Originally written/posted: May 2011
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,300 words
Warnings: Crack!Fic Gender fuckery, temporary gender swap, internalized and external misogyny, unreliable narrator, weaponized incompetence
Notes: This is probably deeply offensive. Like all of my other inception works, I wrote this when I was a teenager. It is not funny or cute for any man to not know anything about how menstrual cycles work, but it is, unfortunately, deeply funny to a 15-year-old. Anyway, somehow, if you read this, I hope you enjoy this for what it is!
Eames had been shot in the vagina.
He absolutely must have been because there was no other possibly explanation for why he was bleeding from his lady parts – which weren’t even his and it made this whole situation just that much more unbearable.
Eames had been shot in the vagina while running through the inner streets and back-alleys of New York City (which was of course, not reality because why else would he actually have a vagina? He was very, very fond of his cock, thank you very much).
He could feel the blood sliding down his legs, and there was a pain in his stomach and back that were incredible and he wanted pain medication, and now. He thought an erection in jeans was horrible but it just didn’t compare to the pressure that was steadily morphing into pain building at his spine, slowly spreading throughout his back. They were under using the PASIV, running a job for the boss of Kyker & Co Groceries because he suspected that foul play was going on behind the scenes.
Landon Kyker, who was the founder and owner of the string of stores that were scattered around the Manhattan and Brooklyn area — with one store in Boston — wasn’t able to make it into the stores very often because he led a busy life. He hired a team — which was Eames as their forger, Arthur as their point-man, Ariadne as their architect, and someone that Eames had never worked with before as their extractor; his name was Colin, or something — to go down into the managers subconscious to see if there was any illicit activity going on.
He wasn’t so sure about the illicit activity but Arthur had failed to mention to them that this man was heavily militarized (or rather, he forgot to mention it to Eames; everyone else knew but him, which was how things like this had always gone before. Eames was always the last to know), and now they were dealing with gunfire and angry projections, screaming and just general things that annoyed the piss out of him.
This was the Fischer job all over again, only twenty times worse because Eames was bleeding from his mother fucking vagina which wasn’t even properly his to claim.
(This was obviously a very redundant, tedious thinking process).
The job was supposed to be a quick fix, but as these type of things often went, there wasn’t such thing as a ‘quick’ job. Somewhere on the first level Arthur had been shot in the shoulder, with Ariadne trotting behind him, almost getting hit while trying to help Arthur — who had definitely been shot many times before this, but a gunshot is still a gunshot and it hurts like a bitch. Their extractor was already down on the second level with Arthur, and Ariadne and Eames were stuck down on the first.
Eames was bleeding heavily and he was pretty sure that a bullet had ricocheted off the ground and had hit him between the legs. Even though he wasn’t in pain there specifically (boy would Arthur enjoy his thought processes now, with his obsession with specificity and mind heists and protecting Cobb and lovely architects who were half his age — because really, Eames was a much better choice than any girl anyways), there was shock and all of that, so it was highly possible that he was in such disbelief that this could actually happen, so he didn’t feel the pain yet.
He wasn’t able to find Ariadne because he was never able to find Ariadne, as stealthy and little as that girl was it was a miracle that anyone knew where her whereabouts were at any given time. He was stuck alone, bleeding and miserable, in pain and lonesome and he wanted some fucking relief as much as he wanted company.
So he did the smartest thing that one would do in this situation: he started running.
As he ran, he didn’t feel like he normally did when he ran when he was forging a woman, he felt disgusting, gross and he felt like this was completely unnecessary; running while he was practically losing enough blood to donate to twenty blood buses. But because Eames wasn’t thinking when they were briefing for the job at the warehouse before they ventured out into the streets, he forgot his earpiece back at the base.
When he finally had found Ariadne, she wasn’t hurt as far as he could tell, but her eyes grew horrified as she realized that thick, red goo was streaming down Eames’ legs. That had quickly melted into amusement and she was suddenly howling with laughter, apparently recognizing exactly what the hell was completely destroying Eames’ life at this point.
“Did a bullet hit you in your cock, Eames?” She asked.
He furrowed his brows. “I’m a woman right now, Ariadne.”
She laughed even more so at this point. “So a bullet tore it’s way through your vaginal wall?”
He glared. “I believe so, but I don’t feel any pain.”
She looked nothing but amused, not even surprised, so it was obvious that she had known all along what he was suffering from. And he totally didn’t appreciate her little mind games right now, because she was a woman and weren’t woman supposed to stick together and all of that?
“Aw, Eamesie, you have your first period,” she said, and she reached up to pinch his cheeks with her fingers.
He slapped her hands away in annoyance, because of course this would happen to him, because shit like this always happened to him. He had the worst luck of worst lucks that there was. “No,” he snapped. “It’s definitely not my period.”
“You’ve never had one, Eames, and now that I think about it, you were kind of moody when you first forged her this morning.”
He tenderly touched his forehead (a lady most definitely never inflicted too much damage upon herself, okay); this really could not be happening to him, it just couldn’t, because he was Eames — no he was Nichole Reynolds, and Nichole Reynolds was t – oh shit, it was definitely happening. Fuck. “How is this even possible? Wouldn’t this only happen if I wanted her to get her period?”
She shrugged. “I’m guessing you have some sick fantasies then, Eames. I never would’ve pegged you for the type of guy to be fascinated by bloody monster vagina’s, though.”
“I don’t even like vagina,” he said.
She looked at him pointedly, and then she waved her hand in a motion that suggested she was trying to tell him something. Sadly, he was too stressed to even begin to decipher what she meant. “You like bloody, though.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it doe-”
“-how?”
“You’re British-”
“No.”
