Fiction: Your Name on My Lips and My Knife at Your Throat
Title: your name on my lips and my knife at your throat
Author: stungunbilly
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Chris Nolan, and I really hope he makes good use of them.
Rating: Definitely Mature/NC-17
Warnings: Mention of violence.
Summary: These were all written as tiny fills for the inception_kink prompt round 10, for this prompt, except the fifth which I included because it amused me. Only loosely connected to each other, like a little bouquet of black roses.
your name on my lips and my knife at your throat
by stungunbilly
1. you and an eclipse might be something
Arthur hates Eames.
Motherfucking Eames, always probing and poking and mocking, always scoffing at Arthur's careful plans, enjoying his failures. Arthur hates his smirk, his fat mouth that's so pink and soft like a woman's, hates his tacky clothes that just make him look too muscular for cloth to contain. He hates his agile thief's hands and his thick thighs and oh, how he hates his fat cock.
Hates the way it just spits him open, punches grunts and gasps and moans out of his mouth, makes him come all messy and wet on his clean bed, over his clean skin.
Arthur tightens his hand, moving faster, bites his knuckles so he can't be heard through the thin walls of the cubicle. He hates Eames in a long, drawn out moment of tense muscles and resentful ecstasy. Then he straightens his clothes, zips his fly, and washes his hands so he can go hate Eames more effectively in public.
2. a little indulgence
Arthur is sweating in the heat of the room, his white t-shirt sticking to his skin, his loose hair curling wetly at his neck. His pants are gone, sacrificed to the heat, and he sprawls on his mattress in damp briefs, wishing he could stop dwelling on the argument he'd had with Eames twenty minutes ago.
It was stupid, but Eames kept *eating things*, slurping and sucking on popsicles and fruit and it was *obscene*. Regular people just don't make such a spectacle of themselves at work, in front of co-workers. Arthur had jerked off in the bathroom twice, but it wasn't enough when it was so hot and Eames has no sense of propriety, the man is a menace.
Just thinking about it and Arthur is hard *again*, what the fuck. He's sweaty and hot and his cock is stiff and probably getting pre-come on his briefs, and if he jerks off again it'll get on the sheets and Arthur will have to change them. Eames doesn't even have to be here for him to make things filthy.
He groans and rolls over to press against the mattress, trying not to think about Eames' mouth and his arms, and the way his eyes sparked when he told Arthur he should go "sort yourself out, love." Like he was telling Arthur to go and jerk off, instead of offering to help, when he was the one who caused the problem in the first place.
Eames is such a complete and total *asshole*. At the thought, Arthur remembers the last time Eames came to this room, when he'd left the place a wreck, totally disgusting, covered in both of their fluids and twisted sheets, clothing everywhere, so sloppy. And Arthur himself, wet and swollen and full of drippy, messy come.
He presses harder into the mattress, muffling the soft moan from the memory, and he can't help it, he slips his hand up to his mouth to wet his fingers, then into the back of his briefs, slides a finger down his damp crack until he's touching himself there, stroking his hole.
It feels good, but not like it does when Eames' fingers, his long graceful fingers slip inside, stretch him out. And oh, it's so nasty and dirty and Eames likes it, likes to rub his filthy, filthy mouth there, lick him and talk to him like he's a slut, all wet like that, like this. He gets him so ready, because Eames is obscene and wants Arthur to be wet and ready for him, when he slides his rude, thick cock into Arthur's ass.
Arthur's just slipped two fingers in, pressing hard and firmly, pretending, when there's a knock and a familiar voice calls his name. Eames sounds furious by the fifth knock, and the angry tone strikes some kind of fire in Arthur, makes it hard for him to pull his fingers out and rub them against his briefs (dirty, so filthy again and all Eames' fault). He stumbles to the door, opening it before he thinks about putting on clothes.
The moment the door is open, Eames is in the room, shoving at Arthur and shouting at him, getting in his face. "Listen, you tightly-wound prick, I'll not have you dressing me down in front of those infants you hired for this job. If you think, for one instant that going to bed with me is going to change anything about how much I fucking hate you-"
And oh, Arthur hates him too, Hates his rough conceited voice, his sweaty shirt that clings to his shoulders, hates the filthy mess that Arthur is just going to be *coated* in before night has even fallen. He stops Eames' rant with his lips, someone has to take control of Eames' mouth and it's going to be Arthur. He wraps his tongue around Eames', his mouth so slick and soft and open as the tension just melts out of the man.
Eames pulls back for a moment, but seems to notice Arthur's state of undress and the untidy thrust of his cock straining the fabric of his briefs. "Oh god," he says, "You started without me, look at you, you are almost naked, let me-" and he slips his hands into Arthur's briefs, tearing them off and reaching behind Arthur to get his fingers inside him like he always seems to do. Finding no resistance, just an open and swollen hole, he moans into Arthur's mouth, mumbling semi-coherently.
