secret santa post 27
Title: Dream Hunters
Recipient: the fest
Rating: PG-13
Betaed by: smiles1777
Word Count: 1,600+
Warnings: Possibly OOC behavior, takes place in a dark AU.
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, this fic was written for entertainment purposes and no copyright infringement was intended.
Summary: Arthur and Eames were, partners, fuck-buddies, and fellow hunters.
In the real world, Arthur and Eames were partners at best. “Fuck-buddies” was probably a more accurate term. Though, even that title didn’t catch the subtle nuances of their relationship. They watched each other's backs and they fucked when they needed to let off some tension. They didn't worry about monogamy or devoting their lives to each other. That wasn't what either of them wanted. They weren’t after the white-picket fence love that Cobb and Mal shared.
Their relationship was on the idea of a mutual exchange, one that was profitable to both of them. Neither of them was at their best when they’re alone. After a tough case, the two of them went hunting. They would go to a local pub or - if they were feeling daring, nerves tight and adrenaline spiking through their systems - they would go to the local dance club.
They had a way of doing things; Arthur called it a plan, Eames called it habit. Eames slinks out onto the dance floor, a predator forging into the skin of prey. When Arthur asked how he puts up the crush of bodies and the stench of sweat and sex, Eames just laughed. The dance floor was his territory and everyone on it could belong to him if he cocked his head just right and stuck his lower lip out in what he assured Arthur was an irresistible expression. Arthur wasn’t sure he believed Eames or so he claimed. But when he was honest with himself he had to admit that he had fallen for Eames’ pout more often then he should have.
Arthur preferred to use a less direct approach. He sauntered over to the bar and ordered a club soda. He watched as the crowd as it gyrated within Eames’ grasp. He spared an occasional thought to joining Eames out on the brightly lit floor, but he did not and Eames knows he never will. When Eames sent a challenging smirk his way, Arthur turned away, back to his drink. But still, he watched his partner through the tarnished mirror on the back of the bar, watched as Eames’ reflection spun around the bottles of whisky and vodka stacked against the reflective surface.
He didn’t stop watching until Eames picked out his target for the night. He was a handsome young thing all hard muscle and legs that reach for the sky, with a great ass to match. His head was topped with a mass of lush black curls and his skin was a creamy tan. He was just Eames’ type and Arthur was willing to bet that he had pretty chocolate eyes. It was what Eames always looked for in his prey and one of Eames' quirks that Arthur had never been able to figure out. It was not like looks mattered in the long run.
Once Eames had lulled his prey off to some dark and secluded corner of the club, Arthur turned back to his own hunt.
There were always people grouped around the bar and tonight was no exception. His eyes ran over them, over the scantily clad older women who slumped over the bar and their drinks, too tired and desperate to try and lure a man to their sides. Arthur made a rule of avoiding them unless he was desperate. They clung too tightly and watched him too warily, like they expected him to run away at any given moment.
He finally found the perfect lamb, just waiting to be caught. A young man, barely more than a boy, baby-faced with a mass of freckles spanning the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He was giggling at something Arthur couldn’t see and slurping noisily on the pink drink he gripped between white-knuckled fingers. Arthur suspected that he was too young to be drinking but that didn’t matter. Not for what Arthur was after. He slid onto the stool next to the boy and gave him a winning smile. The boy blushed brightly enough to hide his freckles. This would be too easy.
***
Arthur pressed a sloppy kiss to the boy's mouth and pressed him deeper into the hotel’s mattress. The boy’s head fell between the overly plush pillows and it took more effort than it should have for Arthur to slide his fingers around his throat. A biting kiss was enough of a distraction to allow Arthur to pinch the nerve cluster at the back of the boy’s neck without being noticed.
The boy went limp.
Arthur left him lying there, limp, and went to check on Eames. He and his prey were hooked up to the PASIV in the adjoining room. They were each laid out on the edge of one of the room's double beds, with the PASIV set on the suitcase rack between them.
Arthur ignored the prey and checked Eames' pulse. It was steady and strong, like he was simply sleeping. Arthur carded his fingers through Eames' hair and pressed a kiss to his lips, confident that Eames wouldn't know.
Assured of Eames' safety, Arthur returned to his own room. Unlike Eames, he preferred to get one bed rooms - it was easier to explain waking up in the same bed, and any bruises from the IV could be explained away as the acts of an inconsiderate bed-partner.
He had never figured out how Eames explained things to his prey, but no matter what happened, they were already gone by the time that Arthur woke up. Arthur had never found any proof of their attempting to contact Eames again, something that happened to him with distressing regularity. Eames always teased him that it was because he acted the gentleman, protecting his lost little lambs.
Arthur liked to think that most people had more self-preservation instincts than to fall for his act. All proof to the contrary.
He hooked his prey up to the PASIV with practiced ease and set the kick for an half hour. The nerve pinch and alcohol was sure to keep the boy out for that long, and he did not like to mess with sedatives if he did not have to. He was not as reckless with them as Eames was, and six hours in the dream world would be enough.