She pursed her lips. “See, you can’t even have a logical conversation about something without blowing up Eames, you got your period.”
He narrowed his eyes, but he chose not to further comment about it because his panties were all wet and moist and it wasn’t in the pleasant way like it was after he came in his pants. “How do I fix this?”
“Go swim,” she said.
“Ariad – wait, what?”
She laughed, looking incredibly amused and it was then that he realized that she wasn’t going to help him. Well, fine. Jesus. “Just..never-mind, I’ll find the fucking tampads by myself.”
“Be sure to check out the Tamp’s while you’re in there as well,” she called after him, howling in mirth.
He could’ve easily dreamed up a tampad or a ‘tamps’ or whatever it is that you used to fight off periods, but that would draw attention to himself and he didn’t want that, so he dejectedly headed into the convenient store that Ariadne built for superficial purposes. He looked at the projections in there, and they all seemed pretty tame so he stepped inside and headed towards the ‘women’s section’.
When he got there he was overwhelmed with the choices that he had. Always, Kotex, and some weird brands that he wasn’t even able to think of how to pronounce. He didn’t know what was the best to use and he felt really fucking stupid standing in the middle of a store with blood running down his legs so he picked up the closest box, and ran towards the counter.
“That’ll be four fifty, ma’am,” the woman — ‘Susan’ replied.
Eames sighed, but forked over the money, scrambling for the box and he ran towards the door, throwing a ‘keep the change’ over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom.
The hard part was here now, and Eames knew that it didn’t take a genius to figure out how to use a..whatever they were called (he was too dazed and too pissed to begin to think of what was scrambled on the box), but they looked slightly robotic on the box and he didn’t want them to declare war on ‘his’ vagina. He tore open the box, and picked up the first pad that had fallen out. It felt cheap and plastic, cardboard in his hands, but he was so desperate for clean underwear again that he had snatched some off the shelf and stuffed it into his pocket when no one was looking. He basically chucked his shorts across the room, and opened the pad package.
First mistake: never sitting down on the toilet before doing tearing off said shorts.
As soon as he had flung them off, apparently his (makeshift) uterus decided that it would be extremely fun to start bleeding like a shark had bitten off his dick and replaced it with a vagina instead. It was disgusting and it was on the floor and there was no way in hell that he was cleaning it up. He skipped over it, heading for the toilet and sat down on the seat, the rims were slimy and rotten. He would’ve been scared of getting STD’s if it wasn’t for the fact that he highly doubted that it was possible and because this was a dream.
He grabbed the new underwear from his mouth and stepped into them, holding the Maxi Pad between his teeth (he didn’t even know what brand it was, but it felt like it was generic and holy fuck it better not reek havoc on his vagina or he is going to be pissed). He smelt lilac too, and it was over powering in the small, closed in room.
Once the underwear was successfully on, he took the pad and stared at it in bewilderment for a few seconds. He had never shopped for a woman when it came to this because he was never romantically involved with women, and luckily his mother had never asked for him to pick up some for her.
How…why…what was this?
He wasn’t sure, but he got the general idea of using the wings to cling to the underwear, grasping for life like Arthur grasped onto Eames’ arms when he was blee — ugh, too much bloody thoughts about being bloody. He turned the device so the wider part was facing away from him, the more slender part reaching towards his ass.
Pad’s, Eames discovered, looked a lot like dicks, in a way. They were long and slender, wider on one end and they reached a slightly rounded head on the other. They were frisky and hard to deal with at times, and they normally were added protection against leakage (blood in one case, unwanted sperm in the other).
Once the hard-as-rock pad was successfully positioned on the underwear, probably as best as he’d ever get it to be, he stood up, wiped and pulled them up.
“Shit!” He cried out.
It felt like nails were driving up into the monster between his legs (no pun intended), and wouldn’t let up on the pressure. “Fuck, this is what you get when you pick the cheapest pads there,” he told himself.
He quickly dreamed up a pair of shorts that he was wearing — at this point he was too exhausted, too flustered to even care about horrible projections ripping off his face to care –, exactly like the ones that had the bloodstains on them and moved to go wash his hands.
When he finally, finally woke up from the dream, the mark was long gone, probably thrown back into his office like they had planned earlier, and Ariadne and Arthur were staring down at him in bated amusement.
Eames glared. “What?”
“How was your little adventure?”
“Bloody,” he said, and smirked when Ariadne coiled away in disgust. So much for holding shit back, Eames.
“I-”
“Don’t even, I’m sure-”
“She did,” he clarified.
Eames reached down and grasped his cock, because it had honestly just occurred to him that he even had a cock again, and he sighed in enjoyment.
“Fuck, cock, baby, I missed you so much. Daddy’s never going away again.”
When he looked up to meet Arthur’s gaze, he was looking at him with disgust. “You honestly don’t refer to your cock as your son, do you?”
He smirked. “Not particularly, no,” he said. “But I would get added enjoyment if you were the one to call me daddy.”
Arthur narrows his eyes, and looks scarily like Cobb. It’s jarring, scary, and intriguing all at once. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re gorgeous, are we done pointing out the obvious, now?”
Arthur sighed. “Come on, let’s go before security runs this place down,” he said.
“I’d like it if you’d run me down.”
Arthur punched him in the shoulder. “Fuck!” Eames yelled, because shit that had hurt.
“Are you done with the horrible pick-up lines?” He asked.
Eames threw a wicked smirk in Arthur’s direction. “Is your coc-”
Arthur kicked him in the balls. Hard.
“You…fuck-”
“Coherency, Mr. Eames, it’s a well respected virtue.”
“Asshole,” Eames managed through his gasps for air, clutching his newly found-again balls tightly in his hand.
Arthur’s laughter could be heard all the way to the car.
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