Prompt: inception_kink ARTHUR SEDUCING EAMES. Gradually, over time, skillfully, without any embarrassment or flustered reactions to Eames' taunting--just the smooth, constant lure of sex until Eames is willing to do almost anything. anything. just to finally get Arthur alone.
It all starts innocently enough.
"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames." At this point he's not even sure why he says it. It just slips out, serendipitously. He does really want Mr. Eames to go to sleep. And Mr. Eames does, so obediently, with a beatific smile on his face.
Eames the forger, Eames the incorrigible flirt. Eames, quite literally the man of your dreams. He specializes in being anything to anybody. Arthur has to admit that he underestimated the guy at first. Figured he was sort of an empty shell, using his myriad of faces to distract from his lack of actual depth. But despite Eames' best efforts, little bits of his true self slip through the cracks of his devil-may-care facade. Every once in a while. He does wood carvings in his spare time. He comes from a middle-class family and did not, despite appearances, grow up on the streets. He learned how to pick pockets for fun, not out of necessity. All of this makes him interesting. A quandary.
Eames teases Arthur and Arthur teases Eames. They both have their weaknesses but they're not so weak they can't take a little criticism. And they're not too proud to help each other or to accept each other's help when the time is right. They work so well together, like two gears fitting together just-so, tooth in groove, over and over again, around and around.
Lately, Arthur's been watching him. He wonders if the "real Eames" is another elaborate forgery, if his carefree saunter and playful banter is just an act. A ploy. When he sits he slouches, but not as shy people do, trying to shut the world out. he slouches backwards and outwards, knees spread, comfortable in his skin and inviting you to be, as well. All of a sudden one day Arthur gets the image of Eames disrobing at a non-nude beach and all the other beachgoers shrugging off their clothes as well, because that's the sort of effect he has on people. He looks like someone who would be immensely comfortable naked.
He looks less comfortable in those loose, thrift-store-chic ensembles he insists on wearing all the time. But there is one thing about Eames that's always in tip top shape, and so Arthur decides to start there and work his way up.
"I like your shoes," he says, simply.
Eames starts. He doesn't expect a compliment from Arthur, much less on something as incongruous as his shoes. He does like his shoes. He keeps them well-polished and well-maintained, because they were expensive shoes, and if he has to spend another penny of his gambling fund on new shoes he'll be very unhappy.
"Thank you," he says simply.
And Arthur smiles.
The next week it's his trousers.
Not even Arthur, with all his studied disinterest, can say "nice pants" without it sounding a little bit dirty. So Eames raises his eyebrows.
"Cotton?" Arthur adds.
Arthur knows they're cotton. Eames knows that Arthur knows they're cotton because Arthur helped him buy this suit, before he infiltrated Fischer Co. It's the barest of hints, but it's there.
Almost unconsciously, he leans forward in his chair. Someone's taken over the stereo in the corner of the warehouse - Eames assumes Ariadne, though the style of the song doesn't fit anyone's musical tastes that he knows of. Slow and sultry and a little bit country. The singer breathes audibly into the microphone while he waxes poetic about a big sky country. Arthur writes in his moleskine notebook, his hand traveling fluidly across the page.
On a bed of roses in the big sky country
Spread out to love you
Love you in my second skin
Eames wants so badly to tease Arthur about looking at his pants, but his mouth is suddenly dry, very dry, like he drank too much tea before breakfast and his tongue has turned to cotton.
So just watch them lovers out on parade
Watching lovers while they slip and slide
They gonna' prove it to the big sky country
They gonna' prove it while the whole world collides
Eames perks up. The air between them is alive with expectation, like the moment between a flash of lightning and a thunderclap.
"I haven't seen that one before."
This is a blatant lie. Eames knows this because Arthur once made fun of it before, because it was black and he wore it with grey trousers, which was apparently the fashion equivalent of blowing your nose on someone else's shirt. But it is a nice belt, shiny and sleek, the buckle a comfortable place to rest his thumb while he dreams.
"Yes you have," Eames says, throwing caution to the winds. "You've seen it before."
"Oh," says Arthur lightly, looking up from the computer. "I guess...I never really noticed."
