cottonmouthed
So it's just a kind of my second anniversary of having this lj (which means it's my cotton anniversary! yay, sheets) and being actively involved in fandom. As active as I am. I mean, I still sort of consider myself a lurker, just a lurker who...writes fic. And I wanted to say a few words about that, like, howdy, lurkers, don't be afraid to get involved and start posting fic on the kinkmeme and then make a livejournal account--or whatever format works for you--because I've had a lot of fun writing for these past few years. But I didn't really feel up to writing an essay on it, and, you know what? Whatever. Do what you want. Though if you, whoever you are, are thinking to start posting fic and are feeling nervous don't hesitate to drop me a line! I'm happy to cheerlead.
Anyway, I'm working on a few things right now. Original fic (for bb_shousetsu, hopefully)! Harry Potter (Lorcan Lysander/Albus Severus Potter, obviously)! Some really old projects! Everything is going slow, and there's always a bit of a roulette as to which of these things will get finished (let alone when). In the meantime--I'm going to throw some bits of my older WIPs up here, for anyone who's curious. There is the chance that some of them might still get finished, though I have to admit that for some of them it's very unlikely. I don't know. But I thought it would be...fun? Yeah, that. It gives you some insight into my writing process or something, if that's up your street. Alternate advertising: the second Inception one is porny. (There was also a Firefly/TSN crossover, but this post broke lj's character limit when I tried to include it, so....)
BB/'King Solomon's Ring': This was supposed to be my bigbang, but I wasn't going to finish it on time so I defaulted. I've worked on it since then, and at 12k it's about a third of the way done (I think), but I didn't have a complete of where it was going so we ended up--here. It was/is about Ariadne being an oracle--in this universe, someone who can communicate with/serve as a mouthpiece for the gods--and being 'hired' (read: forced) to perform an extraction on some animal gods who have been working against the Pantheon she works with.
Oh, and Eames is secretly an animal behaviorist.
...Yeah.
Ariadne doesn’t summon much, but she’s kept the tools handy all these years for one reason or another. And by tools she actually means tool, singular: one of the Antlered Man’s antlers, seven points.
The things for the rest of the ritual she usually has on hand. She dips the antler in oil (olive oil, always) and lights it on fire.
The only reliable way to tell an antler from the Antlered Man from an antler from an elk is that you are able to do this: light the antler on fire, hold it without burning the antler or yourself. It takes a few moments, but eventually the Man will come around.
“Oracle,” he says, and he’s worse, if that’s possible, when he’s standing in her apartment than when he’s sitting in the cave. Ariadne is fairly certain that the song “You’re So Vain” actually is about him.
“I know you heard our conversation,” she says flatly.
“He can meet me,” the Antlered Man says, and then he grins toothily. “He seems quite lovely.”
“No,” Ariadne says. “I’m doing this job for you, and if you go fucking it up, fucking with Arthur--”
“Honestly,” the Man says, pacing across the room to open one of Ariadne’s cupboards. “You are the worst Oracle we’ve had in generations.”
“Well if you wanted someone who would fall over herself, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you tricked me into this job as a child,” Ariadne mutters and then adds, more loudly. “If you eat that, with you as my witness, I will--”
“Ha,” the Man says in monotone, taking out a baguette and gnawing on the end.
He looks at her. She looks at him.
Ariadne knows what he’s saying: he--they--have all the power in this relationship. Sure, they need her, but she can’t quit.
“I’ll summon you when he arrives,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” the Man says. “I’ll be here.”
He leaves and takes her bread.
Ariadne hates him.
She gets a flight itinerary in the mail two days later, which is the day the flight the itinerary is for is supposed to arrive. She wonders whether this is an unsubtle hint that she should pick Arthur up from the airport and decides to the affirmative.
“So,” she says when they meet at the airport, Arthur looking mildly exasperated and carrying a small bag. “You have an audience with a god.”
“If this is some sort of long-form prank--” Arthur says. “Is Eames involved?”
“I thought you believed me,” Ariadne says.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “But I was just on the plane for long enough that I’m starting to question my own sanity.”
“You came, anyway,” Ariadne says. “Come on, let’s get back to my place. He’ll probably be there. Eating my food.”
“I thought gods ate ambrosia.”
“Only for dessert,” Ariadne says. “Sometimes.”
Ariadne gets a taxi to take them back, because she suspects Arthur doesn’t appreciate public transit, and because if she shifts her head just so she can see the Antlered Man out of the corner of her eyes, and she suspects he doesn’t appreciate public transit, either.
“Okay,” she says once they’re safely ensconced in her apartment. “Come out. Olly-olly-oxenfree.”
Arthur looks at her peculiarly, so he misses the Man’s materialization, stepping sideways from his space into theirs.
“Hello,” he says to Arthur, ignoring Ariadne.
Arthur gapes at him, only barely manages to hide it and muster a reply. Ariadne had suspected this would happen, but she had also suspected Arthur had more sense and had failed to develop a contingency plan. Which was foolish on her part: when she first met the Antlered Man she’d already been seeing him for a long time, when she first met the Antlered Man he was telling her in a kind, strange voice that the river god had given over Ariadne’s debt to the Pantheon, to him and they would very much like her to be their Oracle.
Even then, she felt a creeping combination of fear and hatred when she spoke with him, before she was also too young to feel the strong, visceral pull of his attractiveness. By the time she was old enough for that, she had known him too long, and he had become like an awful, divine uncle.
Arthur, though, is unconsciously licking his lips, and Ariadne is remembering how the Antlered Man looks to your average mortal, and wishing she had the sense to warn him. Because the Man’s skin is so gold it seems like his veins must be thick with the stuff, and he has a thatch of dark, curling hair the color of some expensive tropical hardwood, and the prongs of his antlers emerge from that, dripping velvet. But that doesn’t matter so much as the way he radiates, warmth and sex and virility.
He also spends most of his time prancing about in a few spare vines and a loincloth.
“Stop,” she says, though she’s not entirely sure who she’s speaking to.
“Oh, you know I can’t, Oracle,” the Man says. “It’s my very essence. Just because you think of me as some sort of abusive father figure--”
“Stop what?” Arthur asks. He actually seems to be recovering admirably, inasmuch as he’s turning inquisitive eyes on Ariadne, now, and not gaping at the Man.
“Stop seducing you,” Ariadne says, waving her hand. “Stop being seduced.”
“You can’t expect him to react well on his first time,” the Man says. “I believe you cried.”
“I was four,” Ariadne says.
“And if you’d been his age, you would’ve gaped and swallowed and few times,” the Man says, and then he reaches over to pat Arthur on the shoulder. “Everyone does. It’s perfectly natural.”
“I was not being seduced,” Arthur says. “But I’ve never met a god before.”
“It’s a pleasure to be your first,” the Man says.
Cowboys/'Your Huckleberry': This is a fic I was working on with gelbwax, based on a kinkmeme prompt she made. The premise was/is that the team is running a job where they have to be cowboys and reenact the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral with a mark for reasons. Everything that's happening with this, however, is spliced together with an earlier cowboy-themed job Arthur and Eames ran with Cobb and Nash on the same mark. This earlier job was also--well. I'm going to post an excerpt from that, because I was writing the flashbacks, and, also, it's arguably one of the porniest things I've ever written. There's also crossdressing.
After the bull charged, Eames horse danced left and back. The bull wheeled on its heels, and Arthur was shouting incoherently, and Eames did not appear to have any idea what he was doing. In an unfortunate coincidence of events, a gunshot went off in that series of moments, and the bullet ricocheted off the canyon wall and sent down a stream of pebbles. Arthur’s horse’s nostrils flared. Arthur felt himself becoming wild-eyed, and he tried to focus on the bull and the gunshot, but mostly he saw Eames and his disastrous horsemanship.
The rest of what happened is not entirely clear in Arthur’s memory. He’s pretty certain he grabbed Eames’ reins. He’s fairly certain Eames shot their assailant. He’s absolutely certain that he fell off his horse.
Everyone knows that you wake up when you die in a dream. When you feel pain, though, you just feel it--sharp and bright and cutting, no different from when you’re awake. Arthur landed hard on his back, and it was only by some vagary of luck none of the three animals in the box canyon stepped on him. It was another vagary of luck that he didn’t break anything more than a few ribs, but he did black-out, and when he came to he was wrapped in a horse blanket beside a fire. There was a bright smattering of stars and the long veil of the Milky Way above, and there was Eames, watching him.
“Well,” he said. “You’re up.”
“It’s rude to watch people sleep,” Arthur muttered, but it lacked venom.
“Not if they’re injured,” Eames said. “If they’re injured, it’s responsible.”
“That so?” Arthur said, more to say it than for want of an answer. He was thinking about how real the dream level felt, how he could pick out some real and some fake constellations, how for all his faults Nash had an eye for beauty. The sky above him was expansive with only a few buttes as interruptions.
“I like it here,” Arthur had said, and Eames looked bemused, firelight glinting in his eyes.
“I don’t think you’re all well after that tumble.”
“Probably not,” Arthur tried to shrug, but his ribs stung when he attempted to roll over. Eames raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he had caught the wince.
“We can wait here,” he said. “Until you’re, you know, functional.”
“And reduce our chances of running the job?” Arthur bit back, intensity only slightly mitigated by the fact that he was lying on his back.
“You think you can ride a horse like this?”
“I can if you bandage me up,” Arthur said, and Eames looked down at him skeptically.
“A tight wrap around my waist and I should be fine.”
“Fine,” Eames repeated.
“A sort of brace, until the bones heal.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“It’s a fucking dream, Eames,” Arthur had said. “Take off my shirt.”
“Far be it from me to complain, then,” Eames said. “Clearly you have everything under control. Clearly this is a brilliant plan.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Of philosophy--”
“No,” Arthur said. “You aren’t. Take off my shirt, bandage me up, and let’s get the fuck on with this job.”
“Right, then,” Eames said, and then he’d gone in for the top button, undoing it with a slow, blunt-fingered delicacy.
Arthur pushed his hands off.
“Nevermind, I can do this part myself,” he said. “I take off my own shirt all the time.”
“Of course,” Eames had said, but Arthur could feel him watching as he undid the buttons himself, clumsy and wincing.
“Don’t watch,” he said, and Eames met his eyes.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. And even if I hadn’t, I’m going to have to see it if I’m to bandage you up.”
“I feel like I’m giving an invalid striptease,” Arthur muttered.
“And a right sexy one, at that,” Eames said, and Arthur returned his comment with a glare.
“I don’t appreciate your condescension.”
“This is not me being condescending,” Eames had replied. “This is me admiring your chest, which is very lovely, if slightly pale and possibly sustaining some internal bleeding.”
“Come off it, Eames,” Arthur had groaned, and Eames had said something that sounded suspiciously like, “Only if you bring me off,” and Arthur had tried and failed to kick him.
Eventually, Arthur finished with the row of buttons, and Eames had the decency to shut up and help him sit up and get the bandages out of one of the saddle bags.
“Tight,” Arthur said. “Like I’m the fat girl in Cinderella, and I’m going to the fucking ball, and I want to woo a prince in my fucking corset.”
“That’s a disturbingly specific example,” Eames had said, pulling until Arthur winced.
“A whalebone corset would probably be useful in this instance,” Arthur said. “Or some pot. Or both.”
Eames had made a small, strangled noise, and Arthur had attempted to twist around and look at him.
“I’m the one being strangled, you ass,” he said, and Eames had frowned and said, “But you told me to,” like a petulant child.
“You’re sure this is going to work?” Eames said once the bandage was wrapped, and Arthur rose slowly to his feet.
“I’m standing, aren’t I?” he said.
Eames tried not to look completely skeptical.
“I’ll believe you when you get on the horse.”
-
Arthur got on the horse.
Eames had to give him a boost.
“Stop looking at my ass,” Arthur hissed on the second try, “and maybe I’ll be able to get up.”
“Maybe you’d be able to get up if you weren’t injured,” Eames said, but on the second try Arthur had gotten his leg over the horse’s back and into the stirrup, and Eames had frowned but failed to come up with any reason not to go, now. If Arthur got off the horse, he’d probably injure himself further.
“Did you name your horse yet?” Eames asked idly as they trotted along. “Mine’s Cassidy. As in Butch--”
“My horse’s name is not your business,” Arthur said, and Eames frowned.
