Fic: Runaway Train (Inception, R)
title: Runaway Train
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: Groping on a train. Seriously.
This came out of a Twitter discussion and the idea of me wanting to write frottage - but this fic zigged where it should have zagged, I guess? Still, playing to my own fetishes here: train, crowd, groping, dirty talk, and Arthur in a gakuran [the Japanese school uniform for males]. Yeah.
Warning for slightly dub-con language, although yes this is a completely consensual thing.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: You're waiting for a train.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Three. Two. One. Push.
Sound of the PASIV device.
Arthur closed his eyes with a grin.
///
The train let out a long, mournful whistle as it pulled into the station.
He stepped into the carriage just seconds ahead of the large crowd coming in for evening rush hour, and so he was able to find and maintain his favorite spot. He liked to stand next to the track-side doors; he liked to watch the districts fly by as the train shook from side to side.
The train left the station to the murmurs and low conversations of people going home, weary men and women in suits and ties and a handful of students here and there, a girl in her fur-lined jacket and her skirt falling past her knees pressing a mobile phone to her ear.
He looked at himself in the glass of the train door, pushed his specs higher up onto the bridge of his nose. Hand in his pocket, he pushed a button on his music player, nodded imperceptibly along as a rush of drums and guitar whirled in his head.
There was a faint rustling behind him, and he squinted into the glass; there was a gaijin squeezing towards the doors, muttering to himself. He didn't sound happy. The fluorescent lighting turned his dirty-blonde hair a sick shade of ash.
The gaijin pushed his way out at the next station.
He knew enough English to know that the man had been complaining about trains.
Well, that was his loss.
He smiled as the train began to shake its way into the suburbs. He always had a long road home, but it was difficult to mind it, not when he enjoyed looking at the neighborhoods fly by, not when it meant he could enjoy listening to his music for as long as the trip took.
The train rounded a long curve at speed and he listened to the various reactions all around his cabin: mostly people just muttering about the driver's bad habit of taking the corner too fast.
There was someone behind him again, pressing in close.
A pattern out of the corner of his eye. Blue shirt, gray lines, dark-green spirals.
Hot breath ghosting over his collar, over his ear. "Good evening." A thick drawl, the pauses between the syllables that meant a non-native speaker. Another gaijin?
Soft touch of fingers skimming over his -
He jumped, a little, and he gripped his music player in his pocket a little more tightly.
The man behind him, the man who'd said hello, the man who was touching him. Blunt, thick fingers toying with the waistband of his uniform trousers.
The train lurched again and he let out a little cry as he tipped backward.
"Be careful," the man murmured.
And he was now trying to lever himself back upright - but there was a hand on his hip, a hard grip, and he heard himself gasp.
"Don't move." It was the man! He was trapped, now, tilted back over his heels and into the man's chest. Broad shoulders. Musk and sweat. The man was breathing nearly into his ear. "Put your hand in my pocket."
He did, shaking, and it was all he could to not cry out as he touched a flat surface, warm and sharp: the blade of a knife. Brief spark of pain behind his eyelids as he touched the point, and he yanked his hand out and there was a red pinprick of blood swelling on his thumb.
"Oh, I am so sorry," the man said.
He flinched as he felt the man's lips close around his earlobe; he cursed his own body as he swayed backward, felt his hands want to close around the man's wrists. He could feel his cock twitch with every movement of the train, every movement of the man's hands.
One of those hands was sliding under his uniform shirt, and he could look down and watch it skimming over the zipper of his trousers.
"Hmm, so you like this?" The man's hand was moving lower, lower, and -
The train swayed again and now he could feel the man's hand cupping his erection.
"You do?" And there was delight in the man's voice now. "Tell me you do, darling."
And he fought it as long as he could, but it was useless - the man's hand was moving over him, and he couldn't stop himself whimpering, wanting more, wanting everything.
"Yes," the man whispered, and he could hear the man smiling, even over the roaring in his ears, the train squealing as it approached a tunnel.
The lights went out.
He turned around, then, pressed a desperate kiss to the man's mouth. Whispered, "I can't take this any more, please wake me up. I want you, and I want you topside."
"I thought you'd never ask, Arthur," Eames said, and kissed him back, before driving the knife in his pocket deep into his heart.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: Groping on a train. Seriously.
