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azuremewTitle: Envy is Green, but Jealousy Bleeds Red
Word Count: 1863
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violent non-con, disturbing themes (alcohol, abuse), psychological turmoil
Summary: And so continues my stories that have to do with Incunabula but aren't in proper order. I'll figure that out in the table of contents, but this one is where Arthur goes away for a job, leaving Eames and Robert alone. Eames goes out drinking, Robert stays home. They meet up, and the truth comes out on what Eames really thinks of the third party.
Author's Note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kirstenlouise and red lipstick the only way I could conceive it. Also, it was a pain in the arse not because of the nature of the story but because I don't normally write a lot of violence, let alone in the first person. So THANK YOU for giving me the opportunity to open up and attempt it. Hope it came out decent; I honestly have no idea.
Also, this is as close as I'll get to holiday cheer. IT HAS THE COLOR THEME, RIGHT? <3
“Arthur! Robert!” he is calling out our names. Downstairs, I believe. The slam of the door behind him confirms. “Is anyone home?”
He knows that answer, yet I tell him from my spot on the couch, “I'm up here, Eames.” Right where I was when he left an hour before. Arthur is nowhere near. Not even in the same state. He knows this. With the creaking of steps, I lay my copy of Catullus on the armrest, having caught interest as of recent without an exact reason to be grasped. It might be this man. The forger that stands in the door frame, leaning against the dark wood, breathing heavy. At one point, he read it, as had I, and often it seems to be the only thing that threads us together.
Other than Arthur, that is.
Alcohol fills his stomach, the stench rising up with each word: “What the bloody hell are you doing here still?”
“What am I doing here?” Drunk. I need to keep this in mind. “I thought we agreed that it was fine for me to stay while Arthur is doing his research, remember?” Confused. Delirious. I speak to him as I did my father and stand up to retreat from that memory. “We were going to talk, try to get to know each other . . .”
“I know all I need to,” he replies, taking two off-balanced steps. Closer, more details come into my perception, and it twists my stomach. The acidic smell of bile, having vomited the liquor only drown in it again, maybe again. “You, Browning's little slut.”
I do not need to hear this. “You should sleep. Get something to eat, like a sandwich or crackers.” Another step, and it takes a thought to not cover my mouth, create more turmoil. Cigarette smoke imbeds into his clothes, but beyond that is something far more sick. “I, I'll see you in the morning.” With a bottle of water and Tylenol. Or maybe some Oxycontin from my surgery.
Turning, I close my eyes, drifting like a sleepwalker toward the bedroom to lie cradled in sheets that will remind me that this is a nightmare, one that will pass once Arthur is back and Eames is sober. It is our bed, shared, but I suspect Eames will eventually collapse on the couch, the book falling off carelessly as he has forgotten what we are trying to create here.
He continues to speak, saying words that are never meant to be spoken. I ignore them, letting each fall upon my shoulders and roll down my back rather than weighing me down or pulling at my fists. Unlike him, I still have control, I can process the thoughts, edit them, and not let my emotions take over. I am not drunk, swimming in liquor that drowns my concentration, awareness, to let the torments roam free. I could see it in his eyes, the pain and suffering, but most of all the rage, betrayal. Who knows exactly how many of them are meant for me, but it does not matter. There is no one else in this room.
A second after the darkness folds around me, there is an unstoppable force, pressure against my back, action and the reaction of being thrown unexpectedly across the room. My feet skid helplessly against the hard wood, unable to cling, find friction, in being covered by white cotton. Too fast, too strong, I open my eyes moments before colliding with a wall. “Do not . . .” he whispers to me, heated, poisoned enough to make my stomach turn. “Do not walk away from me.”
Spinning, I am roughly turned, manhandled because I cannot bring myself to attack someone so pathetic as I was repeatedly before. Another crash. It hits along my spine, right between the shoulder blades, and upon the back of my head. Sharpness followed by a dull ache in the morning. Few bruises, I'm sure. He does not want Arthur to know, does he?
