[INCEPTION] Attached You Will Find, PG-13, Humor, Arthur/Eames
It has been over a month since I've written fic but it feels like so much longer. The mental block is strong with me. :( I am trying to ease back into this whole process again, but it's been hard - this was scribbled out last night in a tipsy haze to a fun prompt on inception_kink, which has kind of taken over my free time.
Oh yeah, I kind of possibly have a new fandom? Blame lies squarely with suxing for getting me into reading and now attempts at writing. Don't ask me how many times I've seen this movie or all my meta thoughts (or, do, but on my journal instead!), just indulge me this bit of pointless fun fic. :D
Attached You Will Find
Inception, Arthur/Eames, PG-13, 1515 words
It turns out that Eames sending dirty pictures to Arthur's phone has become something of a routine thing.
Inspired (and slightly altered) from this prompt.
THE FIRST TIME
"You've got to be kidding me," says Arthur, and deletes the text immediately.
Cobb looks over at him and Arthur gives a brief shake of his head, no further elaboration. It's not important. It's not worth it.
"See you next time," Arthur tells Cobb, who's headed for New Delhi. Arthur thinks he deserves a vacation after that job, so he's on his way to Seoul. God knows where Eames is headed and, frankly, good riddance. Arthur doesn't plan on keeping tabs on his new colleague and hopes, rather, that Eames will see fit to lose whatever tabs he might be considering keeping on Arthur as well. Posthaste.
THE SECOND TIME
Cobb's not on the job, but Nash is, and Eames. Arthur should be reassured by the familiar faces - he's worked with more than half the team, knows he can depend on them, even if the extractor is new. For all that Schneider is not Cobb, who is without peer the best extractor in the world, he does a decent job. It's clean and fast and Arthur's walking away five weeks later with a success story and a hell of a lot of money.
He's not even on the plane to take him out of Prague when he gets Eames's text, picture attached.
This time, he replies.
Stop sending these.
Eames's reply is almost instantaneous, as if he's been waiting for a response. Sorry, darling. I know I shouldn't tease.
Arthur glances over the bare skin in the attached photo and sighs. He can practically hear Eames's gleeful tone. The man is determined to get under Arthur's skin: replying again will only encourage that. Arthur puts his phone away as he boards his flight. Hopefully, Eames will get the hint.
THE THIRD TIME
It's in the middle of a job. Thankfully, it's during the planning stages and not during the actual extraction. Arthur's phone lights up with a new message and he thumbs it open to reveal another nude photo of Eames. Eames, who just stepped out of headquarters five minutes ago on a food run, grinning as always.
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. His reply is short and vicious.
Your penis is abnormally small. My condolences.
He doesn't get a response until a good twenty minutes later, and it's not by text. Eames hands him a carton of black bean beef and smiles, all teeth. He's practically purring when Arthur takes the chopsticks. "The photo's not to scale, love. You'll have to take a personal look to guarantee accuracy."
It is by sheer force of will that Arthur doesn't snap his chopsticks in half and stab the jagged edges into Eames's thigh.
He carefully does not think about the proposition, focusing instead on the irritatingly smug smile on Eames's face.
THE FOURTH TIME
The fourth picture is the lewdest yet. Arthur flushes red when he is careless enough to open it on the metro in Singapore and nearly knocks into the lady sitting next to him in his haste to close the text immediately. He fumbles with his phone and tucks it back into his pocket, taking deep breaths and telling himself to calm down.
I'm going to kill him, he thinks, because while the nude pictures were bad enough, Eames has evidently taken Arthur's refusal to examine his dick in person as an affront of some sort. As if he feels like he has to prove the - Arthur honestly doesn't know the right word for this - honor of his cock, and demonstrate to Arthur its length or girth or some other highly inappropriate feature.
Arthur has never needed, in his entire waking life and the cumulative years he's spent in dreamspace, to know what Eames's cock looks like erect.
If his subconscious disagrees, he resolutely silences it.
