(no subject)
Title: Torn Apart (1 of ?)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,476 (this part)
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur, Ariadne/Eames, Ariadne/Arthur/Eames
Summary: Response to a prompt here at inception_kink. Cross-posted to sunlitshadow and arthur_ariadne
Disclaimer: My name's not Nolan and never will be. I do not own, and I'm pretty darn broke, so please don't sue. :)
After the Fischer job, everyone had acknowledged how well they worked together and the possibility of being a permanent team rather than individual contractors. In the three years since, they’d cross-trained everyone on the various jobs. Well, other than putting Eames in Yusuf’s lab, because that was trouble waiting to happen - not because he wasn’t smart enough, but he had a habit of mischief. Least surprising was that Arthur, with his knack for details and steady hands, was the best at replicating Yusuf’s concoctions. Ariadne’s talent at creating places down to the smallest detail carried over into a talent at forging. Yusuf’s openness combined with his sharp scientific mind gave him a talent as an extractor. And who knew - Eames had apparently picked up something from Arthur over the years and wasn’t a bad point man. There was a shrewd intelligence covered up by that snarky wit, and he knew people. He noticed things.
Arthur grew frustrated with his persistent inability to forge. He could get the features and clothing down, but when it came to aping mannerisms, posture and dialect, he couldn’t seem to let go of his own rigid boundaries and get into character. He’d gone so far as to try acting classes during a stretch in New York, but it just wouldn’t work. He spent more and more time with the PASIV machine, pushing himself in dreams. Ariadne and Eames watched him worriedly, in and out of the dreamscape. And this is where our story begins…
~*~
Eames crept up to a corner in the dreamscape, an extensive hotel and convention center complex on the night of a posh charity ball. Ariadne was hard on his heels, pausing when he laid a hand on her arm to peer around the corner into the packed ballroom. Instead of mingling as agreed, Arthur was settled into a chair near the edge of the room, observing the crowd. The forger tugged the architect up to the corner and nodded at the point man. “What the bloody hell is he doing? He’s just sitting there, looking constipated!”
“I don’t know, Eames. He didn’t tell me his plan for tonight, he just asked that we not interrupt wha-“ Her voice stuttered to a halt as a replica of Arthur, tux and all, split off and away from the point man. She was startled enough to swear, something she rarely did, “What the fuck?”
They both watched the pseudo-Arthur step across the room, slowly morphing into a forged image before reaching the other side and mingling effortlessly with a group of debutantes as the young, spoiled scion of a rich family. The true Arthur remained in his seat, eyes blankly focused on the crowd. He looked drunk - or drugged. Certainly no one at a real party of this sort would go near him in that state.
~*~
They retreated into the hall to stare at each other in amazement. “Eames, he created a projection of himself, and _changed_ it! I didn’t even know that was possible!”
“I didn’t either, love.” The Brit scowled down the hallway, “A little jealous I didn’t think of it myself, really. Although it looked like he had to concentrate a bit too hard to make it useful for much.” He looked thoughtful, “Stay here, I’m going to see if I can talk to him while he’s holding it.”
She paced the hallway, waiting for one or both of her boys to come back to her.
~*~
When a hand closed around her shoulder and slid down to close around her wrist, Ariadne went on the defensive and jerked her elbow back into the man’s stomach. She’d been dreaming for a long while now, but she still hated how aggressive the projections could get sometimes. Spinning around to face the intruder, she realized it was Arthur and relaxed - until he shoved her into a room and locked the door behind them.
“Arthur, what’re you doing? Where’s Eames?” He didn’t answer, and she studied him closely. Was this Arthur or was it the forgery? His features were familiar, complete with his rarely-seen, crooked smile, but in seconds it turned sour, the expression mocking and cold. They’d all grown closer over the years, best friends with benefits, the three of them all having fooled around with each other at some point, always dancing on the edge of being something more. Up until this moment, Ariadne would have sworn she knew her boys better than anyone in the world, but she didn’t know this Arthur, or where he came from. He just wasn’t HER Arthur.
He grabbed the architect and forced her up against the wall roughly, a doorknob jabbing itself into the small of her back. When she shrieked and squirmed, he forced the weight of his body against hers, her face against his chest and one of his knees jammed between hers, steadily pressing upward. With her pinned, he grabbed the front of the silk gown she wore and ripped it away from her torso, leaving her in just lingerie once he dropped the scraps to the floor. Terrified by the blankness in his eyes, even when looking over her mostly-naked body, she began to fight, frantically, her hands shoving against his body uselessly. When she went for the knife tucked into the back of her garter, his hands shot out to grab her wrists, grinding the delicate bones painfully before dragging both over her head and gathering them both into one of his much larger hands.
