#29 - The Ridiculous Bounding, for yanethyrael
Title: The Ridiculous Bounding
Recipient: yanethyrael
Author: faorism
Rating: T
Pairings: Eames/Arthur
Word count 1500
Warnings: Satire. Dominance/submission-based relationship. Elements that might be considered minor dub-con. Some established relationship.
one.
It was an accident. Eames really hadn’t meant to do it, and Arthur wouldn’t have given his consent if he was asked for it beforehand.
They had been hiding out in an nondescript hotel room after a job went to shit, waiting for the rest of their team to call them with information about what to do now. Naturally, they began fighting as they always fought: a kind of ragtime production of forlorn snides and trumpeting punches that always seemed to do less than half as much damage as was intended.
Eames had gone off about Arthur being too young-that his time in the military was a joke-that making it in this line of work meant more than understanding the mechanics of the thing: you had to have field experience or the rest meant nothing. It was stupid of him to say this. Cobb had hinted time and time again that Arthur was not only part of the experiments that ran rampant in the early days of dreamshare, but one of the first to experience it anywhere, and one of a select few to survive through the rapid development of Somnacin. But the thing was... that was what Eames and Arthur did. They were both stupid and young and angry at the world that had let them down one too many times.
But worse things had been said, and Arthur’s reaction wasn’t too severe: He threw himself against Eames, the weight of his lithe, untested body enough to unsteady Eames and nearly send him crashing to the floor. He kept upright only with Arthur’s assistance, which proved utterly unwanted when Arthur used Eames’ imbalance to punch him in the stomach. (This was nothing. Really. In their first months of acquaintance, they had once aimed loaded guns at one another in the real world, waiting for a reason to shoot. It would take a lot to concern them after that.)
As the pain of such an attack rocketed up his chest and down his legs in scornful tendrils, Eames could do little as his body reflexively curled forward and around Arthur’s trembling fist. “F-fucker,” Eames stuttered angrily, reaching out blindly in hopes of finding retaliation (or even some semblance of balance). He grasped at air twice, and it was by mere chance that his hand hooked around the back of Arthur’s neck.
Eames squeezed. Yanked and yelled “Stop” in the most abrasive tone he could muster while riding off the ache of an incoming bruise. Squeezed again. Eames just wanted him off. It seemed so... uncomplicated. But then Arthur... dropped.
No sound and without protest. He simply... went from standing, already pulling his fist back for another punch, to... being on his knees, a blankness spread across his reddening face. Eames could hear the sound of Arthur’s breathing. It was baited, hoarse... His exhales felt almost warm against Eames’ pants leg.
It didn’t occur to Eames that he should let go.
That this wasn’t right and this was not a sight he should be memorizing.
Instead, his fist tightened around the scruff of Arthur’s neck, just enough that he could feel how Arthur’s muscles spasmed under his grasp. The skin was stretched so tight that Eames could feel Arthur’s every breath and swallow as if they were occurring in his own fingertips. It was an amazingly surreal snapshot of a scene Eames will never play and... God, Eames could have Arthur pinned like this all day. Everyday. Every minute and second of every fucking moment of his life.
“-mes. Stop.”
Eames let go. The world he hadn’t realized had blurred around him snapped back into focus: there was the cell that still hadn’t rung, and the room’s seedy couch, and a grainy Friends rerun flickering on the TV. There was too-young-too-American-apple-pie Arthur using Eames as a counterbalance as he stumbled onto his feet, and there was Arthur, ears and cheeks red and a sunken frown split across his lips.
...Well, shit.
There were an infinite many things Eames could do right now that would exponentially worsen the situation. Ignoring the last minute or so would be too obvious, and would doubtlessly lead to awkwardness, contempt or avoidance later. And to laugh it off wasn’t an option. But-
“That... That...” Arthur stumbled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I take it that you’re into-”
“Yes. But I’m still...” Eames didn’t interrupt the pause. “...in training. I am sure, though, that I wasn’t supposed to react like that.”
“I would think so. You should bring that up to your Dominant. I know...” Arthur didn’t interrupt the pause. “I would hate to have one of my partners fall into a scene so easily.”
“Oh. ...Yeah. I... Yeah.”
“Yeah. I think we should call it a day, hmm?”
“Yeah.”
-
two.
One time they fought. And then it had come to blows but then something had changed in the way they hit-the way they snarled and cursed. And then push came to shove came to a tumble came to a resigned sigh came to a kiss. And then, because Eames was Eames and Arthur was Arthur, there came more pushes and more shoves.
-
three.
“I have feelings for you-God know why-and would like to be able to count on your being available when I want to be with you in an intimate matter. I am asking you, not as a Dom to a sub, but as me to you, if you would like to have an exclusive relationship with me.”
“That’s veryCan we not do this when we’re running from the mark’s bodyguard?”
-
four.
