Inception Fic: Cruel
Dec. 30th, 2010 02:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Cruel
Word Count: 5343
Characters: Eames/Fischer/Arthur, mention of everyone else
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, mention of real life trauma (BP oil spill), claustrophobia, mutilation, knife play, hinted character death, alcoholism, implied child abuse (Browning/Fischer), and, um, DP with rimming?
Summary: Post-Inception, Eames and Arthur took job from Cobb and/or Saito to make sure the idea took, and oh, have fun with Robert's deep, dark secret. Because Eames is a bastard and wants a threesome with his sub, Arthur. He gets far more than he bargained for . . .
Author's Notes: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jeannedecarnin for buying me at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thepurpledove whom supplied the kink of unhealthy BDSM and Arthur being the sub. With given freedom on the plot, this madness occurred, and I apologize, because I don't think Eames came out as the winner in the end. Oops.
PS: Damn it, I might have an AU on my hands, and yes, Browning/Fischer is now cemented as part of my canon. <3
It starts off simply. Time and place determined days before. A hotel, one of many, could be any, but he prefers the ones more vibrant, alive with people even late at night. It tests our limits, the ability to move unnoticed yet find each other in the lobby without a single, spoken word or nod. One stop, and the night is over, we go empty-handed, heads lowered in defeat. That is all that keeps us calm, slow despite the pounding in our hearts and heat that stems into our bellies. He is ten steps behind me, closing in to the elevators. A button is pressed at five. Upon opening, we are less than an inch. I breathe in, smelling the cigarette smoke. It is less potent than the surrounding aromas – someone's cologne, hair spray, and whatever else people use to mask their truths. But the cigarette smoke, I breathe it in and remember nights before, of plucking the cancer stick from his lips and taking a drag.
At the seventh floor, I am first to exit, giving way to distance yet again. He remains back, stalking like a predator, his gaze upon my back. I imagine his view, that he is undressing me, but hold my composure as a key I retrieved to open the door. A hand brushes over mine, stumbling the key to a bright, red light. Breaths evoke hairs to stand erect along my neck, and I moan, “I thought it was a rule to wait until the door was open.”
“I was never good at rules,” he tells me, pulling away to wrap his arms around me. Enveloped, I feel him against my arse. “You are bloody lucky we have lasted this long by them.”
I smirk, trying again with more control than he can possess, just enough to push through the hands sliding over me, down my pants, to see the light turn green. “As I have told you before, Mr. Eames, if you want me, you play the way I choose.”
That pushes him, the door swinging open violently as I am shoved inside. Pulling off his coat, it drops without regard, yet another rule broken. I frown, speaking in a flat tone. “That will wrinkle.”
“The least of your worries,” he murmurs, and before I can realize what he is doing, I feel the wall behind me, straightening my posture as a futile attempt to avoid his advances. So I concede, letting his tongue move passed my lips to meet in a deep kiss laced with my voice, low and sensual to his touches. Each is light, teasing the surface, but he knows I am weak in this dance. He knows it takes the slightest touch to ravage me, unhinge me from these bonds, and let go.
I do, my hands recalling how to respond to our actions with pleasant reactions. A push sends him tumbling back, and as he regains his footing, I take the advantage. “Bastard,” I mutter, hitting his chest with the blunt of my palms with a resounding crack again. “What did I tell you?” Another, and his legs catch the edge of the bed, bending his knees to sit. I surround him, thrusting our cocks together with hands in his hair, pulling him into moans louder than any I gave him before. Leaning inward, my teeth take hold of his earlobe before I murmur, “Tell me, lover. Tell me what you want.”
“That I am yours,” he repeats. “To do with as you please.”
“Good,” I smile, and letting go, he falls back onto the bed. “Now will you take off your clothes and fold them already?” I ask teasingly, kissing him light on the forehead. “You are lucky that I do not stop now for what you did in the hallway.”
“For being a little more aggressive?” he whines.
“For not showing some restraint,” I lecture, recomposing my tone. Standing up, he begins to follow my orders, his eyes never leaving me as I approach the dresser. A canvas bag sits nearby, similar to one carried by chefs. There are knives, but there is so much more. After it is opened, I trace my fingers across several of the pieces, the metal, the plastic, the latex. “In fact, that might have to be your lesson for the evening,” I conclude with a smile, turning back to his naked body displayed before me at attention. Stiff, my hands take in the lines of the legs, the tight muscles, until I clamp onto the balls and squeeze. He almost groans, but my finger touches his lips, keeping the sound muffled. “Don't make a sound. You don't deserve it. Or would you prefer that I gag you?”
He shakes his head a little, and I squeeze again, tighter, to the point his stomach recoils. “Tell me, Eames.” I do not let go until he is begging, calling out my name, his voice trembling from the pain mixed with desire. Need. He repeats it because I tell him that I cannot hear him, or rather not clear enough. Restraint, he'll learn has purpose. Otherwise, this moment would become out of control, and someone might get hurt.
