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azuremewTitle: Games of the Heart and Mind, Part 1
Word Count: 3021
Pairing: Browning/Fischer, Arthur/Eames, Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: homophobia, violence, dub-con (fisting)
Summary: After Property Damage The idea that Peter was using Robert has reached its conclusion, and the thought of losing someone else because he is being manipulated is too unbearable.
Author's Note: So, this is the beginning of two prompts on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
inception_kink: "I wanted to destroy something beautiful" prompt and the “War between two Fischers: Maurice and Robert cause a scene at trendy Sydney restaurant.” newspaper prompt.
It would not take long for Arthur to respond. I knew that from the moment you told him those three, little words. By the dead tone, he was packing. Folded shirts in plastic, I imagine. Pressed pants. All sorts of things that make up a meticulous man, an obsessed man that would not rest until he knew why he screwed up.
Or quite the opposite, I consider while we walk back into the shop, say our farewells to Yusuf, and start towards our next destination. I can see him filled with anger. Their little facade is broken, shattered to a thousand pieces you felt upon your feet like glass. You are bleeding still, and I guide you, comforting you with soft notions that everything will be just fine.
The door closes before you speak to me again: “Robert, everything is fine, yeah?”
I touch the side of your face, stroking the stubble with my fingers. It glides passed your silk lips, and I murmur, “Everything is perfect.” I lean in, and we kiss. There is a subtle quivering, as I was when Uncle Peter first kissed me. The corners part along my mouth to smile at it, but it comes off as reassurance. “I forgive you for lying to me.”
“Lying? I was not . . .”
Laughing, the sound cuts off your words. “Of course not. Then what I saw was not what I saw, and the end of that call was not because he was pissed off at me for fucking your brains out?” I pull my suitcase from beneath the bed, still mostly packed as I never had plans to stay here long.
You shove me, and I laugh again. The hysterics of it all is bubbling from my belly, pouring through because I have held it together for too long. Free. This was what you wanted, was it not?
“Brute,” I mutter. “But you are quite handsome, and your voice is delicious,” I lick my lips. “Especially when you moan. No wonders he likes you.” I shake my head. “I just wonder why you like him.”
“Piss off,” you almost yell at me, barely remembering that there might still be people downstairs. It is late but not quite closing. Turning away, you start to collect your things. “I didn't have to come, you know. I could have left you in that bloody hotel for the paramedics. Would you have preferred that, Robert? To spend your life as a patient.”
I shake my head, “Not really. I think I've been mind-fucked by so-called professionals one too many times.” The gap between us is bridged by my quiet stride, padding against the hardwood to surprise him with my hand around his wrist. I feel the sudden tension, desire to push me away, and tighten my grip. The muscles along my arm are stronger than you knew, much like the rest of me up until that moment outside. “And if you think that I am through, you're wrong.”
We argue for a few more minutes about how sick I am, how screwed up he is, and Arthur. I imagine the opposite as we speak, of a disheveled man rushing to your side, completely fallen apart because of being shaken to his core from such terror. True fault in his eyes. If only because then it would fit you when he arrives.
Before
They swarm in huddled masses, buzzing about like ravaged, starved beasts that just tasted blood for the first time in months. Flashes go off outside of Fischer Morrow. Voices everywhere. Uncle Peter stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder as he guides me to the car.
“It's been over a week,” I mumble. “When will they stop?”
“When they find someone more interesting,” he says.
I scoff, clearing my throat to not laugh at such an absurdity, “It must be a boring time in the states if all they can write about is my sexual orientation.” I close my eyes, settling my head back into the leather to level myself off. A few seconds pass without a response, so I ask him, “Did you ever find out who was responsible?”
Uncle Peter shakes his head, “Probably someone from one of the parties, son. It is with luck that not every detail was told.”
“Yes. Let that spill from my mouth,” I retort, and his hand touches my knee. “Tell me, Uncle Peter,” I say softly, still staring at the dark ceiling. “What did you do when the press found out?”
He laughs, “Robert, they have not. I prefer being thought of as the wealthy bachelor, which reminds me. Now that you're out in public, we should work on your image, find some handsome man to call yours on the side.”
That turns my head back, attention focused from the cover page, the photograph. I was always so careful, yet this happens. It was so distressful that rather than the spanking or whips, Uncle Peter was silent. Disappointed.
