[Fanfic] The Lightning Strikes
Title: The Lightning Strikes
Fandom: INCEPTION
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R (but not really explicit, again)
Prompt: A & E have recently moved in together. Arthur may be a BAMF when it comes to dreamsharing, but he's terrified of thunderstorms, as Eames discovers. (from hazysea on inception_kink - ROUND 9)
Word Count: 1436
Disclaimer: Neither Arthur nor Eames - or the Inception!verse - belongs to me. Even though Nolan is incepting me with these ideas, in my sleep, so... The title is from the Snow Patrol song.
In their line of work there is no room for weakness. Fear is allowed only for the purposes of keeping you sharp and aware that your life might be in danger. You cannot risk your subconscious turning against you, reshaping the dream into your worst nightmare. “The room 101 you cannot get out of, even if you tried to sell out your own mother” as Eames said to Ariadne as a warning when they started training her to keep arachnophobia out of the dreamscape.
He can still see dozens popping up out of nowhere and crawling up her body.
He can still see the look in Eames' eyes as he shoots Ariadne, putting her out of her misery. So fucking condescending and speaking volumes. 'I know you can't help it, sweetheart. Thank God you've got me.'
Selfishly, back then, he thought would be downright humiliating if Eames looked at him like that. Ever. Then he wondered why the hell he cared so much... He was so oblivious to his own feelings back then... But hey, that's another story.
Anyway, that's pretty much the reason why he never mentioned anything about the chinks in his own armor.
Not even two weeks ago, when they moved in together. Why should he?
Even though he guesses that Eames never pictured him as a fearless bad ass motherfucker he tries so hard to be, that doesn't mean he can just drop the act.
Arthur is a fighter, always has been; he loves that rush of adrenaline spreading through his whole body when he saves everyone's ass, including his own, by a whisker. He won't show how vulnerable he actually is, not even to his loved ones.
Especially not to the man who is now kneading the tensed muscles of his shoulders, leaving a trail of kisses on the exposed skin and mumbling something about the living room that still needs to be christened by a copious amount of sex.
He moans in agreement, as he helps the other man unbutton his shirt. Trying to shush the voice in his head that is asking him if he shouldn't check the weather forecasts once again. If he really made sure all the windows were closed. If the electronic devices are indeed all unplugged.
Naturally, he doesn't let such nonsense prevail and makes his point by laying down on the sofa and dragging Eames down on top of him. By drowning every possible coherent thought with a mind blowing kiss, hungry and violent. Wet and messy. Bruising.
The moment the forger's fingertips trail down his chest, the echo of a thunder resounds throughout the house. The point man shivers, uneasiness creeping up his spine.
“Are you cold, pet?” Eames teases, not waiting for his reply but pinching a nipple and then licking the pain away.
The rain falls heavier and Arthur is sure he can hear the wind howling, breaking branches. His palms are damp and he has his hands clenched in a fist.
He arches his back when his boyfriend's mouth lingers on his waistband. Whimper at the claim that he will tear these fucking tailored trousers apart with his bare hands, because he can't wait any longer. That he will suck him dry and leave him a quivering mess, who would barely remember his own name. Well, he is quivering already.
Thunders, loud bangs, frequent lightnings: his breath is shallow and erratic, now. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the thunderstorm to be over.
“Okay, that's enough.” Eames declares, straightening himself up.
He would try and take back the warmth he has been deprived of, if only he could bring himself to move a single muscle.
“Necrophilia ain't one of my kinks, love.” He adds, fondness creeping in despite his harsh words. “I feel like I'm shagging a bloody corpse.”
Arthur would argue that a corpse would be nowhere as tense as him, but all that comes out his lips is a desperate gasp.
“I'm sure you can save your brilliant retort for later.” He laughs, softly, as he leaves to couch to kneel in front of him. Taking one of his hands in both his own and intertwining their fingers, he kisses his knuckles. Only then, he whispers “Now: lay on your side and take deep breaths. From your nose. Slowly.”
It's an order and Arthur knows better than disobey. Not that he would ever admit it, but he kinda likes being ordered around by that voice.
“I'm...” Breath in. “... going...” Breath out. “... into...” Dammit, since when breathing has become such an exhausting task? “... fucking labor... Eames.”
Really, he appreciates the help but Eames has to loosen his grip and stop mimicking his respiration.
“You better not. You're not due yet, are you?” His palm strokes the point man's belly, lovingly. Arthur slaps his hand away.
“Glad to have you fighting back, darling.” A kiss is stolen, quickly, from his lips. “Follow me.”
He does follow him. He sits on the mattress, propping himself up with pillows and leaning against the bed head.
He closes his eyes, trying to listen to sound of Eames rummaging through their drawers. Turning a deaf hear to the rain falling or the roof, to the howling wind and to the rumbling thunders.
Yeah, he isn't very good at it. Where the hell is Eames?
“Calm down. I'm here.” The forger has found an old battered iPod and puts the earphones in his right hand. “Put them on, Arthur. Don't force me to shove them in your ears.” Eames sounds like his mother and that should piss him off. He cannot help but smile, though.
