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Inceptionversary Prompt Fills

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PROMPT #1: Any characters, Mafia AU. Fleeing from the law.


It ends without warning.

Allen is an idiot. Was an idiot. They all knew it, but the consequences were proving a bit more lethal than hoped. Off course, the rest of them were idiots, too, for letting him get them into this mess. It was his stupid plan, but they'd all gone ahead with it, for lack of any better ideas. Arthur had tried to convince the others to wait, to lie low, but he was outnumbered, even with Eames on his side.

So here they are. Allen slumps over the steering wheel, already dead. Melvin slouches in the front seat, still breathing, but he isn't getting up again. His breaths come in whistles and wheezes that won't last much longer. Just outside the car sprawls Ally, the first of them to go down when she made the mistake of getting out of the car.

Beside Arthur, in the back of the car, Eames bleeds from the head where a bullet clipped him.

They look at each other.

Then Eames grins. "Well, we didn't expected it to last forever, did we, darling?"

Arthur feels his lips press together, in fear or determination, he's not sure which. He can't find words, so instead just shakes his head. Eames reaches for him, and relaxes into Eames' body as their lips meet. Fire surges through him, bright and needy, until he hears the shouts from outside. He pulls back and whispers, "Fuck 'em."


Arthur kicks open the door and raises his gun, but never gets off a shot. He can hear Eames behind him scream in rage and then pain, but he doesn't feel any of the fifty bullets that tear into him. Later, there will be some debate over exactly how many bullet wounds are on his body, and that of his Eames, but none of that matters to him, does it?

Arthur drops to the road, and laughs, until the sound drowns and his eyes close.


Prompt #2: Mal and Arthur. High class wine. Possible deep conversations or drunken shenanigans.


"I was not aware you could cook."

Mal turns and smiles at him over her shoulder. If she wobbles a little, it's only to be expected. "I never said I could."

Arthur smiles back at her, swirling the wine in his glass. He doesn't even try to stand. "Mal, dear, I think you may be drunk."

"Nonsense," she says, her voice rising just a bit too high. "Women of my station are never drunk, mon chéri. We simply take delight in the glory of a glass or five or wine that comes from the gods themselves."

"Your father is a teacher, Mal. And I don't want to die in a fire because you gloried a little too much." He frowns and looks at the bottle of wine. He's only just begun his rise in the social circles, so he doesn't know much about expensive things just yet, but something Mal said earlier makes him wonder. The label blurs; his eyes simply refuse to focus on it. "What kind of wine is this?"

"Richebourg," she says, clattering around in the kitchen in her sparkly black dress and high-heels. "1977 vintage, I believe. Henri Jayer was a brilliant, brilliant man." She turns to him, a pot in one hand and a strainer in the other. "Also, my mother is nobility."

"Does France still have a noble class? How much did it cost?"

Mal doesn't miss a beat between questions, answering as he takes a sip. "Money is nobility, so yes. And we've drunk about five thousand American dollars so far."

Arthur almost spits the wine out, but holy hell, he'd be spitting out the equivalent of five hundred dollars, so he holds it in and swallows. "Mal!"

She laughs, glorious, and shrugs. "Now. Spaghetti is simple, oui?"


Prompt #3: Any characters. Ballroom dancing hotness.


Ariadne fidgets, tugs at the fabric clinging to her waist, and frowns at the man standing beside her. "Remind me why we're doing this."

Cobb looks down at her and smirks, then points across the ballroom to the glass case on the stage. "Our mark is a competitive ballroom dancer. It's a bit unusual, but fits his personality for the information to be locked up in that case, hidden inside the first place trophy."

She huffs. "Okay, fine. I hate this stupid dress, though."

"You look beautiful," he said, eyes returning to the dance floor. He meant it, she knew, but he also had other things on his mind. "Ready?"

Sighing, Ariadne smoothes out the front of her dress. "I guess."

Cobb takes her hand as the announcer for the competition begins speaking. Somewhere out there on the floor are the rest of the team, with the goal of blending in until one of them can get close enough to the case to retrieve the information. Ariadne looks around as Cobb's other hand goes to her waist, and she spots Arthur across the room, glaring at a familiar buxom blonde.

"Eames," Cobb growls under his breath, and Ariadne can't help but snicker.

As the first strains of music brush over the floor, Cobb leads, and Ariadne follows, trying not to look down at her own feet. They've practiced this and a few other numbers, but nowhere near enough for either of them to be good enough to win a ballroom competition. So it's no surprise when fifteen seconds in Cobb receives a tab on the shoulder and they're out. That's fine, because then the two of them melt into the crowd as close to the trophy case as possible.

"How, exactly, do you propose we do this in a room full of the mark's projections?" Ariadne murmurs to him.

"Eames is supposed to—"

Just then, the music changes from slow waltz to something on the spicier side. Cobb's head snaps up and to the dance floor, and, already knowing what she will see, Ariadne follows suit.