“I don’t see why not.”
“It’s just not,” Arthur had said. “So, you think the mark will be in the next town?”
Eames shrugged.
“Because I’m willing to make this interesting,” Arthur continued, although he made it sound less sultry than Eames would’ve liked, and more like a business transaction.
“Yeah?” Eames asked.
“For half your cut.”
“Half my cut--” Eames said. “This better not be you wanting me to bet he is there, and then you bet that he isn’t, because the odds on that are against me.”
“No, town for town,” Arthur said. “Half my cut against half your cut.”
“What if I have something else in mind?” Eames asked. Arthur turned to glance at him.
“Hmm?”
“Half my cut against me bedding you in the town whorehouse,” Eames said.
Arthur paled slightly.
“You can’t get STDs in dreams.”
“I don’t know what kind of man you think I am--,” Arthur said, digging his spurs into his horse’s side.
“The kind of man who was just talking about corsets,” Eames said, matching pace. “And wearing them.”
“For medical purposes,” Arthur said, and then his eyes slanted speculatively.
“Half your cut,” he said. “Against me giving you a striptease in the town whorehouse.”
“An invalid striptease, or a proper one?”
“Proper,” Arthur said. “In period costume.”
“Just to make sure I’m clear on this, we’re talking about a historically inaccurate whore costume, right?”
“With a corset,” Arthur said. “Name your town, Mr. Eames.”
Eames did. He figured he could turn a striptease into something else, if he were so inclined.
And he would be.
-
The mark wasn’t in the next town, which was okay, because neither Eames nor Arthur had bet on that one; instead they stopped at the saloon, beat some projections at poker, and Eames threw two projections through the front window and shot one. Arthur shot two more.
“I would’ve helped more,” Arthur said, when they were back on their horses. “Except, you know, my ribs.”
“Your ribs,” Eames said. “Of course, darling.”
“Don’t be condescending,” Arthur muttered. “I shot two.”
“Bullets through the heart, I’m sure,” Eames replied.
They ride in silence after that, the only sounds the steady clip of their horses’ hooves, the lowing of the cattle, and the fresh twist of the wind. There was, periodically, the dry caw from a crow, or maybe a raven, because Eames couldn’t tell the difference.
“Nash outdid himself,” he said.
“The mark provided the animals,” Arthur said idly, taking aim at one of the black birds circling overhead.
“Just because it’s a projection doesn’t mean you have to shoot it,” Eames said.
“I’m just proving a point,” Arthur replied, and made the shot. The crow came tumbling down, wings akimbo.
“Fine, you’re a good shot,” Eames said. “You killed a bird. Good on you.”
“I killed a projection, Eames,” Arthur replied.
Eames shook his head.
“Soon you’re going to start shooting horses so we can hide behind them in fights. Nothing good can come of this, Arthur.”
“I’m not going to shoot the horses, because we need them to get places,” Arthur said, patting his mare on the neck.
“What did you name yours, by the way?”
“Yeah, not going to happen,” Arthur replied.
“Mmm-hmm,” Eames said. “I believe you’ve said that about some other things that I suspect will come to pass.”
“Eames,” Arthur said, giving him a long sidelong glance. “I don’t fuck coworkers.”
“But you that doesn’t mean you don’t want to, so we’ll just have to work on that little rule of yours,” Eames said, and Arthur fell silent.
Eames didn’t actually fuck coworkers, either, because of this one time with an extractor in Angola, when everything in-dream had gone to pieces because the extractor couldn’t keep external disagreements out of his work. But Eames had a niggling suspicion, that for all faults and his joints, Arthur had enough pride in his work to keep sex from ruining everything. The trick, from here, was to get Arthur to have slightly less respect for his work, and slightly more respect for Eames’ cock (and the rest of Eames, the whole of Eames), and from there everything would go swimmingly, Eames imagined.
He might have been a closet romantic, but he suspected Arthur was as well. Although he hid it well--if Arthur’s clothes were anything to go by, he had a penchant for hiding things in a way that plainly revealed. Eames just had to get that Arthur’s closet romantic the manifest himself, and really, where better than a brothel above a bar in Nash’s dream version of Tombstone, Arizona?
Because it had to be Tombstone. Really, it couldn’t be anywhere else. Eames didn’t understand why Arthur didn’t see that.
-
The desert was a bone sucked clean of marrow, and they were almost to Tombstone. Eames was trying to avoid saying anything that might give his certainty about Tombstone away, lest Arthur call off the bet, and Arthur was trying to keep the bet out of his head entirely, because he knows full well Eames won’t let him call it off.
This is how they rode into Tombstone: side by side, with mirrored thoughts in their minds. A tumbleweed rolled past, and Eames considered pointing out that their mark was a pathetic cliche, given the swarthy cowboys that were clumped along the main street, hats tipped down across broad foreheads, speaking amongst themselves and watching Eames and Arthur like any minute a shoot-out might erupt.
They dismounted and ambled down the street, checking first the bank and then the two cells behind the sheriff’s office, then, finally, the saloon.
The mark was there, with his fist curled around a glass of watery whiskey. Eames’ eyes lit up, and Arthur’s, to his credit, remained opaque and flinty. They slip outside and around the back, where horses were standing next to piles of excrement with the endless, stupid patience of projected animals.
“We have to run the job, first,” he said, and Eames granted him a grin that he hoped was soothing, but, judging by Arthur’s sneer of response, fell somewhere short.
The plan Cobb had drawn up was ludicrous, actually. Eames had already crafted a new one in the long hours spent on the trail. It’s one of Cobb’s unique skills as an extractor to make plans that seem completely terrible and then pull them off, but it’s usually too much to expect someone else to pull them off with quite the same brink-of-death aplomb.
“So you’re just going to do a forge and talk to the mark until he tells you?” Arthur asked, sounding skeptical.
“You can rob the sheriff’s office for further information, in the meantime. Also just for shits,” Eames offered. “But my plan also involves copious amounts of liquor, so.”
Alcohol in dreams worked sort of like non-alcoholic beer that people didn’t know was non-alcoholic: the individual got drunk in proportion to the amount they expected to get drunk, give or take.
“I think we should stick with Cobb’s,” Arthur said, rubbing his temples.
“Tell the mark we’re taking him on a vision quest and then knock him down another level in the middle of the desert?” Eames asked. “Brilliant.”
“We could sell it,” Arthur said, and Eames tossed an arm around his shoulders.
“While I would buy anything you’re selling,” he said. “I would much rather you just robbed the sheriff’s office. You know I find your competency devastatingly attractive.”
“If the job fails, the bet’s off,” Arthur said, and Eames frowned.
“It’s not going to fail,” he said. “What do you take me for?”
-
The job passed in a blur of depressingly devastating competency. No: that’s the truth. Arthur could’ve robbed the sheriff’s office in his sleep, he could’ve robbed it with his hands tied behind his back. Not because he’s a particularly genius thief, just because the office itself was completely empty.
“There was nothing there,” he told Eames when they reconvened on the edge of town, and Eames patted him on the back.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you busy.”
“It worked?” Arther asked, and Eames handed across a sheet of paper, written in shorthand.
“You know I can’t read this,” Arthur said, passing it back.
“You should really learn shorthand,” Eames started.
“No, your handwriting,” Arthur replied. “I can’t read your handwriting, dumbass.”
“Trust me, then,” Eames had said. “We have what we need.”
And Arthur, almost inexplicably, had, because for all Eames’ faults he was a professional, and if he said they had what they needed, they did. A dry wind was blowing from the south, kicking up dust. Cassidy nickered. After a full week, it was all stupidly, easily over.
“So, about our wager--”
-
Eames didn’t know what Arthur did, but the saloon emptied out like it’d been drained, quietly voiding of projections. The mark had also disappeared, though he couldn’t possibly be awake.
Arthur’s gone, too, vanished upstairs or someplace else, with a quiet seriousness that implies he’ll be applying as much focus towards this as he does towards anything else.
One point in favor of Arthur: he takes his wagers seriously. If this striptease was supposed to be equal to half Eames’ cut, it will be, but for now Eames is alone in the saloon, staring at the dusty window along the front. The sun’s about to set, casting everything in shadow. The window--he’s almost sure there shouldn’t be a window, or at least not one that large. They’ll have to talk to Nash about that.
“We’ll have to talk to Nash about that,” came a voice from behind, somewhere along the bar, which was all brass and dark wood, cheap liquor down low, and, on the top shelves, bottles of dark and silky liquids that sifted gold out of the light.
Eames didn’t turn around, not so much because he knew that wasn’t how Arthur wanted it as because he couldn’t, because he knew was going to get something he wanted but at the same time this was ridiculous, this was a dream, if he turned around he might trip on a chair and get a kick and the whole thing would dissolve before his eyes, Arthur--
“Something to drink, cowboy?” Arthur said, and there was a clink of glass, the thud of something being set down on wood.
“Yes, please,” Eames said, voice uncharacteristically soft.
There was the tap of feet--heels?--against wood, a clink, a gurgle, and then the tap again, a steady trot, coming to a stop directly behind Eames. There was a weight on his shoulder, and an arm extended over it, offering an amber glass.
Arthur’s hand was gloved, buttoned demurely at the wrist.
“Drink up,” he whispered, breath liquid hot against Eames’ ear. “Show’s about to start.”
Outside, the sky had shifted to the strange, vivid blue that signified twilight. Arthur was tapping around the saloon, and lanterns began to flicker on, one after another, casting wavering light across the floor.
Then Arthur was standing behind Eames again, and then he dropped his arm back across Eames shoulder, dangling his hand there--slender fingers, neat white glove.
“Unbutton it,” he said, his tone one of flat command.
When Eames reached up, his fingers were trembling.
The glove fell to the floor, an empty shell, and Eames was suddenly forced to look at Arthur’s hand in a way he hadn’t before: pale white skin, tapered fingers. The way it sometimes happens in dreams, Eames’ focus suddenly closes in on the whorls of Arthur’s fingerprints and everything else fades. He wants them pressed against his lips, wants to flick his tongue out and lick them, wants to suck them, wants to--
Arthur’s left hand, Eames’ left shoulder, Arthur’s left glove, on the ground.
“Turn around,” Arthur said, and Eames is still for a moment, and then Arthur’s hands were on Eames’ shoulders, and Arthur himself twirls Eames around, spinning him on his axis.
The dress was--irrelevant, really. The dress was so far past the point. It pools around Arthur’s shoulders, the neckline dipping below his collarbone. It was smooth, silk, the dusky color of a plum that’s well past ripe, the fabric rich and almost imperceptibly pinstriped. It could have been the fabric for one of Arthur’s suits, except it was so clearly not, except that it flared out to skirts after caressing Arthur’s waist, offering only an intimation of what was beneath.
Arthur turned around, presenting Eames with the upward curve of his neck contrasted against the dark fabric, the gentle stippling of hair at his nape.
“Unbutton it,” he said again, and Eames took a moment to admire the line of buttons running down Arthur’s back, perfectly straight, each one individually ensconced in the same fabric as the dress. They stopped abruptly halfway down the curve of his ass, allowing the skirts to unfurl in a tumble of thick, rich fabric, and Eames wondered about petticoats, the ridiculous, erotic layers that might be hiding beneath.
Eames started at the top, fumbling over the buttons one after the other, too fast. Revealing Arthur’s white shoulders, the soft knobs of his spine, the tight laces of the corset across the small of his back, and then, moving slower as he moved lower, as Arthur’s back angled into his waist, and then--the dress dropped to the ground.
Arthur turned around and stepped back and out of the dress, slipping his fingers into the waistband of the petticoats as he moved back, lifting those--slowly, too slowly, up and over his head, before they, too dropped to the floor, sinking abandoned and empty to the ground. Eames didn’t know where to look, because seeing Arthur from behind--seeing him in the dress, was seeing the silhouette, and now it’s filled in, whole.
Eames said something, then; he can’t for the life of him remember what it was, because Arthur was wearing stockings, garters and, in a beautiful incongruity, slim-shafted black cowboy boots with low heels. There was the suggestion of a bulge beneath the thin darkness of his panties, and the corset was hugging him around the waist, delicate boning lancing its way up his sides, his chest.
