I Wanna Scream it From the Top of My Lungs [fic]
Title: I Wanna Scream It From the Top of My Lungs
Rating: M (yeah, very, very M)
Synopsis: Arthur and Eames are officially fed up with each other.
This is off of a prompt from the Inception Kink Meme by the lovely galadriel1618, who writes killer prompts.
Arthur sends Eames insulting text messages in a language he doesn’t understand. Eames being Eames just makes shit up that it could be that is of course totally off the mark and enjoys going to Arthur and forcing him to listen until Arthur gets frustrated and tells him he’s wrong and to go away. Eventually Arthur starts sending him dirty text messages, and Eames still doesn’t know. But when Eames’ guesses become a lot less raunchy and with Arthur’s texts becoming just that, he gives in and tells Eames exactly what they mean. This obviously needs to end in hot sex. And Eames being turned on and more than a bit surprised by how filthy Arthur’s mind is.
Bonus points if at the end, someone who can read the language Arthur is texting Eames in sees the texts and is horrified. I personally think this person should be Cobb.
Just to clarify, Arthur’s messages are in italics, and the translations are [bracketed].
Eames taps his pencil against the side of his desk relentlessly.
For some reason, the hollow, metallic clang of pencil against the desk’s metal edging is soothing to Eames: it gives him something definitive besides the hard knot of fear roiling in his stomach to focus on. It’s the worst part of a job, the interim between finishing his research and the actual extraction, and Eames always finds it to be the most challenging time - he has nothing to do but wait and sit and think and overthink and wonder what can go wrong and panic.
The buzz of Eames’ phone against his desk resonates throughout the near-empty warehouse. He jumps, startled.
Cobb had stepped out twenty minutes ago, looking for a good bar and, Eames suspected, a good fuck. Considering how much money he had stuffed into his wallet, he would not be back for a while.
Yusuf had locked himself in his office (a converted maintenance closet that, luckily, had concrete walls) and insisted that he was not to be disturbed, because he was on the verge of a very important discovery.
Typically the importance of his ‘discoveries’ (which ranged from decreasing the effects of Somnacin to a super-pot that gave one hallucinations unlike anything Eames had ever seen) was measurable by the amount of noise coming from his makeshift lab, and at the moment it sounds like he has unleashed a tornado upon his unsuspecting files: amidst the sporadic muffled explosions, the delicate chink of vials hitting concrete can plainly be heard.
So Cobb is getting laid and Yusuf experimenting, Ariadne has slept in because she worked late the past week to finish the dream and is simultaneously writing her thesis. She’d called in and yelled something to Cobb about wanting to ‘fucking sleep in for once.’
As for Arthur, his presence is made plain by the constant litany of paper-shuffling and the hushed clicks of his keyboard that Eames hears.
And the text is from Arthur, so of course Eames opens it, even thought the only things Arthur ever texts him about are meetings and work and other minutiae that Eames finds painfully boring.
But then again, you never know.
S’il vous plai vous plaît arrêter tapant que le crayon, it read. [PLEASE STOP TAPPING THAT PENCIL, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.]
Well, what the fuck. Eames may work in France, but he’s absolutely awful with languages (terrific with accents and intonation, not the languages themselves, so all that he deciphers from the cryptic message is please and crayon, and he’s pretty sure that Arthur isn’t texting him about crayons.
And he’s too lazy to look it up, his laptop has been dead for a week and where in the hell would he find a French-to-English dictionary?
“Arthur?” he yells over the back of his chair.
“Yes?”
“Why are you telling me that I suck dick on a bulk discount rate?”
Silence.
“Arthur!” Still nothing.
Unfazed, he starts tapping his pencil again.
Three and a half minutes later, he gets another text from Arthur.
Vous êtes une douleur dans le cul, this one reads. [YOU ARE A PAIN IN THE ASS.]
“Arthur, how did you know that I sucked off your mother under a table?”
Nothing.
Quick on the heels of the last text, there’s another.
Putain vous arrêter déjà [WILL YOU FUCKING STOP IT ALREADY?]
“No, I don’t let people lick my balls at work, Arthur, you should know that! But for you, I’d make an exception!”
And then, scarcely a minute later:
nom de Dieu arrêter arrêter arrêter arrêter. [Goddamnit stop it stop stop stop it]
“Asking if you can do anything for me, what do you think you are, a porn star?” Eames laughs, throwing his head back out of sheer boredom rather than mirth.
“Uh-huh,” Eames mutters, once his laughter has petered out. He keeps unconsciously tapping his pencil.
Another:
Je jure de putain de dieu, je vais vous faire arrêter. [I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD, I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU STOP IT.]
“ARTHUR! HOW DID YOU NOW THAT I WANTED TO GRAB YOU BY THE TIE AND FUCK YOU HARD?” Eames yells, doubtlessly startling Arthur. He finds that he succeeded in his venture when he can hear the thump and screech of Arthur’s front chair legs hitting the floor.
But still. Silence.