Out there, the floor clears of confused contestants as a single couple tangos across. Eames has shed his female face, and Arthur looks ready to kill. But Ariadne has to admit to herself as she watches the two men twirl and Eames dips Arthur low that the two of them cut a rather fine figure. Arthur must think so, too, in his way, because as Eames pulls him up from the dip, he's no longer scowling. The two are actually pretty close by that time, so when Arthur leans in to murmur something in Eames' ear, Ariadne can see the shiver that runs down the bigger man's frame.

"Come on," Cobb says to her, tugging on her hand. "Let's get out of here before those two start to go at it right there on the dance floor."

Grinning, Ariadne follows, and refrains from saying that's basically what just happened anyway.




Eames leans down and kisses Arthur's forehead. The other man huffs—even in his sleep, he's huffy—and rolls over. Laughing lightly, Eames presses another kiss just below Arthur's ear, and then nibbles just a little on the lower lobe. That makes Arthur give another sound entirely.

"You'd better be prepared to make good on the promises you're making," he murmurs, eyes still closed.

"Oh, I am, darling. But later. You need to get up. We're going hunting."

One eye opens, and focuses immediately on him. "Call from Cobb?"

"No. Ping on the network."

Arthur sits up, immediately awake. "Which one of us?"

Eames shakes his head and tosses Arthur his gun. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me." His face, that lovely face that Eames loves so much, is dark as a tornado, and just as lethal. He knows what his lover is thinking, because the same is on his mind. Eames kisses him again.

"It doesn't, because we shan't let it."

After a pause, Arthur nods and rises from the bed, gloriously naked for a few precious moments, until he dresses. Then he's gloriously clothed, every line and stitch in perfect order. A quick trip to the loo, and Arthur emerges with every hair in place as well. The gun has vanished somewhere under all that perfection, as well as three others and at least five knives.

"Let's go destroy the motherfucker."


Eames holsters his gun and goes to the laptop. The ping still scrolls across the screen, a call for the head of the point man known only as Arthur, for a reward of five hundred thousand American dollars. With a flick of his finger, he closes the screen, and turns to his lover.

"Destroy the motherfucker indeed."


Prompt #5: Eames brings home a pit bull puppy (I sort of switched this one around :D)


Eames watches as Arthur sets the pit bull puppy on the floor, and Arthur speaks up as Eames' eyes start to go wide, to cut off any display of behavior unbefitting a hardened criminal.

"No. It isn't a pet."

"What do you mean, 'not a pet'? Dogs are pets, love, that's what they are."

"Not this one. If we're going to be settled," Arthur says the word with a curl of his lips to indicate just what he thinks of the idea, "then we'll need numerous precautions against detection and intruders." He flicks a hand towards the puppy, which tilts its head and perks up its ears. "This will be one of our precautions."

Eames goes down on his knees to run his big hands over the puppy's head, and the puppy answers in kind by rubbing its head up into Eames' hands.

"Oh yes," Eames says, dripping sarcasm. "He's quite the killer."

Arthur huffs. "We're going to train him. He'll be perfectly loyal and docile for the two of us, and on guard against everyone else unless we say otherwise."

Eames, however, isn't listening. He's laughing. The puppy crawled in his lap and is currently licking Eames' face. It's quite the adorable little scene, and Arthur can feel his resolve crumbling. Which is really annoying, but not entirely unheard of when it comes to Eames.

"It's not a pet," he repeats.

Eames picks the puppy up and cuddles him, and both of them stare at Arthur with big, brown eyes.

"Not a pet."

His voice wavers.


Prompt #6 Arthur being an actual cat and bringing Eames dead birds/body parts in a completely loving and maybe a little homicidal way? (Okay I did NOT go with an ACTUAL cat. XD)


Over the years, Eames has discovered that Arthur has a rather... strange... idea of what is and isn't appropriate when it comes to gifts.

He's also discovered that the man he loves is more than a little homicidal.

Once, Arthur arrived for a date and handed Eames a box. Inside the box was a very lovely Rolex watch still wrapped around the wrist of its previous owner. He made noises of protest, it was too much, really, Arthur shouldn't have. Arthur had kissed him on the mouth, then leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"You deserve it. And I'll always protect you."

Which made Eames' stomach flutter for many reasons.

Then there was the time Arthur hunted down a man who'd been hunting them, and brought him home for a little bit of fun. While Eames didn't exactly have warm fuzzies and lemon drop feelings for someone who wanted to kill him, he also didn't particularly care for having to replace all the carpet because blood doesn't exactly come out easily. A part of him still wonders about himself that the clean-up difficulties bothered him most.

In the end, Eames just has to accept that Arthur is like a cat, leaving dead mice and birds in the bed for Eames' approval. It's simply his way of showing his affection.

So Eames isn't really surprised when he walks into the kitchen to find Arthur at the counter, knives in hand and blood everywhere. he looks up, and gives Eames a small smile and a raised eyebrow.


"Not for whatever you're making right now, love."

With a roll of his eyes, Arthur puts down the knives. "Not this. I'll make some spaghetti when I'm done."

"That's all right, then." Eames gives Arthur a kiss on the cheek.

Really, a little blood and a few body parts now and then are small prices to pay for his Arthur.