“Don't try to soften me up with those dimples of yours, you hear?” He mutters, pointing his accusing finger at his face. Arthur is quite tempted to lean over and bite it, but instead he settles for pretending he is just about to graze his teeth on the tip... and then he slumps down again, putting the earbuds in and pressing play. He can't quite see the point of all this: as high as the volume might be, it won't...
“Sing.”
“That's not gonna happen, Eames.” Well, it seems easier to speak now. Still, he won't sing. No way in hell. The other man snatches an earbud from him, then he glances to the screen and clears his throat just as the sax solo fades out.
“I don't drink coffee, I take tea my dear. I like my toast done on one side...” He isn't much of a singer, yet Arthur doesn't mind he is murdering Sting's piece: his pitch is low, velvety and rather relaxing. "You can hear it in my accent when I talk... See? That's not so hard. Or is just that you fear you cannot win a singing contest against me, hm?”
Nurturing his competitive streak it's a low blow, because he knows Arthur would never turn down a challenge. No matter what he said or thought half a minute ago.
He skips to the next track, humming the tune to warm up your voice. Eames is about to complain he's supposed to belt out, when Arthur taps his fingers on his heart and sings “Être un corps, je suis d'accord... T'offrir mes bras, pourquoi pas? Mon lit, ok encore, pour rire a salir les draps. Mais je crois que pour tout ça, tu doives entendre...” He halts for a second. “... je t'aime.” He whispers in Eames' ear, brushing his lips against the lobe.
Thunderstorm now utterly forgotten, they carry on until they eventually fall asleep. Arthur wins hands down, of course.
Morning comes; the sky is still grey and cloudy, but at least it has stopped raining.
Eames is already up, cooking breakfast. He should go and make sure he doesn't mess-up the kitchen, but first he has to tidy their bedroom up.
Right. He takes the mp3 player from his bedside table, checking its battery before moving it back where it belonged.
Only in that very moment, he notices the playlist they sung is labeled as ‘Lullabies for an anxious Arthur'
To realize Eames had it all planned out and on top of that he chose such a taunting title for the title, to guess that probably he left the iPod there knowing Arthur would find it... It makes want to kill him so very painfully. That or to fuck him senseless on the kitchen counter.
He will take his time to decide which option he should choose.
------------
ADDITIONAL CREDITS TO
An Englishman In New York / A Lullaby For An Anxious Child Sting
J'ai cru entendre: Alex Beaupain
Hikaru putting his headphones on Haruhi and making her listen to his music, 'cause she was terrified of thunderstoms: PIC 1 & PIC 2 - BISCO HATORI (Host Club - Vol.5, Chapter 20)
Fandom: INCEPTION
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R (but not really explicit, again)
Prompt: A & E have recently moved in together. Arthur may be a BAMF when it comes to dreamsharing, but he's terrified of thunderstorms, as Eames discovers. (from hazysea on inception_kink - ROUND 9)
Word Count: 1436
Disclaimer: Neither Arthur nor Eames - or the Inception!verse - belongs to me. Even though Nolan is incepting me with these ideas, in my sleep, so... The title is from the Snow Patrol song.
In their line of work there is no room for weakness. Fear is allowed only for the purposes of keeping you sharp and aware that your life might be in danger. You cannot risk your subconscious turning against you, reshaping the dream into your worst nightmare. “The room 101 you cannot get out of, even if you tried to sell out your own mother” as Eames said to Ariadne as a warning when they started training her to keep arachnophobia out of the dreamscape.
He can still see dozens popping up out of nowhere and crawling up her body.
He can still see the look in Eames' eyes as he shoots Ariadne, putting her out of her misery. So fucking condescending and speaking volumes. 'I know you can't help it, sweetheart. Thank God you've got me.'
Selfishly, back then, he thought would be downright humiliating if Eames looked at him like that. Ever. Then he wondered why the hell he cared so much... He was so oblivious to his own feelings back then... But hey, that's another story.
Anyway, that's pretty much the reason why he never mentioned anything about the chinks in his own armor.
Not even two weeks ago, when they moved in together. Why should he?
Even though he guesses that Eames never pictured him as a fearless bad ass motherfucker he tries so hard to be, that doesn't mean he can just drop the act.
Arthur is a fighter, always has been; he loves that rush of adrenaline spreading through his whole body when he saves everyone's ass, including his own, by a whisker. He won't show how vulnerable he actually is, not even to his loved ones.
Especially not to the man who is now kneading the tensed muscles of his shoulders, leaving a trail of kisses on the exposed skin and mumbling something about the living room that still needs to be christened by a copious amount of sex.
He moans in agreement, as he helps the other man unbutton his shirt. Trying to shush the voice in his head that is asking him if he shouldn't check the weather forecasts once again. If he really made sure all the windows were closed. If the electronic devices are indeed all unplugged.
Naturally, he doesn't let such nonsense prevail and makes his point by laying down on the sofa and dragging Eames down on top of him. By drowning every possible coherent thought with a mind blowing kiss, hungry and violent. Wet and messy. Bruising.
The moment the forger's fingertips trail down his chest, the echo of a thunder resounds throughout the house. The point man shivers, uneasiness creeping up his spine.