This came out of a Twitter discussion and the idea of me wanting to write frottage - but this fic zigged where it should have zagged, I guess? Still, playing to my own fetishes here: train, crowd, groping, dirty talk, and Arthur in a gakuran [the Japanese school uniform for males]. Yeah.
Warning for slightly dub-con language, although yes this is a completely consensual thing.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: You're waiting for a train.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Three. Two. One. Push.
Sound of the PASIV device.
Arthur closed his eyes with a grin.
///
The train let out a long, mournful whistle as it pulled into the station.
He stepped into the carriage just seconds ahead of the large crowd coming in for evening rush hour, and so he was able to find and maintain his favorite spot. He liked to stand next to the track-side doors; he liked to watch the districts fly by as the train shook from side to side.
The train left the station to the murmurs and low conversations of people going home, weary men and women in suits and ties and a handful of students here and there, a girl in her fur-lined jacket and her skirt falling past her knees pressing a mobile phone to her ear.
He looked at himself in the glass of the train door, pushed his specs higher up onto the bridge of his nose. Hand in his pocket, he pushed a button on his music player, nodded imperceptibly along as a rush of drums and guitar whirled in his head.
There was a faint rustling behind him, and he squinted into the glass; there was a gaijin squeezing towards the doors, muttering to himself. He didn't sound happy. The fluorescent lighting turned his dirty-blonde hair a sick shade of ash.
The gaijin pushed his way out at the next station.
He knew enough English to know that the man had been complaining about trains.
Well, that was his loss.
He smiled as the train began to shake its way into the suburbs. He always had a long road home, but it was difficult to mind it, not when he enjoyed looking at the neighborhoods fly by, not when it meant he could enjoy listening to his music for as long as the trip took.
The train rounded a long curve at speed and he listened to the various reactions all around his cabin: mostly people just muttering about the driver's bad habit of taking the corner too fast.
There was someone behind him again, pressing in close.
A pattern out of the corner of his eye. Blue shirt, gray lines, dark-green spirals.
Hot breath ghosting over his collar, over his ear. "Good evening." A thick drawl, the pauses between the syllables that meant a non-native speaker. Another gaijin?
Soft touch of fingers skimming over his -
He jumped, a little, and he gripped his music player in his pocket a little more tightly.
The man behind him, the man who'd said hello, the man who was touching him. Blunt, thick fingers toying with the waistband of his uniform trousers.
The train lurched again and he let out a little cry as he tipped backward.
"Be careful," the man murmured.
And he was now trying to lever himself back upright - but there was a hand on his hip, a hard grip, and he heard himself gasp.
"Don't move." It was the man! He was trapped, now, tilted back over his heels and into the man's chest. Broad shoulders. Musk and sweat. The man was breathing nearly into his ear. "Put your hand in my pocket."
He did, shaking, and it was all he could to not cry out as he touched a flat surface, warm and sharp: the blade of a knife. Brief spark of pain behind his eyelids as he touched the point, and he yanked his hand out and there was a red pinprick of blood swelling on his thumb.
"Oh, I am so sorry," the man said.
He flinched as he felt the man's lips close around his earlobe; he cursed his own body as he swayed backward, felt his hands want to close around the man's wrists. He could feel his cock twitch with every movement of the train, every movement of the man's hands.
One of those hands was sliding under his uniform shirt, and he could look down and watch it skimming over the zipper of his trousers.
"Hmm, so you like this?" The man's hand was moving lower, lower, and -
The train swayed again and now he could feel the man's hand cupping his erection.
"You do?" And there was delight in the man's voice now. "Tell me you do, darling."
And he fought it as long as he could, but it was useless - the man's hand was moving over him, and he couldn't stop himself whimpering, wanting more, wanting everything.
"Yes," the man whispered, and he could hear the man smiling, even over the roaring in his ears, the train squealing as it approached a tunnel.
The lights went out.
He turned around, then, pressed a desperate kiss to the man's mouth. Whispered, "I can't take this any more, please wake me up. I want you, and I want you topside."
"I thought you'd never ask, Arthur," Eames said, and kissed him back, before driving the knife in his pocket deep into his heart.