Still, I hoped we could reconcile our differences because of our vivid past. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought I was . . .”
He squeezes my knee, “It would be best that we keep what happened between us to ourselves. We can continue as business professionals, but any other actions are too dangerous to continue now that people know that you are sexually attracted to men.”
I close my eyes, wanting to reach up and wrap my arms around me, touch the brand for some grounding. My throat is clenching, unbound by the collar. I feel weak, lost. “What would you have me do?”
“Mr. Callaghan is joining the company effective Monday in Accounting. If you remember him, he has had quite the interest in you since Mr. Talbot's dinner.” Uncle Peter lifted his hand, placing it upon his own lap as the car turned into the Aria parking lot. “I think that you'll like him, Robert. He's strict but attentive.”
“The name has a passing familiarity,” I manage to tell him, although my mind is racing with exactly the person he speaks about. We met again after his interview with Maurice. It was the man that fingered me.
“Good,” Uncle Peter says, smiling. “Then it is settled. After lunch, you will meet with him to discuss it properly. I will make sure that all of your meetings are cleared for the afternoon.”
Now
By the time the point man arrives, nearly twenty-four hours have passed. We have danced around the globe, settling in some small city far from anyone with curiosity. I hear the car pull up as my hand is swept in your crushing heat. You are trembling as constant as your breathing, writhing exquisitely in a layer of sweat that tastes wonderful upon your cock.
The first door opens, metal rubbing against concrete loud enough that I smile. It widens further, ear to ear, at the cry of your name because you do not hear him. There is only me.
“Eames,” Arthur repeats for yet another time, stubborn to the point of almost annoying, but I keep my composure for your safety and surprise. Both come to a fold as he finds his way into our little, shared space. He stops, unable to take another step because of the sight of our ecstasy.
My hand sweeps in again, gliding with a grace only possible for someone that has done this before with someone so ready. For hours, we were fucking before. The screams filled the room and carried in harmony until you were too weak to stand up any further. That was when I brought you to this seat, let you sit back, and pulled your ass to the edge. My hands were gentle at each step, moving one foot to each harness, locking it there. I did the very same to your wrists, tying them above your head.
Hours until I heard the phone ring from someone watching for Arthur's arrival at the airport. It put everything in perfect timing, so that by the time of his arrival, I was deep enough that your body consumed all of my hand.
You are silent, unmoved except for the delicate shivers, completely gone to the pressure along your prostate. I dip down to lick your cock from base to tip, tasting spilled semen with sweat. Moaning, I take you into my mouth and suck greedily. The metal ring keeps you from coming, to endure this longer. Further still, it touches the back of my throat. I hum with delight before pulling away, dragging my tongue against the swollen shaft that probably aches by now. “You want to come for me, Eames?”
Nodding, I turn my head slightly to see Arthur is still standing there, in shock and knowing the consequence of his actions. The paleness of his complexion turns a different shade of white. It heightens the bloom of his blush as I murmur, “Good,” kissing your belly. “Good. Let yourself go. Like you want to.” My chin pulls you erect as I add, “I am right here for you.” I kiss the tip, swirling my tongue. “I love you.”
Should he move, I could too, and you would have to find the quickest route to the hospital. His hand is in his pocket, too; I notice this before resuming my full attention to you.
Each pass is swift, my cheeks puckering inward to add tension around you as my hand pulls in and out of your hole, sending rivets of cum and lubrication with this slick sound that makes me hard. You try to push me further, but the harness keeps you there, strapped in and completely mine until you are screaming obscenities with my name and pouring into my mouth.
I continue until you are almost still again, the only hints of life being your heavy breathing. My hand pulls out, the sight so fucking gorgeous that I almost want to call Arthur over.
Before
The Aria is a regular spot for board meetings, so much so that management has a back room reserved for Maurice and those that follow him. The hostess gives me the very same smile she does every, other dime, even after reading the papers. She leads me there quietly, opening the door to the aged leader of Fischer Morrow. “Father,” I say, lowering my head.
“Robert,” he replies. A nod instructs me to sit across from him at the opposite end of the table where my uncle normally would. “Peter tells me that you are taking this quite well. It is good, although pointless as it will do nothing to deter the papers from publishing more garbage.