Arthur was stepping backwards, further, and there was something in his hips that Eames might be tempted to call a sashay, though at the time he was mostly concerned because Arthur was moving away, further, and Eames was rooted to the spot, tracing Arthur’s body and then his face: nose, lips, eyes, ears. Taking inventory. Keeping track. Arthur was whole and complete and in front of him, and then Arthur was leaning against the bar, hoisting himself up with both arms, and sitting on the polished wood.
He crossed his legs. He took off one boot, cupped it in his hand with the toe tucked under his longest finger and the heel pressed into his arm.
“Take it,” he said, nodding towards it, and Eames didn’t know what to do with it but took it anyway, holding it for a moment before dropping it to the floor because who even gave a fuck, about the boot?
Arthur raised an eyebrow when it clattered, breaking character for the first time. There was a shadow of something sardonic in that arched eyebrow, and it made Eames want to take Arthur’s chin in his hands and press their lips together, because Arthur was doing this so beautifully for him, maybe because he lost a bet, but Arthur wanted to he would’ve gotten out of it--this was still Arthur, doing this. For Eames. There was no one else around to see, no projections, no mark, just an empty saloon in the desert of a dreamscape.
Arthur took off the second boot, tossed it lightly so it landed besides the first one, and then he let his legs dangle off the bar, toes pointing downwards in a delicate arch, and he reached up for the closures of the corset.
He peeled it off in one motion like a husk, and dropped it behind the bar. Eames imagined he heard the sound it made when it fell, brushing across the floor, and then again maybe he did, because he was standing close, far too close to Arthur. He hadn’t even noticed his own approach, though he was aware he came to get the boot, and then he stepped closer again.
The light played across Arthur’s face, from one side or the other or both, and his eyes--maybe it was the light, but his eyes flickered across Eames’ face, dark and liquid and flecked gold by the oil lamps.
“We’re going to do this, aren’t we,” he said, quietly, not quite a question, and at that point Eames was certain the show was over and something else had begun, because Arthur reached for him.
Arthur grasped him by the shoulders, hands no longer delicate but a firm weight, and kissed him full on the mouth.
It had been such a long time coming. Eames had seen this on the horizon years ago, and he had thought it was closer, then, but it came slow, not a wildfire, not a duststorm, not a plague of locusts but instead a lone horseman who only flirted with approaching.
Arthur nipped Eames on the lip, with quick, sharp teeth, probed his mouth with his tongue, and everything opened up before them, possibilities endless.
“Yes,” Eames had said, then, pulling back for only a moment. “We’re really going to do this.”
Arthur was spreading his legs, wrapping them neatly around Eames’ waist, and Eames leaned in, pressing their shoulders together. For a moment it was purely comfortable, but there was a heat rising up in Eames, something that had started below his stomach, now snaking higher and growing hotter. He placed his fingers on Arthur’s hips, dug his nails into the soft flesh above the bone. Arthur bit him, again, harder, and made a soft noise in the back of his throat that sent a shiver running down Eames’ spine like a rill.
“This is a terrible idea,” Arthur had said, and in retrospect Eames thought maybe Arthur meant to say that he was going to break Eames’ heart, but the things they say about hindsight weren’t in his mind right now, because his hands were traveling south along the smooth landscape of Arthur’s chest.
Eames hooked his thumbs over the hem of Arthur’s panties, which were black and implausibly soft, and Arthur reached up to snap one of Eames’ suspenders before slipping his own hands under Eames’ shirt and onto the rounds of his shoulders, digging his nails into the freckled skin there and sliding the suspenders off Eames’ shoulders so they hung around his knees.
“I beg to differ,” Eames said, sucking on the corner of Arthur’s mouth like his tongue was a key.
And then one of Arthur’s hands was off Eames’ shoulder, undoing the line of buttons down Eames’ chest, and other one slithered in to tweak his nipple, rubbing soft spirals around it in a slow, easy rhythm, and Eames’ tongue barged into Arthur’s mouth further, pressing harder, and Arthur responded in kind, his hands tugging insistently at Eames’ shirt, until finally their chests were pressed together, Arthur’s pale and smooth, Eames’ tanned and freckled and pocked. Arthur’s shoulders were above Eames’, though, too high, and Eames cupped his hands around Arthur’s ass and lifted him off the bar, spinning around with Arthur’s thighs still tight on either side of his waist and setting him on the wooden table behind them.
And Arthur had laughed, then, long and low, thick with cords of promise, and Eames had knelt down and unclipped the garters. Arthur grinned down at him, licking his lips, and Eames rolled the stockings down, soft and slick, one leg at a time, running one finger along the sole of Arthur’s foot.
“I think I may be finishing your job for you,” he said, and Arthur had said, “I hardly think you’re one to complain.”
When Eames rose, Arthur reached for his hips at the same time as Eames settled his hands on Arthur’s hips, peeling off Arthur’s panties as Arthur fumbled with the buttons at Eames’ crotch and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops, tugging down and then allowing the trousers to drop to Eames’ ankles.
And then they were both bared, completely, and Eames had to stop for a moment, half a breath, and take it in, and then he reached down and ran his hand along Arthur’s thigh, and then along the outside, until he was again cupping Arthur’s ass, one finger circling his hole.
“Eames,” Arthur murmured, drawn out, slow.
“Eames,” he whimpered, again, louder, bullet-quick, and Eames kissed the corner of his mouth and pushed in.
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he said, stupidly.
Arthur’s hands were grappling, now, for Eames’ cock, and he produced lube from somewhere because it was a dream, and Arthur ran his hand up the length of Eames, teasing, and Eames was aching to replace his finger with himself, and then Arthur spread his legs and let him. Arthur squirmed, and Eames held him down on the oak table by the hips, and pounded in.
When they came, it was wet and ragged and too loud, and Eames was almost going to collapse on top of Arthur, who was arching his back up, off the table, Eames inside him, still.
Roommates AU/'An Unambiguous Cataloging System': This fic is basically kicking my ass, the end. It was for my own kinkmeme prompt--I wanted a fic where Arthur and Eames were roommates--but I was also trying to experiment with their characterization, which brought me to a place where I wasn't sure what I was going with their characterization, and the relationship sort of stalled out on me. Otherwise it's a pretty standard AU. Arthur's a curator at the Museum of Science in Boston; Eames curates at the MFA.
It’s one of those days that’s so hot Arthur’s eyeballs sweat, and while he was air conditioning at work there’s none in the apartment, so when Arthur gets back all the windows are open, and Eames is lying on his back on the tile in the kitchen, shirtless, looking up at the ceiling.
Arthur almost trips over him.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” Eames says without moving.
“I’m trying to get to the fridge here,” Arthur says, but after a moment he ends up slumping down to the floor so he’s sitting by Eames’ feet, with his back against the frame of the kitchen door.
“There’s nothing good in the fridge,” Eames says.
“Maybe nothing with your name on it,” Arthur says and kicks at Eames’ foot.
“Eh,” Eames says. “I looked at your food. Salad.”
“I should take a shower,” Arthur says. He’s still wearing the clothes he wore on the ride home, and his hair is starting to curl at the tips, from some combination of sweat and humidity. Arthur suspects he smells a bit rank.
“Probably,” Eames replies, but he doesn’t move, and Arthur doesn’t, either, except to run a hand through his hair.
“How was work?” he asks after a moment.
“Don’t ask if you aren’t interested,” Eames says.
“I’m making conversation,” Arthur replies. “As you do.”
Eames pulls himself up into a sitting position, pressing his back against the refridgerator.
“How about a deal, hey?” Eames says. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean.”
“Don’t say anything I don’t mean,” Arthur echoes.
“I won’t either,” Eames says. “I’m not advocating full disclosure--don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, don’t answer questions you don’t feel like answering. That’s it. I’ll do the same.”
It’s hard to tell what Eames is thinking--Arthur still doesn’t know him that well, and his face is expressive, but Arthur finds his expressions difficult to read. Arthur leans forward a little, with his arms across his knees.
“Okay,” Arthur says.
Eames studies him.
“Okay,” he says, holding Arthur’s gaze through a few beats of silence until Arthur leans back against the doorframe.
“So how was work?” Arthur asks.
Eames starts slightly, and then a grin curls across his face.
“Okay,” he says. “Though I’m still the new guy, you know?”
Arthur nods. He would’ve thought it would be easier for Eames, somehow. But Eames is not actually a person Arthur knows.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
They sit like that, for awhile. It’s more comfortable and less strange than Arthur would’ve initially expected, and Arthur eventually closes his eyes and lets himself fall half asleep, only then his phone beeps to signal a text. Arthur glances at it, then across at Eames.
“Tyler,” he says, holding the phone up. “I really need to shower.”
“How long have you--?” Eames waves a hand vaguely as Arthur shifts to his feet.
Arthur looks at the phone like it’ll answer for him.
“Three months?” he says. “I was buying a new headset for my bike, he asked me out, etceteras.”
“Etceteras,” Eames echoes dryly. “You going to want him to move in here?”
“I signed the lease, too,” Arthur says. “For a year. I’m not going to break it if Tyler and I suddenly decide we need to cohabitate. So we won’t decide we need to cohabitate.”
“Mercenary,” Eames says, but there’s something in his expression that suggests he understands, maybe even respects that. He stretches out on the floor again.
“Enjoy your shower,” he says. “I’ll enjoy looking at the ceiling. Cheers.”
Arthur remembers when he bought the apartment--it was then, as now, a two bedroom apartment, with a foyer so small that Arthur could stand in the center of it and touch all the walls with his elbows. It smelled distantly of mildew and the dust of old books, and although the floors were hardwood and tile it was all poorly done, uneven and irregular. But it was on the corner of the building, and there were windows in every room but the bathroom, so even though the windows rattled when the train slid past, Arthur bought it.
After he signed the papers he went to the living room and sat on the floor, beneath the windows; leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if it was right that it should be so easy to say Here, yes, I’m staying here and do it. He sketched the cracks that ran across the ceiling in his head, tried to commit them to memory. It was stupid, but in a strange way that was what made the place feel like home: the cracks in the ceiling, the imperfections of the floors. And--shit--it was his home, even with the string of tenants. Eventually he’d pay off the mortgage and be able to keep it to himself, he figured, but for now this would do.
'Shake Your Windows, Rattle Your Walls': Hank and Alex swap mutations due to some hedgemagic gone wrong, yo. This was sort of supposed to be a partner to Cross Country--a canon-verse, post-divorce Hank/Alex from Alex's POV instead of Hank's.
Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters rises up around them like some sort of demented phoenix, a revivified bird that doesn’t seem to know where its head is at. Alex blames the Professor for that, but the majority of the problem is that the Professor isn’t around enough to care what Alex blames him for or doesn’t.
Alex goes to talk to Charles the afternoon that some girl starts a storm in the bunker like a tempest in a teapot, but Charles is gone, which Alex should have known because of the weird emotional pall that settles over the mansion when Charles is there. Charles has been absent intermittently for weeks; and when he’s present physically he spends his time recruiting with Cerebro, outside his mind. If you asked Alex--but no one asks Alex.
He goes to the kitchen to scrounge for something to eat and comes up with two pieces of leftover french toast, presumably from breakfast, which he reheats in the oven.
Hank shows up when the french toast is slathered with syrup and halfway to Alex’s stomach.
“Tell me there’s more of that,” he says.
“I could,” Alex begins. “But there’s not.”
“Sean--” Hank frowns as he turns to open the fridge. “I keep telling him that he needs to cook more. I have a fast metabolism. I need to eat more frequently.”
“You told me my body temperature runs ten degrees warmer than a normal person’s,” Alex says. “I imagine that would increase my metabolism as well.”
“You remember that?” Hank asks, twisting to look at him, and Alex refrains from pointing out that it was information about him, about his body, and it would be stranger if he didn’t.
Hank pulls two carrots from the fridge and frowns.
“Sean needs to buy more food. Hate carrots. My teeth are the wrong shape.”
The ‘now’ is implied. Most of what Hank says has an implied ‘now,’ hovering somewhere outside the edges of the conversation. Alex suspects it’s how Hank tries to come to terms with the fact that he is now blue and furred and not wearing a shirt and spitting bits of carrot into the sink because of how it feels against his teeth. A few months ago, Hank would never have done any of that. A few months ago, Alex had never seen Hank without a shirt buttoned to the collar, but apparently none of those shirts fit, now, and Hank can’t be bothered to find ones that do.
