azuremew: (thinking about the past)
[personal profile] azuremew
First, a note, with a rare amount of pink in my black and white world:



I am reminded with much nostalgia when [livejournal.com profile] hesselives first prompted me with A in my E/R for Incunabula, and the rest is well, you know, history. Well, it was requested by [livejournal.com profile] ovariesofsteel to spread the word that [livejournal.com profile] writing4acause still needs $1103. Promote if you'd like, donate if you can; I'm still there, somewhere, and willing to write fic for this cause. <3

That said, it's only right that I wrote the NEXT PART TO INCUNABULA. :P

Title: Doubt
Word Count: 1,500
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: psychological disorder, dub-con, strong D/s, breathplay, breaking up
Summary: After Separation Anxiety Arthur proposed to Robert, but both are having anxiety about it.
Author's Note: Unbeta'd because Incunabula just writes when it wants to, and if I don't post it immediately, I tend to overthink it FAR TOO MUCH. Yay suit porn! Why does this fandom not have more A/R suit porn is beyond me . . .

The ring feels itchy. Slender, it restrains my finger's movement just enough to be irritating, distracting from the papers that lie scattered on the large desk. I glance at it from time to time, turn it and rub as if it is raw before I make contact. It is now. The red blooms, and I look up at the walls, the painting Arthur gave me as a gift, to welcome me to this new office high above the city. It is a new time, and I am just getting used to it. That is my worry, yet I wonder if it is something else, an allergy. But Arthur, he would not lie, not about this. Would he?

For a moment, I consider calling Eames. I figure they browsed together, so if I could get the shop's address from him, they might confirm . . .

The door opens, and I had my suspicions. “Arthur,” I smile. “You're early.”

“I missed you,” he tells me, and I try to argue. These papers, they need to be filled out, mailed by the tomorrow morning to be in the hands of Port and Dunn before the weekend. Monday, there are meetings, but even as he knows this, his lips press against mine.

Irresistible, I let the chair roll back as he takes control.

His fingers rake through my hair, gathering clumps to yank my head back. I groan, and he takes the opportunity to explore my mouth with his tongue. It tastes like mouth wash, but beneath it, I sense cigarette smoke. A deep breath catches the musk, but his gathering of some much needed friction pulls me back to his dark eyes. “Tell me,” he whispers into my neck. Blunt teeth break skin, flush it red high above the collar, and I buck at him to stop.

He knows how I must be, professional, presentable, if I am to succeed, yet his weight presses hard his cock into mine, and he repeats, “Tell me, Robert.”

“I want you,” I murmur through clenched teeth, my body stiff, each take of air is harsh, ragged. It is not a lie, yet it is; I want to refuse, but I cannot.

“Beg for it,” Arthur demands, certain of this, reading me, and thrusts inward again so that we writhe in our ecstasy. His fingers dig into my tie, and suddenly I cannot breathe. It hurts, but he continues to choke me. “Don't disappoint me.”

He stares at me, and I swallow, the saliva more like a lump in my throat. “Please, Ar-” a crack interrupts me, his hand against my jaw. “Please, Sir,” I correct myself but still tremble, pause in fear. My eyes close, I feel nothing but the heat along that connection.

It hides his hand that drifts around my belt, undressing me as I find the nerve to continue, “Please, I want to feel you, Sir. I want every inch of you, I want you to fu-” his lips, tongue, stop me, and the bit of courage I have gathered is enough to grab his ass and pull at his slacks while he undoes me.

“Mmm, no underwear,” Arthur muses, palming my cock tight and dry. “Just the way I prefer you. You want this, don't you, slut? Quit resisting. You want this every moment of your fucking life.”

“Yes,” I moan, the sensation agonizing yet beyond that as the room is turning white behind closed lids. “I do, from you. Please . . .”

“Good,” he tells me and lets go, letting me gasp, but I cannot curl forward, clench from the sudden intake of air. He holds me at the shoulders, smooths down the arms, and grabs the wrist. “Stay here, because I'm not getting up.” A rope hidden in his back pockets, that I felt upon grabbing him, proves this fact in relentless knots he pulls around.