We cannot let that happen again.
After I am satisfied, the band is stretched and pulled around his cock, slipping around to keep him there, with me. I stroke him a little for encouragement, show him that I am pleased at his attempts, and he bites his lower lip. I smile. “Turn around.”
From behind, I rustle through a bag and pull out silk rope. Pulling at his wrist, the first loop is made, knotted tight enough that the first signs of red show. It is drawn to the other, bringing them together. The slack is pulled upward and brushed against the raised mark of his spine at the neck. “Do you remember what happened the last time?” He speaks, clearly, but there is a tremor of knowing. “Good, then make sure it does repeat.” Bringing it upward, it threads around, cinching tight like a noose. “You know how much I hate reckless behavior. Impulse. It's such a waste.” The last knot is made, and I back away, admiring him, how silent he is. It is astounding, extraordinary, considering how utterly vocal he can be.
One of his cigarettes is fetched from a black, square package. It smells like incense and tastes just as rich upon my lips. Flicking the lighter from the very same pocket, I draw a deep breath and consider what should be done. “Tell me, Eames,” I murmur. “Has anything changed since our last conversation?”
“Conversation?” he questions. “You want to talk about philosophy and incept --” he stops because I stand against him, one arm around him, and the burning embers touch his bare arse. Screaming, I shift upward, placing my palm around his mouth. I hold him still, keeping the bud until all there is is smoke and a crying, whimpering man shuddering, neither able to move or lower his head at the threat of strangling himself in his own mistake.
Letting him go, my hands roam along him, enjoying the light scent of sweat escaped from pain. I kiss his back softly and whisper, “Yes, I want to talk. I want to know if your opinion has changed on that job, now that you are standing here.” Bending lower, my finger brushes against the puffed, raw flesh, sending another shiver. “Do you still call it a success?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, and it is the wrong answer, but he is nevertheless being honest. I will give him that. For a thief, a forger, he is being honest with me, so I spread his legs lightly with my hands, guiding them wide so that I may part his arse. Breathing in deeply, he adds, “The idea took. We were paid. Fischer Morrow is no more, and here, you stand, as your own man. I call that a win for all parties, yeah?”
“A man,” I whisper, sweeping my thumb against the tight ring that constricts at my presence. “That you enjoy now. A man that you set free. You must think of yourself as something big, don't you? Infiltrating the company, disguising yourself as my uncle, implanting this idea. You knew, and now you are enjoying it, are you not?”
“Oh most definitely, Sir,” he tells me, his voice shifting. “You know how much I enjoy a bit of chaos, the unexpected.”
“Yes, well,” I kiss the mark, flicking my tongue despite the taste of puss and burnt, human skin beneath my lips. He bites back a hiss as I stop and retreat, adding, “That was then and this is now. Fair trade, remember? Now be silent. I'm tired and want to enjoy what you offered in exchange for not killing your Arthur.”
Before
Robert orders a drink, the third tonight. His alcohol tolerance has since risen with the decline of his health. Senses dull, it was easy. Some might even call it an accomplishment of sorts, one of his few. His father would be proud. Uncle Peter would be proud.
He laughs, hollow, and upon receiving the glass tumbler, swallows the clear liquid halfway. It no longer burns. It will no longer rise up his throat, spilling unexpectedly upon the concrete sidewalk, and his shoes. It will sit and drown him. Like poison, death that he is willing to take because everything else is destroyed, crumbled in his hands, by him. The only unfortunate part of this is that he is out of Valium, out of Lunesta, out of all of it. Even the Tylenol, and he never remembers to stop by the store on route to this place.
“Penny for your thoughts?” breaks his suicidal musings, and he turns to find a man has taken the normally empty seat next to him. The place is too close to the company for people not to know him, so they kept their distance. This one has not. His smile is pleasant, too. Jovial. With optimistic eyes and tanned skin.
Robert sighs, “Just another long day.”
“I hear you,” he waves the bartender over. “I'll have whatever he's having. Make it two.”
He allows a faint smile at the sympathy, or the fact that someone spoke to him about anything other than financial dispersal. “How bad?”
“Try the front page of Barron's bad,” he say, and Robert's smile disappears. There is normally good news there. The investment paper has stories on rising companies and innovation. He remembers their expansion to Los Angeles. Fischer Morrow take America on in Energy War It was quite the sight. His father had the front page framed.
But the long hours of listening to lawyers and advisers make him weary, unable to listen with rapt attention at the report about BHP Billiton and the possibility of it buying out BP after its disaster. It echoes a discussion with representatives from Proctos Global. The memory makes him down the next round in one tilt, hoping it might drown the voice of its CEO. Saito flew to Sydney to discuss his approval of Robert's decision and gave him a different path rather than the long, exhausting trail. Give it to him, all that is left, and leave with a bit of dignity.