“Not unless you correct their mistakes publicly.” His pause is enough to let it settle in my brain, where he is going, the plans already moving, gears rolling. “I have called a press conference for you tomorrow morning. You will address the truth then.”
This was what my uncle warned me, prepared me for while talking about an alternative. Still, my eye brows raise, and I take a drink of water. “The truth?”
“That while you experimented in school, it was merely pressure, conceived of other's poison,” he explains. “And if one should ask, you are seeing Lisa Avery, the daughter of Kenneth Avery. In fact, you're relationship is budding nicely, having spent the night together.” From his pocket, he pulls out a white envelope that looks to be from a hotel; it's contents a key. “To prove such, I have a suite in your name.”
I get up to retrieve it, silent and calm as opening it confirms what I expected. What I had not was the folded papers, documents of my inheritance that changed dramatically alongside a proposal.
Marriage.
“I'm getting old, Robert. Very tired. And while Avery is not a well-known company, Kenneth and I have agree on many levels, including the future of Fischer Morrow. By the end of the month, Lisa and you will be wed, your spot amongst the Board of Directors yours alongside myself, Kenneth and Peter. And by the end of the year, I will be retiring.”
The business talk barely hits my ears as I stare at the pages, barely able to think. I try to think of Lisa and press my lips, my back turned temporarily to not show my disgust. She is a quiet woman, dainty and thin like a waif that would be guided by her parents. No backbone, nothing interesting, a drone as they want me to be.
Sitting, I am still quiet until he asks for my opinion as if it matters. A sip of water is needed to cool the heat rising in my throat, but my words are still quite venomous, “I think not.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
His hand coils around his glass, threatening to break it if it were not so fragile, “Robert, you do not have a choice. And if this has anything to do with your utter nonsense, then you do not need to be such a fool. There are other ways to enjoy yourself. Lisa fancies another man from what I hear, so I'm sure you can find an agreement until this phase passes.”
My hand hits the table then, rattling glasses, silverware, and empty plates. The shakers almost tip over as I rise. “This is not a phase. It won't pass, and certainly not because of a binding contract with an anorexic neanderthal that would not know the future if it was burning her hair off.”
“Robert,” he says coolly. “Sit down this instant and listen. I realize that our relationship has never been what you wanted, what since your mother died, but this depression, these urges, they need to cease sooner than later if you are to become my heir.” The door opens to the beginning meal of salads that were previously picked out by him, yet he continues to add, “Or we can deal with it another way.”
“There is no other way, Maurice,” I mutter and nod at the waiter. My fork does not lift while he takes a bite. I do not wait for privacy since it's already been breached. “This isn't something that will change with a pill or however much money you throw at it.”
He chews and swallows before looking at me in the eye, “We will release that you needed a break from the company, that the pressure was too great and left you no choice but to follow this path.” A smile appears upon his lips before adding, “You always enjoy studying about innovation, new ideas and ways to make the world better, Robert, so I think that you can appreciate what I found in case you disagreed.”
I know what he's about to say, but I ask him anyway, hoping for something else, anything else, but the same disdain he showed me the day he tried to change me with that paddle, “Oh?”
“Over in the states, the are ways of fixing your condition.”
“You are talking about conversion therapy, are you not?” I ask, ready to rise that very moment. “Shocks to the hands, genitals. Drugs that induce vomiting. Torture.” He nods, and I do get up. “Fuck you. If you would talk to Uncle Peter, you would know this is wrong.”
He stops me at the door with his response, “Your godfather brought this to me because he is getting tired of your games. While it is doing some good to the company, too many mistakes were almost made on your part. It almost destroyed everything, so we went ahead with this plan a chance for your redemption in both our eyes.”
My eyes stung, but he would never know. My back was too him and would never return. Never. He had to be lying. Uncle Peter loved me. He loved me. “I don't believe it. Any of it.”
I do not wait for him to respond, the words projected into my ears as I storm out. He tells me to ask my uncle about it, to find out the truth if I must. He expects me to be at the press conference. And if not, he will find me.
A camera flashes from across the street as I wave for a cab, knowing that the photographer on the other end has caught the glare in my eye. I do not care. Never before, have I not cared about the world as much as I do that moment.
Now
By the time you are free from my grasp, I know Arthur is behind me, uncaring of the slick that coats us, the smell of sex in the air, or anything but hurting me. He knows how I will act, how I will react, and everything in-between. Except for one thing, the secrets I hide so deep that even extractors cannot find.