Alex still thinks it’s kind of badass, but it’s not a point he needs to make right now. Besides, the thing with the carrots is mostly just humorous, and Alex could use a laugh about now. He could always use a laugh, truth be told.
“Is any of that actually getting to your stomach?” Alex asks. “Or does it all end up in the sink?”
“If someone hadn’t finished the bread,” Hank says.
“You realize this is Sean’s fault,” Alex says.
“Objectively, yes,” Hank says dryly. “But when you’re here, eating the last of breakfast, it’s a bit difficult to see it that way.”
“I thought you were a scientist,” Alex says, because if he can’t give Hank shit Alex isn’t sure what he can do.
Hank just looks at him. The problem is that on his new face his expressions are almost illegible: Alex is genuinely uncertain whether he’s annoyed, amused, or affronted. It makes everything less fun.
“I am,” Hank says mildly, carding one hand through the fur on the back of his neck.
“So you’re supposed to be objective,” Alex says, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter.
“No one’s objectivity is perfect,” Hank says.
“I’m crushed,” Alex replies, and Hank just looks at him some more, eyes huge and yellow.
“Sorry,” he says, and then he leaves. Alex stares after him, and then he decides to go back to the bunker.
'Bloom': I'm not sure if I'll continue this because I kind of cannibalized parts of the premise for 'A Brief Introduction to Live-Action Roleplaying', but it was going to be, like, a big coming of age fic centered around Stiles. I wasn't and still am not sure what the ship would be. Scott becomes an alpha and Stiles is in his pack (as a human). The primary antagonist was going to be algae.
Stiles finds Scott’s locker by working backwards from the alphabet from his own.
“Oh captain my captain,” he says, hitching an arm around Scott’s neck. “You have lit first period?”
“Er,” Scott fishes a tattered schedule out of his pocket and spins it around a few times before Stiles liberates it.
“No,” Stiles says after a moment. “You have Spanish, cheater.”
“I am not--” Scott protests.
“Pretending not to know Spanish when you do, in fact, know it, is cheating,” Stiles says. “Not that I care if you cheat, this is all in the interest of accuracy. Come on, let’s go.”
“I don’t know the grammar stuff,” Scott says. “Like, direct objects or whatever, I don’t know what those are.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that only matters for people who don’t actually know how to speak Spanish,” Stiles says, attempting to steer Scott down the hall. “Or people who have giant boners for grammar.”
“I’m waiting for Isaac,” Scott says, stopping.
“Is Isaac in Spanish?” Stiles asks.
“No,” Scott says. “I just--there he is!” Scott waves. “Isaac!”
Isaac lopes over to them, then stands there like he’s not sure what he’s doing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“What, Derek couldn’t get you kids to school on time?” Stiles asks. Isaac frowns a little, then shrugs.
“No,” Isaac says. “Peter drove us.”
“Can recorporalized corpses drive in California now?” Stiles says, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. What’s your first period?”
“Woodshop,” Isaac replies, looking between Stiles and Scott. “You guys?”
“Spanish.”
“American lit,” Stiles says. “First day of school. Are all your pencils sharpened?”
“I use mechanical pencils,” Scott says.
“Me too,” Isaac says.
“Ugh, whatever,” Stiles says. “Now that we have all reviewed our schedules--which we could’ve just e-mailed to each other, you know--we’re going to be late.”
Isaac shrugs. He’s being weird. It’s probably Derek’s fault. Or Stiles’. Isaac is always a bit weird around Stiles--taciturn, one might say, if one were prone to using words like ‘taciturn.’ Stiles gets it, and it’s one of those things where they’re both friends with Scott so they tolerate one another, sort of like Allison did when she and Scott were dating. It’s a little weirder than that because Scott and Isaac aren’t dating, but Stiles kind of ignores that in his head and figures Isaac is filling the Allison role, because if he wasn’t he’d be filling the Stiles role, and that one isn’t open at present.
Maybe if Stiles dies. Which he hopefully won’t, but people die, it’s a thing that happens, he likes to prepare himself for every eventuality.
First day of school is kind of a let down, all told. Stiles had forgotten that about school, but it all comes back in a flood, along with pile of syllabi and rubrics. He fidgets and mouths off through all of his classes, because he figures he might as well make it clear to the teachers what they’re getting. Though he’s fairly certain they already know, via teacher’s lounge gossip. It’s kind of flattering. Or he’s going to choose to believe it is, anyway.
Intolerable Cruelty: For a kinkmeme prompt--before the show had this happen (kind of)--about Mike getting fired because of his faked credentials and he and Harvey meeting a few years down the road as competing attorneys or whatever (I understand lawyering, I really do).
Harvey’s third grade teacher wrote on his report card that Harvey didn’t have a clear understanding of the consequences of his actions. Harvey had found it when he went through his parents’ things after they died, and maybe that’s why the first thing that Harvey thinks after Jessica fires Mike is that Mrs. Connor would have a few things to say about this.
She probably wouldn’t have approved of Harvey just getting a slap on the wrist, either.
When it happens Mike looks like the rug’s been swept out from under him, but just for a moment, and then he schools his face into something else, into the face of a kid who has, a long time ago, accepted that the people you trust will fail you, and when the rug disappears you just keep going.
Harvey’s not going to lie: it hurts, somewhere in the back of his gut, which is why Harvey offers to cut Mike a check--”For your Gram,” he mutters, trying to be gruff about it--and Mike looks at Harvey like he hardly sees him, with something heavy just the other side of his eyes, and says, “I’m fine, thanks.”
And then he disappears.
Harvey always thinks that he could probably find Mike if he tried a little harder, but he doesn’t. If Mike wants to disappear Harvey will let him.
And that’s the end of that story, until it isn’t any more.
It’s a divorce. Harvey shouldn’t have taken the case, but he owes Nichols, and if there’s anything he likes less than divorce proceedings it’s owing someone.
The other thing about the case that’s a pain in the ass is that it’s in Chicago, which means flying there in winter next to a rumpled family in Bears jackets, and dealing with a lawyer from a firm Harvey doesn’t know, by reputation or otherwise, which are two things Harvey doesn’t particularly care for, either.
They’re meeting in the boardroom of a tall building off the Loop, with views of Lake Michigan from wide glass windows. Harvey arrives early. He figures if he doesn’t have home court advantage he deserves some sort of advantage, even if it just comes from looking out the windows and then sitting down with his back to them, so if a bird hits the window during the proceedings he won’t have to look at it.
These are just preliminary negotiations, really, and Harvey Specter doesn’t get nerves, which is why it surprises him a little that he feels a vague sense of foreboding around the entire thing. The firm the wife’s lawyer is from doesn’t have a website. Apparently, they prefer word of mouth publicity.
Harvey doesn’t know what the fuck that means.
Harvey had told Nichols to be early, too, and he is, looking flushed and a little exasperated.
“Harvey,” he says. “Fuck. Thank god for small blessings. The wife is--”
“She has pictures of you, doesn’t she?” Harvey asks. “You fucker.”
“Of course she has pictures of me,” Nichols says. “What was I--look, you know what I want. The house in Maine--she can have the Gold Coast condo--and the dog. Joint custody of the kids.”
“The fact that you put your dog before your children is probably a bad sign,” Harvey says wryly, and Nichols frowns.
“Jasper is mine,” he says, fidgeting at the table. “Jasper and the Maine house are assets I brought into the marriage. It’s not unreasonable.”
“No,” Harvey says. “But then again, you didn’t get a pre-nup and you did sleep with your best friend.”
“Just do your job,” Nichols says.
“Just shut up and look pretty,” Harvey says. “And sit still. You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”
“She’s my wife, Harvey,” Nichols says, and Harvey looks at him sharply.
“You don’t want her back, do you?” he asks. Nichols looks a little forlorn. “Hiring me is not going to help you get her back, you dumbass.”
“Just--” Nichols sighs. “Draw out the negotiations as long as you can.”
“You need a counselor, not a lawyer,” Harvey says. “I cannot believe this.”
He resists the urge to bring his hands to his temples and run them through his hair, because he did not get to where he is today with mussed hair. Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales for a moment.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. But don’t try to talk to her today.”
And then they wait.
They can see the hall through the windows, and there’s only a few moments before a woman who walks like her skirt is too tight appears in the hall, sleek and polished and out for blood. A blond man trails behind her, presumably the lawyer. Harvey can’t get a good eye on his face, but his tailoring is--immaculate.
Which doesn’t mean he’s good, but it does mean that someone taught him that presentation matters. Which is something they don’t always teach in law school, at least not the shitty ones. Or at least it’s not like they hand out well-tailored suits with law degrees.
The lawyer holds the door open for Mrs. Nichols--Marcia, if Harvey recalls--and Harvey allows himself a moment to study her face before shifting his eyes to the lawyer, who is--
Oh.
Mike is older than Harvey last saw him, with wrinkles around his eyes that Harvey finds himself hoping are laugh lines, because if Mike’s stopped laughing Harvey’s not sure what the world’s come to. The angles of his face are a little harsher than they once were, some of the softness sloughed off by time or something more nebulous. He used to be cute. Now he’s--handsome. Startlingly so. And his suit is close around the waist, with subtle pin striping, and in the room it looks even better than it did in the hall.
Harvey swallows a little thickly and hopes the rest of the room doesn’t notice.
Mike offers him a hand and says, completely evenly: “Michael Gable.”
There’s a moment--just a quick flash--where Harvey wonders if Mike got married and changed his last name, and what kind of dumb fuck does that.
And then he realizes he probably changed it to avoid any residual scandal, to avoid the Google results, and maybe, maybe, to avoid being found.
And so Harvey shakes his hand and says, “Harvey Specter,” because he doesn’t really have a choice.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Mike says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Harvey says. “But working in the city, sometimes you miss interesting developments in flyover country.”
It’s a little bitchy, but sometimes you need to be a little bitchy to prove a point. What the point is here Harvey’s not entirely sure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with not letting someone pull the rug out from under you. Harvey Specter will not be set off kilter by meeting his erstwhile associate, going by another name, across a negotiation table in Chicago, in a divorce case that Harvey never should’ve agreed to take.
Though if something were to set Harvey off kilter, it would probably be this.
“Of course,” Mike says. His face is schooled into something so pleasantly bland that if Harvey weren’t completely convinced that Mike Ross was sitting across from him, he might start second-guessing himself--maybe it’s just someone else named Mike, who looks like Mike, who has lived in Chicago all these years without realizing that somewhere else in the world he has a secret twin.
The negotiation goes poorly, but that’s mostly because Nichols is still in love with his fucking wife. Harvey is going to have to whip some self respect into him. Or something. At the very least, Harvey is going to need to get him to shut the fuck up.
The sticking point here seems to be the dog, Jasper, who Marcia claims Nichols doesn’t even walk. Nichols claims that Marcia doesn’t even like Jasper and, furthermore, forgets to give him his antidepressants. Harvey would like to know why the dog is on antidepressants, and also, why he’s here. When the discussion of dog antipsychotics began Harvey wanted to catch Mike’s eye and quirk his eyebrow just slightly, because even after all these years he couldn’t doubt that Mike would understand, but Mike wouldn’t even look at him.
Harvey looks at Mike, though, because there’s nothing else to do. He takes stock of him: of the lines around his eyes, the ring that’s not on any of his fingers, the peaks in his hair that have been smoothed down, the tight knot of his tie in the hollow of his neck, tucked below his adam’s apple. Harvey tries to envision Mike’s life in Chicago, because he can’t quite wrap his head around Mike, living in Chicago, but maybe in a weird way it makes sense, maybe Chicago is more like the outer boroughs. He imagines Mike goes home and sheds his veneer of professionalism, becomes the Mike he used to know. Harvey imagines Mike is living with some woman, a serial monogamist, unmarried because both of them think it’s an outdated institution even as she kisses him on the cheek and tightens his tie before he leaves for work in the morning. It’s comforting; it suggests that Harvey did understand the consequences of his actions, and they weren’t that bad after all. Mike is fine.
Even if he won’t talk to Harvey, which he won’t. He leaves with Marcia, the pair of them trotting down the hall and away.
“Well,” Harvey says. “That was shit.”
“I want Jasper,” Nichols says, and Harvey mostly wants Nichols to stop being a moron.
“This is why I don’t take divorce cases,” Harvey says, though he considers saying ‘This is why I never married.’