If he takes a second or third glance at the picture later, in the privacy of his apartment roughly the size of an average walk-in closet, it's because he needs to re-open it to delete it. His eyes catch on the text he missed the first time.
Greece is perfectly lovely this time of year. Do stop by.
When Schneider asks him to join in on a job three days later and mentions needing a forger, Arthur suggests he look into contacting Eames. Only for convenience's sake, of course, because the target is in Cyprus. It's only practical, and Arthur is nothing if not practical.
THE FIFTH TIME
Ariadne has just slipped into another dream with Cobb, another practice session where she demonstrates that her skill level is leaps and bounds above the rest of them. Arthur would be jealous - he's been building for years, after all, and Ariadne's picked up things in mere minutes - but he's kept too busy flipping through his files and tapping away at his laptop. There is a lot of research to be done regarding Robert and Maurice Fischer and their "complicated" relationship.
He answers his phone on instinct because Saito is out on a business call and Eames is consulting with Yusuf: Arthur has no reason to think twice about accepting the message and flicking his eyes away from last year's fiscal report of Fischer Morrow to a picture of a mouth stretched wide and red around a hard cock.
Arthur blinks, heart slamming into his throat as his mind catches up.
Wish you were here!
He can barely hear his own thoughts over the blood rushing in his ears. Eames.
Eames, sucking some guy's-- Jesus Christ.
Sending it to Arthur now, while he's standing not ten feet away, chatting with Yusuf, as nonchalant as he can be. Is he out of his mind?
Arthur struggles to find coherence, marshaling his thoughts.
Fuck.
His eyes dart back to his phone. Something curls hot and terrible in the pit of his belly.
Fuck.
AND THE FIRST AND LAST TIME ARTHUR RECIPROCATES
He's not drunk. Later, he wishes he were or that he'd at least downed two glasses of Scotch before, just to have some sort of plausible deniability. Unfortunately, Arthur is stone-cold sober when he decides that Eames has been having far too much fun at Arthur's expense and that Arthur is not a goddamned pushover. He can get his own. And he knows nothing will rile Eames up like a taste of his own medicine.
He's not even all the way naked, just shirtless and down to his slacks. The fly's open and his boxers, dark red, are visible against the black material. His cock - not erect and dripping but not exactly "abnormally small" either, thank you - is peeping out of his boxers. The picture's almost artistic, if Arthur were drunk enough to have the thought, and much more tasteful than Eames's pornographic collection.
Arthur really wishes he were drunk, but he's still sober when he texts I'm right here. Where are you? with the picture attached.
So, really, in the end, there's nothing to blame except his own inexplicable stupidity that the picture goes out to Eames. And everyone else in his contact list.
WTF ARTHUR is Ariadne's rapid response. Followed immediately by: I'm sorry, I don't feel that way about you. Then: btw ew
Arthur stares at the incoming messages with horror.
Arthur! Please! My children could've seen that!
He buries his head in his hands and considers never leaving his Chicago apartment ever again. He could lock Cobb out if he ever tried to visit, never have to look him the face again. It's a good plan.
I know someone who's looking for someone to act in a movie. Very tasteful, really. A minute goes by, then another text. Well, it pays a lot. Let me know!
All Arthur can muster to reply to Yusuf is a very emphatic NO.
Saito's text Arthur cannot respond to.
A very fine specimen, Mr. Arthur.
Arthur decides that if he couldn't be drunk before sending the text out, he certainly can get drunk now. Jack Daniels can be the only friend he needs.
It isn't until he is well and thoroughly drunk, roughly an hour later, that Arthur surfaces from his mortification to wonder why Eames hasn't replied. As if on cue, his phone lights up again. Arthur looks at it with some dread, but mostly blurry vision.
It's another picture text from Eames, sans words this time, and the picture looks suspiciously like...the outside of Arthur's apartment?
There's a knock at the door.
Arthur contemplates not getting up for a moment, but there's a second knock, more insistent and - fuck, it really does seem like Eames has managed to get under Arthur's skin in the end. He stumbles to the door and pulls it open. Eames is standing there, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking smug and happy and horrifically attractive. Arthur thought he was in Johannesburg. Arthur still thinks he's an annoying son-of-a-bitch.
