narrative of soul against soul
rating: pg-13
summary: Arthur is an alpha. Problem is, so is Eames.
disclaimer: not true!
a/n: thanks to night_reveals for the quick beta! for cherrybina’s kinkfest. (A/E + alphas) I really love the trope, if you want to call it that, of Eames as a big dominant back-of-the-neck-biting alpha male in those animalistic/supernatural AUs or whatever. But I want more of Arthur being quite the alpha in his own right. I want a sexy battle for dominance in which Eames just barely is victorious and Arthur gives him a run for his money, but in the end he does want to submit to Eames.
"Eames?" Arthur questions, frowning. "Eames is in Mombasa."
Cobb stares at him mulishly, and Arthur straightens up, jutting his chin forward in disdain and disapproval. "That's Cobol's backyard," he says, when Cobb shows no indication of backing down, and Cobb merely shrugs and says, "Necessary risk."
Arthur bristles inwardly, but he sets his jaw and replies, quite calmly, "There are plenty of other thieves." Cobb shoots him a look that says, yeah, okay, but-
"We don't just need a thief," says Cobb, mild as ever. "We need a forger."
Arthur wants to point out that we don't need anything at all; we are quite satisfied with being able to breathe without assistance, but Cobb just looks at him, and Arthur can see the desperation hidden under every line, every deep shadow, and he relents. "Be careful," he says, and Cobb allows him a little half-nod that isn't reassuring in the least.
++
From what Arthur gathers, Mombasa turns out to be every bit as disastrous as he'd expected it to be, but Cobb walks in with Eames a careful distance behind, and they're both in one piece. Arthur supposes he'll just have to chalk it up as a win, even if the mere presence of Eames sets him on edge.
Arthur bites back a snarl when Eames leans over his workspace, and Arthur gets a violent rush of Eames' scent. His hand clenches tightly around the pen that he's using, and he stares Eames down, daring him to do something, anything. Arthur is itching for a fight, and he's poised for one, feet planted firmly on the floor, one arm tensed for a punch, but then Eames takes a step back and all but purrs, "You're looking rather tense there, Arthur. Perhaps some fresh air will do you good?"
Arthur is the first to look away, and he has to remind himself to be civil, to be the bigger man, because having to share space with another alpha is no reason to lose dignity-he was raised better than that. So instead of challenging Eames to the fight he's so obviously edging for, Arthur says, "I don't know what you're seeing, Mr. Eames. I'm fine. Maybe you're the one who needs some fresh air."
Eames' quiet laugh, while not unexpected, still catches Arthur off-guard, and it pisses him off terribly. He hates how easily Eames encroaches his space, all-encompassing and all too knowing. He hates how easily he lets Eames manipulate him.
++
They're seated around the whiteboard, save for Eames who's pacing up and down, thinking.
"Try this," he says finally. "MY FATHER ACCEPTS THAT I WANT TO CREATE FOR MYSELF, NOT FOLLOW IN HIS FOOTSTEPS."
Cobb nods. "That might work," he says, and Arthur wants to shoot him out of sheer frustration, because everything that's been suggested so far has been deemed a "Might." in Cobb's eyes.
"Might?" he bites out, and Cobb quiets, glancing over at Arthur. "We'll need to do better than that."
Cobb looks away, but it's Eames who speaks up, with only the faintest of condescension, "Thanks for the contribution, Arthur."
It's one thing to have Cobb wavering between the two of them, unsure of who to follow, when Arthur's the one who's protected him for so long; it's a whole other game, though, that Eames is playing, subtly manipulating everyone into following his orders, until this becomes less and less Arthur's op and more Eames' grand master plan. Eames' natural charm and charisma have always put him at an advantage, and for a moment, Arthur even feels a little shamed from being so petty, but then Eames looks over at him, something of a challenge in his gaze, and Arthur can't help himself. "Forgive me for wanting a little specificity, Eames," he sneers, smirking when Eames' demeanor twists in itself, and his body shifts to Arthur and Arthur alone.
"Inception's not about specificity," Cobb says, quiet, glancing from one to the other. He clears his throat, and Eames slowly, reluctantly, backs down, flicking his gaze to the whiteboard then to Cobb. "When we get inside his head, we're going to have to work with what we find."
++
It was all bound to come to a head, sooner or later. They've worked together before, and in eight of the eleven times, they’ve come to physical blows.
This time, Arthur can't even remember how it all started, only that it did, and now he's pinned to the floor of the warehouse, Eames' face mere inches from his, swearing up a storm, with Arthur pressing a jackknife to his throat, swearing just as loudly, free hand digging into the soft skin under Eames' jaw. Their voices echo off the walls, mixing with Cobb's shouts for calm and Ariadne's frantic pleas.
Arthur pushes up, grabbing a fistful of Eames' hair and yanking, hard, until he hears a low growl of pain. He isn't expecting Eames to shove him back down, and Arthur hits the ground hard, all the air knocked clean out of his lungs, and in that split second, Eames has the knife pushed to the smooth expanse of Arthur's neck.