Arthur knew Eames was planning something. It was terribly obvious, really. Although, yes, Arthur did compound most of the breadth of human expression into a few dozen seemingly offhand expressions (a terse smirk here, a sardonic remark there, perhaps a tensing of the muscles in his shin that minutely changed the distribution of his body weight); and yes, Arthur could disguise his few tells and make it near impossible to read him... Eames understood Arthur’s body as if it were another language. One he could alter with a touch or a stray comment, one that bowed and flexed to the demands of any given situation, but one he understood fluently nevertheless. Right now, the lines of Arthur’s body read confusion and dissonance.
It was in the way Arthur glanced at Eames as he presented his latest findings to the team. Meeting Eames’ eyes about thrice as many times as he normally would, it was as if Arthur expected Eames to interrupt Ariadne’s questions by procuring a riding crop from his trouser leg, even though it had been months since they’ve even been on the same continent. They had had some general guidelines about how to act with others (generally, they said that it was best to present what they had as a conventional platonic friendship), and although there were a numerable amount of loopholes to every given understanding they had, Eames was happy with their arrangement. He never saw a need to come out as not only a couple (which he assumed they were of a sort, even if they hadn’t seen much of each other since Mal...), but a couple that engaged in activities of a more “deviant” nature: They fucked, they played, and they worked together. There was no mixing the former two activities with the last, and there was a dozen explanations as to why this was so.
For Arthur to not get that was... disheartening.
Eames did not comment on it, though the urge to correct his sub’s insolence-no, distrust, even if it had been awhile-was a strong one. Arthur was making small gestures he only dared to ever do when in a scene, and to see them triggered Eames into a certain state of mind. But they were not scening. They were in a warehouse with their coworkers, and Eames was a professional, despite whatever his peers liked to think of him.
(He did snip, and Arthur did snap, and it was strange and too comfortable. Affectionate, even. The others didn’t pick up on it (...well, Yusuf did glance over, disparagement writ on his face, but that was an expression could mean anything since Eames saw it all too often since he got his friend into this inception mess), but still. Eames was generally a professional.)
So instead, Eames waited. He listened to Arthur’s speech, reminiscing on the days when they first met, when Arthur was imprecise and upset at the world. Eventually, Cobb took the mantle and began pontificating (mostly for Ariadne’s benefit), meaning that Eames could leave. Arthur looked stricken and immensely displeased as Eames stood (except, he didn’t actually, because all Arthur did was glance over at Eames as he waved the rest goodbye).
(Hours later, Eames received a text from Arthur. I cannot tell if there was a test i probably failed, or if you were just being an asshole.
There wasnt a test and i wasnt doin anything. You are simply suffer from a delirious paranoia
I see. Did you want something from me?
I was going to ask you to dinner but now i feel vaguely annoyed at you. Tomorrow, then
Fine.)
-
five.
And so they had an exclusive relationship for quite some time.
Recipient: yanethyrael
Author: faorism
Rating: T
Pairings: Eames/Arthur
Word count 1500
Warnings: Satire. Dominance/submission-based relationship. Elements that might be considered minor dub-con. Some established relationship.
one.
It was an accident. Eames really hadn’t meant to do it, and Arthur wouldn’t have given his consent if he was asked for it beforehand.
They had been hiding out in an nondescript hotel room after a job went to shit, waiting for the rest of their team to call them with information about what to do now. Naturally, they began fighting as they always fought: a kind of ragtime production of forlorn snides and trumpeting punches that always seemed to do less than half as much damage as was intended.
Eames had gone off about Arthur being too young-that his time in the military was a joke-that making it in this line of work meant more than understanding the mechanics of the thing: you had to have field experience or the rest meant nothing. It was stupid of him to say this. Cobb had hinted time and time again that Arthur was not only part of the experiments that ran rampant in the early days of dreamshare, but one of the first to experience it anywhere, and one of a select few to survive through the rapid development of Somnacin. But the thing was... that was what Eames and Arthur did. They were both stupid and young and angry at the world that had let them down one too many times.
But worse things had been said, and Arthur’s reaction wasn’t too severe: He threw himself against Eames, the weight of his lithe, untested body enough to unsteady Eames and nearly send him crashing to the floor. He kept upright only with Arthur’s assistance, which proved utterly unwanted when Arthur used Eames’ imbalance to punch him in the stomach. (This was nothing. Really. In their first months of acquaintance, they had once aimed loaded guns at one another in the real world, waiting for a reason to shoot. It would take a lot to concern them after that.)
As the pain of such an attack rocketed up his chest and down his legs in scornful tendrils, Eames could do little as his body reflexively curled forward and around Arthur’s trembling fist. “F-fucker,” Eames stuttered angrily, reaching out blindly in hopes of finding retaliation (or even some semblance of balance). He grasped at air twice, and it was by mere chance that his hand hooked around the back of Arthur’s neck.
Eames squeezed. Yanked and yelled “Stop” in the most abrasive tone he could muster while riding off the ache of an incoming bruise. Squeezed again. Eames just wanted him off. It seemed so... uncomplicated. But then Arthur... dropped.
No sound and without protest. He simply... went from standing, already pulling his fist back for another punch, to... being on his knees, a blankness spread across his reddening face. Eames could hear the sound of Arthur’s breathing. It was baited, hoarse... His exhales felt almost warm against Eames’ pants leg.
