What do you do when you think you've been a victim of inception?

[angelgazing]

I have the sudden urge to write Arthur/Eames sexpollen fic.

::eyes the internet suspiciously::


I DON'T EVEN WRITE PORN!

Comments

[imagines.livejournal.com]

Tom Hardy wants you to write porn. BOYS FUCKING IS NORMAL, YOU KNOW, WHAT KIND OF JOURNALIST ARE YOU?

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

I DO NOT ARGUE WITH THE VALIDITY OF YOUR STATEMENT!

I do, however, argue with the validity of the idea of me attempting to write porn. I just don't see that ending well at all.

It's just that Arthur would be so, so very hot, if he were trying to hold himself back, pretending he wasn't going crazy with want, and then begging while Eames tried to Do the Right Thing and Not Take Advantage, while Arthur is practically crawling in his lap.

[imagines.livejournal.com]

So what? If you'd have fun writing it, I say do it. \0/

Exactly. Eames is trying his best to wait it out, because he is a Decent Gentleman, so he goes over and stands by the wall (idk, maybe they're locked in a PYRAMID in a DREAM, and the sexpollen was part of security? you know--distract the intruders so they can't steal shit?) and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them OFF ARTHUR. But Arthur comes over and GETS INTO HIS SPACE. And Arthur still knows perfectly well that he mustn't remove Eames's clothing without permission, but nobody said anything about his OWN clothes, and god DAMN the pyramid is WARM because it's fucking EGYPT. So he takes his shirt off, of course, that's perfectly sensible, Arthur is being PERFECTLY SENSIBLE about how much he wants to be naked right now.

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

Porn is hard. (...No pun intended.) (Okay, fine, that's a lie.)

This idea distracted me! I'm trying to do homework, and I just ended up writing, "the program runs suggestively." ::headdesk::

It's not, Eames laughs, it's not that he hasn't wanted Arthur since the first time he completely refused to flirt back. It's just that as much as he wants Arthur, he would also like to keep his bollocks, come the time that whatever is going on here wears off. Eames is a bad man, and he enjoys stealing things and lying and flirting shamelessly, but he is not so bad a man as to take advantage of a good mate of his to get what he's been wanting for so very, very long. And if Arthur could please, please, please, stop asking Eames to fuck him, that would be endlessly helpful and very much appreciated.

[imagines.livejournal.com]

(So is Eames. SEE WHAT I DID THERE)

NICHOOOOOLE WHY AM I WRITING SEXPOLLEN COMMENTPORN?? I've never done sexpollen OR commentporn before! It's my first time. BE GENTLE.

Yeah, but, Arthur tries to explain, it's not like being high. He's still got control over all his mental faculties! He knows exactly what he's asking.

Eames snorts. "Like you've ever been high. I bet you came top of your class during your entire time at school including kindergarten."

"Almost every year," Arthur says, "because I skipped second and eighth grade. And of course I got high once, it was practically a requirement to graduate high school."

"Once. Oh yeah, you're certainly the expert. Look, I'm simply not fucking you while you're in an altered state of consciousness, I don't care what put you there. And that's that. Conversation over."

"So you're saying you'd fuck me once I'm sober?"

[angelgazing.livejournal.com]

(I WISH I HAD THAT "I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE" MACRO WITH COBB'S SQUINTY FACE RIGHT NOW.)

I'VE NEVER WRITTEN COMMENTPORN EEEEITHER! Or... porn of any kind, really, come to think of it. (Also, heh. That's what she said.)

(POV is also hard. Like Eames.)

It's just really difficult to stay still. Arthur feels like he's on fire. Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur's wrists, pulling Arthur's hands off of his shoulders--his eyes closed like he's the one in pain, when Arthur is so hard it hurts--and it's like he'd wrapped his fingers around Arthur's cock, and Arthur can't help but sway up to his tiptoes, trying to get closer. Eames drops his mouth open like he's got any idea, and Arthur's breath catches on a moan.

And he knows, logically, he knows he never would've done this. Never would've been panting for it, if it weren't for that compound. He's got sweat beading along his hairline, and he can't stay still. He knows exactly how to twist his wrist to break the hold, but it's the most Eames has touched him in the hours since this started, since Arthur had ducked his head and pressed his mouth against the place where Eames' pulse was suddenly racing, and breathed out, against his will, "Oh, fuck."

Arthur twists his wrist the other way, echoes the way Eames had grabbed him and steps forward. He pushes his mouth back there, that place under Eames' jaw where he can taste sweat and a blooming bruise. "Eames," he says this time, without meaning to at all, "Eames, please."

Eames wants to groan, but doesn't let himself. It gets trapped somewhere in his chest, rattles around and he can tell by the way that Arthur's mouth turns up that he knows, that he can feel it.

He should leave. Should let Arthur work it out of his system on his own, except that Arthur swears he can't. Except that Arthur's got his pretty brow all furrowed and his bottom lip bitten almost bloody from trying to control whatever this is. He should leave, because it'd be easier for him, but Eames can't seem to walk away from Arthur, when he looks so much in pain. Eames has never had never had difficulties saving his own hide before, but he's also never had an Arthur whose hair is all mussed and whose shirt is all wrinkled, and who keeps stepping toward Eames and then shuffling back again.

"I won't," Arthur says, and stops. His hands are shaking, fingers trembling worse that Eames had ever seen, and it would take a much stronger man than Eames has ever been not to grab them, not to squeeze them encouragingly.

"I know, darling," Eames answers, and even manages to keep the sadness out of his voice. Arthur shakes his head, quick, almost child-like with how vehemently he's trying to deny it, but Eames does. He knows Arthur, once it's worn off, once the drugs are out of his system, that Arthur won't, that Arthur would never.

Eames is many things, but daft is not one of them.

"I won't be mad," Arthur says.

"You are mad."

"I won't be angry," Arthur says, his grip on Eames' fingers nearly vice-like, but his voice so, so very soft.

[imagines.livejournal.com]

Eames lowers his mouth to Arthur's ear so Arthur will have to concentrate to hear him whisper. "All right, love, I can see we're at a standoff. Why don't we compromise? I'll give you some of what you want, and you'll be good and hold off on anything else til it's worn off. If you still want more then, I promise you, we'll go somewhere as soon as we get out of here and make it happen."

"Deal," says Arthur, almost before Eames has quit talking.

Eames puts a hand on Arthur's chest to hold him back just a little longer. "One more thing. You let me handle this. If you try to push me, deal's off and you'll get nothing else, sober or not. So don't push, darling. You know I don't make empty threats."

Arthur, Eames can see, is making a heroic effort to compose himself. "You have my word," he says, and holds very, very still.