Robert told Saito where he could stick the proposition in the most polite way he could muster. There was frustration in his tone from not sleeping enough, stress threading into each word, but the thought of giving up to his father's biggest competitor was far worse than what was to come.
At least that was what he thought at the time. Robert takes in a deep breath as the bartender lays another drink in front of him. He holds it to continue his efforts at drowning and remembers that this one is not paid by him, cursing internally at being so rude.
Too late. The man frowns and asks “Am I boring you?” Robert glances over, and he adds, “I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” Robert confesses and looks about, half-expecting for some reason that someone is going to approach them from the company, someone from marketing, a Rod Green?
Or is it Mr. Charles?
But no one moves from their places. There are no eyes checking them out. Just quiet, private conversations and one disappointed patron standing up from his seat next to him. “I'm sorry,” he starts. “You must be--”
“Leaving,” he says but stops next to Robert and lays a napkin in front of him. His lips are so close to the ear that Robert felt something turn in his belly, or maybe that is the liquor. “In case you get bored.”
Robert watches the stranger leave before instinctively checking his back pocket. His wallet is still there, summoning a sigh of relief and another internal curse for being so paranoid. Then he takes a moment to look at the napkin. The ten digits are not local, but at least it is not six.
Now
Arthur groans. His head hurts, a light ache along the back side, near his neck, that stretches upward and across toward his eyes. Everything is a blur. Foggy. Slowly, his hand rises to press against the bridge of his nose. An elbow collides with something rough. Wood. It splinters and digs into skin, scraping at it until red with a dust of white. He yelps and realizes from the sound, how far it moves, just exactly where he is.
Panic pushes away the cotton that compacts his skull. Breathing hard, he tries to slow his breath, not knowing just how much air is left. A foot stretches straight, extending to see how much of an arch before finding the end. It is close. Too close. Searching in front, he collects the same information, and his head, it touches behind. Small. Not even the size of a coffin. Not lined in silk or bedding. Just wood in the earth.
Closing his eyes (not that it matters), he tries to recall the events before. Robert, he wanted to meet. Alone. Eames allowed it. After the night before, they agreed that the former heir was harmless. Interesting but harmless.
Before
“Trust me,” Eames says. “Fischer does not suspect a thing. The man did not recognize me when I sat next to him and recited the bloody lines from the dream--” he pauses at the beeping sound that tells him someone is on the other line and glances at it. “Arthur, I will have to call you back. See you at dinner.”
If Arthur is right, and he usually is, the forger needs to put his game face on and smiles bright through the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, it's me. The man from the bar you were, er, trying to flirt with?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I'd like to take you up if you're still interested. I'm bored,” Very bored, he chuckles an uncomfortable laugh and, “I normally don't do this.”
“I kind of guessed,” Eames admits without losing his cheery tone to hint sarcasm. “Alright, darling, where would you like to meet?”
Now
A blindfold stretches over his eyes, knotted tight to keep from falling. I lean inward, reminding him that if he follows the rules, Arthur will be fine. “He has plenty of air as long as he stays calm,” I tell him, breathing along his ear. Nails drag along his leg, up the side, and he falls back into my warm embrace. “Just enjoy the experience, yeah?” I tease. “After all, that is part of the reason you took the job.”
Sudden, my hands wrap around his shoulders and shove him forward, catapulting him onto the bed. The knots react, turning taut in their bit of distance, too little room, too little force. He slides his his arms up weakly, wheezing and coughing into the covers. I climb over him, pressing my weight fully upon the small of his back. “Do you trust me, Eames?” I ask. “Speak up.”
“Yes.”
From the inside of my jacket, I produce a small knife, the one my uncle gave me. Opening it, it clicks, and the tip touches the base of his neck, sliding down the spine so soft that it only leaves a red, swollen streak rather than piercing blood. “Why?” I ask, idly drawing swirls against the blank, pristine canvas.
“Because,” he breathes. “You're not a killer.”
“I'm not?” I question, digging in a little deeper to summon a harsh exhale and the first draw. Tiny beads dot a trail, staining the rope. “I guess,” I continue, my voice detached, no longer able to vocalize a tone that would betray whether I speak the truth or not when I tell him, “you are right.”
Before
“I'm going to Paris for a few nights,” Eames says, leaning against the door frame of the stairs. “You could come along, you know?”
“Busy,” Yusuf explains, nodding to a piece of paper, an order. “I have a client of my own. Now that things are back to normal. And you know how much I hate flying.”
Eames frown, “Pity.” But he moves across the shop anyway, toward the door. “You would have enjoyed it, mate. Arthur likes you, and we were going to take some time off after this job.”
“I am positive that he will enjoy it more without my presence,” Yusuf notes. “Good luck, though.”