But standing there, staring into those gray eyes turned dark and glazed, I see something else that while turned was missed before. Worry. It is spun out of love, all of this, pure in original form, twisted because of this strange relationship we are in. He does not love me. Only Arthur. No one before but Arthur. And Arthur is in love with someone else, perhaps even more than he.
“You are jealous?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise, the rattling in my brain putting me in a near state of confusion. “Of me? Eames . . .”
Another hit. Pulled back. Bang. It hurts no more or less. At some point I won't even notice, and before then he will admit this. “You never wanted to help me. It was all Arthur. Curious, concerned Arthur.” Another hit. “But you read people better than him and knew there was more.” Another. This one actually hurts because it tears at the tape, changing the aura of calm I wanted to possess, to help him, rather than being consumed by my own emotions. Now, worry expels, almost frantic, because of the fire along my back, the fear that the graft might become raw, infected, and peel away the truth I need to forget.
Yet I continue. Despite all that, I fuel it further, my voice taking on the very same calm Uncle Peter once had for me when I was terrified, hurt, in need of someone, “That was why you volunteered.” Another, and I yelp, gritting my teeth. He stares, and I conclude: “To keep him from loving me.”
He stops. Letting go, I prop my body, trying to lean on one side, away from the bandages. It is rolling upward into my head. The back of my neck stings vibrant points along my brain, sending flashes of white that blurs my vision. I wonder if I have a concussion or if this my body reacting to such an overwhelming sensation. Either way, I do not get the time to figure it out. My words are spot on, and his knuckles pound into my nose. Cartilage cracks, and my neck snaps to the side. A second blow lands square on my jaw, splitting open my lip. I spit before groaning a “Fuck.” The warmth of iron and salt spills into my mouth, and I cough. I cannot breathe like this. Not properly. And it hurts to open my mouth even the slightest to speak or take in some air.
Yet I do, “Eames, I'm not my father, and I'm certainly not Peter Browning. I'm not going to use Arthur. I love him. Don't you see that? I love hi--” Another shot. Square. It is a miracle that my teeth are intact. Or Eames is just old and experienced only in bar brawls. He grabs my shoulders to shove his knee into my stomach, pushing air out so fast that I'm wheezing to catch my breath. Falling, the floor comes quick, and I almost slip on the puddle of slick that paints the floor red.
Groaning, I hear in the distance the faint sound of metal moving and fabric rustling. The room is swirling, I feel like I might vomit of the nausea and pain, barely noticing that my body is being rolled onto my back. There is a pressure along my upper chest, making it further difficult to breathe. He is almost choking me, but his hands are not around my throat. One slides behind my head, cradling it while the other forces the head of his cock to breach my lips. I groan again, thrashing my legs to push him off, but they slip. He squeezes, causing a sharp cry and opening from my clenched teeth.
Eames shoved deep upon the very first thrust and kept there so that the blood in my nose has me gagging. I nearly bite it off, but the soreness keeps my jaw slack. Drowning in his sex, I wonder if his intent is to kill me like this, but he pulls out just long enough for me to cough, the bit of air all I am given before he repeats. I want to scream, but each time makes this gurgling sound until my throat is on fire from liquid falling down the wrong path. My hands try to get him off of me, but it is startling just how much stronger he is compared to the night in Mombasa.
Strength fulled by anger. Each pass buries deeper, his erection growing with more conviction to do a deed only a man possessed could muster. At some points, he holds, my nose burying into his curled pubic hair, staining his stomach and thighs as I cough and gag. There is control in his movements to a point unknown. He is breaking me, and I . . .
My body shakes from the bile rising up my throat, and it is met with warm cum. I swallow both down, the acidic taste making me further ill with a groan. “You like that, yeah?” He lets go, one last contact with the floor, and I moan. “Of course you do.” Standing up, I move to my side, the only bit of coherency left to protect the truth. I curl into a ball, pulling my legs in and then letting go as the tightening churns it more violent. A layer of sweat coats my skin, mixing further the smells of blood and sex.
I am shivering and whimpering, “I am not Peter Browning. I won't hurt him. I swear.' It echoes softly, repeating over and over until there is nothing.
