(no subject)
arthur/eames (inception)
nc-17
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Two hours from now, a British man who swears he knows him, will find him being pushed out of the passenger’s seat of an old silver Sudan, clothed knees scraping against the hard concrete on the sidewalk, rubble being pressed into the palms of his hands as his dull fingernails climb against the terrain and he tries to stand.
Two hours from now, he’ll stumble four times in an attempt to straighten his back and when he tries to take two steps forward, he’ll feel his body give out and he’ll close his eyes to try and block out the feeling of his face hitting the pavement. Only the heat of pain never comes and there are strong arms propping him up, up, and up, until he’s flat on his feet and staring at a man he’s never seen before.
Two hours from now, the man won’t break eye contact with him as he tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes and asks, “Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?” with a tone that’s supposed to be strong and assured, but he can sense that underlying panic within each syllable.
Two hours from now, Neil will smirk and blood will pour from the corner’s of his lips as he attempts to speak, but nothing gushes from his throat but thick, red, liquid.
Two hours from now, the man’s mouth will turn his lips up in disgust but he won’t let Neil go. He won’t let Neil fall. He just removes one hand from under his arm and wipes at his lips with his finger, coating his own digit with his blood and staring at the stain as if he Neil doesn’t have the capability to bleed.
Two hours from now he’ll tell him, “Arthur, you’re bleeding.”
Two hours from now he’ll open his mouth to tell him he’s not Arthur, he’s Neil, but the only thing he can spit is blood all over his atrocious, bright, paisley shirt, painting the yellow with red spots.
Two hours from now he won’t stop trying to speak and he’ll open his mouth to apologize but nothing but a choked sound passes through his lips and he feels his eyelids begin to flutter close before his entire world goes black.
.
“I don’t remember anything from last night.”
“What’s that, love?”
“I don’t remember anything from last night.”
“Well. There’s really nothing to remember.”
.
Two days from now, Eames will be shaken awake by the feeling of something hot and wet wrapped around his dick. He’ll instinctively thrust up his hips, the tip of his cock grazing against the back of what he knows to be someone’s throat. He’ll roll his head back in ecstasy, the hands on his hips just there for leverage and not to keep him pinned to the mattress.
Two days from now, Eames will come in what he thinks is his boyfriend’s throat.
Two days from now, the tie around his eyes will be loosened and fall to his chest. He’ll open his eyes, still clouded with a heavy gaze of lust and he’ll say, “That was fantastic Arthur,” to the grinning man straddling his waist.
Two days from now, that grin will falter, but only for a moment, before Neil opens his mouth and with a southern twang the words, “I always hated that fucking name: Arthur,” fall out.
Two days from now, Eames will blink up at him suspiciously, dart his eyes about the room before he says, “Well you could always change it if you really wanted to.”
Two days from now, Neil will let out a small snort that’s half-amused and half-annoyed, before he removes himself from the bed. He’ll stretch in his position at the side of the bed, wearing nothing but a too small t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, half-hard underneath them. His eyes will skate across the room, inspecting every little detail before he says, “Hey, you got any coffee in this place?”
Two days from now, Eames will say, “You know I hate coffee. But I’ve got plenty of tea.”
Two days from now, Neil will scoff in definite annoyance. Under his breath he’ll mutter something that sounds like, “Fucking pansy British assholes and their tea,” as he grabs a pair of jeans that are thrown carelessly onto the bedroom floor.
Two days from now, he’ll struggle to slide the impossibly constricting jeans onto his slim frame, but manage with a little adjusting. He’ll smooth his hands down the front of his thighs before he exits the bedroom.
Two days from now, Eames will call out, “Arthur?! Arthur, what are you doing love?” and will receive no answer but the loud bang of the front door slamming shut.
.
“Eames?”
“Hm?”
“Did I come home last night? From the bar? did I come home with you?”
“No, Arthur, you didn’t. You ran into some friend and decided to spend the night catching up.”