It didn’t occur to Eames that he should let go.
That this wasn’t right and this was not a sight he should be memorizing.
Instead, his fist tightened around the scruff of Arthur’s neck, just enough that he could feel how Arthur’s muscles spasmed under his grasp. The skin was stretched so tight that Eames could feel Arthur’s every breath and swallow as if they were occurring in his own fingertips. It was an amazingly surreal snapshot of a scene Eames will never play and... God, Eames could have Arthur pinned like this all day. Everyday. Every minute and second of every fucking moment of his life.
“-mes. Stop.”
Eames let go. The world he hadn’t realized had blurred around him snapped back into focus: there was the cell that still hadn’t rung, and the room’s seedy couch, and a grainy Friends rerun flickering on the TV. There was too-young-too-American-apple-pie Arthur using Eames as a counterbalance as he stumbled onto his feet, and there was Arthur, ears and cheeks red and a sunken frown split across his lips.
...Well, shit.
There were an infinite many things Eames could do right now that would exponentially worsen the situation. Ignoring the last minute or so would be too obvious, and would doubtlessly lead to awkwardness, contempt or avoidance later. And to laugh it off wasn’t an option. But-
“That... That...” Arthur stumbled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I take it that you’re into-”
“Yes. But I’m still...” Eames didn’t interrupt the pause. “...in training. I am sure, though, that I wasn’t supposed to react like that.”
“I would think so. You should bring that up to your Dominant. I know...” Arthur didn’t interrupt the pause. “I would hate to have one of my partners fall into a scene so easily.”
“Oh. ...Yeah. I... Yeah.”
“Yeah. I think we should call it a day, hmm?”
“Yeah.”
-
two.
One time they fought. And then it had come to blows but then something had changed in the way they hit-the way they snarled and cursed. And then push came to shove came to a tumble came to a resigned sigh came to a kiss. And then, because Eames was Eames and Arthur was Arthur, there came more pushes and more shoves.
-
three.
“I have feelings for you-God know why-and would like to be able to count on your being available when I want to be with you in an intimate matter. I am asking you, not as a Dom to a sub, but as me to you, if you would like to have an exclusive relationship with me.”
“That’s veryCan we not do this when we’re running from the mark’s bodyguard?”
-
four.
Arthur knew Eames was planning something. It was terribly obvious, really. Although, yes, Arthur did compound most of the breadth of human expression into a few dozen seemingly offhand expressions (a terse smirk here, a sardonic remark there, perhaps a tensing of the muscles in his shin that minutely changed the distribution of his body weight); and yes, Arthur could disguise his few tells and make it near impossible to read him... Eames understood Arthur’s body as if it were another language. One he could alter with a touch or a stray comment, one that bowed and flexed to the demands of any given situation, but one he understood fluently nevertheless. Right now, the lines of Arthur’s body read confusion and dissonance.
It was in the way Arthur glanced at Eames as he presented his latest findings to the team. Meeting Eames’ eyes about thrice as many times as he normally would, it was as if Arthur expected Eames to interrupt Ariadne’s questions by procuring a riding crop from his trouser leg, even though it had been months since they’ve even been on the same continent. They had had some general guidelines about how to act with others (generally, they said that it was best to present what they had as a conventional platonic friendship), and although there were a numerable amount of loopholes to every given understanding they had, Eames was happy with their arrangement. He never saw a need to come out as not only a couple (which he assumed they were of a sort, even if they hadn’t seen much of each other since Mal...), but a couple that engaged in activities of a more “deviant” nature: They fucked, they played, and they worked together. There was no mixing the former two activities with the last, and there was a dozen explanations as to why this was so.
For Arthur to not get that was... disheartening.
Eames did not comment on it, though the urge to correct his sub’s insolence-no, distrust, even if it had been awhile-was a strong one. Arthur was making small gestures he only dared to ever do when in a scene, and to see them triggered Eames into a certain state of mind. But they were not scening. They were in a warehouse with their coworkers, and Eames was a professional, despite whatever his peers liked to think of him.
(He did snip, and Arthur did snap, and it was strange and too comfortable. Affectionate, even. The others didn’t pick up on it (...well, Yusuf did glance over, disparagement writ on his face, but that was an expression could mean anything since Eames saw it all too often since he got his friend into this inception mess), but still. Eames was generally a professional.)
So instead, Eames waited. He listened to Arthur’s speech, reminiscing on the days when they first met, when Arthur was imprecise and upset at the world. Eventually, Cobb took the mantle and began pontificating (mostly for Ariadne’s benefit), meaning that Eames could leave. Arthur looked stricken and immensely displeased as Eames stood (except, he didn’t actually, because all Arthur did was glance over at Eames as he waved the rest goodbye).
(Hours later, Eames received a text from Arthur. I cannot tell if there was a test i probably failed, or if you were just being an asshole.
There wasnt a test and i wasnt doin anything. You are simply suffer from a delirious paranoia
I see. Did you want something from me?
I was going to ask you to dinner but now i feel vaguely annoyed at you. Tomorrow, then
Fine.)
-
five.
And so they had an exclusive relationship for quite some time.