***
The boy dreamed of flying and faceless terrors, of a purple sky and blue sheep, of half-created birds and horses that are little more than heads.
The boy has a fertile imagination and enough control to keep the dream ever turning, ever deepening into madness. Arthur tapped into the chaos, putting himself into a deep trance so that the madness could run though his mind, cleansing it of all the thoughts and feelings that had built up over the months he had gone without dreaming. He was careful not to change anything so that he could remain unnoticed by his prey's projections.
This was what he hunted for; the fear - the relief - of unplanned dreams. His biggest regret of joining the dream share business was the loss of dreams. Once he had found them again, albeit in someone else's head, he hadn't been able to give it up again, had never been able to stop hunting.
He wasn't like Cobb and Mal, content to share their dreams every night, a consolation prize for giving up true dreams. He wanted more.
His iron control was all that kept him from going hunting every night. He allowed himself this indulgence after a hard case, after he had tasted the edges of another person's dreams and had to turn away, to do the job, to get the information.
He thinks he would go mad if he didn't allow himself this.
***
When he woke up, Eames was sitting next to him, his legs casually swinging off the edge of the bed. A bright, toothy grin firmly fixed on his face, the only sign of his own foray into the dream world.
If Arthur was less controlled he would probably be grinning just as stupidly. The hunt, the dreams, were better than anything Arthur had ever experienced. Better than the pot he smoked in high school or the cocaine he did in college. It was the best high in the world.
He reached up with a lazy hand and dragged Eames down to meet him. Their tongues battled and Arthur bit Eames' lower lip just hard enough to draw blood.
Arthur felt dangerous, like his skin was barely able to hold him, like he was about to change the very shape of the world, like it was a dream and he was the dreamer. He rolled Eames under him, pushing his knee up against the bulge in his pants, making Eames arch his neck and moan.
A predatory smile, all teeth and the tinge of leftover blood, and Arthur was diving for his neck, leaving a trail of bites across his throat and neck. The bite he left over Eames' carotid artery was particularly deep and made Eames buck against his muscled thigh.
In that moment he could do anything to Eames and Eames would allow it, revel in it. Arthur never asked what Eames did in his prey's dreams, but whatever it was it always left Eames stripped of his masks and forgeries, bared to Arthur's attentions.
In the morning, Eames would be back to his cocky self, needing no one and wanting no one. But for now, he belonged to Arthur, and Arthur would take full advantage of that.
Damn the boy who was still laying unconscious on the bed, and the PASIV that their tussle had knocked onto the floor. Those are worries for the morning, when he had safely tucked his inner predator back inside his skin.
Recipient: the fest
Rating: PG-13
Betaed by: smiles1777
Word Count: 1,600+
Warnings: Possibly OOC behavior, takes place in a dark AU.
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception, this fic was written for entertainment purposes and no copyright infringement was intended.
Summary: Arthur and Eames were, partners, fuck-buddies, and fellow hunters.
In the real world, Arthur and Eames were partners at best. “Fuck-buddies” was probably a more accurate term. Though, even that title didn’t catch the subtle nuances of their relationship. They watched each other's backs and they fucked when they needed to let off some tension. They didn't worry about monogamy or devoting their lives to each other. That wasn't what either of them wanted. They weren’t after the white-picket fence love that Cobb and Mal shared.
Their relationship was on the idea of a mutual exchange, one that was profitable to both of them. Neither of them was at their best when they’re alone. After a tough case, the two of them went hunting. They would go to a local pub or - if they were feeling daring, nerves tight and adrenaline spiking through their systems - they would go to the local dance club.
They had a way of doing things; Arthur called it a plan, Eames called it habit. Eames slinks out onto the dance floor, a predator forging into the skin of prey. When Arthur asked how he puts up the crush of bodies and the stench of sweat and sex, Eames just laughed. The dance floor was his territory and everyone on it could belong to him if he cocked his head just right and stuck his lower lip out in what he assured Arthur was an irresistible expression. Arthur wasn’t sure he believed Eames or so he claimed. But when he was honest with himself he had to admit that he had fallen for Eames’ pout more often then he should have.
Arthur preferred to use a less direct approach. He sauntered over to the bar and ordered a club soda. He watched as the crowd as it gyrated within Eames’ grasp. He spared an occasional thought to joining Eames out on the brightly lit floor, but he did not and Eames knows he never will. When Eames sent a challenging smirk his way, Arthur turned away, back to his drink. But still, he watched his partner through the tarnished mirror on the back of the bar, watched as Eames’ reflection spun around the bottles of whisky and vodka stacked against the reflective surface.
He didn’t stop watching until Eames picked out his target for the night. He was a handsome young thing all hard muscle and legs that reach for the sky, with a great ass to match. His head was topped with a mass of lush black curls and his skin was a creamy tan. He was just Eames’ type and Arthur was willing to bet that he had pretty chocolate eyes. It was what Eames always looked for in his prey and one of Eames' quirks that Arthur had never been able to figure out. It was not like looks mattered in the long run.
Once Eames had lulled his prey off to some dark and secluded corner of the club, Arthur turned back to his own hunt.