His eyes linger and Eames is absolutely sure now what game's being played. He just doesn't know what his next move is. "Stop ogling me," he teases gently, but that probably wasn't the right thing to say. Arthur just smiles at the floor.
That night Eames strokes himself off desperately in the shower but it doesn't really ease the hunger that's buried deep in his solar plexus. Later he tries again. And again. And then he stops not because he is satisfied but because he is sore and exhausted and he can't clench his fist anymore. He thinks about Arthur's lithe body naked beneath him, ragged and sticky with sweat, panting out his pleasure. He thinks about this as he lies in bed, trying to sleep, his cock still painfully hard beneath the sheet.
The desperate arousal of last week is now nothing but a fuzzy memory, so Eames thinks he is safe until Arthur's eyes fix on his torso. And he thinks: here it comes, equal parts dreading and needing it.
"That shirt," he says, the words pouring from his lips in an impossibly erotic way, "fits you like a dream."
And Eames has to sit down before someone notices his cock twitching instantly to life.
Maybe Arthur notices this; maybe he doesn't. It's hard to hide anything from Arthur because he always seems to position himself in the best vantage point. Today he is sitting with his back to the room, but a slab of mirror on the wall in front of him gives him a perfect view of everything that happens in it.
Oh, what the hell.
Eames lounges back in his usual posture, casually, the only difference being the tent in his trousers. There's no use in pretending. And an erection is nothing to be ashamed of.
Yusuf wanders into the room at one point. He's forever leaving a trail of belongings behind him and going back to pick up after himself, bit by bit, as he remembers the things he's lost. Classic scientist. And also classic scientist is the way he fails to pick up on the palpable sexual tension in the room, which anyone else would have. But Yusuf gets all the way to Arthur's desk before he notices the clenched white knuckles of the point man's hands, how he's met eyes with Eames in the mirror and is just staring. How Eames' pupils are so big he looks possessed. Oh, and the massive hard-on.
Quietly, Yusuf backs out of the room.
It's Arthur who leaves first. After presumably willing his own erection down to a managable bulge using only the power of his mind, he brushes past Eames, and just when the forger thinks he won't even acknowledge him, Arthur reaches out, catches a handful of his hair and grasps on, pulling Eames' head back to rest against the chair as he walks by. His fingers caress ever-so-slightly, then he releases just as suddenly and is gone.
Eames moans softly to the empty room, his hand compulsively grasping at his still over-sensitized cock, coming convulsively inside his trousers, thrusting hopelessly into nothing.
Three weeks go by with no more comments from Arthur, and Eames is beginning to suspect he's run out of nice things to say. Until that rainy Saturday, Arthur absorbed in his work as always, and Eames loitering because he's Eames and has nothing better to do. And he is hopeful. Or just horny. Or both.
"I guess you won't be playing any golf today."
Eames looks up sharply. "What?"
"Your tie." Arthur's still not meeting his eyes. "It has golfers on it."
Eames looks down; so it does. "Oh," he says. "It was a-"
In one movement, so fast he's not even sure how it happened, Arthur has grabbed him by that godforsaken ugly tie and pulled him close. Very close. Their lips can't quite touch but he can feel Arthur's breaths on his mouth.
Then, just as abruptly, he ducks his head away and releases him. Eames is breathing hard, cock twitching and swelling in his pants, and he could go over there and grab him and no no that would be letting him win.
Letting him win? What kind of insanity was that? This wasn't a game.
Oh, except - it really was.
Bluntness has often worked for Eames in the past. So the next day he says:
"I don't know what you want from me."
Arthur looks annoyed, hunched over his desk. "What?"
"I said, I don't know what you want from me."
"I want you to shut the hell up so I can work."
Eames is nothing if not persistent. Some would say stubborn, but, well, that's their opinion. He leans one hand on the desk, simultaneously looming over and melding with Arthur's tightly curled body. Of course it backfires horribly, because now he can't tear himself away. He wins a little though, in that Arthur's body relaxes and melts back into him.
"I don't know-" Eames starts to repeat again, but Arthur holds up a finger. Shush.
Then he says: "Just a little common courtesy."