“Are you cold, pet?” Eames teases, not waiting for his reply but pinching a nipple and then licking the pain away.
The rain falls heavier and Arthur is sure he can hear the wind howling, breaking branches. His palms are damp and he has his hands clenched in a fist.
He arches his back when his boyfriend's mouth lingers on his waistband. Whimper at the claim that he will tear these fucking tailored trousers apart with his bare hands, because he can't wait any longer. That he will suck him dry and leave him a quivering mess, who would barely remember his own name. Well, he is quivering already.
Thunders, loud bangs, frequent lightnings: his breath is shallow and erratic, now. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the thunderstorm to be over.
“Okay, that's enough.” Eames declares, straightening himself up.
He would try and take back the warmth he has been deprived of, if only he could bring himself to move a single muscle.
“Necrophilia ain't one of my kinks, love.” He adds, fondness creeping in despite his harsh words. “I feel like I'm shagging a bloody corpse.”
Arthur would argue that a corpse would be nowhere as tense as him, but all that comes out his lips is a desperate gasp.
“I'm sure you can save your brilliant retort for later.” He laughs, softly, as he leaves to couch to kneel in front of him. Taking one of his hands in both his own and intertwining their fingers, he kisses his knuckles. Only then, he whispers “Now: lay on your side and take deep breaths. From your nose. Slowly.”
It's an order and Arthur knows better than disobey. Not that he would ever admit it, but he kinda likes being ordered around by that voice.
“I'm...” Breath in. “... going...” Breath out. “... into...” Dammit, since when breathing has become such an exhausting task? “... fucking labor... Eames.”
Really, he appreciates the help but Eames has to loosen his grip and stop mimicking his respiration.
“You better not. You're not due yet, are you?” His palm strokes the point man's belly, lovingly. Arthur slaps his hand away.
“Glad to have you fighting back, darling.” A kiss is stolen, quickly, from his lips. “Follow me.”
He does follow him. He sits on the mattress, propping himself up with pillows and leaning against the bed head.
He closes his eyes, trying to listen to sound of Eames rummaging through their drawers. Turning a deaf hear to the rain falling or the roof, to the howling wind and to the rumbling thunders.
Yeah, he isn't very good at it. Where the hell is Eames?
“Calm down. I'm here.” The forger has found an old battered iPod and puts the earphones in his right hand. “Put them on, Arthur. Don't force me to shove them in your ears.” Eames sounds like his mother and that should piss him off. He cannot help but smile, though.
“Don't try to soften me up with those dimples of yours, you hear?” He mutters, pointing his accusing finger at his face. Arthur is quite tempted to lean over and bite it, but instead he settles for pretending he is just about to graze his teeth on the tip... and then he slumps down again, putting the earbuds in and pressing play. He can't quite see the point of all this: as high as the volume might be, it won't...
“Sing.”
“That's not gonna happen, Eames.” Well, it seems easier to speak now. Still, he won't sing. No way in hell. The other man snatches an earbud from him, then he glances to the screen and clears his throat just as the sax solo fades out.
“I don't drink coffee, I take tea my dear. I like my toast done on one side...” He isn't much of a singer, yet Arthur doesn't mind he is murdering Sting's piece: his pitch is low, velvety and rather relaxing. "You can hear it in my accent when I talk... See? That's not so hard. Or is just that you fear you cannot win a singing contest against me, hm?”
Nurturing his competitive streak it's a low blow, because he knows Arthur would never turn down a challenge. No matter what he said or thought half a minute ago.
He skips to the next track, humming the tune to warm up your voice. Eames is about to complain he's supposed to belt out, when Arthur taps his fingers on his heart and sings “Être un corps, je suis d'accord... T'offrir mes bras, pourquoi pas? Mon lit, ok encore, pour rire a salir les draps. Mais je crois que pour tout ça, tu doives entendre...” He halts for a second. “... je t'aime.” He whispers in Eames' ear, brushing his lips against the lobe.
Thunderstorm now utterly forgotten, they carry on until they eventually fall asleep. Arthur wins hands down, of course.
Morning comes; the sky is still grey and cloudy, but at least it has stopped raining.
Eames is already up, cooking breakfast. He should go and make sure he doesn't mess-up the kitchen, but first he has to tidy their bedroom up.
Right. He takes the mp3 player from his bedside table, checking its battery before moving it back where it belonged.
Only in that very moment, he notices the playlist they sung is labeled as ‘Lullabies for an anxious Arthur'
To realize Eames had it all planned out and on top of that he chose such a taunting title for the title, to guess that probably he left the iPod there knowing Arthur would find it... It makes want to kill him so very painfully. That or to fuck him senseless on the kitchen counter.
He will take his time to decide which option he should choose.
------------
ADDITIONAL CREDITS TO
An Englishman In New York / A Lullaby For An Anxious Child Sting
J'ai cru entendre: Alex Beaupain
Hikaru putting his headphones on Haruhi and making her listen to his music, 'cause she was terrified of thunderstoms: PIC 1 & PIC 2 - BISCO HATORI (Host Club - Vol.5, Chapter 20)
