An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 23/23
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Characters: Arthur (Inception), Eames (Inception)
Additional Tags: Human/Vampire Relationship, Vampire Bites, Vampire!Eames, Blood Drinking, Suicidal Thoughts, thoughts of self harm, canon adjacent, dream share, Arthur is a dream thief, Eames is a vampire, Morally Grey, Rating has changed, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Kink Negotiation
Summary:
Eames is a vampire who hates his fate and thinks often of ending it all -- until he meets an interesting, enigmatic, TERRIFYING man who pierces through the ennui cloaking him. Does he dare to have what he has never had? And is that even possible? Eames is afraid of what he is capable of. Arthur is not.
FINALLY!
An ending. And The End.
Something brushing against his face wakes him.
A moth perhaps.
But the touch lingers. Not a moth.
He opens his eyes in the midnight dark.
Arthur’s face is above him. Arthur’s hand is on his cheek.
“Pity,” says Eames as he ties the sleeves and settles Arthur’s sprained wrist comfortably in the makeshift sling. “I really like that one. Found it in a funny little shop in a back street in Lisbon.” It’s the sateen shirt, striped in tones of lavender, green and blue.
“I’ll help you look for another,” says Arthur, gritting his teeth against the pain. “This one may be salvageable anyway, there’s no blood.”
“True,” says Eames, tucking the shirt’s tail more securely around Arthur’s elbow. “You know I don’t really care, don’t you, darling?”
“I do, but still. It is a favourite.”
Fictober, day 19: Arthur and Eames
I’ve never subscribed to the view that Eames wears tasteless clothes, and I don’t think Arthur despises them, either.
Arthur was new to the game when he realised just how far a dreamscape could be pushed, how fantastical were the knots a dreamer with enough imagination could tie in the laws of physics. It’s not always useful to build stairways that turn and twist on themselves, but it is always fun, so he does it anyway, when he can.
He couldn’t have fought in that spinning, tilting hallway if he hadn’t delighted in the dizzy pleasures of paradoxical architecture.
He thinks about it often, afterwards. Maybe he’ll try something similar soon.
A small sound escapes Arthur’s mouth as he stands naked in front of his closet. A sound of need. Of lust.
He reaches out a hand, runs it across the sleeves of the many jackets ranged there: plain, checked, striped; black, charcoal, deepest midnight blue, settling on his pinstriped black Alexander McQueen.
It’s enough to awaken the memory of the first time he put it on in private. Stepping into the severely narrow pants, settling the jacket onto his shoulders, turning to the mirror, studying the insects flitting up his body.
The thrill of the first time Eames saw him in it. How Eames’ face lit up with delight as Arthur turned and displayed the surprise that could not be guessed at from behind.
The thrill of Eames taking him out of the suit. How he swept his hands down the lapels, pausing to dance his fingers across the silver threads of the moths’ wings. How carefully he unknotted Arthur’s black tie, leaving it loose round his neck. How delicately he opened each button on his shirt, pushing the cloth back under the wings of the jacket to give him access to Arthur’s chest. How he sucked softly at Arthur’s skin as it was revealed. How he knelt before Arthur to unfasten the pants, tugging them down to constrict his thighs while he dropped his mouth to Arthur’s groin, his hot breath dampening his briefs, until Arthur, his hips jerking, had gasped: “Not in the suit!” and Eames had laughed and taken Arthur’s boots off, lifting each foot, taking off his socks, his strong thumbs pressing into the arches of his feet. How he’d taken the pants off, finally. How he’d stood up again, bringing his hands back to Arthur’s chest, pushing them under the jacket, easing it off his shoulders -- and deftly catching it before it could slip and fall, smiling at the look of mild panic in Arthur’s eyes. Leaving him in the opened shirt as he pressed him towards the bed.
Eames comes into the room as Arthur stands there, his fingers caressing the fine wool of the suit, feeling the slight stiffness of the silver threads.
“Another man would rent a movie, Arthur, but you just stand in front of your closet.”
Arthur turns to him. “You know it’s not the suits, don’t you?” He smiles. “Well, not only the suits.”
“Yes. Get dressed.”
So Arthur gets dressed, slowly, as Eames leans against the doorframe, his eyes following as Arthur hides more and more of himself, until finally he comes to stand in front of Eames.
“You can unwrap me now.”
A small sound escapes Eames’ mouth. A sound of need. Of lust.
Dearest Amy: You suggested suitp*rn, and as it is one of our shared passions, I just had to. And I sought inspiration at Alexander McQueen. Of course I did.
Picture: Double-breasted insect pinstripe jacket, Alexander McQueen men’s tailoring, 2019.
Double-breasted wool silk tailored jacket in black with silver thread pinstripes, detailed with insect embroideries.
Not all jobs are fun, but sometimes, one comes along that Arthur knows will be more like a holiday, and this is one of those.
For starters, they’re in the Caribbean and the sun is shining. When they’ve finished work for the day, they stroll down the white sand beach to a little bar and drink silly drinks out of coconuts. Somehow, Eames had known Arthur secretly likes those rum punches.
And instead of taking one of the rattling taxis, they ride a scooter to work, he on the pillion, his thighs bracketing Eames’ ass, his hands clutching his hips.
