Not Quite the Top Ten - Inception - NC-17
Title: Not Quite the Top Ten
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,320
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Arthur makes lists.
Warnings: um, rimming?
Note: Written for lovelyracketeer on this drabble post. Self-beta; feel free to point out errors.
Arthur makes lists. Mental lists because, embarrassingly, he has a tendency to lose paper ones. Mental lists are just as unsafe as paper anyway, but at least Arthur knows where they all are.
He keeps them in a library in his head, rows and rows of scrolls of lists: to-do lists, grocery lists, lists of all the people he's ever loved or hated. Old lists of homework assignments from high school and college, of kindergarten playmates, of perfect moments.
Arthur makes lists of Phillipa's favourite ice cream flavours (not quite the same as her mother's), and all the Social Security numbers he's ever used, linked with identities, and all of the Social Security numbers he's never using again, and why. Lists of books he's read, books he's liked, books he plans to read. Addresses, phone numbers, email addresses. Anything that can be put into a list, gets put on a list and filed away in his brain. Arthur likes the feeling of having his head organized, even if it's an illusion.
In his head, Arthur's mental library stretches out into dusty corners. Lists he pulls up often, the ones he needs or uses (grocery shopping, to-do in the next day or week, SSNs he must never use) 'up front' where they're easy to get to for a quick reference. Next come useful but not immediately pertinent lists (people he likes to work with, countries he's trying to avoid), then the constant, hard-line lists (his mother's birthday, anniversaries, the people he loves)--the ones that never change. Then are disused lists (his schedule of classes freshman year of college, all the members of the '93-'94 team for the New York Rangers), things that he remembers because he just can't forget them; things he doesn't keep around because they're useful anymore, but because they're memorized and categorized already.
Arthur knows that the way he thinks about structuring his head when he's conscious doesn't always (or even often) translate to the way it's structured in dreams, but he figures it can't hurt. Tucked in the back, with all the dusty lists of dates logic problem sets were due second semester sophomore year, Arthur keeps another list. Mentally, he puts dust all over it and erases the (mental) footprints he leaves when he goes down to pull it off the (mental) shelf. Arthur deletes his mental history and pretends it isn't a list he runs through alarmingly often, sometimes with edits, but mostly just because it's there and Arthur wants to.
He hopes that anyone who manages to break into his mind will get bored and then shot before they find it. He hopes he's buried it, hidden it with enough minutia that no one will ever notice it there, out in the open with everything else.
It's a list titled, "Things I want to do to Eames," and it starts graphic and stays that way. Things like "rim him till he cries," "watch him swallow my cock," and "make him come," and "make him come," and "make him come." Some of the entries are less specific (make him moan), and some require more research (find the spots that make him crazy), and some are a little of both (make him forget his name because the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to come).
"Rim him till he cries," is a favourite this week, or a variation of it is. Arthur would tell Eames to put his hands on the headboard, and he would. Eames wouldn't do it all the time, because Arthur can't even imagine a world where Eames just obeys him, wouldn't like an Eames who did. Sometimes Eames would push until Arthur made him, and Eames would come with a snarl and Arthur would come with a hot rush like triumph. Sometimes they'd fight for it, struggle for dominance and control and fuck in messy tangles against the sheets. Sometimes Eames would mean it, and Arthur would do whatever he wanted, just because he wanted it.
But this time, this time, Eames would let him, and would curl his fingers around the top of the headboard and when Arthur told him not to move then, Eames would just grunt to show compliance.
Arthur would run slow hands down Eames's back, his sides, trace his fingertips up his thighs and over his ass. He'd slide a finger down his cleft and when he spread Eames's cheeks apart, he'd just hold him like that for a long while, just to watch him clench, feel his body shiver. When Arthur finally touched his tongue to that tiny pucker of skin and muscle, sweat would break out along Eames's back.
Arthur would push his tongue in and Eames would push his hips back into it, chasing the feeling, trying to get him deeper. The only thing Arthur would be able to hear over the rush in his ears and the thrum under his skin would be the noises Eames'd be making, and that only because Arthur wanted so much to hear them. Desperate for them the way he was desperate to take Eames apart, the way he needed to feel Eames shaking under his fingers.