Word Count: 1863
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violent non-con, disturbing themes (alcohol, abuse), psychological turmoil
Summary: And so continues my stories that have to do with Incunabula but aren't in proper order. I'll figure that out in the table of contents, but this one is where Arthur goes away for a job, leaving Eames and Robert alone. Eames goes out drinking, Robert stays home. They meet up, and the truth comes out on what Eames really thinks of the third party.
Author's Note: For
kirstenlouise and red lipstick the only way I could conceive it. Also, it was a pain in the arse not because of the nature of the story but because I don't normally write a lot of violence, let alone in the first person. So THANK YOU for giving me the opportunity to open up and attempt it. Hope it came out decent; I honestly have no idea. Also, this is as close as I'll get to holiday cheer. IT HAS THE COLOR THEME, RIGHT? <3
“Arthur! Robert!” he is calling out our names. Downstairs, I believe. The slam of the door behind him confirms. “Is anyone home?”
He knows that answer, yet I tell him from my spot on the couch, “I'm up here, Eames.” Right where I was when he left an hour before. Arthur is nowhere near. Not even in the same state. He knows this. With the creaking of steps, I lay my copy of Catullus on the armrest, having caught interest as of recent without an exact reason to be grasped. It might be this man. The forger that stands in the door frame, leaning against the dark wood, breathing heavy. At one point, he read it, as had I, and often it seems to be the only thing that threads us together.
Other than Arthur, that is.
Alcohol fills his stomach, the stench rising up with each word: “What the bloody hell are you doing here still?”
“What am I doing here?” Drunk. I need to keep this in mind. “I thought we agreed that it was fine for me to stay while Arthur is doing his research, remember?” Confused. Delirious. I speak to him as I did my father and stand up to retreat from that memory. “We were going to talk, try to get to know each other . . .”
“I know all I need to,” he replies, taking two off-balanced steps. Closer, more details come into my perception, and it twists my stomach. The acidic smell of bile, having vomited the liquor only drown in it again, maybe again. “You, Browning's little slut.”
I do not need to hear this. “You should sleep. Get something to eat, like a sandwich or crackers.” Another step, and it takes a thought to not cover my mouth, create more turmoil. Cigarette smoke imbeds into his clothes, but beyond that is something far more sick. “I, I'll see you in the morning.” With a bottle of water and Tylenol. Or maybe some Oxycontin from my surgery.
Turning, I close my eyes, drifting like a sleepwalker toward the bedroom to lie cradled in sheets that will remind me that this is a nightmare, one that will pass once Arthur is back and Eames is sober. It is our bed, shared, but I suspect Eames will eventually collapse on the couch, the book falling off carelessly as he has forgotten what we are trying to create here.
He continues to speak, saying words that are never meant to be spoken. I ignore them, letting each fall upon my shoulders and roll down my back rather than weighing me down or pulling at my fists. Unlike him, I still have control, I can process the thoughts, edit them, and not let my emotions take over. I am not drunk, swimming in liquor that drowns my concentration, awareness, to let the torments roam free. I could see it in his eyes, the pain and suffering, but most of all the rage, betrayal. Who knows exactly how many of them are meant for me, but it does not matter. There is no one else in this room.
A second after the darkness folds around me, there is an unstoppable force, pressure against my back, action and the reaction of being thrown unexpectedly across the room. My feet skid helplessly against the hard wood, unable to cling, find friction, in being covered by white cotton. Too fast, too strong, I open my eyes moments before colliding with a wall. “Do not . . .” he whispers to me, heated, poisoned enough to make my stomach turn. “Do not walk away from me.”
Spinning, I am roughly turned, manhandled because I cannot bring myself to attack someone so pathetic as I was repeatedly before. Another crash. It hits along my spine, right between the shoulder blades, and upon the back of my head. Sharpness followed by a dull ache in the morning. Few bruises, I'm sure. He does not want Arthur to know, does he?
But standing there, staring into those gray eyes turned dark and glazed, I see something else that while turned was missed before. Worry. It is spun out of love, all of this, pure in original form, twisted because of this strange relationship we are in. He does not love me. Only Arthur. No one before but Arthur. And Arthur is in love with someone else, perhaps even more than he.