He grabs my arm with his hand and I pull forward as if to try and get away, but I reverse my direction, slamming my elbow into his stomach with air forced out of his lungs. Stumbling back, it gives me enough time to remove the latex gloves and cover my skin with something different. Each hit surprises him, bringing him further back and away from you. Blood pours from cuts and his nose.
It is when he collides with the wall that you realize what is going on. “Arthur?” you mutter louder than the few other times before. “Robert? Fuck! Robert, stop it!” I hear the rattle of your restraints mix with the glorious sound of this brawl. You cannot do anything, though, helpless, as I destroy something beautiful so that we can move on.
Word Count: 3021
Pairing: Browning/Fischer, Arthur/Eames, Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: homophobia, violence, dub-con (fisting)
Summary: After Property Damage The idea that Peter was using Robert has reached its conclusion, and the thought of losing someone else because he is being manipulated is too unbearable.
Author's Note: So, this is the beginning of two prompts on
inception_kink: "I wanted to destroy something beautiful" prompt and the “War between two Fischers: Maurice and Robert cause a scene at trendy Sydney restaurant.” newspaper prompt.It would not take long for Arthur to respond. I knew that from the moment you told him those three, little words. By the dead tone, he was packing. Folded shirts in plastic, I imagine. Pressed pants. All sorts of things that make up a meticulous man, an obsessed man that would not rest until he knew why he screwed up.
Or quite the opposite, I consider while we walk back into the shop, say our farewells to Yusuf, and start towards our next destination. I can see him filled with anger. Their little facade is broken, shattered to a thousand pieces you felt upon your feet like glass. You are bleeding still, and I guide you, comforting you with soft notions that everything will be just fine.
The door closes before you speak to me again: “Robert, everything is fine, yeah?”
I touch the side of your face, stroking the stubble with my fingers. It glides passed your silk lips, and I murmur, “Everything is perfect.” I lean in, and we kiss. There is a subtle quivering, as I was when Uncle Peter first kissed me. The corners part along my mouth to smile at it, but it comes off as reassurance. “I forgive you for lying to me.”
“Lying? I was not . . .”
Laughing, the sound cuts off your words. “Of course not. Then what I saw was not what I saw, and the end of that call was not because he was pissed off at me for fucking your brains out?” I pull my suitcase from beneath the bed, still mostly packed as I never had plans to stay here long.
You shove me, and I laugh again. The hysterics of it all is bubbling from my belly, pouring through because I have held it together for too long. Free. This was what you wanted, was it not?
“Brute,” I mutter. “But you are quite handsome, and your voice is delicious,” I lick my lips. “Especially when you moan. No wonders he likes you.” I shake my head. “I just wonder why you like him.”
“Piss off,” you almost yell at me, barely remembering that there might still be people downstairs. It is late but not quite closing. Turning away, you start to collect your things. “I didn't have to come, you know. I could have left you in that bloody hotel for the paramedics. Would you have preferred that, Robert? To spend your life as a patient.”
I shake my head, “Not really. I think I've been mind-fucked by so-called professionals one too many times.” The gap between us is bridged by my quiet stride, padding against the hardwood to surprise him with my hand around his wrist. I feel the sudden tension, desire to push me away, and tighten my grip. The muscles along my arm are stronger than you knew, much like the rest of me up until that moment outside. “And if you think that I am through, you're wrong.”
We argue for a few more minutes about how sick I am, how screwed up he is, and Arthur. I imagine the opposite as we speak, of a disheveled man rushing to your side, completely fallen apart because of being shaken to his core from such terror. True fault in his eyes. If only because then it would fit you when he arrives.
They swarm in huddled masses, buzzing about like ravaged, starved beasts that just tasted blood for the first time in months. Flashes go off outside of Fischer Morrow. Voices everywhere. Uncle Peter stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder as he guides me to the car.
“It's been over a week,” I mumble. “When will they stop?”
“When they find someone more interesting,” he says.
I scoff, clearing my throat to not laugh at such an absurdity, “It must be a boring time in the states if all they can write about is my sexual orientation.” I close my eyes, settling my head back into the leather to level myself off. A few seconds pass without a response, so I ask him, “Did you ever find out who was responsible?”
Uncle Peter shakes his head, “Probably someone from one of the parties, son. It is with luck that not every detail was told.”