The other slid around to take the switchblade and throw it across the room before he pressed his weight in against hers again. Arthur’s eyes were still empty, the cold smile fixed onto his lips as he held her in place, his free hand unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. When he dropped them and his boxer-briefs to press against her, she slammed her head back against the wall and shut her eyes tightly. He couldn’t do this. Not her Arthur.
In the next moment, she was torn apart.
~*~
It felt like hours had passed, and perhaps they had, but since Ariadne was still dreaming, she couldn’t be sure. Curled into a shadowed corner of the hotel room Arthur had chosen, her hand was locked around the handle of the open switchblade. She’d retrieved it after he’d… and he’d left her, bruised and broken on the Aubusson rug.
Come on, come on, she thought frantically, the time on the PASIV had to be almost up, had to be near to pulling her out of this nightmare, back to where Arthur loved her and things made sense.
When she heard heavy footsteps outside, she froze and shrank into the shadows as Eames’ accented voice called out, “Ariadne? Damnit, I told you not to move!” The voice got louder and closer as the Brit talked to himself while he searched. “Arthur’s missing too, and if I find out you two have snuck off to shag…” She couldn’t hold back the gasp and whimper at the image presented by his words, and the forger’s sharp ears caught it. “Ariadne?”
“Eames,” she choked out, “I’m here,” The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her like this, especially him, but there wasn’t much she could do. He was the only thing in this entire dream that she could trust to protect her - this was Arthur’s fabricated world.
Alerted by her voice, Eames slowed and then stopped as she flinched away from him. “What the hell, Ari? What happened?” He dropped to his knees and carefully reached out, swearing when she lifted her head. Her lip was split, bloody, and there was a dark bruise blooming over her cheekbone. There was more blood smeared on her naked body, bruises in the shape of handprints on the fragile skin over her hips. He let loose with a string of curses only to break off when her eyes went wide and dark with fear.
“Shhhh, shhh-shhh,” He crooned at her, “Come here, love, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay, I’m here; I’ve got you,”
Like a wounded animal, she slowly emerged from the corner and he could see the extent of the damage. He had to fight not to let the anger show in his voice, he wanted to growl that someone had touched her. “Who did this, sweet?”
“A-a-ar-,“ She had to stop and start again twice before she finally got out, “Arthur.”
His eyes flew to her and locked, and he could see that she wasn’t lying. Arthur - or what she’d thought was Arthur - had done this. It was a betrayal of the worst sort, and he felt his own jaded heart break a little as he reached out to her. Just as his fingers brushed her skin, that gods-bedamned song pulled them up and out of slumber.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,476 (this part)
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur, Ariadne/Eames, Ariadne/Arthur/Eames
Summary: Response to a prompt here at inception_kink. Cross-posted to sunlitshadow and arthur_ariadne
Disclaimer: My name's not Nolan and never will be. I do not own, and I'm pretty darn broke, so please don't sue. :)
After the Fischer job, everyone had acknowledged how well they worked together and the possibility of being a permanent team rather than individual contractors. In the three years since, they’d cross-trained everyone on the various jobs. Well, other than putting Eames in Yusuf’s lab, because that was trouble waiting to happen - not because he wasn’t smart enough, but he had a habit of mischief. Least surprising was that Arthur, with his knack for details and steady hands, was the best at replicating Yusuf’s concoctions. Ariadne’s talent at creating places down to the smallest detail carried over into a talent at forging. Yusuf’s openness combined with his sharp scientific mind gave him a talent as an extractor. And who knew - Eames had apparently picked up something from Arthur over the years and wasn’t a bad point man. There was a shrewd intelligence covered up by that snarky wit, and he knew people. He noticed things.
Arthur grew frustrated with his persistent inability to forge. He could get the features and clothing down, but when it came to aping mannerisms, posture and dialect, he couldn’t seem to let go of his own rigid boundaries and get into character. He’d gone so far as to try acting classes during a stretch in New York, but it just wouldn’t work. He spent more and more time with the PASIV machine, pushing himself in dreams. Ariadne and Eames watched him worriedly, in and out of the dreamscape. And this is where our story begins…
~*~
Eames crept up to a corner in the dreamscape, an extensive hotel and convention center complex on the night of a posh charity ball. Ariadne was hard on his heels, pausing when he laid a hand on her arm to peer around the corner into the packed ballroom. Instead of mingling as agreed, Arthur was settled into a chair near the edge of the room, observing the crowd. The forger tugged the architect up to the corner and nodded at the point man. “What the bloody hell is he doing? He’s just sitting there, looking constipated!”
“I don’t know, Eames. He didn’t tell me his plan for tonight, he just asked that we not interrupt wha-“ Her voice stuttered to a halt as a replica of Arthur, tux and all, split off and away from the point man. She was startled enough to swear, something she rarely did, “What the fuck?”