“You are jealous?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise, the rattling in my brain putting me in a near state of confusion. “Of me? Eames . . .”
Another hit. Pulled back. Bang. It hurts no more or less. At some point I won't even notice, and before then he will admit this. “You never wanted to help me. It was all Arthur. Curious, concerned Arthur.” Another hit. “But you read people better than him and knew there was more.” Another. This one actually hurts because it tears at the tape, changing the aura of calm I wanted to possess, to help him, rather than being consumed by my own emotions. Now, worry expels, almost frantic, because of the fire along my back, the fear that the graft might become raw, infected, and peel away the truth I need to forget.
Yet I continue. Despite all that, I fuel it further, my voice taking on the very same calm Uncle Peter once had for me when I was terrified, hurt, in need of someone, “That was why you volunteered.” Another, and I yelp, gritting my teeth. He stares, and I conclude: “To keep him from loving me.”
He stops. Letting go, I prop my body, trying to lean on one side, away from the bandages. It is rolling upward into my head. The back of my neck stings vibrant points along my brain, sending flashes of white that blurs my vision. I wonder if I have a concussion or if this my body reacting to such an overwhelming sensation. Either way, I do not get the time to figure it out. My words are spot on, and his knuckles pound into my nose. Cartilage cracks, and my neck snaps to the side. A second blow lands square on my jaw, splitting open my lip. I spit before groaning a “Fuck.” The warmth of iron and salt spills into my mouth, and I cough. I cannot breathe like this. Not properly. And it hurts to open my mouth even the slightest to speak or take in some air.
Yet I do, “Eames, I'm not my father, and I'm certainly not Peter Browning. I'm not going to use Arthur. I love him. Don't you see that? I love hi--” Another shot. Square. It is a miracle that my teeth are intact. Or Eames is just old and experienced only in bar brawls. He grabs my shoulders to shove his knee into my stomach, pushing air out so fast that I'm wheezing to catch my breath. Falling, the floor comes quick, and I almost slip on the puddle of slick that paints the floor red.
Groaning, I hear in the distance the faint sound of metal moving and fabric rustling. The room is swirling, I feel like I might vomit of the nausea and pain, barely noticing that my body is being rolled onto my back. There is a pressure along my upper chest, making it further difficult to breathe. He is almost choking me, but his hands are not around my throat. One slides behind my head, cradling it while the other forces the head of his cock to breach my lips. I groan again, thrashing my legs to push him off, but they slip. He squeezes, causing a sharp cry and opening from my clenched teeth.
Eames shoved deep upon the very first thrust and kept there so that the blood in my nose has me gagging. I nearly bite it off, but the soreness keeps my jaw slack. Drowning in his sex, I wonder if his intent is to kill me like this, but he pulls out just long enough for me to cough, the bit of air all I am given before he repeats. I want to scream, but each time makes this gurgling sound until my throat is on fire from liquid falling down the wrong path. My hands try to get him off of me, but it is startling just how much stronger he is compared to the night in Mombasa.
Strength fulled by anger. Each pass buries deeper, his erection growing with more conviction to do a deed only a man possessed could muster. At some points, he holds, my nose burying into his curled pubic hair, staining his stomach and thighs as I cough and gag. There is control in his movements to a point unknown. He is breaking me, and I . . .
My body shakes from the bile rising up my throat, and it is met with warm cum. I swallow both down, the acidic taste making me further ill with a groan. “You like that, yeah?” He lets go, one last contact with the floor, and I moan. “Of course you do.” Standing up, I move to my side, the only bit of coherency left to protect the truth. I curl into a ball, pulling my legs in and then letting go as the tightening churns it more violent. A layer of sweat coats my skin, mixing further the smells of blood and sex.
I am shivering and whimpering, “I am not Peter Browning. I won't hurt him. I swear.' It echoes softly, repeating over and over until there is nothing.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
A THOUSAND KISSES FOR YOU.
Date: 2010-12-17 07:16 pm (UTC)Basically, you are incredible.