“Yes. Let that spill from my mouth,” I retort, and his hand touches my knee. “Tell me, Uncle Peter,” I say softly, still staring at the dark ceiling. “What did you do when the press found out?”
He laughs, “Robert, they have not. I prefer being thought of as the wealthy bachelor, which reminds me. Now that you're out in public, we should work on your image, find some handsome man to call yours on the side.”
That turns my head back, attention focused from the cover page, the photograph. I was always so careful, yet this happens. It was so distressful that rather than the spanking or whips, Uncle Peter was silent. Disappointed.
Still, I hoped we could reconcile our differences because of our vivid past. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought I was . . .”
He squeezes my knee, “It would be best that we keep what happened between us to ourselves. We can continue as business professionals, but any other actions are too dangerous to continue now that people know that you are sexually attracted to men.”
I close my eyes, wanting to reach up and wrap my arms around me, touch the brand for some grounding. My throat is clenching, unbound by the collar. I feel weak, lost. “What would you have me do?”
“Mr. Callaghan is joining the company effective Monday in Accounting. If you remember him, he has had quite the interest in you since Mr. Talbot's dinner.” Uncle Peter lifted his hand, placing it upon his own lap as the car turned into the Aria parking lot. “I think that you'll like him, Robert. He's strict but attentive.”
“The name has a passing familiarity,” I manage to tell him, although my mind is racing with exactly the person he speaks about. We met again after his interview with Maurice. It was the man that fingered me.
“Good,” Uncle Peter says, smiling. “Then it is settled. After lunch, you will meet with him to discuss it properly. I will make sure that all of your meetings are cleared for the afternoon.”
By the time the point man arrives, nearly twenty-four hours have passed. We have danced around the globe, settling in some small city far from anyone with curiosity. I hear the car pull up as my hand is swept in your crushing heat. You are trembling as constant as your breathing, writhing exquisitely in a layer of sweat that tastes wonderful upon your cock.
The first door opens, metal rubbing against concrete loud enough that I smile. It widens further, ear to ear, at the cry of your name because you do not hear him. There is only me.
“Eames,” Arthur repeats for yet another time, stubborn to the point of almost annoying, but I keep my composure for your safety and surprise. Both come to a fold as he finds his way into our little, shared space. He stops, unable to take another step because of the sight of our ecstasy.
My hand sweeps in again, gliding with a grace only possible for someone that has done this before with someone so ready. For hours, we were fucking before. The screams filled the room and carried in harmony until you were too weak to stand up any further. That was when I brought you to this seat, let you sit back, and pulled your ass to the edge. My hands were gentle at each step, moving one foot to each harness, locking it there. I did the very same to your wrists, tying them above your head.
Hours until I heard the phone ring from someone watching for Arthur's arrival at the airport. It put everything in perfect timing, so that by the time of his arrival, I was deep enough that your body consumed all of my hand.
You are silent, unmoved except for the delicate shivers, completely gone to the pressure along your prostate. I dip down to lick your cock from base to tip, tasting spilled semen with sweat. Moaning, I take you into my mouth and suck greedily. The metal ring keeps you from coming, to endure this longer. Further still, it touches the back of my throat. I hum with delight before pulling away, dragging my tongue against the swollen shaft that probably aches by now. “You want to come for me, Eames?”
Nodding, I turn my head slightly to see Arthur is still standing there, in shock and knowing the consequence of his actions. The paleness of his complexion turns a different shade of white. It heightens the bloom of his blush as I murmur, “Good,” kissing your belly. “Good. Let yourself go. Like you want to.” My chin pulls you erect as I add, “I am right here for you.” I kiss the tip, swirling my tongue. “I love you.”
Should he move, I could too, and you would have to find the quickest route to the hospital. His hand is in his pocket, too; I notice this before resuming my full attention to you.
Each pass is swift, my cheeks puckering inward to add tension around you as my hand pulls in and out of your hole, sending rivets of cum and lubrication with this slick sound that makes me hard. You try to push me further, but the harness keeps you there, strapped in and completely mine until you are screaming obscenities with my name and pouring into my mouth.
I continue until you are almost still again, the only hints of life being your heavy breathing. My hand pulls out, the sight so fucking gorgeous that I almost want to call Arthur over.