“You know, they call Chicago the Second City,” Harvey says the next time they gather around that long table, the four of them sitting there like the most dysfunctional family. He says it like small talk, but mostly he wants to see how Mike responds--if Mike responds.
Mike doesn’t. Mike has wrested all the power in the relationship from Harvey, with this sudden and unexpected reappearance and with his staunch refusal to acknowledge Harvey in the slightest.
Anyway, I'm working on a few things right now. Original fic (for bb_shousetsu, hopefully)! Harry Potter (Lorcan Lysander/Albus Severus Potter, obviously)! Some really old projects! Everything is going slow, and there's always a bit of a roulette as to which of these things will get finished (let alone when). In the meantime--I'm going to throw some bits of my older WIPs up here, for anyone who's curious. There is the chance that some of them might still get finished, though I have to admit that for some of them it's very unlikely. I don't know. But I thought it would be...fun? Yeah, that. It gives you some insight into my writing process or something, if that's up your street. Alternate advertising: the second Inception one is porny. (There was also a Firefly/TSN crossover, but this post broke lj's character limit when I tried to include it, so....)
BB/'King Solomon's Ring': This was supposed to be my bigbang, but I wasn't going to finish it on time so I defaulted. I've worked on it since then, and at 12k it's about a third of the way done (I think), but I didn't have a complete of where it was going so we ended up--here. It was/is about Ariadne being an oracle--in this universe, someone who can communicate with/serve as a mouthpiece for the gods--and being 'hired' (read: forced) to perform an extraction on some animal gods who have been working against the Pantheon she works with.
Oh, and Eames is secretly an animal behaviorist.
...Yeah.
Ariadne doesn’t summon much, but she’s kept the tools handy all these years for one reason or another. And by tools she actually means tool, singular: one of the Antlered Man’s antlers, seven points.
The things for the rest of the ritual she usually has on hand. She dips the antler in oil (olive oil, always) and lights it on fire.
The only reliable way to tell an antler from the Antlered Man from an antler from an elk is that you are able to do this: light the antler on fire, hold it without burning the antler or yourself. It takes a few moments, but eventually the Man will come around.
“Oracle,” he says, and he’s worse, if that’s possible, when he’s standing in her apartment than when he’s sitting in the cave. Ariadne is fairly certain that the song “You’re So Vain” actually is about him.
“I know you heard our conversation,” she says flatly.
“He can meet me,” the Antlered Man says, and then he grins toothily. “He seems quite lovely.”
“No,” Ariadne says. “I’m doing this job for you, and if you go fucking it up, fucking with Arthur--”
“Honestly,” the Man says, pacing across the room to open one of Ariadne’s cupboards. “You are the worst Oracle we’ve had in generations.”
“Well if you wanted someone who would fall over herself, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you tricked me into this job as a child,” Ariadne mutters and then adds, more loudly. “If you eat that, with you as my witness, I will--”
“Ha,” the Man says in monotone, taking out a baguette and gnawing on the end.
He looks at her. She looks at him.
Ariadne knows what he’s saying: he--they--have all the power in this relationship. Sure, they need her, but she can’t quit.
“I’ll summon you when he arrives,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” the Man says. “I’ll be here.”
He leaves and takes her bread.
Ariadne hates him.
She gets a flight itinerary in the mail two days later, which is the day the flight the itinerary is for is supposed to arrive. She wonders whether this is an unsubtle hint that she should pick Arthur up from the airport and decides to the affirmative.
“So,” she says when they meet at the airport, Arthur looking mildly exasperated and carrying a small bag. “You have an audience with a god.”
“If this is some sort of long-form prank--” Arthur says. “Is Eames involved?”
“I thought you believed me,” Ariadne says.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “But I was just on the plane for long enough that I’m starting to question my own sanity.”
“You came, anyway,” Ariadne says. “Come on, let’s get back to my place. He’ll probably be there. Eating my food.”
“I thought gods ate ambrosia.”
“Only for dessert,” Ariadne says. “Sometimes.”
Ariadne gets a taxi to take them back, because she suspects Arthur doesn’t appreciate public transit, and because if she shifts her head just so she can see the Antlered Man out of the corner of her eyes, and she suspects he doesn’t appreciate public transit, either.
“Okay,” she says once they’re safely ensconced in her apartment. “Come out. Olly-olly-oxenfree.”
Arthur looks at her peculiarly, so he misses the Man’s materialization, stepping sideways from his space into theirs.
“Hello,” he says to Arthur, ignoring Ariadne.
Arthur gapes at him, only barely manages to hide it and muster a reply. Ariadne had suspected this would happen, but she had also suspected Arthur had more sense and had failed to develop a contingency plan. Which was foolish on her part: when she first met the Antlered Man she’d already been seeing him for a long time, when she first met the Antlered Man he was telling her in a kind, strange voice that the river god had given over Ariadne’s debt to the Pantheon, to him and they would very much like her to be their Oracle.
Even then, she felt a creeping combination of fear and hatred when she spoke with him, before she was also too young to feel the strong, visceral pull of his attractiveness. By the time she was old enough for that, she had known him too long, and he had become like an awful, divine uncle.
Arthur, though, is unconsciously licking his lips, and Ariadne is remembering how the Antlered Man looks to your average mortal, and wishing she had the sense to warn him. Because the Man’s skin is so gold it seems like his veins must be thick with the stuff, and he has a thatch of dark, curling hair the color of some expensive tropical hardwood, and the prongs of his antlers emerge from that, dripping velvet. But that doesn’t matter so much as the way he radiates, warmth and sex and virility.
He also spends most of his time prancing about in a few spare vines and a loincloth.
“Stop,” she says, though she’s not entirely sure who she’s speaking to.
“Oh, you know I can’t, Oracle,” the Man says. “It’s my very essence. Just because you think of me as some sort of abusive father figure--”
“Stop what?” Arthur asks. He actually seems to be recovering admirably, inasmuch as he’s turning inquisitive eyes on Ariadne, now, and not gaping at the Man.
“Stop seducing you,” Ariadne says, waving her hand. “Stop being seduced.”
“You can’t expect him to react well on his first time,” the Man says. “I believe you cried.”
“I was four,” Ariadne says.
“And if you’d been his age, you would’ve gaped and swallowed and few times,” the Man says, and then he reaches over to pat Arthur on the shoulder. “Everyone does. It’s perfectly natural.”
“I was not being seduced,” Arthur says. “But I’ve never met a god before.”
“It’s a pleasure to be your first,” the Man says.
Cowboys/'Your Huckleberry': This is a fic I was working on with gelbwax, based on a kinkmeme prompt she made. The premise was/is that the team is running a job where they have to be cowboys and reenact the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral with a mark for reasons. Everything that's happening with this, however, is spliced together with an earlier cowboy-themed job Arthur and Eames ran with Cobb and Nash on the same mark. This earlier job was also--well. I'm going to post an excerpt from that, because I was writing the flashbacks, and, also, it's arguably one of the porniest things I've ever written. There's also crossdressing.
After the bull charged, Eames horse danced left and back. The bull wheeled on its heels, and Arthur was shouting incoherently, and Eames did not appear to have any idea what he was doing. In an unfortunate coincidence of events, a gunshot went off in that series of moments, and the bullet ricocheted off the canyon wall and sent down a stream of pebbles. Arthur’s horse’s nostrils flared. Arthur felt himself becoming wild-eyed, and he tried to focus on the bull and the gunshot, but mostly he saw Eames and his disastrous horsemanship.
The rest of what happened is not entirely clear in Arthur’s memory. He’s pretty certain he grabbed Eames’ reins. He’s fairly certain Eames shot their assailant. He’s absolutely certain that he fell off his horse.
Everyone knows that you wake up when you die in a dream. When you feel pain, though, you just feel it--sharp and bright and cutting, no different from when you’re awake. Arthur landed hard on his back, and it was only by some vagary of luck none of the three animals in the box canyon stepped on him. It was another vagary of luck that he didn’t break anything more than a few ribs, but he did black-out, and when he came to he was wrapped in a horse blanket beside a fire. There was a bright smattering of stars and the long veil of the Milky Way above, and there was Eames, watching him.
“Well,” he said. “You’re up.”
“It’s rude to watch people sleep,” Arthur muttered, but it lacked venom.
“Not if they’re injured,” Eames said. “If they’re injured, it’s responsible.”
“That so?” Arthur said, more to say it than for want of an answer. He was thinking about how real the dream level felt, how he could pick out some real and some fake constellations, how for all his faults Nash had an eye for beauty. The sky above him was expansive with only a few buttes as interruptions.
“I like it here,” Arthur had said, and Eames looked bemused, firelight glinting in his eyes.
“I don’t think you’re all well after that tumble.”
“Probably not,” Arthur tried to shrug, but his ribs stung when he attempted to roll over. Eames raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he had caught the wince.
“We can wait here,” he said. “Until you’re, you know, functional.”
“And reduce our chances of running the job?” Arthur bit back, intensity only slightly mitigated by the fact that he was lying on his back.
“You think you can ride a horse like this?”
“I can if you bandage me up,” Arthur said, and Eames looked down at him skeptically.
“A tight wrap around my waist and I should be fine.”
“Fine,” Eames repeated.
“A sort of brace, until the bones heal.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“It’s a fucking dream, Eames,” Arthur had said. “Take off my shirt.”
“Far be it from me to complain, then,” Eames said. “Clearly you have everything under control. Clearly this is a brilliant plan.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Of philosophy--”
“No,” Arthur said. “You aren’t. Take off my shirt, bandage me up, and let’s get the fuck on with this job.”
“Right, then,” Eames said, and then he’d gone in for the top button, undoing it with a slow, blunt-fingered delicacy.
Arthur pushed his hands off.
“Nevermind, I can do this part myself,” he said. “I take off my own shirt all the time.”
“Of course,” Eames had said, but Arthur could feel him watching as he undid the buttons himself, clumsy and wincing.
“Don’t watch,” he said, and Eames met his eyes.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. And even if I hadn’t, I’m going to have to see it if I’m to bandage you up.”
“I feel like I’m giving an invalid striptease,” Arthur muttered.
“And a right sexy one, at that,” Eames said, and Arthur returned his comment with a glare.
“I don’t appreciate your condescension.”
“This is not me being condescending,” Eames had replied. “This is me admiring your chest, which is very lovely, if slightly pale and possibly sustaining some internal bleeding.”
“Come off it, Eames,” Arthur had groaned, and Eames had said something that sounded suspiciously like, “Only if you bring me off,” and Arthur had tried and failed to kick him.
Eventually, Arthur finished with the row of buttons, and Eames had the decency to shut up and help him sit up and get the bandages out of one of the saddle bags.
“Tight,” Arthur said. “Like I’m the fat girl in Cinderella, and I’m going to the fucking ball, and I want to woo a prince in my fucking corset.”
“That’s a disturbingly specific example,” Eames had said, pulling until Arthur winced.
“A whalebone corset would probably be useful in this instance,” Arthur said. “Or some pot. Or both.”
Eames had made a small, strangled noise, and Arthur had attempted to twist around and look at him.
“I’m the one being strangled, you ass,” he said, and Eames had frowned and said, “But you told me to,” like a petulant child.
“You’re sure this is going to work?” Eames said once the bandage was wrapped, and Arthur rose slowly to his feet.
“I’m standing, aren’t I?” he said.
Eames tried not to look completely skeptical.
“I’ll believe you when you get on the horse.”
-
Arthur got on the horse.
Eames had to give him a boost.
“Stop looking at my ass,” Arthur hissed on the second try, “and maybe I’ll be able to get up.”
“Maybe you’d be able to get up if you weren’t injured,” Eames said, but on the second try Arthur had gotten his leg over the horse’s back and into the stirrup, and Eames had frowned but failed to come up with any reason not to go, now. If Arthur got off the horse, he’d probably injure himself further.
“Did you name your horse yet?” Eames asked idly as they trotted along. “Mine’s Cassidy. As in Butch--”
“My horse’s name is not your business,” Arthur said, and Eames frowned.
“I don’t see why not.”
“It’s just not,” Arthur had said. “So, you think the mark will be in the next town?”
Eames shrugged.
“Because I’m willing to make this interesting,” Arthur continued, although he made it sound less sultry than Eames would’ve liked, and more like a business transaction.
“Yeah?” Eames asked.
“For half your cut.”
