Prompt Post No. 5
* * * Round 5 is now closed to new prompts. * * *
Welcome to Round 5 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches three thousand comments. Also, please check our updated rules.
( Rules... )
Welcome to Round 5 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches three thousand comments. Also, please check our updated rules.
( Rules... )
Life goes on. Eames goes to Sao Paulo for three weeks and Arthur catches himself fucking moping around the New York apartment on the third day that Eames is gone and accepts a month-long job in Melbourne in sheer self-defence. Through text messages and late-night phone calls and Skype, they agree (1) that Arthur is okay with being surprised (would prefer to be surprised); (2) that blindfolds are not okay, Arthur hates not being able to see; (3) that hair-pulling is, um, encouraged; (5) that Arthur is yeah, ready, totally ready, please, oh, and (6) that the deal is off and that Eames is never going to get to touch Arthur again, ever, if he doesn't stop mimicking that one time Arthur had stuttered over his yes like a kid whose voice has just broken. And still, after all that, when Arthur comes home to find his apartment empty and maybe sulks a bit on the couch before going to bed, he nearly shouts out loud when a hard hand grabs him by the hair the second that he steps into the bedroom.
"What -" he gasps and for a moment he thinks maybe it's only Eames - it would be ridiculous to be scared of Eames - but Eames is staring at him with this cold, terrifying expression, unrecognizable, and it's a stranger, a stranger in his apartment, grabbing him and shoving him back against the wall. And there's, oh God, there's a knife. He's trembling. He can't breathe.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, fuck, what do you want, I -"
"Shut up," the stranger says. The accent is British, low-class, kind of crude. Arthur can feel his pulse like a living thing in his throat. Where the knife is. Fuck. The knife slides down, his T-shirt rips in half with an incongrously gentle noise and the man considers at his bared torso with cool interest for a moment. And then he puts his hand, his rough palm, right over Arthur's heart.
"Your heart's going like a rabbit's," he says, sounding amused. "Scared, are we, sweetheart?"
"Fuck you," Arthur whispers and the man grins, wide and horribly cheerful.
"No, I don't think so," he says and then there's a blur of violent movement, Arthur's arms have been wrestled up behind his back and his forehead is to the wall and the stranger's hand is, fuck, fuck, on the bare skin of his ass. His sweatpants have been shoved down and his boxers and he flinches and shivers as the man just stands there and stares, palms first one cheek and then the other. Squeezes and then parts him and then a finger touches his hole. Eames, he tries to tell himself. It's Eames. His body won't believe it and he nearly sobs his no when the hand closes around his erection and a rough laugh rasps in his ear.
"I knew it," he says. "As soon as I saw you, I knew you'd be a slut for it."
"No," Arthur says. "Please I'm not - don't -"
"Totem," Eames says suddenly, his voice shaking, and everything goes still. Arthur blinks once or twice, waking himself up, and then he shoves his clothes back up and turns around as quickly as he can - Eames sounded panicked, really scared, and he looks it too, sweat beading on his upper lip and eyes wide.
"Hey," Arthur says, touching his cheek. "It's - Eames? Are you okay?"
"Am I," Eames says, incredulous, and takes a deep, shaky breath.
"Sorry." He looks sheepish now. "It just got a bit much - I got -"
"Sure," Arthur says. "Don't be sorry, I'm - we should have talked about this more -"
"More?" Eames says, eyes crinkling, and he's tanned and he's lost a little weight and Arthur isn't really planning to kiss him, it just sort of happens. Eames kisses back, his breathing going from unsteady to even, and Arthur touches the nape of his neck where he's just had his hair cut, and his shoulders and just stands there and breathes with him for a moment or three.
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Eames takes a breath.
"I just - if someone grabbed your wrists like that and you didn't want him to -"
"I'd break his arm," Arthur finishes dryly - surely this is something they both know - and Eames grins down at him finally, gaze clearing.
"Just checking," he says and then he puts his thumb on Arthur's mouth thoughtfully and Arthur feels his cheeks flood with heat. "I'm afraid we've rather lost the element of surprise."
Arthur shrugs.
"Next time," he says and Eames raises his eyebrows and the press of the thumb at Arthur's mouth is suddenly aggressive, harder than anything he's used to.
"Why not now?" Eames asks and his voice is a stranger's again, cheerfully selfish, his eyes boring into Arthur's like - like -
"No," Arthur says, trying to back away, and it doesn't work. He's shoved back and then he's being kissed, rough and uncaring of his own response, heavy muscle holding him down, and he's so hard he thinks he can't see. Please, he thinks, please please please and then he stops thinking for a while. There are hands, hard at his hips. He's on the bed, face down, wrists tied together at the base of his spine. He's being pressed open, taken, fucked, and he can hear his own noises and Eames, Eames, Eames is calling him a slut and laughing at him. He comes twice, harder each time, and the second time he feels honestly fucking faint, like he might black out just from the feeling. He's floating. He's dimly aware, after a while, that his wrists are being untied and soothed and later that there's a glass of water under his nose. He drinks it.
"Christ," Eames says, faraway, and Arthur turns over and presses his face into his chest. The big hand threads through his hair and he might be clinging a little bit, okay, but Eames seems happy to lie there, petting Arthur, stroking over his scalp and up and down his back, and - best, best of all - he doesn't say another fucking word until morning.
"So," he says in the morning, of course, all cat that got the canary grin and ostentatious stretch of muscle - 6am and he hasn't bothered to put on a shirt - and Arthur rolls his eyes and does his best to hide his helpless, besotted smile in his coffee. He probably doesn't do a great job of hiding it, from the look Eames gives him, but he's still sore and relaxed and full of endorphins and he's having some trouble figuring out why he should be hiding things right now.
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