The Aria is a regular spot for board meetings, so much so that management has a back room reserved for Maurice and those that follow him. The hostess gives me the very same smile she does every, other dime, even after reading the papers. She leads me there quietly, opening the door to the aged leader of Fischer Morrow. “Father,” I say, lowering my head.
“Robert,” he replies. A nod instructs me to sit across from him at the opposite end of the table where my uncle normally would. “Peter tells me that you are taking this quite well. It is good, although pointless as it will do nothing to deter the papers from publishing more garbage.
“Not unless you correct their mistakes publicly.” His pause is enough to let it settle in my brain, where he is going, the plans already moving, gears rolling. “I have called a press conference for you tomorrow morning. You will address the truth then.”
This was what my uncle warned me, prepared me for while talking about an alternative. Still, my eye brows raise, and I take a drink of water. “The truth?”
“That while you experimented in school, it was merely pressure, conceived of other's poison,” he explains. “And if one should ask, you are seeing Lisa Avery, the daughter of Kenneth Avery. In fact, you're relationship is budding nicely, having spent the night together.” From his pocket, he pulls out a white envelope that looks to be from a hotel; it's contents a key. “To prove such, I have a suite in your name.”
I get up to retrieve it, silent and calm as opening it confirms what I expected. What I had not was the folded papers, documents of my inheritance that changed dramatically alongside a proposal.
Marriage.
“I'm getting old, Robert. Very tired. And while Avery is not a well-known company, Kenneth and I have agree on many levels, including the future of Fischer Morrow. By the end of the month, Lisa and you will be wed, your spot amongst the Board of Directors yours alongside myself, Kenneth and Peter. And by the end of the year, I will be retiring.”
The business talk barely hits my ears as I stare at the pages, barely able to think. I try to think of Lisa and press my lips, my back turned temporarily to not show my disgust. She is a quiet woman, dainty and thin like a waif that would be guided by her parents. No backbone, nothing interesting, a drone as they want me to be.
Sitting, I am still quiet until he asks for my opinion as if it matters. A sip of water is needed to cool the heat rising in my throat, but my words are still quite venomous, “I think not.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
His hand coils around his glass, threatening to break it if it were not so fragile, “Robert, you do not have a choice. And if this has anything to do with your utter nonsense, then you do not need to be such a fool. There are other ways to enjoy yourself. Lisa fancies another man from what I hear, so I'm sure you can find an agreement until this phase passes.”
My hand hits the table then, rattling glasses, silverware, and empty plates. The shakers almost tip over as I rise. “This is not a phase. It won't pass, and certainly not because of a binding contract with an anorexic neanderthal that would not know the future if it was burning her hair off.”
“Robert,” he says coolly. “Sit down this instant and listen. I realize that our relationship has never been what you wanted, what since your mother died, but this depression, these urges, they need to cease sooner than later if you are to become my heir.” The door opens to the beginning meal of salads that were previously picked out by him, yet he continues to add, “Or we can deal with it another way.”
“There is no other way, Maurice,” I mutter and nod at the waiter. My fork does not lift while he takes a bite. I do not wait for privacy since it's already been breached. “This isn't something that will change with a pill or however much money you throw at it.”
He chews and swallows before looking at me in the eye, “We will release that you needed a break from the company, that the pressure was too great and left you no choice but to follow this path.” A smile appears upon his lips before adding, “You always enjoy studying about innovation, new ideas and ways to make the world better, Robert, so I think that you can appreciate what I found in case you disagreed.”
I know what he's about to say, but I ask him anyway, hoping for something else, anything else, but the same disdain he showed me the day he tried to change me with that paddle, “Oh?”
“Over in the states, the are ways of fixing your condition.”
“You are talking about conversion therapy, are you not?” I ask, ready to rise that very moment. “Shocks to the hands, genitals. Drugs that induce vomiting. Torture.” He nods, and I do get up. “Fuck you. If you would talk to Uncle Peter, you would know this is wrong.”
He stops me at the door with his response, “Your godfather brought this to me because he is getting tired of your games. While it is doing some good to the company, too many mistakes were almost made on your part. It almost destroyed everything, so we went ahead with this plan a chance for your redemption in both our eyes.”
My eyes stung, but he would never know. My back was too him and would never return. Never. He had to be lying. Uncle Peter loved me. He loved me. “I don't believe it. Any of it.”