“Half my cut--” Eames said. “This better not be you wanting me to bet he is there, and then you bet that he isn’t, because the odds on that are against me.”
“No, town for town,” Arthur said. “Half my cut against half your cut.”
“What if I have something else in mind?” Eames asked. Arthur turned to glance at him.
“Hmm?”
“Half my cut against me bedding you in the town whorehouse,” Eames said.
Arthur paled slightly.
“You can’t get STDs in dreams.”
“I don’t know what kind of man you think I am--,” Arthur said, digging his spurs into his horse’s side.
“The kind of man who was just talking about corsets,” Eames said, matching pace. “And wearing them.”
“For medical purposes,” Arthur said, and then his eyes slanted speculatively.
“Half your cut,” he said. “Against me giving you a striptease in the town whorehouse.”
“An invalid striptease, or a proper one?”
“Proper,” Arthur said. “In period costume.”
“Just to make sure I’m clear on this, we’re talking about a historically inaccurate whore costume, right?”
“With a corset,” Arthur said. “Name your town, Mr. Eames.”
Eames did. He figured he could turn a striptease into something else, if he were so inclined.
And he would be.
-
The mark wasn’t in the next town, which was okay, because neither Eames nor Arthur had bet on that one; instead they stopped at the saloon, beat some projections at poker, and Eames threw two projections through the front window and shot one. Arthur shot two more.
“I would’ve helped more,” Arthur said, when they were back on their horses. “Except, you know, my ribs.”
“Your ribs,” Eames said. “Of course, darling.”
“Don’t be condescending,” Arthur muttered. “I shot two.”
“Bullets through the heart, I’m sure,” Eames replied.
They ride in silence after that, the only sounds the steady clip of their horses’ hooves, the lowing of the cattle, and the fresh twist of the wind. There was, periodically, the dry caw from a crow, or maybe a raven, because Eames couldn’t tell the difference.
“Nash outdid himself,” he said.
“The mark provided the animals,” Arthur said idly, taking aim at one of the black birds circling overhead.
“Just because it’s a projection doesn’t mean you have to shoot it,” Eames said.
“I’m just proving a point,” Arthur replied, and made the shot. The crow came tumbling down, wings akimbo.
“Fine, you’re a good shot,” Eames said. “You killed a bird. Good on you.”
“I killed a projection, Eames,” Arthur replied.
Eames shook his head.
“Soon you’re going to start shooting horses so we can hide behind them in fights. Nothing good can come of this, Arthur.”
“I’m not going to shoot the horses, because we need them to get places,” Arthur said, patting his mare on the neck.
“What did you name yours, by the way?”
“Yeah, not going to happen,” Arthur replied.
“Mmm-hmm,” Eames said. “I believe you’ve said that about some other things that I suspect will come to pass.”
“Eames,” Arthur said, giving him a long sidelong glance. “I don’t fuck coworkers.”
“But you that doesn’t mean you don’t want to, so we’ll just have to work on that little rule of yours,” Eames said, and Arthur fell silent.
Eames didn’t actually fuck coworkers, either, because of this one time with an extractor in Angola, when everything in-dream had gone to pieces because the extractor couldn’t keep external disagreements out of his work. But Eames had a niggling suspicion, that for all faults and his joints, Arthur had enough pride in his work to keep sex from ruining everything. The trick, from here, was to get Arthur to have slightly less respect for his work, and slightly more respect for Eames’ cock (and the rest of Eames, the whole of Eames), and from there everything would go swimmingly, Eames imagined.
He might have been a closet romantic, but he suspected Arthur was as well. Although he hid it well--if Arthur’s clothes were anything to go by, he had a penchant for hiding things in a way that plainly revealed. Eames just had to get that Arthur’s closet romantic the manifest himself, and really, where better than a brothel above a bar in Nash’s dream version of Tombstone, Arizona?
Because it had to be Tombstone. Really, it couldn’t be anywhere else. Eames didn’t understand why Arthur didn’t see that.
-
The desert was a bone sucked clean of marrow, and they were almost to Tombstone. Eames was trying to avoid saying anything that might give his certainty about Tombstone away, lest Arthur call off the bet, and Arthur was trying to keep the bet out of his head entirely, because he knows full well Eames won’t let him call it off.
This is how they rode into Tombstone: side by side, with mirrored thoughts in their minds. A tumbleweed rolled past, and Eames considered pointing out that their mark was a pathetic cliche, given the swarthy cowboys that were clumped along the main street, hats tipped down across broad foreheads, speaking amongst themselves and watching Eames and Arthur like any minute a shoot-out might erupt.
They dismounted and ambled down the street, checking first the bank and then the two cells behind the sheriff’s office, then, finally, the saloon.
The mark was there, with his fist curled around a glass of watery whiskey. Eames’ eyes lit up, and Arthur’s, to his credit, remained opaque and flinty. They slip outside and around the back, where horses were standing next to piles of excrement with the endless, stupid patience of projected animals.
“We have to run the job, first,” he said, and Eames granted him a grin that he hoped was soothing, but, judging by Arthur’s sneer of response, fell somewhere short.
The plan Cobb had drawn up was ludicrous, actually. Eames had already crafted a new one in the long hours spent on the trail. It’s one of Cobb’s unique skills as an extractor to make plans that seem completely terrible and then pull them off, but it’s usually too much to expect someone else to pull them off with quite the same brink-of-death aplomb.
“So you’re just going to do a forge and talk to the mark until he tells you?” Arthur asked, sounding skeptical.
“You can rob the sheriff’s office for further information, in the meantime. Also just for shits,” Eames offered. “But my plan also involves copious amounts of liquor, so.”
Alcohol in dreams worked sort of like non-alcoholic beer that people didn’t know was non-alcoholic: the individual got drunk in proportion to the amount they expected to get drunk, give or take.
“I think we should stick with Cobb’s,” Arthur said, rubbing his temples.
“Tell the mark we’re taking him on a vision quest and then knock him down another level in the middle of the desert?” Eames asked. “Brilliant.”
“We could sell it,” Arthur said, and Eames tossed an arm around his shoulders.
“While I would buy anything you’re selling,” he said. “I would much rather you just robbed the sheriff’s office. You know I find your competency devastatingly attractive.”
“If the job fails, the bet’s off,” Arthur said, and Eames frowned.
“It’s not going to fail,” he said. “What do you take me for?”
-
The job passed in a blur of depressingly devastating competency. No: that’s the truth. Arthur could’ve robbed the sheriff’s office in his sleep, he could’ve robbed it with his hands tied behind his back. Not because he’s a particularly genius thief, just because the office itself was completely empty.
“There was nothing there,” he told Eames when they reconvened on the edge of town, and Eames patted him on the back.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I just wanted to keep you busy.”
“It worked?” Arther asked, and Eames handed across a sheet of paper, written in shorthand.
“You know I can’t read this,” Arthur said, passing it back.
“You should really learn shorthand,” Eames started.
“No, your handwriting,” Arthur replied. “I can’t read your handwriting, dumbass.”
“Trust me, then,” Eames had said. “We have what we need.”
And Arthur, almost inexplicably, had, because for all Eames’ faults he was a professional, and if he said they had what they needed, they did. A dry wind was blowing from the south, kicking up dust. Cassidy nickered. After a full week, it was all stupidly, easily over.
“So, about our wager--”
-
Eames didn’t know what Arthur did, but the saloon emptied out like it’d been drained, quietly voiding of projections. The mark had also disappeared, though he couldn’t possibly be awake.
Arthur’s gone, too, vanished upstairs or someplace else, with a quiet seriousness that implies he’ll be applying as much focus towards this as he does towards anything else.
One point in favor of Arthur: he takes his wagers seriously. If this striptease was supposed to be equal to half Eames’ cut, it will be, but for now Eames is alone in the saloon, staring at the dusty window along the front. The sun’s about to set, casting everything in shadow. The window--he’s almost sure there shouldn’t be a window, or at least not one that large. They’ll have to talk to Nash about that.
“We’ll have to talk to Nash about that,” came a voice from behind, somewhere along the bar, which was all brass and dark wood, cheap liquor down low, and, on the top shelves, bottles of dark and silky liquids that sifted gold out of the light.
Eames didn’t turn around, not so much because he knew that wasn’t how Arthur wanted it as because he couldn’t, because he knew was going to get something he wanted but at the same time this was ridiculous, this was a dream, if he turned around he might trip on a chair and get a kick and the whole thing would dissolve before his eyes, Arthur--
“Something to drink, cowboy?” Arthur said, and there was a clink of glass, the thud of something being set down on wood.
“Yes, please,” Eames said, voice uncharacteristically soft.
There was the tap of feet--heels?--against wood, a clink, a gurgle, and then the tap again, a steady trot, coming to a stop directly behind Eames. There was a weight on his shoulder, and an arm extended over it, offering an amber glass.
Arthur’s hand was gloved, buttoned demurely at the wrist.
“Drink up,” he whispered, breath liquid hot against Eames’ ear. “Show’s about to start.”
Outside, the sky had shifted to the strange, vivid blue that signified twilight. Arthur was tapping around the saloon, and lanterns began to flicker on, one after another, casting wavering light across the floor.
Then Arthur was standing behind Eames again, and then he dropped his arm back across Eames shoulder, dangling his hand there--slender fingers, neat white glove.
“Unbutton it,” he said, his tone one of flat command.
When Eames reached up, his fingers were trembling.
The glove fell to the floor, an empty shell, and Eames was suddenly forced to look at Arthur’s hand in a way he hadn’t before: pale white skin, tapered fingers. The way it sometimes happens in dreams, Eames’ focus suddenly closes in on the whorls of Arthur’s fingerprints and everything else fades. He wants them pressed against his lips, wants to flick his tongue out and lick them, wants to suck them, wants to--
Arthur’s left hand, Eames’ left shoulder, Arthur’s left glove, on the ground.
“Turn around,” Arthur said, and Eames is still for a moment, and then Arthur’s hands were on Eames’ shoulders, and Arthur himself twirls Eames around, spinning him on his axis.
The dress was--irrelevant, really. The dress was so far past the point. It pools around Arthur’s shoulders, the neckline dipping below his collarbone. It was smooth, silk, the dusky color of a plum that’s well past ripe, the fabric rich and almost imperceptibly pinstriped. It could have been the fabric for one of Arthur’s suits, except it was so clearly not, except that it flared out to skirts after caressing Arthur’s waist, offering only an intimation of what was beneath.
Arthur turned around, presenting Eames with the upward curve of his neck contrasted against the dark fabric, the gentle stippling of hair at his nape.
“Unbutton it,” he said again, and Eames took a moment to admire the line of buttons running down Arthur’s back, perfectly straight, each one individually ensconced in the same fabric as the dress. They stopped abruptly halfway down the curve of his ass, allowing the skirts to unfurl in a tumble of thick, rich fabric, and Eames wondered about petticoats, the ridiculous, erotic layers that might be hiding beneath.
Eames started at the top, fumbling over the buttons one after the other, too fast. Revealing Arthur’s white shoulders, the soft knobs of his spine, the tight laces of the corset across the small of his back, and then, moving slower as he moved lower, as Arthur’s back angled into his waist, and then--the dress dropped to the ground.
Arthur turned around and stepped back and out of the dress, slipping his fingers into the waistband of the petticoats as he moved back, lifting those--slowly, too slowly, up and over his head, before they, too dropped to the floor, sinking abandoned and empty to the ground. Eames didn’t know where to look, because seeing Arthur from behind--seeing him in the dress, was seeing the silhouette, and now it’s filled in, whole.
Eames said something, then; he can’t for the life of him remember what it was, because Arthur was wearing stockings, garters and, in a beautiful incongruity, slim-shafted black cowboy boots with low heels. There was the suggestion of a bulge beneath the thin darkness of his panties, and the corset was hugging him around the waist, delicate boning lancing its way up his sides, his chest.
Arthur was stepping backwards, further, and there was something in his hips that Eames might be tempted to call a sashay, though at the time he was mostly concerned because Arthur was moving away, further, and Eames was rooted to the spot, tracing Arthur’s body and then his face: nose, lips, eyes, ears. Taking inventory. Keeping track. Arthur was whole and complete and in front of him, and then Arthur was leaning against the bar, hoisting himself up with both arms, and sitting on the polished wood.
He crossed his legs. He took off one boot, cupped it in his hand with the toe tucked under his longest finger and the heel pressed into his arm.