Arthur would fuck Eames with his tongue until Eames was a moaning, shivering mess. Spit would drip down Arthur's chin and Eames's thighs, and they'd make a total mess of the bedspread. Arthur's jaw would ache. Eames's legs would tremble with the effort of holding them apart; his arms would shake with the effort of trying to hold himself steady. Arthur would get him slick and wet and dripping, and he would only pause long enough to call Eames perfect and beautiful, tongue and lips and jaw having trouble wrapping themselves around the shape of the words instead of the firm press of Eames's flesh.
By the time Arthur would let Eames take a hand off the headboard and wrap it around his cock, his grip would be pressure-weak and nearly useless. He wouldn't be able to get a good grip, so he'd just rut forward into his fist and back onto Arthur's tongue, so far gone he'd barely manage to touch himself before he came.
Eames's other arm would give out then, and he'd collapse in slow motion. Maybe he'd land in the wet spot, but he'd be so fucked out he wouldn't even care for five minutes; he'd just lie there, trying to catch his breath. Arthur would climb up the bed, crawl up Eames, for the contact, just to touch him as much as he could. Arthur wouldn't have come yet, but he wouldn't care, still in a headspace where the only thing that mattered was the satisfaction of making Eames come apart.
Maybe in five minutes, Eames will bring him off, fast and desperate, pushing at Arthur until he rubs off against his hip, his stomach. Maybe in ten, Eames will roll over onto his back and pull Arthur in between his legs, telling Arthur to fuck him, even though Eames won't be able to get it up again yet. That'd be later, though. Arthur doesn't care about that part yet.
All that's not technically on the list. Lists are for short things, shorthand. That's the whole damn fantasy, this week's incarnation of it. Next week it might be different. The list is just a jumping-off point, as lists are.
Behind that list is another list, also titled, "Things I want to do to Eames," but Arthur never opens that one. Its contents include "wake up slow with," "bring kitschy souvenirs," "introduce to my parents," "run fingers through the hair at nape of his neck," "NEVER EVER introduce to my parents," and "take naps with on the couch."
It doesn't include, "memorize the angles of his face," or "fall ridiculously in love," because Arthur's done that already. Those are on a different list: 'Things I didn't plan on, but did anyway.'
Author: anamuan
Fandom, Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,320
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Arthur makes lists.
Warnings: um, rimming?
Note: Written for lovelyracketeer on this drabble post. Self-beta; feel free to point out errors.
Arthur makes lists. Mental lists because, embarrassingly, he has a tendency to lose paper ones. Mental lists are just as unsafe as paper anyway, but at least Arthur knows where they all are.
He keeps them in a library in his head, rows and rows of scrolls of lists: to-do lists, grocery lists, lists of all the people he's ever loved or hated. Old lists of homework assignments from high school and college, of kindergarten playmates, of perfect moments.
Arthur makes lists of Phillipa's favourite ice cream flavours (not quite the same as her mother's), and all the Social Security numbers he's ever used, linked with identities, and all of the Social Security numbers he's never using again, and why. Lists of books he's read, books he's liked, books he plans to read. Addresses, phone numbers, email addresses. Anything that can be put into a list, gets put on a list and filed away in his brain. Arthur likes the feeling of having his head organized, even if it's an illusion.
In his head, Arthur's mental library stretches out into dusty corners. Lists he pulls up often, the ones he needs or uses (grocery shopping, to-do in the next day or week, SSNs he must never use) 'up front' where they're easy to get to for a quick reference. Next come useful but not immediately pertinent lists (people he likes to work with, countries he's trying to avoid), then the constant, hard-line lists (his mother's birthday, anniversaries, the people he loves)--the ones that never change. Then are disused lists (his schedule of classes freshman year of college, all the members of the '93-'94 team for the New York Rangers), things that he remembers because he just can't forget them; things he doesn't keep around because they're useful anymore, but because they're memorized and categorized already.
Arthur knows that the way he thinks about structuring his head when he's conscious doesn't always (or even often) translate to the way it's structured in dreams, but he figures it can't hurt. Tucked in the back, with all the dusty lists of dates logic problem sets were due second semester sophomore year, Arthur keeps another list. Mentally, he puts dust all over it and erases the (mental) footprints he leaves when he goes down to pull it off the (mental) shelf. Arthur deletes his mental history and pretends it isn't a list he runs through alarmingly often, sometimes with edits, but mostly just because it's there and Arthur wants to.