Ne vous osez penser que je ne vais pas. [DON’T YOU DARE THINK I WON’T. I’M DOING MY FUCKING JOB. FUCK OFF.]
“Arthur, I’m surprised by you - I never would have guessed that you were so kinky! But seriously, if you want to do that thing with the blindfold and the pillowcase, I’m interested.”
Absolute silence pervades the warehouse; all that can be heard is Eames’ soft exhalation and the ringing tap, tap, tap of his pencil.
It’s time for Eames to change tactics now, he’s bored and a little terrified for tomorrow and feeling daring, so he creeps towards Arthur’s door and opens it softly. He walks towards the back of Arthur’s chair and stops when the edge of his untucked shirt brushes against the smooth chair leather. He rests his hands on the back of the chair and allows himself a small grin when he sees the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck rise.
“I've had it, you hear me? I can, eventually, cave too. I'll hit you and yeah, it’s probably gonna mess up your perfect haircut when I yank it down so that pretty face of yours slams against the wall…don’t look so surprised, Arthur, do you think I won’t do it?
“I know exactly where the bruises will hurt the most, and I’m also gonna suck on your hipbones, I’ve always wanted to do that, I figure here’s my chance. And sink my teeth into one until you bleed in my mouth.
“I think by this time you’ll be trying to fight me, but maybe if I shove you against your desk and you feel something hard against your back you might be surprised enough that I’ll get to rip off your shirt. Yeah, always wanted to do that too, does it scare you?
“Does it turn you on?
“And don’t worry, I’ll make sure my nails dig deep into your skin, so hard that they’ll cut through and you’ll bleed in my hands and then those marks on you will belong to me. Only me. Mine.
“You’ll be mine, for those few seconds when we’re connected by hands and cloth and blood and legs and it’ll be skin on skin and I know that you won’t, but I’ll relish it, every last second of it.
“Which is probably when you’ll turn around with that look in your eye that always tells me exactly how angry you are, right as I think how much I love the feel of you on me, and you’ll be thinking about how much you despise me, yes, I always know, Arthur, you can’t hide anything from me-“
“This-this is nothing, Eames, do you understand? Those messages mean nothing. Certainly not that,” and as Arthur says this his voice is soft, venomous, and if Eames couldn’t see the way Arthur’s shoulders hitched while he spoke, Eames would have sworn that Arthur was cool and collected, as always.
But.
“Are you sure?” asks Eames, voice dangerously light.
“It’s nothing, Eames. Just ignore it, okay?” Arthur sounds slightly annoyed.
“Sure thing!” Eames yells as he walks away, deflated, resigned.
Defeated.
When he sits down, his phone is already buzzing insistently.
A new message. From Arthur.
Je suis frustré , d'accord? Je souhaite attirer votre chaise et vous baiser la tête en bas , exécutez mes mains par le biais vos cheveux et trace la ligne de vos épaules . Mais je ne peux pas avoir cette.
[I’m frustrated, okay? I want to pull your chair back and kiss you upside-down, run my hands through your hair and trace the line of your shoulders. But I can’t have that.]
“I’ve only made out with Cobb once, nice try,” Eames says acidly.
Je ne peux penser, cependant. Je peux rester assis ici dans mon bureau et de l'image que vous, assis sur le bord de mon bureau que je annuler votre ceinture et faites glisser votre pantaloon sur vos hanches, vos yeux sont fermés et les mains serrer les bords de la réception que je vous prends dans mes la bouche, on frissonne et tremble et se tortillent et c’est putain de beau.
[I can think about it, though. I can sit here in my office and picture you, sitting on the edge of my desk as I undo your belt and slide your pants over your hips; your eyes are closed and your hands clench the edges of the desk as I take you in my mouth, you shudder and shiver and squirm and it’s fucking beautiful.]
“Okay, fine, I understand that you’re understand that you’re out of paperclips,” Eames says lazily.
Oh, mon dieu putain, Eames, je vais venir là-bas et déchirer votre chemise et lécher mon chemin dans le dos, lentement, lentement, la gestion de ma langue sur chaque bosse de la colonne vertébrale, la courbe à la petite de votre dos, et tout le temps, mes mns seront sur vos hanches, vous maintient en place, pour vous garder constante que vous tortiller en dessous de moi.
[Oh, my fucking god, Eames, I’m going to come over there and rip your shirt off and lick my way down your spine, slowly, slowly, running my tongue over each and every bump of your spine, the curve at the small of your back, and the whole time, my hands will be on your hips, holding you in place, keeping you steady as you squirm underneath me]
Eames is thoroughly annoyed at this point, so he stays silent. He does note that Arthur is disregarding actual periods this time, and it’s a humongous run-on sentence, which is a little shocking from someone as OCD about grammar as Arthur.
But he’s supposed to be annoyed, so he pretends he hasn’t noticed this.
And a last message, a run-on paragraph that a fed-up Eames doesn’t even bother to try reading.