“Take it,” he said, nodding towards it, and Eames didn’t know what to do with it but took it anyway, holding it for a moment before dropping it to the floor because who even gave a fuck, about the boot?
Arthur raised an eyebrow when it clattered, breaking character for the first time. There was a shadow of something sardonic in that arched eyebrow, and it made Eames want to take Arthur’s chin in his hands and press their lips together, because Arthur was doing this so beautifully for him, maybe because he lost a bet, but Arthur wanted to he would’ve gotten out of it--this was still Arthur, doing this. For Eames. There was no one else around to see, no projections, no mark, just an empty saloon in the desert of a dreamscape.
Arthur took off the second boot, tossed it lightly so it landed besides the first one, and then he let his legs dangle off the bar, toes pointing downwards in a delicate arch, and he reached up for the closures of the corset.
He peeled it off in one motion like a husk, and dropped it behind the bar. Eames imagined he heard the sound it made when it fell, brushing across the floor, and then again maybe he did, because he was standing close, far too close to Arthur. He hadn’t even noticed his own approach, though he was aware he came to get the boot, and then he stepped closer again.
The light played across Arthur’s face, from one side or the other or both, and his eyes--maybe it was the light, but his eyes flickered across Eames’ face, dark and liquid and flecked gold by the oil lamps.
“We’re going to do this, aren’t we,” he said, quietly, not quite a question, and at that point Eames was certain the show was over and something else had begun, because Arthur reached for him.
Arthur grasped him by the shoulders, hands no longer delicate but a firm weight, and kissed him full on the mouth.
It had been such a long time coming. Eames had seen this on the horizon years ago, and he had thought it was closer, then, but it came slow, not a wildfire, not a duststorm, not a plague of locusts but instead a lone horseman who only flirted with approaching.
Arthur nipped Eames on the lip, with quick, sharp teeth, probed his mouth with his tongue, and everything opened up before them, possibilities endless.
“Yes,” Eames had said, then, pulling back for only a moment. “We’re really going to do this.”
Arthur was spreading his legs, wrapping them neatly around Eames’ waist, and Eames leaned in, pressing their shoulders together. For a moment it was purely comfortable, but there was a heat rising up in Eames, something that had started below his stomach, now snaking higher and growing hotter. He placed his fingers on Arthur’s hips, dug his nails into the soft flesh above the bone. Arthur bit him, again, harder, and made a soft noise in the back of his throat that sent a shiver running down Eames’ spine like a rill.
“This is a terrible idea,” Arthur had said, and in retrospect Eames thought maybe Arthur meant to say that he was going to break Eames’ heart, but the things they say about hindsight weren’t in his mind right now, because his hands were traveling south along the smooth landscape of Arthur’s chest.
Eames hooked his thumbs over the hem of Arthur’s panties, which were black and implausibly soft, and Arthur reached up to snap one of Eames’ suspenders before slipping his own hands under Eames’ shirt and onto the rounds of his shoulders, digging his nails into the freckled skin there and sliding the suspenders off Eames’ shoulders so they hung around his knees.
“I beg to differ,” Eames said, sucking on the corner of Arthur’s mouth like his tongue was a key.
And then one of Arthur’s hands was off Eames’ shoulder, undoing the line of buttons down Eames’ chest, and other one slithered in to tweak his nipple, rubbing soft spirals around it in a slow, easy rhythm, and Eames’ tongue barged into Arthur’s mouth further, pressing harder, and Arthur responded in kind, his hands tugging insistently at Eames’ shirt, until finally their chests were pressed together, Arthur’s pale and smooth, Eames’ tanned and freckled and pocked. Arthur’s shoulders were above Eames’, though, too high, and Eames cupped his hands around Arthur’s ass and lifted him off the bar, spinning around with Arthur’s thighs still tight on either side of his waist and setting him on the wooden table behind them.
And Arthur had laughed, then, long and low, thick with cords of promise, and Eames had knelt down and unclipped the garters. Arthur grinned down at him, licking his lips, and Eames rolled the stockings down, soft and slick, one leg at a time, running one finger along the sole of Arthur’s foot.
“I think I may be finishing your job for you,” he said, and Arthur had said, “I hardly think you’re one to complain.”
When Eames rose, Arthur reached for his hips at the same time as Eames settled his hands on Arthur’s hips, peeling off Arthur’s panties as Arthur fumbled with the buttons at Eames’ crotch and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops, tugging down and then allowing the trousers to drop to Eames’ ankles.
And then they were both bared, completely, and Eames had to stop for a moment, half a breath, and take it in, and then he reached down and ran his hand along Arthur’s thigh, and then along the outside, until he was again cupping Arthur’s ass, one finger circling his hole.
“Eames,” Arthur murmured, drawn out, slow.
“Eames,” he whimpered, again, louder, bullet-quick, and Eames kissed the corner of his mouth and pushed in.
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he said, stupidly.
Arthur’s hands were grappling, now, for Eames’ cock, and he produced lube from somewhere because it was a dream, and Arthur ran his hand up the length of Eames, teasing, and Eames was aching to replace his finger with himself, and then Arthur spread his legs and let him. Arthur squirmed, and Eames held him down on the oak table by the hips, and pounded in.
When they came, it was wet and ragged and too loud, and Eames was almost going to collapse on top of Arthur, who was arching his back up, off the table, Eames inside him, still.
Roommates AU/'An Unambiguous Cataloging System': This fic is basically kicking my ass, the end. It was for my own kinkmeme prompt--I wanted a fic where Arthur and Eames were roommates--but I was also trying to experiment with their characterization, which brought me to a place where I wasn't sure what I was going with their characterization, and the relationship sort of stalled out on me. Otherwise it's a pretty standard AU. Arthur's a curator at the Museum of Science in Boston; Eames curates at the MFA.
It’s one of those days that’s so hot Arthur’s eyeballs sweat, and while he was air conditioning at work there’s none in the apartment, so when Arthur gets back all the windows are open, and Eames is lying on his back on the tile in the kitchen, shirtless, looking up at the ceiling.
Arthur almost trips over him.
“Lovely weather we’re having,” Eames says without moving.
“I’m trying to get to the fridge here,” Arthur says, but after a moment he ends up slumping down to the floor so he’s sitting by Eames’ feet, with his back against the frame of the kitchen door.
“There’s nothing good in the fridge,” Eames says.
“Maybe nothing with your name on it,” Arthur says and kicks at Eames’ foot.
“Eh,” Eames says. “I looked at your food. Salad.”
“I should take a shower,” Arthur says. He’s still wearing the clothes he wore on the ride home, and his hair is starting to curl at the tips, from some combination of sweat and humidity. Arthur suspects he smells a bit rank.
“Probably,” Eames replies, but he doesn’t move, and Arthur doesn’t, either, except to run a hand through his hair.
“How was work?” he asks after a moment.
“Don’t ask if you aren’t interested,” Eames says.
“I’m making conversation,” Arthur replies. “As you do.”
Eames pulls himself up into a sitting position, pressing his back against the refridgerator.
“How about a deal, hey?” Eames says. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean.”
“Don’t say anything I don’t mean,” Arthur echoes.
“I won’t either,” Eames says. “I’m not advocating full disclosure--don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, don’t answer questions you don’t feel like answering. That’s it. I’ll do the same.”
It’s hard to tell what Eames is thinking--Arthur still doesn’t know him that well, and his face is expressive, but Arthur finds his expressions difficult to read. Arthur leans forward a little, with his arms across his knees.
“Okay,” Arthur says.
Eames studies him.
“Okay,” he says, holding Arthur’s gaze through a few beats of silence until Arthur leans back against the doorframe.
“So how was work?” Arthur asks.
Eames starts slightly, and then a grin curls across his face.
“Okay,” he says. “Though I’m still the new guy, you know?”
Arthur nods. He would’ve thought it would be easier for Eames, somehow. But Eames is not actually a person Arthur knows.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
They sit like that, for awhile. It’s more comfortable and less strange than Arthur would’ve initially expected, and Arthur eventually closes his eyes and lets himself fall half asleep, only then his phone beeps to signal a text. Arthur glances at it, then across at Eames.
“Tyler,” he says, holding the phone up. “I really need to shower.”
“How long have you--?” Eames waves a hand vaguely as Arthur shifts to his feet.
Arthur looks at the phone like it’ll answer for him.
“Three months?” he says. “I was buying a new headset for my bike, he asked me out, etceteras.”
“Etceteras,” Eames echoes dryly. “You going to want him to move in here?”
“I signed the lease, too,” Arthur says. “For a year. I’m not going to break it if Tyler and I suddenly decide we need to cohabitate. So we won’t decide we need to cohabitate.”
“Mercenary,” Eames says, but there’s something in his expression that suggests he understands, maybe even respects that. He stretches out on the floor again.
“Enjoy your shower,” he says. “I’ll enjoy looking at the ceiling. Cheers.”
Arthur remembers when he bought the apartment--it was then, as now, a two bedroom apartment, with a foyer so small that Arthur could stand in the center of it and touch all the walls with his elbows. It smelled distantly of mildew and the dust of old books, and although the floors were hardwood and tile it was all poorly done, uneven and irregular. But it was on the corner of the building, and there were windows in every room but the bathroom, so even though the windows rattled when the train slid past, Arthur bought it.
After he signed the papers he went to the living room and sat on the floor, beneath the windows; leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if it was right that it should be so easy to say Here, yes, I’m staying here and do it. He sketched the cracks that ran across the ceiling in his head, tried to commit them to memory. It was stupid, but in a strange way that was what made the place feel like home: the cracks in the ceiling, the imperfections of the floors. And--shit--it was his home, even with the string of tenants. Eventually he’d pay off the mortgage and be able to keep it to himself, he figured, but for now this would do.
'Shake Your Windows, Rattle Your Walls': Hank and Alex swap mutations due to some hedgemagic gone wrong, yo. This was sort of supposed to be a partner to Cross Country--a canon-verse, post-divorce Hank/Alex from Alex's POV instead of Hank's.
Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters rises up around them like some sort of demented phoenix, a revivified bird that doesn’t seem to know where its head is at. Alex blames the Professor for that, but the majority of the problem is that the Professor isn’t around enough to care what Alex blames him for or doesn’t.
Alex goes to talk to Charles the afternoon that some girl starts a storm in the bunker like a tempest in a teapot, but Charles is gone, which Alex should have known because of the weird emotional pall that settles over the mansion when Charles is there. Charles has been absent intermittently for weeks; and when he’s present physically he spends his time recruiting with Cerebro, outside his mind. If you asked Alex--but no one asks Alex.
He goes to the kitchen to scrounge for something to eat and comes up with two pieces of leftover french toast, presumably from breakfast, which he reheats in the oven.
Hank shows up when the french toast is slathered with syrup and halfway to Alex’s stomach.
“Tell me there’s more of that,” he says.
“I could,” Alex begins. “But there’s not.”
“Sean--” Hank frowns as he turns to open the fridge. “I keep telling him that he needs to cook more. I have a fast metabolism. I need to eat more frequently.”
“You told me my body temperature runs ten degrees warmer than a normal person’s,” Alex says. “I imagine that would increase my metabolism as well.”
“You remember that?” Hank asks, twisting to look at him, and Alex refrains from pointing out that it was information about him, about his body, and it would be stranger if he didn’t.
Hank pulls two carrots from the fridge and frowns.
“Sean needs to buy more food. Hate carrots. My teeth are the wrong shape.”
The ‘now’ is implied. Most of what Hank says has an implied ‘now,’ hovering somewhere outside the edges of the conversation. Alex suspects it’s how Hank tries to come to terms with the fact that he is now blue and furred and not wearing a shirt and spitting bits of carrot into the sink because of how it feels against his teeth. A few months ago, Hank would never have done any of that. A few months ago, Alex had never seen Hank without a shirt buttoned to the collar, but apparently none of those shirts fit, now, and Hank can’t be bothered to find ones that do.
Alex still thinks it’s kind of badass, but it’s not a point he needs to make right now. Besides, the thing with the carrots is mostly just humorous, and Alex could use a laugh about now. He could always use a laugh, truth be told.
“Is any of that actually getting to your stomach?” Alex asks. “Or does it all end up in the sink?”
“If someone hadn’t finished the bread,” Hank says.
“You realize this is Sean’s fault,” Alex says.