At least it is the excuse. Truthfully, of all them, he is the one that holds some sort of conscience, an understand of the gravity in which the situation entails and its consequence. Such a thing weighs heavily upon his shoulders even after it gave him such a grand experiment.
But every scientist, every doctor, remembers the course in ethics. It is a particularly stimulating conversation that even Dominic Cobb would agree up in the end.
“We are changing the man,” Yusuf said days before boarding the plane to Los Angeles. He was unable to stand at his workplace after reading the documentation Arthur had procured, so the hours were spent slowly passing, watching the others move with freedom of knowing, full faith in themselves and their actions. It was late, while he was helping Cobb deal with his own demons, that he had some sort of realization. Ariadne had just passed by, curiosity within her eyes that blinded her principles.
Now, someone else stood in the room, rubbed his shoulders. “That is exactly what Cobb told Saito before taking the job. He knows. We all do.”
Yusuf reached up to pause Eames' hand, to trace the bumps of his knuckles with the pads of his fingers, “Do you remember the last time we tried this?”
“Of course,” Eames scoffed, upset that he thought one could forget that. It quickly passed. “The idea did not take because we were not thinking it through properly. It was too complex. This is not. This is something that's already there, so it can grow organically rather than forced.”
“How can you be so sure?” Yusuf questioned. “They have had their arguments, disagreements, as any child and parent do at one point or another. But they share a dream, do they not?”
”Fischer can begin his own empire, from the ground up, his own rules,” Eames assured. “There was nothing in our contract that said he could not, as long as Fischer Morrow is no more.”
And it is. Dissolved and disappearing. Taped in his book of notes and formulas is the last article he read before deciding that anymore of this will drive him utterly insane.
He does not need to remember. Eames, sure, he could continue to see. They have a history long before Fischer is their mark, but the others remind him of gunfire and yells, of rain and blood, and of so much pain even after they wake high above the grand cityscape.
So the request came with good timing, leaving him in Mombasa to take care of the shop and work. He is pouring the last of the contents into a container and capping it when he heard the bells chime the entrance of another patron. “Be there in a minute,” he yells while gently placing it into the box. There is just sealing it, but that can wait.
The customer is a man Eames' height with a charcoal gray suit despite the warm whether. He stands with his back turned to Yusuf. “Can I help you?”
His voice makes Yusuf freeze, his blood running cold and sweat colder as it courses down the back of his spine, “I need your help. I hear that you are the best.” He turns, proving the dread deathly accurate. Robert Fischer approaches the counter and set a bag of orange, plastic bottles with white caps on it. There were papers too. “I cannot sleep. Not without dreaming.”
He looks tired. Yusuf can see the red veins in his eyes and the dark puffiness. Even his clothes look less like the man he remembers in the pictures, having tossed and turned in them probably while on the flight. Did he come here directly from the airport? “Let me take a look,” he says after a few seconds of hesitation and opens the bag, pulling out first the papers that were medical records. Alcoholism. Insomnia. Sleep deprivation. Stress. There are prescriptions for hypnotics, barbiturates, benzodiazepines, antidepressants and other relaxants.
His frown deepens as the list continues to the small, plastic bags with stickers to show its contents. They are off the market drugs, things he thinks are long lost because they are too dangerous. Case studies ended after the first, human test subjects are found to have reactions worse than he symptoms. In the end, he had to tell himself to stop shaking because he could feel the tremor in his hand. “What seems to be the problem exactly?”
“I have dreams,” Fischer says. “Nightmares.”
Yusuf knows the answer, but he asked, “What kind of dreams?”
Fischer closes his eyes as if to help him recall. Each word is well placed, sounding almost possessed by a kind of madness that makes Yusuf hold the papers tighter to not show his fear. “Raindrops. Rivers. Gunshots. There is a bag over my head, placed by a thief, a crook pulling off the greatest heist – stealing an idea. He never expected the surprise, the bullets shooting passed his head. Misinformation almost got us killed. And a number.” He swallows, pausing. “5-2-8-4-9-1”
“Do you know what the numbers mean?”
“No.” Fischer shakes his head and pulled open his suit coat to take something out. “I have seen psychiatrists and witch doctors, sought the impossible as much as the logical, and found nothing.” It could be a gun, considering how desperate he sounds, the “I just want it to end.” But he pulls out that leather, five-hundred dollar wallet. “Whatever it might cost.”
Desperate like Cobb, Yusuf thinks and nods. “I'll see what I can do, Mr. Fischer. Give me twenty-four hours.”
Now
I get off to roll him over, fingers gentle across the surface. “Your nipples are erect,” I notice. “And your penis is hard. You are enjoying this. Knowing your pet is somewhere, possibly injured, and you are enjoying this.” Or following me, I cannot tell. Either way, it amuses me, and I lick the hard nub, swirling my tongue. He moans, and I bite. “Shh. I never said you could make a sound.” Delicately, I continue to suck, inhaling with my mouth to take in his breast and press my teeth so that at releasing it, it is swollen, marked, and sore in the morning. His chest rises a little into it, and I trace down the line of his side again, passing the head of his cock to wipe the slick. Moving toward, I slide a wet finger into his arse and then another. He bites his lower lip, and I hook, dragging fingers along his prostate.