Arthur yanks him inside.
--
Started/Finished: 2010.07.28
Oh yeah, I kind of possibly have a new fandom? Blame lies squarely with suxing for getting me into reading and now attempts at writing. Don't ask me how many times I've seen this movie or all my meta thoughts (or, do, but on my journal instead!), just indulge me this bit of pointless fun fic. :D
Attached You Will Find
Inception, Arthur/Eames, PG-13, 1515 words
It turns out that Eames sending dirty pictures to Arthur's phone has become something of a routine thing.
Inspired (and slightly altered) from this prompt.
THE FIRST TIME
"You've got to be kidding me," says Arthur, and deletes the text immediately.
Cobb looks over at him and Arthur gives a brief shake of his head, no further elaboration. It's not important. It's not worth it.
"See you next time," Arthur tells Cobb, who's headed for New Delhi. Arthur thinks he deserves a vacation after that job, so he's on his way to Seoul. God knows where Eames is headed and, frankly, good riddance. Arthur doesn't plan on keeping tabs on his new colleague and hopes, rather, that Eames will see fit to lose whatever tabs he might be considering keeping on Arthur as well. Posthaste.
THE SECOND TIME
Cobb's not on the job, but Nash is, and Eames. Arthur should be reassured by the familiar faces - he's worked with more than half the team, knows he can depend on them, even if the extractor is new. For all that Schneider is not Cobb, who is without peer the best extractor in the world, he does a decent job. It's clean and fast and Arthur's walking away five weeks later with a success story and a hell of a lot of money.
He's not even on the plane to take him out of Prague when he gets Eames's text, picture attached.
This time, he replies.
Stop sending these.
Eames's reply is almost instantaneous, as if he's been waiting for a response. Sorry, darling. I know I shouldn't tease.
Arthur glances over the bare skin in the attached photo and sighs. He can practically hear Eames's gleeful tone. The man is determined to get under Arthur's skin: replying again will only encourage that. Arthur puts his phone away as he boards his flight. Hopefully, Eames will get the hint.
THE THIRD TIME
It's in the middle of a job. Thankfully, it's during the planning stages and not during the actual extraction. Arthur's phone lights up with a new message and he thumbs it open to reveal another nude photo of Eames. Eames, who just stepped out of headquarters five minutes ago on a food run, grinning as always.
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. His reply is short and vicious.
Your penis is abnormally small. My condolences.
He doesn't get a response until a good twenty minutes later, and it's not by text. Eames hands him a carton of black bean beef and smiles, all teeth. He's practically purring when Arthur takes the chopsticks. "The photo's not to scale, love. You'll have to take a personal look to guarantee accuracy."
It is by sheer force of will that Arthur doesn't snap his chopsticks in half and stab the jagged edges into Eames's thigh.
He carefully does not think about the proposition, focusing instead on the irritatingly smug smile on Eames's face.
THE FOURTH TIME
The fourth picture is the lewdest yet. Arthur flushes red when he is careless enough to open it on the metro in Singapore and nearly knocks into the lady sitting next to him in his haste to close the text immediately. He fumbles with his phone and tucks it back into his pocket, taking deep breaths and telling himself to calm down.
I'm going to kill him, he thinks, because while the nude pictures were bad enough, Eames has evidently taken Arthur's refusal to examine his dick in person as an affront of some sort. As if he feels like he has to prove the - Arthur honestly doesn't know the right word for this - honor of his cock, and demonstrate to Arthur its length or girth or some other highly inappropriate feature.
Arthur has never needed, in his entire waking life and the cumulative years he's spent in dreamspace, to know what Eames's cock looks like erect.
If his subconscious disagrees, he resolutely silences it.
If he takes a second or third glance at the picture later, in the privacy of his apartment roughly the size of an average walk-in closet, it's because he needs to re-open it to delete it. His eyes catch on the text he missed the first time.
Greece is perfectly lovely this time of year. Do stop by.