Now, onto the story itself! Violence (sort of like sex) is difficult to write, but you give it such a beautiful form here. I like that it's not as much about the pain, though there is plenty of that, or even the action as much as it is the details that Robert notices---the way Eames smells like liquor and sick, the look in his eyes, and Robert's thought process about the situation overarching it all. His objections sound so guilty to me, like he's afraid of turning into his father/uncle after all---he doesn't even really analyze how fucked up what Eames is doing is, he's so concerned with defending his feelings for Arthur.
The fact that Eames is really in love with Arthur and it was really Arthur who had the soft spot for Robert all along makes me feel validated like you would not believe. EAMES, I KNEW YOUR LOVE WAS NOT TRUE. YOU ARE A CRETIN AND I DESPISE YOU. More Arthur/Robert H/C, plz. ♥
Your writing is so fantastic, and I love these lines toward the end: I want to scream, but each time makes this gurgling sound until my throat is on fire from liquid falling down the wrong path...At some points, he holds, my nose burying into his curled pubic hair, staining his stomach and thighs as I cough and gag.
I'm beginning to think I have a thing about gagging during oral sex. DON'T JUDGE ME. But the image of Eames being stained with Robert's blood was just... completely amazing. So fucked up, and yet (I am so going to hell) so hot at the same time.
With the detail of Catullus in there (which I loved, BTW), I totally thought of that one line of his "pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo," which horribly enough translates to "I will sodomize and face fuck you." SO THERE'S THAT AS WELL. /themoreyouknow
This was so great. Thank you so much! ♥
Re: A THOUSAND KISSES FOR YOU.
Date: 2010-12-18 06:56 am (UTC)First, Catullus. If you keep quoting, I'm going to find that, preferably translated as I don't know a lick of Latin. I also wanted it be my nod to you and your lovely stories. As it was used when Eames recreated the scene of Fischer Morrow, it was the one, few pieces that Robert remembered, that single connection they have that is actually genuine.
Second, I never imagined Eames being this much of an arse, but what you said back when he said "I love you" about not feeling like he means it - that stuck with me. It was meant to be the honest truth, but the more I read/wrote it, the less I believed it and needed to figure out what was the truth behind it. Then hesselives poked about the Arthur/Eames/Robert prompt, and I went "LIGHT BULB! It IS Arthur." And here I never wanted to write him into my stories. Oops.
There is going to be an H/C between Arthur/Robert. SPOILER: At this moment, Eames is calling Arthur, he's on his way back, and Eames is going to wait somewhere as the alcohol wears off. The eventual crash is Arthur going up to Robert and Eames going to Mombasa.
. . . I really wish I could get into Eames' head. Either at this point or when he kills Browning to vent his other mistake. Dude has anger management issues when things aren't in his control.
AND I DON'T JUDGE. I <3 YOU AND YOUR CRACK MIND. That and I HAVE a blood kink. A terrible, terrible blood kink that will win over lipstick every time. I might as well turn to knife play if they survive this arc as a threesome. Especially since I have no clue how anyone does PWP. Seriously boggles my mind. I NEED plot to write.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-18 04:41 am (UTC)I'm also thinking I'm going to have to go back and reread the whole thing to satisfy myself that there weren't more things I just didn't think about enough in the first reading. I'm pretty sure there must be. I have coursework to do - how can you do this to me??
They're all so deliciously fucked up! (and Arthur thinks Eames is the stable one!)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-18 07:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-18 10:34 am (UTC)has got to be the most telling and powerful line in this story. chilling how Eames is so intent on everything being under *his* control, while utterly losing it. and i definitely love seeing this side of Robert -- so aware of how selfish, fragile, and tenuous he was back then, and determined to get ahold of himself finally.
i think people usually write threesomes in a mutually-polyamorous way, but you really push the borders, in dissecting the complexity of their emotions and showing us the push-and-pull of it all.
glorious! <3 i cannot wait to see more A/R.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-18 03:39 pm (UTC)Until then, the drama continues, and the A/R h/c. I admit, it's a lovely break from the dark while still keeping some if its shades. <3