He groans, and I whisper, “You enjoyed it. Even as he trembled, wide-eyed and weak, you enjoyed it.” I force three and spread them. “The control. That's why. Giving each direction, knowing he would follow, he would listen, he would do anything for you, Eames, anything, and you . . .” I remove the band and replace it with my fingers, tight and stroking hard without any slick to soften the friction. “You used him.”
Before
Robert enters the designated hotel room that had a key waiting for him in the lobby. The room is lit comfortably, giving off a warm glow in contrast to what he is feeling from the men across from him. Fear stands next to confidence, hands behind his back to not show that he is scratching at the fragile skin along the hand for some relief. I hear it barely, but his face tells enough to know.
He sighs as Uncle Peter once did and say, “Can I see him?”
Eames nods, and he begins to remove his clothes. First the vest and then the crisp, white shirt. They are folded and lied on the dresser. Shoes are next and socks inside. A belt and slacks give Robert enough to see that while he is shy, at least Eames takes good care of him. His frame is small but well-formed, the undershirt showing muscles shaped by exercise and proper nourishment. And the cock, Robert has to refrain from licking his lips at the sight, shaved nude before his eyes.
Each step toward him is slow, allowing continued observation at the pale, exquisite. The surface is soft, washed clean, prepared for the evening. He smells delicious, the only offset being the goosebumps from a room just warm enough. “You take good care of him,” he compliments. “Will you show me just how well, first?”
He believes that it will calm him, and his master complies, knowing what the plans are, what they are building toward. Undressing far quicker, they go to the bed while Robert settles in the chair next to the window. A decanter of scotch is kept there, and he pours a tumbler while they kiss, soft at first and then deeper, teeth bared, biting the lower lip. “The desk?” Eames asks after letting go, and Robert nods, raising his glass. He guides toward it, lowering the smaller form over the sleek, wood surface before pulling out a leather paddle with metal circles. Each impact is resounding, accurate and experienced upon the white flesh, cultivating it into a bright bloom.
Robert smiles, unbuttoning his fly as he watches. He strokes tenderly upon his cock, and while he admires Eames' ability, it is the silence of his pet that hardens him. Not a word is said, and the shivers retreat, restrained by what flows through his body and makes him stiff.
“Would you like to go first,” Eames offers at settling the paddle down. “To make things easier?”
“I'm not sure,” he considers, seeing the sudden, wide-eyes staring back at me.
“Oh, do not worry about him, darling,” Eames tells him, petting the red, swollen arse and then pulling back with a playful smack. “He's willing – are you not?”
“Yes, please,” he tells Robert. “Please, fuck me.”
The reservation ends at the sound of that voice, and Robert rises, releasing his slacks and stepping out of them to just his shoes and knee-high socks. He lines up behind the younger man and digs his fingers into the hips before sliding inward, the first thrust hard and searing from the little bit of slick naturally provided. This causes both men to moan as Eames moves behind and helps undress the rest. The tie, the coat, even the shirt is lost while Robert fucks, the sound thumping the wood desk again and again against the wall until he is sliding in his own come.
Robert steps back, trailing his fingers against the back and arse before letting Eames guide their toy to the bed. They move his hands behind him, Robert tying the knots from a bag at the bedside. Once they are secure, he watches, listening to the squelch, the wet, obscene sounds of Eames' cock thrusting into an arse filled with his come. He licks his lips, holding his own desires back, while stroking, bringing himself hard far quicker than he had anticipated. “Let him speak,” Robert requests as he sheds the last of his clothes and climbs onto the bed. “I want to hear him.”
“You heard him, pet,” Eames tells, and the moaning becomes loud, hitched with each thrust, the rhythm becoming too much for Robert to idly watch.
He slides beneath them, Eames planting his feet and raising his knees to bring his body up and push deeper, slowing their movement. The white, sticky come trickles out of the hole, and Robert catches the first drop onto his tongue. A soft purr exits his mouth as he teases the swollen muscle, sending more spasms through the body. “God, you are one lucky man,” he notes, pulling away to let his fingers stretch the breach further. It is so tight with Eames' cock already inside, but he manages. “Such perfection,” he muses, looking at Eames. “Such order. Are you sure you want to break it?”
“I can put him back together,” Eames tells him, and with that reassurance, Robert moves between the legs and brings himself against the back.
“Lift your hips gently,” Robert instructs, caressing the inner thigh for coaxing, the smooth surface, while his other hand moves his tip near the opening. The body reacts, listening to him, and he kisses the neck. “Good,” he murmurs into the surface, breathing the smell of sweat and soap. “Breathe in with me, will you?” A nod brushes against his ear, and as his stomach rolls inward, he pushes.