I do not wait for him to respond, the words projected into my ears as I storm out. He tells me to ask my uncle about it, to find out the truth if I must. He expects me to be at the press conference. And if not, he will find me.
A camera flashes from across the street as I wave for a cab, knowing that the photographer on the other end has caught the glare in my eye. I do not care. Never before, have I not cared about the world as much as I do that moment.
By the time you are free from my grasp, I know Arthur is behind me, uncaring of the slick that coats us, the smell of sex in the air, or anything but hurting me. He knows how I will act, how I will react, and everything in-between. Except for one thing, the secrets I hide so deep that even extractors cannot find.
He grabs my arm with his hand and I pull forward as if to try and get away, but I reverse my direction, slamming my elbow into his stomach with air forced out of his lungs. Stumbling back, it gives me enough time to remove the latex gloves and cover my skin with something different. Each hit surprises him, bringing him further back and away from you. Blood pours from cuts and his nose.
It is when he collides with the wall that you realize what is going on. “Arthur?” you mutter louder than the few other times before. “Robert? Fuck! Robert, stop it!” I hear the rattle of your restraints mix with the glorious sound of this brawl. You cannot do anything, though, helpless, as I destroy something beautiful so that we can move on.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 06:47 pm (UTC)This line seriously sent shivers down my spine. That is one fucked up thought process you have there, Robert---glad to see you're finally starting to show your true colors. Love? FUCK THAT NOISE. Nothing is sweeter than revenge.
Also, fisting! It's funny, because I was actually considering posting an "Eames/other" prompt for fisting on the kink meme. YOU'VE READ MY MIND, AGAIN, and deliciously as usual. ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 02:29 am (UTC)Robert is . . . gah, so much fun. I think I've said this before, but I will, over and over.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 12:06 am (UTC)so this will be rambly. and will cover BYAM up to...well, here.
*exhales*
oh, Robert's insecurity rearing its head again in Mombasa. i love the way you portray how delicate the relationship actually is -- how little they understand what's going on with the other.
i wonder how often Eames resorts to forgery to try and solve things? deal with things? i'm so glad it's not a magic solution to Robert's issue with Browning, though. and Eames's retreat is so palpable, i can taste it.
For what reason do you stay?
this line. the impact. augh.
okay, i did not see the threesome coming. but it doesn't surprise me that Robert is the one to pull Yusuf into it? i don't know if this is what you intended at all, but - even while coming together with R & E - Yusuf seems to retain his role as observer, which i like.
Like Arthur.
OH YUSUF. YOU DON'T MISS ANYTHING, DO YOU.
*shivers* Browning being that gentle and caring scares the living hell out of me.
sorry, let me correct that. what happened to David scares the living hell out of me. homg.
the scene between Maurice and Robert? perfect.
Robert's smugness and outburst against Arthur? perfect.
*bites nails*
no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 02:39 am (UTC)*sigh* . . . he's being bloody difficult with the whole Arthur/Eames/Robert proposition, I think. Taking it really hard.
Seriously, though, this whole having Arthur more so in the fic is all your fault. You and that insane prompt that I love for spreading further madness to an already complicated idea.
. . . which, after the end of this one, will be the next.
I'm glad that the complexity is coming through. Robert doing what he did with Eames/Yusuf to try and build a bond, Yusuf being still the outsider, etc. In another series, they really do love each other, but in this one, Eames . . . well, it's more like redemption and his dedication to see this through.
Now, to figure out why Arthur gets pulled in rather than beaten to death. Hooboy. ;)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 09:12 pm (UTC)i am so okay with the exponentially-rising madness.
...which, after the end of this one, will be the next.
you can't see me, but i am waving paper fans. of joy. <3
and oh, Eames. redemption and seeing this through.
yes yes yes. i feel that the latter especially is a vital characteristic of Eames that few actually explore.
because it's impossible to include that phone booth scene and not have Arthur inexorably drawn into the eye of the storm. ;)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-04 06:00 am (UTC)So technically, it's kind of her fault Arthur's here. Not that I'm complaining. ;) But thank you. It's lovely to hear.
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Date: 2010-12-29 07:47 pm (UTC)And Browning really frightens me now. It's amazing how calm and reasonable someone can sound when they're tearing your life apart, huh?
no subject
Date: 2012-03-06 02:25 am (UTC)