[And I won’t bother with fingers. I’ll just take you, hard, so that tomorrow you’ll still hurt but you won’t care about that either, the feeling of me inside of you will be too much to care about anything, anything but me, and fuck, how good you’ll feel, so goddamn good I might just shout your name, and when I come inside of you you’ll come too, somehow lost in the ecstatic shock but still feeling your hands around my waist, yeah, those large hot hands so warm and strong, fingers gripping flesh as you convulse around me, and over me, all around me.]
Eames sits in a dead silence, devoid of texts, for a grand total of fourteen minutes and fifty-four seconds; it’s so damn quiet in the warehouse that not only is the sound of his soft breathing audible, but he can faintly hear Arthur in the next room.
“I don’t even care what you’re going to say,” says Arthur, materializing behind him with a hand held palm-out between them. Eames manages not to jump, but he swears to himself, if Arthur does that again, the first fucking thing he’s going to do is put ankle bells on the son of a bitch.
“Okay, Eames, you win,” Arthur says resignedly, and with a sigh of utter dejection he flops languidly into the chair across the desk from Eames. No, he flops, literally falling into the chair and sitting there in casual disarray. It’s weird.
“Do you want to know what these mean?” he asks, holding up Eames’ phone. Eames nods, and Arthur proceeds to outline just exactly what he’s written.
As he talks, his voice is steady and smooth and his mouth practically caresses his profane words. He’s speaking quietly but determinedly, and Eames is decidedly turned on by just his voice. The content itself is another story.
By the time Arthur’s finished, Eames is hot and bothered and he’s been reduced to a gelatinous mass; all he can do is sit and quiver and wonder why on Earth Arthur isn’t touching him yet.
But it looks like he’s going to get what he wishes for when Arthur stands up and walks around the desk towards Eames, loosening his tie and shedding his jacket. He walks up behind Eames’ chair, the tables have turned now, he’s behind Eames and can do whatever the fuck he wants with Eames because at this point the forger is as pliable as putty and twice as willing.
“But this isn’t enough for you, is it, Eames?” Arthur says, and all the while he’s been sliding his hands down Eames’ shoulders and over his chest, clever fingers sliding buttons undone and whenever his hands brush Eames’ skin he gets a little harder.
If they had a door Eames would slam it shut and lock it and push furniture against the back of it because he is not going to be interrupted. But they stand - or rather, Eames sits and Arthur stands - in a warehouse office lacking notable things such as a door and comfortable places to have sex, so instead Eames pulls Arthur - or maybe Arthur pushes Eames - onto the floor.
It’s give and take and inequality, and Eames can’t stand not having every inch of his skin pressed against Arthur’s, but neither of them can bend like that anyway, and the lack is - it’s not frustrating, it’s not even maddening. It’s simply unbearable and Eames wants to invent or become or - he can’t. He just can’t. He needs, he has to have Arthur there and here and everywhere, he cannot, but he must, and oh, oh, this, this.
Later, after, they kiss lazily and realize that, shit, if Yusuf walks out of that closet they’re fucking screwed, so they hastily clothe themselves. Eames can’t help but laugh as he helps Arthur struggle into his formerly crisp button-down shirt, which is missing several buttons from when Eames ripped it off of Arthur and the buttons had gone flying everywhere.
They stagger out the door, connected at the hip and laughing, teasing, touching. As they walk to Eames’ car and race back to Arthur’s apartment for round two, they hold hands during the fifteen minute drive.
“Shit,” Arthur exclaims.
“What?” Eames drawls, legs kicked up on the dash and his hand entwined with Arthur’s.
“We don’t have any lube,” he mourns, and Eames insists that they pull over and get some, it’s not a big deal, but forgotten details are serious business to Arthur, and apparently this philosophy extends to lube. It’s just too fucking adorable.
Eames laughs so hard he fucking cries (because everything’s funny, it’s all great and life’s perfect and he has Arthur) when they make a pitstop to a shitty gas station for the condoms and lube and other necessities (which may or may not have included a Snickers). The incredulous way the cashier looks at them, they’re disheveled and suffering from a severe case of happy, trippy afterglow, sends Eames over the edge and he loses it to the point where he has to excuse himself because he’s laughing so damn hard he’s cease to make noise. And when Arthur walks back to the car, his look of indignant annoyance is so adorably hilarious that Eames starts into another crying/laughing/maniac cackling fit.
Eames’ phone sits, forgotten, on his desk in the warehouse. This wouldn’t have been a really big deal, except Cobb’s back from whatever whorehouse he’d been to. He’s feeling daring and rather curious, because he still knows so little about Eames, so with a furtive glance around the deserted warehouse he snatches Eames’ phone.
Back in his office he rifles through Eames’ inbox and isn’t too disgusted (certainly not surprised) at the pornographic content of the first few messages until he notes just who the sender is.
Then he nearly sends himself into premature cardiac arrest.
UM, SORRY ABOUT REPOST FAIL.
I love you all for putting up with this shit.