The sound is a slow, carnal union, moans threading together as each, small bob of Eames' hips sends shocks of pain and pleasure through each form. It lasts only for a few seconds, a few rises and falls of the body between them until the orgasm squeezes them both into climax.
After
The cab takes me back to the small, office building I bought a few weeks before, just after the last papers were signed for Fischer Morrow. I unlock the front door and step inside, not bothering with the lights as I enter the back room where boxes and crates have been brought over for temporary storage. This is what is left of my father's company – chairs and desks, a few paintings and vases, filing cabinets empty. Nothing is full. Nothing holds anything but the crate near the back corner that I open to find the frightened man staring back at me. “Arthur,” I say, extending my hand. “Apologies about before, but I could not tell you my plan. You would have not listened.”
He tries to punch me, but the sedative Yusuf supplied is still in his system, causing a sluggish action compared to my easy reaction of grabbing his wrist and pulling him up. “It's over,” I tell him. “You're free.”
Word Count: 5343
Characters: Eames/Fischer/Arthur, mention of everyone else
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, mention of real life trauma (BP oil spill), claustrophobia, mutilation, knife play, hinted character death, alcoholism, implied child abuse (Browning/Fischer), and, um, DP with rimming?
Summary: Post-Inception, Eames and Arthur took job from Cobb and/or Saito to make sure the idea took, and oh, have fun with Robert's deep, dark secret. Because Eames is a bastard and wants a threesome with his sub, Arthur. He gets far more than he bargained for . . .
Author's Notes: Dedicated to
jeannedecarnin for buying me at thepurpledove whom supplied the kink of unhealthy BDSM and Arthur being the sub. With given freedom on the plot, this madness occurred, and I apologize, because I don't think Eames came out as the winner in the end. Oops. PS: Damn it, I might have an AU on my hands, and yes, Browning/Fischer is now cemented as part of my canon. <3
It starts off simply. Time and place determined days before. A hotel, one of many, could be any, but he prefers the ones more vibrant, alive with people even late at night. It tests our limits, the ability to move unnoticed yet find each other in the lobby without a single, spoken word or nod. One stop, and the night is over, we go empty-handed, heads lowered in defeat. That is all that keeps us calm, slow despite the pounding in our hearts and heat that stems into our bellies. He is ten steps behind me, closing in to the elevators. A button is pressed at five. Upon opening, we are less than an inch. I breathe in, smelling the cigarette smoke. It is less potent than the surrounding aromas – someone's cologne, hair spray, and whatever else people use to mask their truths. But the cigarette smoke, I breathe it in and remember nights before, of plucking the cancer stick from his lips and taking a drag.
At the seventh floor, I am first to exit, giving way to distance yet again. He remains back, stalking like a predator, his gaze upon my back. I imagine his view, that he is undressing me, but hold my composure as a key I retrieved to open the door. A hand brushes over mine, stumbling the key to a bright, red light. Breaths evoke hairs to stand erect along my neck, and I moan, “I thought it was a rule to wait until the door was open.”
“I was never good at rules,” he tells me, pulling away to wrap his arms around me. Enveloped, I feel him against my arse. “You are bloody lucky we have lasted this long by them.”
I smirk, trying again with more control than he can possess, just enough to push through the hands sliding over me, down my pants, to see the light turn green. “As I have told you before, Mr. Eames, if you want me, you play the way I choose.”
That pushes him, the door swinging open violently as I am shoved inside. Pulling off his coat, it drops without regard, yet another rule broken. I frown, speaking in a flat tone. “That will wrinkle.”
“The least of your worries,” he murmurs, and before I can realize what he is doing, I feel the wall behind me, straightening my posture as a futile attempt to avoid his advances. So I concede, letting his tongue move passed my lips to meet in a deep kiss laced with my voice, low and sensual to his touches. Each is light, teasing the surface, but he knows I am weak in this dance. He knows it takes the slightest touch to ravage me, unhinge me from these bonds, and let go.
I do, my hands recalling how to respond to our actions with pleasant reactions. A push sends him tumbling back, and as he regains his footing, I take the advantage. “Bastard,” I mutter, hitting his chest with the blunt of my palms with a resounding crack again. “What did I tell you?” Another, and his legs catch the edge of the bed, bending his knees to sit. I surround him, thrusting our cocks together with hands in his hair, pulling him into moans louder than any I gave him before. Leaning inward, my teeth take hold of his earlobe before I murmur, “Tell me, lover. Tell me what you want.”
“That I am yours,” he repeats. “To do with as you please.”
“Good,” I smile, and letting go, he falls back onto the bed. “Now will you take off your clothes and fold them already?” I ask teasingly, kissing him light on the forehead. “You are lucky that I do not stop now for what you did in the hallway.”
“For being a little more aggressive?” he whines.