There were always people grouped around the bar and tonight was no exception. His eyes ran over them, over the scantily clad older women who slumped over the bar and their drinks, too tired and desperate to try and lure a man to their sides. Arthur made a rule of avoiding them unless he was desperate. They clung too tightly and watched him too warily, like they expected him to run away at any given moment.
He finally found the perfect lamb, just waiting to be caught. A young man, barely more than a boy, baby-faced with a mass of freckles spanning the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He was giggling at something Arthur couldn’t see and slurping noisily on the pink drink he gripped between white-knuckled fingers. Arthur suspected that he was too young to be drinking but that didn’t matter. Not for what Arthur was after. He slid onto the stool next to the boy and gave him a winning smile. The boy blushed brightly enough to hide his freckles. This would be too easy.
***
Arthur pressed a sloppy kiss to the boy's mouth and pressed him deeper into the hotel’s mattress. The boy’s head fell between the overly plush pillows and it took more effort than it should have for Arthur to slide his fingers around his throat. A biting kiss was enough of a distraction to allow Arthur to pinch the nerve cluster at the back of the boy’s neck without being noticed.
The boy went limp.
Arthur left him lying there, limp, and went to check on Eames. He and his prey were hooked up to the PASIV in the adjoining room. They were each laid out on the edge of one of the room's double beds, with the PASIV set on the suitcase rack between them.
Arthur ignored the prey and checked Eames' pulse. It was steady and strong, like he was simply sleeping. Arthur carded his fingers through Eames' hair and pressed a kiss to his lips, confident that Eames wouldn't know.
Assured of Eames' safety, Arthur returned to his own room. Unlike Eames, he preferred to get one bed rooms - it was easier to explain waking up in the same bed, and any bruises from the IV could be explained away as the acts of an inconsiderate bed-partner.
He had never figured out how Eames explained things to his prey, but no matter what happened, they were already gone by the time that Arthur woke up. Arthur had never found any proof of their attempting to contact Eames again, something that happened to him with distressing regularity. Eames always teased him that it was because he acted the gentleman, protecting his lost little lambs.
Arthur liked to think that most people had more self-preservation instincts than to fall for his act. All proof to the contrary.
He hooked his prey up to the PASIV with practiced ease and set the kick for an half hour. The nerve pinch and alcohol was sure to keep the boy out for that long, and he did not like to mess with sedatives if he did not have to. He was not as reckless with them as Eames was, and six hours in the dream world would be enough.
***
The boy dreamed of flying and faceless terrors, of a purple sky and blue sheep, of half-created birds and horses that are little more than heads.
The boy has a fertile imagination and enough control to keep the dream ever turning, ever deepening into madness. Arthur tapped into the chaos, putting himself into a deep trance so that the madness could run though his mind, cleansing it of all the thoughts and feelings that had built up over the months he had gone without dreaming. He was careful not to change anything so that he could remain unnoticed by his prey's projections.
This was what he hunted for; the fear - the relief - of unplanned dreams. His biggest regret of joining the dream share business was the loss of dreams. Once he had found them again, albeit in someone else's head, he hadn't been able to give it up again, had never been able to stop hunting.
He wasn't like Cobb and Mal, content to share their dreams every night, a consolation prize for giving up true dreams. He wanted more.
His iron control was all that kept him from going hunting every night. He allowed himself this indulgence after a hard case, after he had tasted the edges of another person's dreams and had to turn away, to do the job, to get the information.
He thinks he would go mad if he didn't allow himself this.
***
When he woke up, Eames was sitting next to him, his legs casually swinging off the edge of the bed. A bright, toothy grin firmly fixed on his face, the only sign of his own foray into the dream world.
If Arthur was less controlled he would probably be grinning just as stupidly. The hunt, the dreams, were better than anything Arthur had ever experienced. Better than the pot he smoked in high school or the cocaine he did in college. It was the best high in the world.
He reached up with a lazy hand and dragged Eames down to meet him. Their tongues battled and Arthur bit Eames' lower lip just hard enough to draw blood.
Arthur felt dangerous, like his skin was barely able to hold him, like he was about to change the very shape of the world, like it was a dream and he was the dreamer. He rolled Eames under him, pushing his knee up against the bulge in his pants, making Eames arch his neck and moan.
A predatory smile, all teeth and the tinge of leftover blood, and Arthur was diving for his neck, leaving a trail of bites across his throat and neck. The bite he left over Eames' carotid artery was particularly deep and made Eames buck against his muscled thigh.
In that moment he could do anything to Eames and Eames would allow it, revel in it. Arthur never asked what Eames did in his prey's dreams, but whatever it was it always left Eames stripped of his masks and forgeries, bared to Arthur's attentions.
In the morning, Eames would be back to his cocky self, needing no one and wanting no one. But for now, he belonged to Arthur, and Arthur would take full advantage of that.
Damn the boy who was still laying unconscious on the bed, and the PASIV that their tussle had knocked onto the floor. Those are worries for the morning, when he had safely tucked his inner predator back inside his skin.