(no subject)
arthur/eames
r
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Arthur has this client. His name is James and he’s forty-three years old with a comb over and a moustache. He grew up in Connecticut and moved to New York when he was twenty-two to be closer to his wife’s family after he knocked her up. Her name is Susan and from the picture’s that adorn his beside side table Arthur knows she has shoulder length red hair and stale green eyes that have had the light kicked out of them from the tip of her husband’s boot constantly knocking into her skull. From two hours ago he knows she’s a quiet woman who digs and rakes her nails down the skin of her arms when she’s angry, nervous, and afraid.
Arthur isn’t an idiot. He’s been turning tricks ever since he was fifteen and at twenty-three he knows the ones you don’t trust are the ones who have no qualms about telling you their life stories. The ones who show you pictures of their children before they’re bending you over the back of their couch; the ones whose tongues can mix “Here’s Rachel, she’s seven and here’s Roxanna, she’s fourteen” and “You like that don’t you, you dirty slut? You want it harder, don’t you?” with ease.
And James. James Richardson cannot be trusted.
Arthur’s been fucked by him seven times before. Twice in the back of his black Chevy and five times in the bed that he and his wife share at night. Once before his wife’s come home from work early and James had Arthur’s cock in his mouth when she began to rattle the doorknob with a careful, “Honey?” James sunk his teeth into Arthur’s skin, the younger man clutching at the sheets and hissing in pain as his client stopped moving, tense in the shoulders as he waited for his wife to realize the door was locked. She did. She stopped rattling the knob and when James was done with Arthur thirty minutes later, he heard her making useless noise in the kitchen to mentally drown out what she knows her husband is doing.
Even when Arthur drops and scrambles for his phone in the living room, she doesn’t confront him. Even when James sticks his hand down Arthur’s pants in front of their children she doesn’t confront him.
It’s what leads him into Eames’ front door. It’s what leads him to knocking, pounding, and kicking on the barrier at 3 am, ignoring the older woman who sticks her head out down the hall telling him to, “Fuck off some of us are trying to sleep!” because he could give two shits about anyone else’s comfort. Right now he just wants to see Eames. Right now he just wants to break down behind closed doors.
And when Eames finally answers, he’s disheveled. His hairs all over his head, dark stubble seems to grow into strands right before Arthur’s eyes. His shirt seemed to be discarded in an attempt to get comfortable and low, but fitted, plaid pants cover his legs. There’s a joke, somewhere in the back of his throat, about his terrible fashion sense even when he’s sleeping, but when he opens his mouth for the biting comment nothing comes out but a choked and humiliating sob, followed by a heavy flow of tears.
He can’t imagine how pathetic he must’ve looked, face terribly red and shoulder’s shaking, bruises on his wrists and on his neck from where James pressed too hard. Eames has seen him at his worst. He’s seen him with knife slices on the back of his knees and a busted lip from when those twins brutally fucked his mouth. But he’s never seen him cry. Arthur’s always made sure that he’s never seen him cry - until now of course.
And he expected Eames to cross his arms around his chest, lean against the door frame with a stern look and the words, “I’ll wait for you stop sobbing like a little girl,” hot on his tongue like Arthur’s father use to do. He expects for his eyes to be dark and narrowed, disappointment, anger, and disgust to be written all over his features as the only words he says are, “I told you so,” before he shuts the door in Arthur’s faces. But Eames doesn’t either of the two.
He wraps his hand around Arthur’s wrist. His fingers softly touch the reddish, purple bruises and he pulls him into a warm embrace. He presses his hands to his back and lets Arthur sob into his shoulder as he whispers in his ear, “Oh darling, everything’s going to be alright,” before he softly rubs his hand up and down his t-shirt clad back.
r
written for this prompt in the inception_kink meme.
Arthur has this client. His name is James and he’s forty-three years old with a comb over and a moustache. He grew up in Connecticut and moved to New York when he was twenty-two to be closer to his wife’s family after he knocked her up. Her name is Susan and from the picture’s that adorn his beside side table Arthur knows she has shoulder length red hair and stale green eyes that have had the light kicked out of them from the tip of her husband’s boot constantly knocking into her skull. From two hours ago he knows she’s a quiet woman who digs and rakes her nails down the skin of her arms when she’s angry, nervous, and afraid.
Arthur isn’t an idiot. He’s been turning tricks ever since he was fifteen and at twenty-three he knows the ones you don’t trust are the ones who have no qualms about telling you their life stories. The ones who show you pictures of their children before they’re bending you over the back of their couch; the ones whose tongues can mix “Here’s Rachel, she’s seven and here’s Roxanna, she’s fourteen” and “You like that don’t you, you dirty slut? You want it harder, don’t you?” with ease.
And James. James Richardson cannot be trusted.
Arthur’s been fucked by him seven times before. Twice in the back of his black Chevy and five times in the bed that he and his wife share at night. Once before his wife’s come home from work early and James had Arthur’s cock in his mouth when she began to rattle the doorknob with a careful, “Honey?” James sunk his teeth into Arthur’s skin, the younger man clutching at the sheets and hissing in pain as his client stopped moving, tense in the shoulders as he waited for his wife to realize the door was locked. She did. She stopped rattling the knob and when James was done with Arthur thirty minutes later, he heard her making useless noise in the kitchen to mentally drown out what she knows her husband is doing.
Even when Arthur drops and scrambles for his phone in the living room, she doesn’t confront him. Even when James sticks his hand down Arthur’s pants in front of their children she doesn’t confront him.
It’s what leads him into Eames’ front door. It’s what leads him to knocking, pounding, and kicking on the barrier at 3 am, ignoring the older woman who sticks her head out down the hall telling him to, “Fuck off some of us are trying to sleep!” because he could give two shits about anyone else’s comfort. Right now he just wants to see Eames. Right now he just wants to break down behind closed doors.
And when Eames finally answers, he’s disheveled. His hairs all over his head, dark stubble seems to grow into strands right before Arthur’s eyes. His shirt seemed to be discarded in an attempt to get comfortable and low, but fitted, plaid pants cover his legs. There’s a joke, somewhere in the back of his throat, about his terrible fashion sense even when he’s sleeping, but when he opens his mouth for the biting comment nothing comes out but a choked and humiliating sob, followed by a heavy flow of tears.
He can’t imagine how pathetic he must’ve looked, face terribly red and shoulder’s shaking, bruises on his wrists and on his neck from where James pressed too hard. Eames has seen him at his worst. He’s seen him with knife slices on the back of his knees and a busted lip from when those twins brutally fucked his mouth. But he’s never seen him cry. Arthur’s always made sure that he’s never seen him cry - until now of course.
And he expected Eames to cross his arms around his chest, lean against the door frame with a stern look and the words, “I’ll wait for you stop sobbing like a little girl,” hot on his tongue like Arthur’s father use to do. He expects for his eyes to be dark and narrowed, disappointment, anger, and disgust to be written all over his features as the only words he says are, “I told you so,” before he shuts the door in Arthur’s faces. But Eames doesn’t either of the two.
He wraps his hand around Arthur’s wrist. His fingers softly touch the reddish, purple bruises and he pulls him into a warm embrace. He presses his hands to his back and lets Arthur sob into his shoulder as he whispers in his ear, “Oh darling, everything’s going to be alright,” before he softly rubs his hand up and down his t-shirt clad back.