“For not showing some restraint,” I lecture, recomposing my tone. Standing up, he begins to follow my orders, his eyes never leaving me as I approach the dresser. A canvas bag sits nearby, similar to one carried by chefs. There are knives, but there is so much more. After it is opened, I trace my fingers across several of the pieces, the metal, the plastic, the latex. “In fact, that might have to be your lesson for the evening,” I conclude with a smile, turning back to his naked body displayed before me at attention. Stiff, my hands take in the lines of the legs, the tight muscles, until I clamp onto the balls and squeeze. He almost groans, but my finger touches his lips, keeping the sound muffled. “Don't make a sound. You don't deserve it. Or would you prefer that I gag you?”
He shakes his head a little, and I squeeze again, tighter, to the point his stomach recoils. “Tell me, Eames.” I do not let go until he is begging, calling out my name, his voice trembling from the pain mixed with desire. Need. He repeats it because I tell him that I cannot hear him, or rather not clear enough. Restraint, he'll learn has purpose. Otherwise, this moment would become out of control, and someone might get hurt.
We cannot let that happen again.
After I am satisfied, the band is stretched and pulled around his cock, slipping around to keep him there, with me. I stroke him a little for encouragement, show him that I am pleased at his attempts, and he bites his lower lip. I smile. “Turn around.”
From behind, I rustle through a bag and pull out silk rope. Pulling at his wrist, the first loop is made, knotted tight enough that the first signs of red show. It is drawn to the other, bringing them together. The slack is pulled upward and brushed against the raised mark of his spine at the neck. “Do you remember what happened the last time?” He speaks, clearly, but there is a tremor of knowing. “Good, then make sure it does repeat.” Bringing it upward, it threads around, cinching tight like a noose. “You know how much I hate reckless behavior. Impulse. It's such a waste.” The last knot is made, and I back away, admiring him, how silent he is. It is astounding, extraordinary, considering how utterly vocal he can be.
One of his cigarettes is fetched from a black, square package. It smells like incense and tastes just as rich upon my lips. Flicking the lighter from the very same pocket, I draw a deep breath and consider what should be done. “Tell me, Eames,” I murmur. “Has anything changed since our last conversation?”
“Conversation?” he questions. “You want to talk about philosophy and incept --” he stops because I stand against him, one arm around him, and the burning embers touch his bare arse. Screaming, I shift upward, placing my palm around his mouth. I hold him still, keeping the bud until all there is is smoke and a crying, whimpering man shuddering, neither able to move or lower his head at the threat of strangling himself in his own mistake.
Letting him go, my hands roam along him, enjoying the light scent of sweat escaped from pain. I kiss his back softly and whisper, “Yes, I want to talk. I want to know if your opinion has changed on that job, now that you are standing here.” Bending lower, my finger brushes against the puffed, raw flesh, sending another shiver. “Do you still call it a success?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, and it is the wrong answer, but he is nevertheless being honest. I will give him that. For a thief, a forger, he is being honest with me, so I spread his legs lightly with my hands, guiding them wide so that I may part his arse. Breathing in deeply, he adds, “The idea took. We were paid. Fischer Morrow is no more, and here, you stand, as your own man. I call that a win for all parties, yeah?”
“A man,” I whisper, sweeping my thumb against the tight ring that constricts at my presence. “That you enjoy now. A man that you set free. You must think of yourself as something big, don't you? Infiltrating the company, disguising yourself as my uncle, implanting this idea. You knew, and now you are enjoying it, are you not?”
“Oh most definitely, Sir,” he tells me, his voice shifting. “You know how much I enjoy a bit of chaos, the unexpected.”
“Yes, well,” I kiss the mark, flicking my tongue despite the taste of puss and burnt, human skin beneath my lips. He bites back a hiss as I stop and retreat, adding, “That was then and this is now. Fair trade, remember? Now be silent. I'm tired and want to enjoy what you offered in exchange for not killing your Arthur.”
Robert orders a drink, the third tonight. His alcohol tolerance has since risen with the decline of his health. Senses dull, it was easy. Some might even call it an accomplishment of sorts, one of his few. His father would be proud. Uncle Peter would be proud.
He laughs, hollow, and upon receiving the glass tumbler, swallows the clear liquid halfway. It no longer burns. It will no longer rise up his throat, spilling unexpectedly upon the concrete sidewalk, and his shoes. It will sit and drown him. Like poison, death that he is willing to take because everything else is destroyed, crumbled in his hands, by him. The only unfortunate part of this is that he is out of Valium, out of Lunesta, out of all of it. Even the Tylenol, and he never remembers to stop by the store on route to this place.
“Penny for your thoughts?” breaks his suicidal musings, and he turns to find a man has taken the normally empty seat next to him. The place is too close to the company for people not to know him, so they kept their distance. This one has not. His smile is pleasant, too. Jovial. With optimistic eyes and tanned skin.
