear the really terrible dirty joke hanging in the silence. He doesn't turn his own camera on.
"Headphones in then, yes?"
"Eames," Arthur says, suddenly feeling like something is stuck in his throat, making it hard to breathe. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, pushing the tightness in his chest out with it.
"Yes, Arthur?" Eames asks, far too sweetly.
"Eames, what are you doing?"
"Oh, Arthur, you know. You know exactly." Arthur's face flames up right away, and he's glad the only person who’d be able to see him is under right now, thirty minutes on the clock, because Arthur does know. He's half hard at just the thought. Eames is going to get himself off and Arthur will listen to him do it. Arthur will just have to sit there, right out in the open in the warehouse in the middle of a job, and hope no one wandering by figures out what he's doing.
The camera shakes and shifts and zooms then, and Arthur loses his view. When it finally settles, Eames has the camera angled badly, on purpose, because he’s a cock tease. The only thing Arthur can see is Eames’s mouth, but that’s more than enough. He’s not even doing anything overtly obscene, not on camera. Arthur just knows him--knows what he’s doing to himself when his lips part, wet and red, as he gasps for breath. Arthur can picture it all, Eames’s thighs spread, the head of his cock wet and red like his lips, peeking out between his fingers as he pulls himself off.
When Eames bites the edge of one full lip, he’s pushing that first slick finger in, and Arthur stops breathing for a moment, chest tight with it, with the way Eames always is like this, spread out and gorgeous. Arthur can’t see the way Eames looks with a finger pushing slow and inexorable into himself, with the way he’s relentless, the way he leans back into it, but he knows what that looks like; Arthur’s got it burned into his brain.
Eames’s teeth finally release; he’s in, starting the slow stretch and burn as he fucks himself open, and Arthur sucks in a grateful breath, like the release of pressure’s his instead of Eames’s. Arthur can't tear his eyes away from the screen, even though he knows he should minimize it in case someone walks behind him. The extractor's out, though, and the architect's under, and the chemist is in one of her mental zones, where she's so focused on tweaking the blend she's working on that she only leaves to eat and sleep if Arthur makes her. Arthur leaves the window up and watches Eames’s tongue flick out over the corner of his mouth.
Arthur makes a noise at that, can't hold it in. Eames must hear him, because he breaks into a grin and says, "Oh, did you like that, Arthur?" He licks, very deliberately, at the corner of his mouth again.
Arthur mutes his mic.
"Don't be like that pet," Eames says, full lips pouting. He's doing it for show, the ass. He just wants Arthur to think about those gorgeous lips wrapped around his cock. Arthur doesn't turn his mic back on.
No fucking way, he types. There are other people here.
"Fine, have your way," Eames says, like he thought it was going to go any other way. Like he didn't know--just like Arthur could hang up if he didn't want this--that he wasn't going to get sound when he started playing this game.
It's quiet for a long moment, and Arthur strains to listen, trying to figure out what Eames is doing. He can feel the sweat starting to prickle between his shoulder blades, eyes locked on the view he's got of Eames's mouth. The silence is killing him, the open video window that’s telling him nothing now doing nothing to help. Arthur focuses on the static in his ears, his mind supplying all the things Eames could be doing, all the things he's not getting to see, or hear, or touch.
Eames, spread out on the bed, head tilted to the side so he can see the screen, so the camera catches his face. Knees bent, one hand on his cock and one hand further down, working himself open. Or, Eames curled up in the desk chair, one leg thrown up over the desk to hold himself open so he has space to work. Fingers pushing into himself slowly, savouring it. Teasing, like he's teasing Arthur.
And then Eames gasps, and it's so loud in Arthur's ears that he almost swears aloud, teeth caught on the f. That's it; one tiny little sound, and Arthur's losing it. Eames is going to kill him.
Eames hips start rocking. Arthur knows even though he's still being quiet because of the way the picture moves. Steady little thrusts, slow and shallow. Arthur swallows, hyperaware of his cock in his pants. Of how hard he is, how much he wants to just fuck into Eames.
Their extractor comes back--noisy, careless. Arthur jerks, dropping one of the ear buds and then fumbling stupidly trying to get it back in. Fuck, Arthur types once he has, Fuck, fuck, extractor's back. The extractor settles over into 'his' part of the work area, digging out a pile of notes and shuffling through them.
"Oh? Oh, do you want to stop, then?" Eames says, sly. He moans, broken, right after, the way he does when something hits his prostate just right. Arthur shivers, and types, No, keep going.
"Oh, fuck yes," Eames says, breathless. Another sound catches in his throat, and Arthur's own throat tightens up again as he tries to control his breathing. "Fuck, if you'd wanted to stop, you'd have had to hang up on me. I wouldn't be able to stop now, need it too much."
Christ, what are you doing to me? Arthur types, fingers moving almost angrily over the keys. Desperation, that's what it is. He's so hard, and he's getting no relief. He wants to pull his fly down, just jam a hand down into the clean cut of his trousers and fuck up into his fist. Instead, Arthur concentrates on the muscles in his back, on making them relax one by one. Eames gasps, mouth open, this totally thoughtless sound, and undoes all the work Arthur had done.
Arthur knows the instant Eames reads the message, because he groans, and the camera jerks. Eames fucking into himself harder, deeper. It's all intent now, no more teasing. "Fuck, you should be here," Eames says. "You should be fucking me, oh fuck, oh fuck, fucking-" and then breaks off with these great heaving gasps. He's so close, and he's fighting it--Arthur knows by the way he's breathing--and he's going to break Arthur like his.
Arthur clenches his jaw, teeth grinding against each other, and breathes hard through his nose. "Christ, I need to hear you, Arthur. Want to feel you, want you here touching me. Ah- oh fuck, yes, fuck, come on. Fuck me right proper, fuck me till I'm-" Eames's voice chokes as he comes, strangles up into this noise Arthur can't describe but goes straight to his cock anyway. Twists up into this silence so tense that Arthur catches himself leaning forward into it, towards the computer screen.
When Eames finally shudders a breath in, all the muscles in Arthur's shoulders relax. He's harder than he thinks he's ever been; amazed, in a way, that he can be this turned on just from listening to Eames. He sucks in a shaky breath of his own, and resists the need burning in his bones to just rub off right there, behind the flimsy cover of his desk.
The camera zooms back out, so Arthur's got a view of Eames's head and shoulders, the flush on his chest. The camera quality isn't good enough for him to see the sheen of sweat over Eames's body, and Arthur's not sure if he's grateful for it or annoyed about it. Eames lifts a hand to his mouth and makes a big show of sucking at his fingers, licking come off it Arthur realizes, with a shudder. Fuck. "Hurry home," Eames says, and signs off. The bastard. The fucking bastard.
Arthur shifts in his seat, and the seam of his pants rub up against him in a delicious, frustrating frisson. Arthur gasps, and stops his hips from snapping forward into nothing by sheer force of will. He takes a deep breath, and then another, until he's calmer, until he doesn't feel like the smallest movement might set him off. This is going to be the longest work day of Arthur's life.