His hand goes for my tie as his feet plant firm, one hand around me, yet I flinch. “Please, no more. Take me over the desk, against the window, the floor, do any -” Silence again as I choke on phlegm, realize there were tears, as a moan manages to force itself through the cinched knot tightly bound around my neck.

Arthur pushes all of me into him, surrounding me in heat with little to no difficulty as he is prepared. I imagine in the white of the forced bliss Eames had him before, that he held himself full of come until this moment. This is why he is so wild and intense. Because of Eames.

“Fuck, yes, Mmmmm . . .” he moans into my mouth, uncaring that I have barely uttered a sound in return. Maybe it is the lack of air, but I am lost, a spoiled wreck totally fucked up by my fiance and our whore.

Just perfect, I conclude bitterly, moments before I feel a dampness along my belly, soiling my shirt. It is warm, from Arthur, and sticky.

I am silent as he gets up, wait for him to clean himself off with tissues and straighten each inch of his clothes before the rustles become my release. My first reaction is to collect the slick and taste it, finish myself to Arthur while he watches, but he squeezes it tight enough that I wince.

“No,” he says. “You'll have your turn tonight. Keep it until then.”

For now, he kisses me goodbye as if I can continue my work, as if nothing happened.






The phone call comes thirty minutes after I should have left the office, five minutes after I should have arrived at our home, and one after I suspect Arthur pulled away from an argument with Eames. I look at the cell and contemplate letting it go to voice mail, but I know Arthur will call again and again until it is filled, or worse, he might go out and find me.

He would find me, so I say, “Hello.”

“Robert, where are you?”

“At the office still,” I tell him, my voice flat. It hides well in arrogance the truth. “Our little moment has these papers delayed, and I need to have it finished to drop it off at the post office.”

“Have Eames take it!” He tells me, and I hear something muttered, likely that Eames is not our delivery body outside of foreplay. “Or I will. Just come home, love. You can finish it here.”

“I . . .” I look down at my wrist, easily bruised, it is already turning shades of purple and blue from his fingers. Turning it, other scars remind me of these moments, but they are from a different man. “Not tonight. I'm not interested.” I hang up and turn off the phone, then pull out the drawer to a small, white business card, and from the business line, the call is made.

It takes two rings, “Callaghan's office.”

“Um, hello. I was looking to speak with Mr. Callaghan if I could. This is Robert Fischer, son of Maurice. He was . . . uh, business partners with my uncle, Peter Browning.”

The receptionist recognizes the names and asks me to wait. It does not take long before the voice travels across the line, soothing as my uncle's, I feel as if I already know him.

I remember that I do, “Uh, Mr. Callaghan. Sorry. I realize that the end of Fischer Morrow had changes to your business as well as any interest in me, but I wondered if you might like to take up a different proposal?”

“Business did change, yes,” he agrees. “But you never did. Browning told me many things about you, boy, some of which that I cannot quite forget.” He hears that I do not respond, caught by his words, he adds, “Speak.”

“Would you still be willing to take me under your guidance?” I ask. It aches, this idea, but I wrap my hand light around my neck. “It would be difficult, unfortunately. I have been handled since.”

“Lost.”

I frown, “Yes.”

He does not answer, and I worry that he will not allow this, that I am too tainted, soiled by my mistakes, but he tells me what I need to hear, “I understand. I will have my assistant give you an address. Meet me there in twelve hours, and I will help you.”

The phone clicks, and I put it down, pull the ring off, let it slide so easily onto the desk. On a piece of paper, I write a letter. To Arthur, to Eames, I apologize. I tell them that while we have work so well together, there is one thing in our relationship that Arthur seems to have forgotten, and without it, I cannot be close without being afraid. I cannot live without his respect, trust that he knows my body and mind. It is why we play without safe words, and that might have been our worst mistake, but I thought . . . I always thought . . . he was different, and I . . . I do not want to disappoint.
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