Arthur swallows. The blade bobs.
"What the fuck is wrong with you," Eames snarls.
"Go to hell," says Arthur. He goes loose, yielding, and Eames stills above him, suspicious. He looks him straight in the eye. "Get off," Arthur says quietly, and after a moment, Eames does.
Cobb is silent when Arthur pushes past, and when Ariadne tries to pull him back, he (gently) pushes her away.
++
"We need to talk," Eames says, because he's the one person Arthur can't stop from following him.
Arthur folds his arms across his chest and glares at the ground. "There's nothing to talk about," he says sharply. "You win. I give, okay? It's all yours. This job's all yours."
Eames crowds him against the wall of the alley, and it sets Arthur off again-the proximity, the subtle burn of Eames' scent, the way his dominance is encroaching on Arthur's, but just as suddenly, it's gone, and it's absence stings just as much as its presence, everything suddenly too much and not enough. He blinks and realizes that Eames has stepped back and is now leaning against the opposite wall, gaze unreadable.
"Why do you do that?" Arthur snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to rub away the lingering remnants of Eames' Eamesness. "It must bother you, too."
Eames smirks then, slow and easy, and Arthur tenses, wary. "Quite the contrary," Eames says, voice light, even if the weight of his words isn't. "I find it rather pleasing, in its own way."
Arthur stares at him and doesn't move, not even when Eames shifts and takes a step towards him, then another, and another, until Arthur’s being crowded into the alley wall again, and every bit of him, every part of his instinct is screaming at him to fight, to attack, to kill.
Eames leans in, and his nose skims over Arthur's, and the closeness of this, the permeating musk of Eames' scent, like the flavor of red-hot cinnamon, makes Arthur's head spin.
"I'm not always out for a war," Eames says, and his lips brush against Arthur's lips, and Arthur shakes with it.
"Don't," he says, but it sounds a lot more like Please, even to him. He breathes in, a sharp inhalation that leaves a faint burning in the back of his throat, making him thirst for more.
"Not everything has to be a fight," Eames says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, soothing and calm, and it settles into Arthur's skin, making him heady and pliant and so ready to give. He places his hand against Arthur's cheek, and Arthur can't help but turn into it, breathing in deep and letting his eyes fall closed.
"No," he mumbles against the palm of Eames' hand. "I know," and he looks at Eames, a little bit frightened, a little bit curious. "I know that," he says and closes the distance between them, letting his mouth mold to Eames', letting Eames mold to him.
(Letting go.)
summary: Arthur is an alpha. Problem is, so is Eames.
disclaimer: not true!
a/n: thanks to night_reveals for the quick beta! for cherrybina’s kinkfest. (A/E + alphas) I really love the trope, if you want to call it that, of Eames as a big dominant back-of-the-neck-biting alpha male in those animalistic/supernatural AUs or whatever. But I want more of Arthur being quite the alpha in his own right. I want a sexy battle for dominance in which Eames just barely is victorious and Arthur gives him a run for his money, but in the end he does want to submit to Eames.
"Eames?" Arthur questions, frowning. "Eames is in Mombasa."
Cobb stares at him mulishly, and Arthur straightens up, jutting his chin forward in disdain and disapproval. "That's Cobol's backyard," he says, when Cobb shows no indication of backing down, and Cobb merely shrugs and says, "Necessary risk."
Arthur bristles inwardly, but he sets his jaw and replies, quite calmly, "There are plenty of other thieves." Cobb shoots him a look that says, yeah, okay, but-
"We don't just need a thief," says Cobb, mild as ever. "We need a forger."
Arthur wants to point out that we don't need anything at all; we are quite satisfied with being able to breathe without assistance, but Cobb just looks at him, and Arthur can see the desperation hidden under every line, every deep shadow, and he relents. "Be careful," he says, and Cobb allows him a little half-nod that isn't reassuring in the least.
++
From what Arthur gathers, Mombasa turns out to be every bit as disastrous as he'd expected it to be, but Cobb walks in with Eames a careful distance behind, and they're both in one piece. Arthur supposes he'll just have to chalk it up as a win, even if the mere presence of Eames sets him on edge.
Arthur bites back a snarl when Eames leans over his workspace, and Arthur gets a violent rush of Eames' scent. His hand clenches tightly around the pen that he's using, and he stares Eames down, daring him to do something, anything. Arthur is itching for a fight, and he's poised for one, feet planted firmly on the floor, one arm tensed for a punch, but then Eames takes a step back and all but purrs, "You're looking rather tense there, Arthur. Perhaps some fresh air will do you good?"
Arthur is the first to look away, and he has to remind himself to be civil, to be the bigger man, because having to share space with another alpha is no reason to lose dignity-he was raised better than that. So instead of challenging Eames to the fight he's so obviously edging for, Arthur says, "I don't know what you're seeing, Mr. Eames. I'm fine. Maybe you're the one who needs some fresh air."