“Objectively, yes,” Hank says dryly. “But when you’re here, eating the last of breakfast, it’s a bit difficult to see it that way.”
“I thought you were a scientist,” Alex says, because if he can’t give Hank shit Alex isn’t sure what he can do.
Hank just looks at him. The problem is that on his new face his expressions are almost illegible: Alex is genuinely uncertain whether he’s annoyed, amused, or affronted. It makes everything less fun.
“I am,” Hank says mildly, carding one hand through the fur on the back of his neck.
“So you’re supposed to be objective,” Alex says, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter.
“No one’s objectivity is perfect,” Hank says.
“I’m crushed,” Alex replies, and Hank just looks at him some more, eyes huge and yellow.
“Sorry,” he says, and then he leaves. Alex stares after him, and then he decides to go back to the bunker.
'Bloom': I'm not sure if I'll continue this because I kind of cannibalized parts of the premise for 'A Brief Introduction to Live-Action Roleplaying', but it was going to be, like, a big coming of age fic centered around Stiles. I wasn't and still am not sure what the ship would be. Scott becomes an alpha and Stiles is in his pack (as a human). The primary antagonist was going to be algae.
Stiles finds Scott’s locker by working backwards from the alphabet from his own.
“Oh captain my captain,” he says, hitching an arm around Scott’s neck. “You have lit first period?”
“Er,” Scott fishes a tattered schedule out of his pocket and spins it around a few times before Stiles liberates it.
“No,” Stiles says after a moment. “You have Spanish, cheater.”
“I am not--” Scott protests.
“Pretending not to know Spanish when you do, in fact, know it, is cheating,” Stiles says. “Not that I care if you cheat, this is all in the interest of accuracy. Come on, let’s go.”
“I don’t know the grammar stuff,” Scott says. “Like, direct objects or whatever, I don’t know what those are.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that only matters for people who don’t actually know how to speak Spanish,” Stiles says, attempting to steer Scott down the hall. “Or people who have giant boners for grammar.”
“I’m waiting for Isaac,” Scott says, stopping.
“Is Isaac in Spanish?” Stiles asks.
“No,” Scott says. “I just--there he is!” Scott waves. “Isaac!”
Isaac lopes over to them, then stands there like he’s not sure what he’s doing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“What, Derek couldn’t get you kids to school on time?” Stiles asks. Isaac frowns a little, then shrugs.
“No,” Isaac says. “Peter drove us.”
“Can recorporalized corpses drive in California now?” Stiles says, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. What’s your first period?”
“Woodshop,” Isaac replies, looking between Stiles and Scott. “You guys?”
“Spanish.”
“American lit,” Stiles says. “First day of school. Are all your pencils sharpened?”
“I use mechanical pencils,” Scott says.
“Me too,” Isaac says.
“Ugh, whatever,” Stiles says. “Now that we have all reviewed our schedules--which we could’ve just e-mailed to each other, you know--we’re going to be late.”
Isaac shrugs. He’s being weird. It’s probably Derek’s fault. Or Stiles’. Isaac is always a bit weird around Stiles--taciturn, one might say, if one were prone to using words like ‘taciturn.’ Stiles gets it, and it’s one of those things where they’re both friends with Scott so they tolerate one another, sort of like Allison did when she and Scott were dating. It’s a little weirder than that because Scott and Isaac aren’t dating, but Stiles kind of ignores that in his head and figures Isaac is filling the Allison role, because if he wasn’t he’d be filling the Stiles role, and that one isn’t open at present.
Maybe if Stiles dies. Which he hopefully won’t, but people die, it’s a thing that happens, he likes to prepare himself for every eventuality.
First day of school is kind of a let down, all told. Stiles had forgotten that about school, but it all comes back in a flood, along with pile of syllabi and rubrics. He fidgets and mouths off through all of his classes, because he figures he might as well make it clear to the teachers what they’re getting. Though he’s fairly certain they already know, via teacher’s lounge gossip. It’s kind of flattering. Or he’s going to choose to believe it is, anyway.
Intolerable Cruelty: For a kinkmeme prompt--before the show had this happen (kind of)--about Mike getting fired because of his faked credentials and he and Harvey meeting a few years down the road as competing attorneys or whatever (I understand lawyering, I really do).
Harvey’s third grade teacher wrote on his report card that Harvey didn’t have a clear understanding of the consequences of his actions. Harvey had found it when he went through his parents’ things after they died, and maybe that’s why the first thing that Harvey thinks after Jessica fires Mike is that Mrs. Connor would have a few things to say about this.
She probably wouldn’t have approved of Harvey just getting a slap on the wrist, either.
When it happens Mike looks like the rug’s been swept out from under him, but just for a moment, and then he schools his face into something else, into the face of a kid who has, a long time ago, accepted that the people you trust will fail you, and when the rug disappears you just keep going.
Harvey’s not going to lie: it hurts, somewhere in the back of his gut, which is why Harvey offers to cut Mike a check--”For your Gram,” he mutters, trying to be gruff about it--and Mike looks at Harvey like he hardly sees him, with something heavy just the other side of his eyes, and says, “I’m fine, thanks.”
And then he disappears.
Harvey always thinks that he could probably find Mike if he tried a little harder, but he doesn’t. If Mike wants to disappear Harvey will let him.
And that’s the end of that story, until it isn’t any more.
It’s a divorce. Harvey shouldn’t have taken the case, but he owes Nichols, and if there’s anything he likes less than divorce proceedings it’s owing someone.
The other thing about the case that’s a pain in the ass is that it’s in Chicago, which means flying there in winter next to a rumpled family in Bears jackets, and dealing with a lawyer from a firm Harvey doesn’t know, by reputation or otherwise, which are two things Harvey doesn’t particularly care for, either.
They’re meeting in the boardroom of a tall building off the Loop, with views of Lake Michigan from wide glass windows. Harvey arrives early. He figures if he doesn’t have home court advantage he deserves some sort of advantage, even if it just comes from looking out the windows and then sitting down with his back to them, so if a bird hits the window during the proceedings he won’t have to look at it.
These are just preliminary negotiations, really, and Harvey Specter doesn’t get nerves, which is why it surprises him a little that he feels a vague sense of foreboding around the entire thing. The firm the wife’s lawyer is from doesn’t have a website. Apparently, they prefer word of mouth publicity.
Harvey doesn’t know what the fuck that means.
Harvey had told Nichols to be early, too, and he is, looking flushed and a little exasperated.
“Harvey,” he says. “Fuck. Thank god for small blessings. The wife is--”
“She has pictures of you, doesn’t she?” Harvey asks. “You fucker.”
“Of course she has pictures of me,” Nichols says. “What was I--look, you know what I want. The house in Maine--she can have the Gold Coast condo--and the dog. Joint custody of the kids.”
“The fact that you put your dog before your children is probably a bad sign,” Harvey says wryly, and Nichols frowns.
“Jasper is mine,” he says, fidgeting at the table. “Jasper and the Maine house are assets I brought into the marriage. It’s not unreasonable.”
“No,” Harvey says. “But then again, you didn’t get a pre-nup and you did sleep with your best friend.”
“Just do your job,” Nichols says.
“Just shut up and look pretty,” Harvey says. “And sit still. You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”
“She’s my wife, Harvey,” Nichols says, and Harvey looks at him sharply.
“You don’t want her back, do you?” he asks. Nichols looks a little forlorn. “Hiring me is not going to help you get her back, you dumbass.”
“Just--” Nichols sighs. “Draw out the negotiations as long as you can.”
“You need a counselor, not a lawyer,” Harvey says. “I cannot believe this.”
He resists the urge to bring his hands to his temples and run them through his hair, because he did not get to where he is today with mussed hair. Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales for a moment.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. But don’t try to talk to her today.”
And then they wait.
They can see the hall through the windows, and there’s only a few moments before a woman who walks like her skirt is too tight appears in the hall, sleek and polished and out for blood. A blond man trails behind her, presumably the lawyer. Harvey can’t get a good eye on his face, but his tailoring is--immaculate.
Which doesn’t mean he’s good, but it does mean that someone taught him that presentation matters. Which is something they don’t always teach in law school, at least not the shitty ones. Or at least it’s not like they hand out well-tailored suits with law degrees.
The lawyer holds the door open for Mrs. Nichols--Marcia, if Harvey recalls--and Harvey allows himself a moment to study her face before shifting his eyes to the lawyer, who is--
Oh.
Mike is older than Harvey last saw him, with wrinkles around his eyes that Harvey finds himself hoping are laugh lines, because if Mike’s stopped laughing Harvey’s not sure what the world’s come to. The angles of his face are a little harsher than they once were, some of the softness sloughed off by time or something more nebulous. He used to be cute. Now he’s--handsome. Startlingly so. And his suit is close around the waist, with subtle pin striping, and in the room it looks even better than it did in the hall.
Harvey swallows a little thickly and hopes the rest of the room doesn’t notice.
Mike offers him a hand and says, completely evenly: “Michael Gable.”
There’s a moment--just a quick flash--where Harvey wonders if Mike got married and changed his last name, and what kind of dumb fuck does that.
And then he realizes he probably changed it to avoid any residual scandal, to avoid the Google results, and maybe, maybe, to avoid being found.
And so Harvey shakes his hand and says, “Harvey Specter,” because he doesn’t really have a choice.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Mike says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Harvey says. “But working in the city, sometimes you miss interesting developments in flyover country.”
It’s a little bitchy, but sometimes you need to be a little bitchy to prove a point. What the point is here Harvey’s not entirely sure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with not letting someone pull the rug out from under you. Harvey Specter will not be set off kilter by meeting his erstwhile associate, going by another name, across a negotiation table in Chicago, in a divorce case that Harvey never should’ve agreed to take.
Though if something were to set Harvey off kilter, it would probably be this.
“Of course,” Mike says. His face is schooled into something so pleasantly bland that if Harvey weren’t completely convinced that Mike Ross was sitting across from him, he might start second-guessing himself--maybe it’s just someone else named Mike, who looks like Mike, who has lived in Chicago all these years without realizing that somewhere else in the world he has a secret twin.
The negotiation goes poorly, but that’s mostly because Nichols is still in love with his fucking wife. Harvey is going to have to whip some self respect into him. Or something. At the very least, Harvey is going to need to get him to shut the fuck up.
The sticking point here seems to be the dog, Jasper, who Marcia claims Nichols doesn’t even walk. Nichols claims that Marcia doesn’t even like Jasper and, furthermore, forgets to give him his antidepressants. Harvey would like to know why the dog is on antidepressants, and also, why he’s here. When the discussion of dog antipsychotics began Harvey wanted to catch Mike’s eye and quirk his eyebrow just slightly, because even after all these years he couldn’t doubt that Mike would understand, but Mike wouldn’t even look at him.
Harvey looks at Mike, though, because there’s nothing else to do. He takes stock of him: of the lines around his eyes, the ring that’s not on any of his fingers, the peaks in his hair that have been smoothed down, the tight knot of his tie in the hollow of his neck, tucked below his adam’s apple. Harvey tries to envision Mike’s life in Chicago, because he can’t quite wrap his head around Mike, living in Chicago, but maybe in a weird way it makes sense, maybe Chicago is more like the outer boroughs. He imagines Mike goes home and sheds his veneer of professionalism, becomes the Mike he used to know. Harvey imagines Mike is living with some woman, a serial monogamist, unmarried because both of them think it’s an outdated institution even as she kisses him on the cheek and tightens his tie before he leaves for work in the morning. It’s comforting; it suggests that Harvey did understand the consequences of his actions, and they weren’t that bad after all. Mike is fine.
Even if he won’t talk to Harvey, which he won’t. He leaves with Marcia, the pair of them trotting down the hall and away.
“Well,” Harvey says. “That was shit.”
“I want Jasper,” Nichols says, and Harvey mostly wants Nichols to stop being a moron.
“This is why I don’t take divorce cases,” Harvey says, though he considers saying ‘This is why I never married.’
“You know, they call Chicago the Second City,” Harvey says the next time they gather around that long table, the four of them sitting there like the most dysfunctional family. He says it like small talk, but mostly he wants to see how Mike responds--if Mike responds.
Mike doesn’t. Mike has wrested all the power in the relationship from Harvey, with this sudden and unexpected reappearance and with his staunch refusal to acknowledge Harvey in the slightest.