“Oh. Well. He must’ve been some friend.”
nc-17
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Two hours from now, a British man who swears he knows him, will find him being pushed out of the passenger’s seat of an old silver Sudan, clothed knees scraping against the hard concrete on the sidewalk, rubble being pressed into the palms of his hands as his dull fingernails climb against the terrain and he tries to stand.
Two hours from now, he’ll stumble four times in an attempt to straighten his back and when he tries to take two steps forward, he’ll feel his body give out and he’ll close his eyes to try and block out the feeling of his face hitting the pavement. Only the heat of pain never comes and there are strong arms propping him up, up, and up, until he’s flat on his feet and staring at a man he’s never seen before.
Two hours from now, the man won’t break eye contact with him as he tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes and asks, “Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?” with a tone that’s supposed to be strong and assured, but he can sense that underlying panic within each syllable.
Two hours from now, Neil will smirk and blood will pour from the corner’s of his lips as he attempts to speak, but nothing gushes from his throat but thick, red, liquid.
Two hours from now, the man’s mouth will turn his lips up in disgust but he won’t let Neil go. He won’t let Neil fall. He just removes one hand from under his arm and wipes at his lips with his finger, coating his own digit with his blood and staring at the stain as if he Neil doesn’t have the capability to bleed.
Two hours from now he’ll tell him, “Arthur, you’re bleeding.”
Two hours from now he’ll open his mouth to tell him he’s not Arthur, he’s Neil, but the only thing he can spit is blood all over his atrocious, bright, paisley shirt, painting the yellow with red spots.
Two hours from now he won’t stop trying to speak and he’ll open his mouth to apologize but nothing but a choked sound passes through his lips and he feels his eyelids begin to flutter close before his entire world goes black.
.
“I don’t remember anything from last night.”
“What’s that, love?”
“I don’t remember anything from last night.”
“Well. There’s really nothing to remember.”
.
Two days from now, Eames will be shaken awake by the feeling of something hot and wet wrapped around his dick. He’ll instinctively thrust up his hips, the tip of his cock grazing against the back of what he knows to be someone’s throat. He’ll roll his head back in ecstasy, the hands on his hips just there for leverage and not to keep him pinned to the mattress.
Two days from now, Eames will come in what he thinks is his boyfriend’s throat.
Two days from now, the tie around his eyes will be loosened and fall to his chest. He’ll open his eyes, still clouded with a heavy gaze of lust and he’ll say, “That was fantastic Arthur,” to the grinning man straddling his waist.
Two days from now, that grin will falter, but only for a moment, before Neil opens his mouth and with a southern twang the words, “I always hated that fucking name: Arthur,” fall out.
Two days from now, Eames will blink up at him suspiciously, dart his eyes about the room before he says, “Well you could always change it if you really wanted to.”
Two days from now, Neil will let out a small snort that’s half-amused and half-annoyed, before he removes himself from the bed. He’ll stretch in his position at the side of the bed, wearing nothing but a too small t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, half-hard underneath them. His eyes will skate across the room, inspecting every little detail before he says, “Hey, you got any coffee in this place?”
Two days from now, Eames will say, “You know I hate coffee. But I’ve got plenty of tea.”
Two days from now, Neil will scoff in definite annoyance. Under his breath he’ll mutter something that sounds like, “Fucking pansy British assholes and their tea,” as he grabs a pair of jeans that are thrown carelessly onto the bedroom floor.
Two days from now, he’ll struggle to slide the impossibly constricting jeans onto his slim frame, but manage with a little adjusting. He’ll smooth his hands down the front of his thighs before he exits the bedroom.
Two days from now, Eames will call out, “Arthur?! Arthur, what are you doing love?” and will receive no answer but the loud bang of the front door slamming shut.
.
“Eames?”
“Hm?”
“Did I come home last night? From the bar? did I come home with you?”
“No, Arthur, you didn’t. You ran into some friend and decided to spend the night catching up.”
“Oh. Well. He must’ve been some friend.”