Eames' quiet laugh, while not unexpected, still catches Arthur off-guard, and it pisses him off terribly. He hates how easily Eames encroaches his space, all-encompassing and all too knowing. He hates how easily he lets Eames manipulate him.
++
They're seated around the whiteboard, save for Eames who's pacing up and down, thinking.
"Try this," he says finally. "MY FATHER ACCEPTS THAT I WANT TO CREATE FOR MYSELF, NOT FOLLOW IN HIS FOOTSTEPS."
Cobb nods. "That might work," he says, and Arthur wants to shoot him out of sheer frustration, because everything that's been suggested so far has been deemed a "Might." in Cobb's eyes.
"Might?" he bites out, and Cobb quiets, glancing over at Arthur. "We'll need to do better than that."
Cobb looks away, but it's Eames who speaks up, with only the faintest of condescension, "Thanks for the contribution, Arthur."
It's one thing to have Cobb wavering between the two of them, unsure of who to follow, when Arthur's the one who's protected him for so long; it's a whole other game, though, that Eames is playing, subtly manipulating everyone into following his orders, until this becomes less and less Arthur's op and more Eames' grand master plan. Eames' natural charm and charisma have always put him at an advantage, and for a moment, Arthur even feels a little shamed from being so petty, but then Eames looks over at him, something of a challenge in his gaze, and Arthur can't help himself. "Forgive me for wanting a little specificity, Eames," he sneers, smirking when Eames' demeanor twists in itself, and his body shifts to Arthur and Arthur alone.
"Inception's not about specificity," Cobb says, quiet, glancing from one to the other. He clears his throat, and Eames slowly, reluctantly, backs down, flicking his gaze to the whiteboard then to Cobb. "When we get inside his head, we're going to have to work with what we find."
++
It was all bound to come to a head, sooner or later. They've worked together before, and in eight of the eleven times, they’ve come to physical blows.
This time, Arthur can't even remember how it all started, only that it did, and now he's pinned to the floor of the warehouse, Eames' face mere inches from his, swearing up a storm, with Arthur pressing a jackknife to his throat, swearing just as loudly, free hand digging into the soft skin under Eames' jaw. Their voices echo off the walls, mixing with Cobb's shouts for calm and Ariadne's frantic pleas.
Arthur pushes up, grabbing a fistful of Eames' hair and yanking, hard, until he hears a low growl of pain. He isn't expecting Eames to shove him back down, and Arthur hits the ground hard, all the air knocked clean out of his lungs, and in that split second, Eames has the knife pushed to the smooth expanse of Arthur's neck.
Arthur swallows. The blade bobs.
"What the fuck is wrong with you," Eames snarls.
"Go to hell," says Arthur. He goes loose, yielding, and Eames stills above him, suspicious. He looks him straight in the eye. "Get off," Arthur says quietly, and after a moment, Eames does.
Cobb is silent when Arthur pushes past, and when Ariadne tries to pull him back, he (gently) pushes her away.
++
"We need to talk," Eames says, because he's the one person Arthur can't stop from following him.
Arthur folds his arms across his chest and glares at the ground. "There's nothing to talk about," he says sharply. "You win. I give, okay? It's all yours. This job's all yours."
Eames crowds him against the wall of the alley, and it sets Arthur off again-the proximity, the subtle burn of Eames' scent, the way his dominance is encroaching on Arthur's, but just as suddenly, it's gone, and it's absence stings just as much as its presence, everything suddenly too much and not enough. He blinks and realizes that Eames has stepped back and is now leaning against the opposite wall, gaze unreadable.
"Why do you do that?" Arthur snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to rub away the lingering remnants of Eames' Eamesness. "It must bother you, too."
Eames smirks then, slow and easy, and Arthur tenses, wary. "Quite the contrary," Eames says, voice light, even if the weight of his words isn't. "I find it rather pleasing, in its own way."
Arthur stares at him and doesn't move, not even when Eames shifts and takes a step towards him, then another, and another, until Arthur’s being crowded into the alley wall again, and every bit of him, every part of his instinct is screaming at him to fight, to attack, to kill.
Eames leans in, and his nose skims over Arthur's, and the closeness of this, the permeating musk of Eames' scent, like the flavor of red-hot cinnamon, makes Arthur's head spin.
"I'm not always out for a war," Eames says, and his lips brush against Arthur's lips, and Arthur shakes with it.
"Don't," he says, but it sounds a lot more like Please, even to him. He breathes in, a sharp inhalation that leaves a faint burning in the back of his throat, making him thirst for more.
"Not everything has to be a fight," Eames says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, soothing and calm, and it settles into Arthur's skin, making him heady and pliant and so ready to give. He places his hand against Arthur's cheek, and Arthur can't help but turn into it, breathing in deep and letting his eyes fall closed.
"No," he mumbles against the palm of Eames' hand. "I know," and he looks at Eames, a little bit frightened, a little bit curious. "I know that," he says and closes the distance between them, letting his mouth mold to Eames', letting Eames mold to him.
(Letting go.)