They both watched the pseudo-Arthur step across the room, slowly morphing into a forged image before reaching the other side and mingling effortlessly with a group of debutantes as the young, spoiled scion of a rich family. The true Arthur remained in his seat, eyes blankly focused on the crowd. He looked drunk - or drugged. Certainly no one at a real party of this sort would go near him in that state.
~*~
They retreated into the hall to stare at each other in amazement. “Eames, he created a projection of himself, and _changed_ it! I didn’t even know that was possible!”
“I didn’t either, love.” The Brit scowled down the hallway, “A little jealous I didn’t think of it myself, really. Although it looked like he had to concentrate a bit too hard to make it useful for much.” He looked thoughtful, “Stay here, I’m going to see if I can talk to him while he’s holding it.”
She paced the hallway, waiting for one or both of her boys to come back to her.
~*~
When a hand closed around her shoulder and slid down to close around her wrist, Ariadne went on the defensive and jerked her elbow back into the man’s stomach. She’d been dreaming for a long while now, but she still hated how aggressive the projections could get sometimes. Spinning around to face the intruder, she realized it was Arthur and relaxed - until he shoved her into a room and locked the door behind them.
“Arthur, what’re you doing? Where’s Eames?” He didn’t answer, and she studied him closely. Was this Arthur or was it the forgery? His features were familiar, complete with his rarely-seen, crooked smile, but in seconds it turned sour, the expression mocking and cold. They’d all grown closer over the years, best friends with benefits, the three of them all having fooled around with each other at some point, always dancing on the edge of being something more. Up until this moment, Ariadne would have sworn she knew her boys better than anyone in the world, but she didn’t know this Arthur, or where he came from. He just wasn’t HER Arthur.
He grabbed the architect and forced her up against the wall roughly, a doorknob jabbing itself into the small of her back. When she shrieked and squirmed, he forced the weight of his body against hers, her face against his chest and one of his knees jammed between hers, steadily pressing upward. With her pinned, he grabbed the front of the silk gown she wore and ripped it away from her torso, leaving her in just lingerie once he dropped the scraps to the floor. Terrified by the blankness in his eyes, even when looking over her mostly-naked body, she began to fight, frantically, her hands shoving against his body uselessly. When she went for the knife tucked into the back of her garter, his hands shot out to grab her wrists, grinding the delicate bones painfully before dragging both over her head and gathering them both into one of his much larger hands.
The other slid around to take the switchblade and throw it across the room before he pressed his weight in against hers again. Arthur’s eyes were still empty, the cold smile fixed onto his lips as he held her in place, his free hand unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. When he dropped them and his boxer-briefs to press against her, she slammed her head back against the wall and shut her eyes tightly. He couldn’t do this. Not her Arthur.
In the next moment, she was torn apart.
~*~
It felt like hours had passed, and perhaps they had, but since Ariadne was still dreaming, she couldn’t be sure. Curled into a shadowed corner of the hotel room Arthur had chosen, her hand was locked around the handle of the open switchblade. She’d retrieved it after he’d… and he’d left her, bruised and broken on the Aubusson rug.
Come on, come on, she thought frantically, the time on the PASIV had to be almost up, had to be near to pulling her out of this nightmare, back to where Arthur loved her and things made sense.
When she heard heavy footsteps outside, she froze and shrank into the shadows as Eames’ accented voice called out, “Ariadne? Damnit, I told you not to move!” The voice got louder and closer as the Brit talked to himself while he searched. “Arthur’s missing too, and if I find out you two have snuck off to shag…” She couldn’t hold back the gasp and whimper at the image presented by his words, and the forger’s sharp ears caught it. “Ariadne?”
“Eames,” she choked out, “I’m here,” The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her like this, especially him, but there wasn’t much she could do. He was the only thing in this entire dream that she could trust to protect her - this was Arthur’s fabricated world.
Alerted by her voice, Eames slowed and then stopped as she flinched away from him. “What the hell, Ari? What happened?” He dropped to his knees and carefully reached out, swearing when she lifted her head. Her lip was split, bloody, and there was a dark bruise blooming over her cheekbone. There was more blood smeared on her naked body, bruises in the shape of handprints on the fragile skin over her hips. He let loose with a string of curses only to break off when her eyes went wide and dark with fear.
“Shhhh, shhh-shhh,” He crooned at her, “Come here, love, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay, I’m here; I’ve got you,”
Like a wounded animal, she slowly emerged from the corner and he could see the extent of the damage. He had to fight not to let the anger show in his voice, he wanted to growl that someone had touched her. “Who did this, sweet?”
“A-a-ar-,“ She had to stop and start again twice before she finally got out, “Arthur.”
His eyes flew to her and locked, and he could see that she wasn’t lying. Arthur - or what she’d thought was Arthur - had done this. It was a betrayal of the worst sort, and he felt his own jaded heart break a little as he reached out to her. Just as his fingers brushed her skin, that gods-bedamned song pulled them up and out of slumber.