When Schneider asks him to join in on a job three days later and mentions needing a forger, Arthur suggests he look into contacting Eames. Only for convenience's sake, of course, because the target is in Cyprus. It's only practical, and Arthur is nothing if not practical.
THE FIFTH TIME
Ariadne has just slipped into another dream with Cobb, another practice session where she demonstrates that her skill level is leaps and bounds above the rest of them. Arthur would be jealous - he's been building for years, after all, and Ariadne's picked up things in mere minutes - but he's kept too busy flipping through his files and tapping away at his laptop. There is a lot of research to be done regarding Robert and Maurice Fischer and their "complicated" relationship.
He answers his phone on instinct because Saito is out on a business call and Eames is consulting with Yusuf: Arthur has no reason to think twice about accepting the message and flicking his eyes away from last year's fiscal report of Fischer Morrow to a picture of a mouth stretched wide and red around a hard cock.
Arthur blinks, heart slamming into his throat as his mind catches up.
Wish you were here!
He can barely hear his own thoughts over the blood rushing in his ears. Eames.
Eames, sucking some guy's-- Jesus Christ.
Sending it to Arthur now, while he's standing not ten feet away, chatting with Yusuf, as nonchalant as he can be. Is he out of his mind?
Arthur struggles to find coherence, marshaling his thoughts.
Fuck.
His eyes dart back to his phone. Something curls hot and terrible in the pit of his belly.
Fuck.
AND THE FIRST AND LAST TIME ARTHUR RECIPROCATES
He's not drunk. Later, he wishes he were or that he'd at least downed two glasses of Scotch before, just to have some sort of plausible deniability. Unfortunately, Arthur is stone-cold sober when he decides that Eames has been having far too much fun at Arthur's expense and that Arthur is not a goddamned pushover. He can get his own. And he knows nothing will rile Eames up like a taste of his own medicine.
He's not even all the way naked, just shirtless and down to his slacks. The fly's open and his boxers, dark red, are visible against the black material. His cock - not erect and dripping but not exactly "abnormally small" either, thank you - is peeping out of his boxers. The picture's almost artistic, if Arthur were drunk enough to have the thought, and much more tasteful than Eames's pornographic collection.
Arthur really wishes he were drunk, but he's still sober when he texts I'm right here. Where are you? with the picture attached.
So, really, in the end, there's nothing to blame except his own inexplicable stupidity that the picture goes out to Eames. And everyone else in his contact list.
WTF ARTHUR is Ariadne's rapid response. Followed immediately by: I'm sorry, I don't feel that way about you. Then: btw ew
Arthur stares at the incoming messages with horror.
Arthur! Please! My children could've seen that!
He buries his head in his hands and considers never leaving his Chicago apartment ever again. He could lock Cobb out if he ever tried to visit, never have to look him the face again. It's a good plan.
I know someone who's looking for someone to act in a movie. Very tasteful, really. A minute goes by, then another text. Well, it pays a lot. Let me know!
All Arthur can muster to reply to Yusuf is a very emphatic NO.
Saito's text Arthur cannot respond to.
A very fine specimen, Mr. Arthur.
Arthur decides that if he couldn't be drunk before sending the text out, he certainly can get drunk now. Jack Daniels can be the only friend he needs.
It isn't until he is well and thoroughly drunk, roughly an hour later, that Arthur surfaces from his mortification to wonder why Eames hasn't replied. As if on cue, his phone lights up again. Arthur looks at it with some dread, but mostly blurry vision.
It's another picture text from Eames, sans words this time, and the picture looks suspiciously like...the outside of Arthur's apartment?
There's a knock at the door.
Arthur contemplates not getting up for a moment, but there's a second knock, more insistent and - fuck, it really does seem like Eames has managed to get under Arthur's skin in the end. He stumbles to the door and pulls it open. Eames is standing there, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking smug and happy and horrifically attractive. Arthur thought he was in Johannesburg. Arthur still thinks he's an annoying son-of-a-bitch.
Arthur yanks him inside.
--
Started/Finished: 2010.07.28