He hopes that anyone who manages to break into his mind will get bored and then shot before they find it. He hopes he's buried it, hidden it with enough minutia that no one will ever notice it there, out in the open with everything else.
It's a list titled, "Things I want to do to Eames," and it starts graphic and stays that way. Things like "rim him till he cries," "watch him swallow my cock," and "make him come," and "make him come," and "make him come." Some of the entries are less specific (make him moan), and some require more research (find the spots that make him crazy), and some are a little of both (make him forget his name because the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to come).
"Rim him till he cries," is a favourite this week, or a variation of it is. Arthur would tell Eames to put his hands on the headboard, and he would. Eames wouldn't do it all the time, because Arthur can't even imagine a world where Eames just obeys him, wouldn't like an Eames who did. Sometimes Eames would push until Arthur made him, and Eames would come with a snarl and Arthur would come with a hot rush like triumph. Sometimes they'd fight for it, struggle for dominance and control and fuck in messy tangles against the sheets. Sometimes Eames would mean it, and Arthur would do whatever he wanted, just because he wanted it.
But this time, this time, Eames would let him, and would curl his fingers around the top of the headboard and when Arthur told him not to move then, Eames would just grunt to show compliance.
Arthur would run slow hands down Eames's back, his sides, trace his fingertips up his thighs and over his ass. He'd slide a finger down his cleft and when he spread Eames's cheeks apart, he'd just hold him like that for a long while, just to watch him clench, feel his body shiver. When Arthur finally touched his tongue to that tiny pucker of skin and muscle, sweat would break out along Eames's back.
Arthur would push his tongue in and Eames would push his hips back into it, chasing the feeling, trying to get him deeper. The only thing Arthur would be able to hear over the rush in his ears and the thrum under his skin would be the noises Eames'd be making, and that only because Arthur wanted so much to hear them. Desperate for them the way he was desperate to take Eames apart, the way he needed to feel Eames shaking under his fingers.
Arthur would fuck Eames with his tongue until Eames was a moaning, shivering mess. Spit would drip down Arthur's chin and Eames's thighs, and they'd make a total mess of the bedspread. Arthur's jaw would ache. Eames's legs would tremble with the effort of holding them apart; his arms would shake with the effort of trying to hold himself steady. Arthur would get him slick and wet and dripping, and he would only pause long enough to call Eames perfect and beautiful, tongue and lips and jaw having trouble wrapping themselves around the shape of the words instead of the firm press of Eames's flesh.
By the time Arthur would let Eames take a hand off the headboard and wrap it around his cock, his grip would be pressure-weak and nearly useless. He wouldn't be able to get a good grip, so he'd just rut forward into his fist and back onto Arthur's tongue, so far gone he'd barely manage to touch himself before he came.
Eames's other arm would give out then, and he'd collapse in slow motion. Maybe he'd land in the wet spot, but he'd be so fucked out he wouldn't even care for five minutes; he'd just lie there, trying to catch his breath. Arthur would climb up the bed, crawl up Eames, for the contact, just to touch him as much as he could. Arthur wouldn't have come yet, but he wouldn't care, still in a headspace where the only thing that mattered was the satisfaction of making Eames come apart.
Maybe in five minutes, Eames will bring him off, fast and desperate, pushing at Arthur until he rubs off against his hip, his stomach. Maybe in ten, Eames will roll over onto his back and pull Arthur in between his legs, telling Arthur to fuck him, even though Eames won't be able to get it up again yet. That'd be later, though. Arthur doesn't care about that part yet.
All that's not technically on the list. Lists are for short things, shorthand. That's the whole damn fantasy, this week's incarnation of it. Next week it might be different. The list is just a jumping-off point, as lists are.
Behind that list is another list, also titled, "Things I want to do to Eames," but Arthur never opens that one. Its contents include "wake up slow with," "bring kitschy souvenirs," "introduce to my parents," "run fingers through the hair at nape of his neck," "NEVER EVER introduce to my parents," and "take naps with on the couch."
It doesn't include, "memorize the angles of his face," or "fall ridiculously in love," because Arthur's done that already. Those are on a different list: 'Things I didn't plan on, but did anyway.'