"Ah, need to fuck you, so ready for me, darling. Lay down and spread your legs for me, I've been hard for hours, ever since you took your tie off and glared at me like that."
Eames doesn't need help to move Arthur where he wants him, and it's a good thing because Arthur can't stay steady on his legs with those hands working him and taking him apart, with that tongue stroking his and that voice promising him pleasure in a soft rumble. He gets Arthur face down like he wants him, and uses both strong hands to open him up to Eames' mouth, eating at him and making him beg.
This is why he hates Eames. Arthur hates the way his whole body melts and strains at the same time, the way his cock seems to pulse with every movement of Eames' eager tongue as it thrusts in and in and in, excruciating and wonderful, but making him want more, thicker, deeper. Making him want to be stretched around Eames' slippery cock, to be fucked and corrupted.
Makes him want it so much he can't help but beg for it, that he lets Eames crawl up his body and just shove his dick in, so deep and good and impossible. That he lets Eames tell him what a good slut he is, how much Eames just wants to fill him up with come and leave him dripping all over the bed. Leave him hungry, always hungry for more.
"I hate you," he sobs, as he comes, comes, comes into the sheets, hips pumping helplessly. "Fuck I hate you, Eames."
Eames huffs a laugh, nowhere near finished with Arthur, his cock still opening him, pinning him down. "I know darling," he says, "I feel the same way." And he must, because he leaves no part of Arthur clean that night.
~
Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.
William Hazlitt
3. i might roll with you if you were on fire
Eames knows when people want to touch him; he can feel it in the air when he hits that perfect note of rapport. The sudden movement of a hand, the softening of a mouth that falls a little open. A tongue caressing a lip, bright eyes turning pools of glittering black.
Arthur is all one grand symphony of that note, that feeling. His body says to Eames, "Lay me down or let me fall, I'll be moved if you'll come after." It promises delights, and Eames hates him, hates him, because Arthur with his angry scowls and his taunting certainties delivers everything his body promises.
He flows out like liquid from a spilled glass, flush rising on pale flesh like wine on cloth, and Eames once had a choice about slipping his tongue and his cock and his heart into the deep crevices of a man. There was a time when Eames could devour and pass on, sated. But that time is gone.
Arthur cuts as deep as broken glass, when he breaks.
4. i'll fill you like cement in your shoes
“You're such a condescending prick,” growls Eames, on his back with his knees around his ears, where Arthur is folding him almost in half so he can thrust in deep, deeper. Where Eames is hot and tight and slick, gripping his cock greedily. “The, oh fuck, only part of you I like is your, yes there, there, your cock.”
Arthur wants to tell him how arrogant and crude he is, how he doesn't think Eames knows any other way to relate to human beings than to try to fuck them, but he can't because he has to concentrate. If he relaxes his focus, he's going to come into the buttery soft warmth of Eames' ass, so much sweeter than the caustic man inside could be. And he needs to be in control here, if he can't control Eames anywhere else.
"Fuck," says Eames, "Please, Arthur, you fucking- don't stop-" And his voice gets rawer and more pornographic over rich vowels with each thrust, feels like a wet brush against Arthur's skin scratching and stimulating, almost too much. "I hate- I want- please, please, fuck yes-"
"Just-unh-just shut up, Mr. Eames," groans Arthur, biting at Eames' sleek calf muscle, such a firm place to sink his teeth. His hips piston rhythmically all on their own, pushing him in beyond his intentions now, instinct to get as deep as he can and spill himself. He can't help the idea that his come is going to mark Eames up properly, keep him from sharing his slutty, hungry hole with all those fucking-
"Arthur," gasps Eames, coming warm and slick, his back struggling to arch, face twisted in ecstasy, so unguarded and perfect and Arthur loses all control at last, pumping rhythmless and desperately into him, proving it all, everything, so everyone will know and Arthur can just collapse, rest, until-
5. i'd bleed on you if you wore white
"Arthur," says Cobb, with that little forehead wrinkle he gets, "I don't pretend to know what's going on with you and Eames, but I got a call the other night from the bartender at McNally's."
Arthur only goes to McNally's to meet Eames, so he knows what this is about immediately. Like Cobb with his perfect tragic romance is ever going to understand the lengths Arthur goes to sometimes, the way he makes sure that Eames isn't ruining anyone else's life and breaking the hearts of innocents everywhere.
"I've got it under control," Arthur tells him, brushing crumbs off his slacks. They only have lunch occasionally, there are far better topics than this. "Eames got a little handsy, I informed him that it was inappropriate, story over."
"Jack said that you punched him in the mouth," says Cobb, still wrinkled and now narrowing his eyes like he's going to extract from Arthur. "And he didn't mention it being self-defense. He said Eames was flirting with some guy and you pulled the guy off and punched Eames when he complained."
Arthur shrugs. Someone has to protect the public.
"I told you. He was being handsy. You've seen how he gets."
~fin