It takes Eames a whole day and a half to figure it out.
At first he takes it for another brush-off, until inspiration strikes and he decides to throw in the towel, because, hell, it was only a half-loss anyway, because Arthur practically handed it to him on a silver platter.
He catches Arthur by the wrist as he's walking by; he's slumping in his chair the way he does, and Arthur's nostrils flare.
Eames licks his lips. He's not a complete idiot; he knows they're his best feature. Those lips had gotten him out of so many kinds of trouble, and into so many different kinds of trouble.
And then he says it.
They're on the floor in a tangle of limbs before Eames even knows what's happening. "Jesus Christ, Arthur-" he tries to say at one point, but then he finds it difficult to talk around the tongue winding its way through his mouth. Buttons go flying. Arthur grabs him by the hair again and pulls him up on his knees, standing as he does so, until he can nudge his cock into Eames' mouth, and Eames doesn't even get a chance to look at it properly before it's jamming against his soft palate. He makes soft choking noises while Arthur fucks his mouth, Arthur's fingers winding through his hair, Eames grabbing every part of Arthur's body he can reach.
Arthur comes with a louder noise than Eames would have expected. He chokes a little but manages to swallow without embarrassing himself, and this is ridiculous because it's not like he's an amateur but it's all happening so fast.
"I knew you'd cave." These are the first words out of Arthur's mouth, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Oh, no. No. He did not just...no.
With a snarl, Eames flips him on his back, straddling his waist, holding him down while Arthur struggles half-heartedly. He's still smiling.
"I caved?" he almost-but-not-quite whispers, his voice a low rumble in the back of his throat. He knows how Arthur reacts to his voice, has seen it before, and now the reaction is more pronounced - the point man's Adam's apple bobs visibly in his throat as he swallows. Hard. "You practically threw yourself at me."
Arthur looks like he would shrug if he could move his arms. "Whatever you have to tell yourself."
Eames sits back, releasing Arthur's arms, giving him a chance to escape. He just lies there, laughing in his eyes. So Eames reaches into his pocket, and being Eames, he was prepared for this moment. He sets two small objects on the floor beside them.
Arthur twists his head to look. "Is that a tiny bottle of lube?"
Eames smiles. "All part of the plan."
"There was a plan?" Arthur doesn't sound taken aback by this, more amused that Eames planned out anything more complicated than what to have for breakfast.
"More of a..." Eames is undoing his trousers, smoothly unrolling the condom, coating himself in lubricant. It shouldn't be sexy but he sees Arthur watching him intently as he does this. "...general outline."
He whips Arthur's pants all the way off, tossing them to the side, and Arthur rolls his eyes but it doesn't really seem to bother him. Wonders never cease. With one slick finger, Eames tests to see if Arthur's ready for him. Arthur gasps, his eyelids flutter, but he doesn't stop smiling.
And even as Eames lifts Arthur's hips and glides inside him, the slippery heat so intoxicating Eames is clawing at the point man's skin for a grip on reality, the smile doesn't go away. Even with his knees up on Eames' shoulders, thrusting back at him wantonly, he's still got that smug fucking expression on his face.
Just when he's starting to think Arthur's face actually got stuck that way, he tilts his pelvis a little, hits a slightly different spot, and there it is. Arthur's smile melts away as his mouth falls open in a silent scream and his whole body arches back, up, out. And Eames thinks, maybe nobody won, exactly, but it was at least a draw. And he comes like a fucking freight train, his fingers leaving angry red marks in white flesh as he lets out a hoarse yell.
Arthur bites his bottom lip as Eames withdraws, and then a smile starts creeping back. But it's not a knowing smile or a smile that says fuck you, I won. It's pure pleasure and gratitude, the smile of a man who didn't really care who was wrong and who was right.
They lie together on the cold floor, rain crashing on the metal roof far above their heads. Eames thinks maybe he lost after all, because when he looks at Arthur's half-closed eyes, his body curled up happily against Eames' side, he thinks he'd probably do anything for the boy.
Strange thing was, he didn't really mind.
This might be the very first story I've written that blatantly references both Secretary and Superbad. I impress myself sometimes with my own lameness.