Relax Don't Do It | Inception | Arthur/Eames
Title: Relax Don't Do It
Author: dremiel
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Word count: 300
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Apparently Arthur listens to more than just The National and Interpol.
Warnings: none
An earlier version of this was posted as comment fic last summer. I have no earthly idea where or when. Then, and now, this is for photoclerk. Also on AO3
Ariadne tosses her sketchpad on the table. She’s getting nowhere with this level. The workspace is eerily quiet with everyone else at lunch and she regrets staying behind to work, particularly since she isn’t making progress.
At least she can put some music on. Crossing to Arthur’s desk she leans over to peer at his iPod speaker arrangement. Scrolling through his playlists for a workout mix she hesitates at one labeled “relaxation”. The tracks are labelled with numbers - no, they’re dates, going back a few years. Is Arthur into guided meditation? Intrigued, she chooses one with five stars and hits play.
A throaty voice, resonant and impossibly rich, rolls from the tiny speakers, “…like that, just like that? One more, yeah? You can take another. You can. You’re so good for me; such a gorgeous needy little slut. Christ, Arthur, I wish it were my fingers…buried in you…teasing…stretching you out…getting you ready for my cock. That’s what you really want innit? That’s what has you so hard and aching. Wish I was there. Wish I could see your beautiful greedy arse…get my mouth on you…or your cock, should I suck you off first? Everywhere. Everywhere you glorious, filthy thing. You’re doing so well. Fucking hell, I want to taste you so badly I could…”
Shaking off her paralysis Ariadne scrambles for the iPod and pulls the cable, silencing Eames’ rumbling appreciation. She backtracks out of the playlist and onto some of Arthur’s relentlessly melancholic indie rock. Moving cautiously, she returns the iPod to his desk, reconnects the speakers, and backs away.
At the fridge she snags a bottle of water, rests her cheek against the cool stainless door. She can’t help thinking about the other dozen tracks and, oh fuck, the playlist labelled “toys”.
Author: dremiel
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Word count: 300
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Apparently Arthur listens to more than just The National and Interpol.
Warnings: none
An earlier version of this was posted as comment fic last summer. I have no earthly idea where or when. Then, and now, this is for photoclerk. Also on AO3
Ariadne tosses her sketchpad on the table. She’s getting nowhere with this level. The workspace is eerily quiet with everyone else at lunch and she regrets staying behind to work, particularly since she isn’t making progress.
At least she can put some music on. Crossing to Arthur’s desk she leans over to peer at his iPod speaker arrangement. Scrolling through his playlists for a workout mix she hesitates at one labeled “relaxation”. The tracks are labelled with numbers - no, they’re dates, going back a few years. Is Arthur into guided meditation? Intrigued, she chooses one with five stars and hits play.
A throaty voice, resonant and impossibly rich, rolls from the tiny speakers, “…like that, just like that? One more, yeah? You can take another. You can. You’re so good for me; such a gorgeous needy little slut. Christ, Arthur, I wish it were my fingers…buried in you…teasing…stretching you out…getting you ready for my cock. That’s what you really want innit? That’s what has you so hard and aching. Wish I was there. Wish I could see your beautiful greedy arse…get my mouth on you…or your cock, should I suck you off first? Everywhere. Everywhere you glorious, filthy thing. You’re doing so well. Fucking hell, I want to taste you so badly I could…”
Shaking off her paralysis Ariadne scrambles for the iPod and pulls the cable, silencing Eames’ rumbling appreciation. She backtracks out of the playlist and onto some of Arthur’s relentlessly melancholic indie rock. Moving cautiously, she returns the iPod to his desk, reconnects the speakers, and backs away.
At the fridge she snags a bottle of water, rests her cheek against the cool stainless door. She can’t help thinking about the other dozen tracks and, oh fuck, the playlist labelled “toys”.