Robert sighs, “Just another long day.”
“I hear you,” he waves the bartender over. “I'll have whatever he's having. Make it two.”
He allows a faint smile at the sympathy, or the fact that someone spoke to him about anything other than financial dispersal. “How bad?”
“Try the front page of Barron's bad,” he say, and Robert's smile disappears. There is normally good news there. The investment paper has stories on rising companies and innovation. He remembers their expansion to Los Angeles. Fischer Morrow take America on in Energy War It was quite the sight. His father had the front page framed.
But the long hours of listening to lawyers and advisers make him weary, unable to listen with rapt attention at the report about BHP Billiton and the possibility of it buying out BP after its disaster. It echoes a discussion with representatives from Proctos Global. The memory makes him down the next round in one tilt, hoping it might drown the voice of its CEO. Saito flew to Sydney to discuss his approval of Robert's decision and gave him a different path rather than the long, exhausting trail. Give it to him, all that is left, and leave with a bit of dignity.
Robert told Saito where he could stick the proposition in the most polite way he could muster. There was frustration in his tone from not sleeping enough, stress threading into each word, but the thought of giving up to his father's biggest competitor was far worse than what was to come.
At least that was what he thought at the time. Robert takes in a deep breath as the bartender lays another drink in front of him. He holds it to continue his efforts at drowning and remembers that this one is not paid by him, cursing internally at being so rude.
Too late. The man frowns and asks “Am I boring you?” Robert glances over, and he adds, “I was telling you my story. I guess it wasn't to your liking.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” Robert confesses and looks about, half-expecting for some reason that someone is going to approach them from the company, someone from marketing, a Rod Green?
Or is it Mr. Charles?
But no one moves from their places. There are no eyes checking them out. Just quiet, private conversations and one disappointed patron standing up from his seat next to him. “I'm sorry,” he starts. “You must be--”
“Leaving,” he says but stops next to Robert and lays a napkin in front of him. His lips are so close to the ear that Robert felt something turn in his belly, or maybe that is the liquor. “In case you get bored.”
Robert watches the stranger leave before instinctively checking his back pocket. His wallet is still there, summoning a sigh of relief and another internal curse for being so paranoid. Then he takes a moment to look at the napkin. The ten digits are not local, but at least it is not six.
Arthur groans. His head hurts, a light ache along the back side, near his neck, that stretches upward and across toward his eyes. Everything is a blur. Foggy. Slowly, his hand rises to press against the bridge of his nose. An elbow collides with something rough. Wood. It splinters and digs into skin, scraping at it until red with a dust of white. He yelps and realizes from the sound, how far it moves, just exactly where he is.
Panic pushes away the cotton that compacts his skull. Breathing hard, he tries to slow his breath, not knowing just how much air is left. A foot stretches straight, extending to see how much of an arch before finding the end. It is close. Too close. Searching in front, he collects the same information, and his head, it touches behind. Small. Not even the size of a coffin. Not lined in silk or bedding. Just wood in the earth.
Closing his eyes (not that it matters), he tries to recall the events before. Robert, he wanted to meet. Alone. Eames allowed it. After the night before, they agreed that the former heir was harmless. Interesting but harmless.
“Trust me,” Eames says. “Fischer does not suspect a thing. The man did not recognize me when I sat next to him and recited the bloody lines from the dream--” he pauses at the beeping sound that tells him someone is on the other line and glances at it. “Arthur, I will have to call you back. See you at dinner.”
If Arthur is right, and he usually is, the forger needs to put his game face on and smiles bright through the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, it's me. The man from the bar you were, er, trying to flirt with?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I'd like to take you up if you're still interested. I'm bored,” Very bored, he chuckles an uncomfortable laugh and, “I normally don't do this.”
“I kind of guessed,” Eames admits without losing his cheery tone to hint sarcasm. “Alright, darling, where would you like to meet?”
A blindfold stretches over his eyes, knotted tight to keep from falling. I lean inward, reminding him that if he follows the rules, Arthur will be fine. “He has plenty of air as long as he stays calm,” I tell him, breathing along his ear. Nails drag along his leg, up the side, and he falls back into my warm embrace. “Just enjoy the experience, yeah?” I tease. “After all, that is part of the reason you took the job.”
Sudden, my hands wrap around his shoulders and shove him forward, catapulting him onto the bed. The knots react, turning taut in their bit of distance, too little room, too little force. He slides his his arms up weakly, wheezing and coughing into the covers. I climb over him, pressing my weight fully upon the small of his back. “Do you trust me, Eames?” I ask. “Speak up.”
“Yes.”
From the inside of my jacket, I produce a small knife, the one my uncle gave me. Opening it, it clicks, and the tip touches the base of his neck, sliding down the spine so soft that it only leaves a red, swollen streak rather than piercing blood. “Why?” I ask, idly drawing swirls against the blank, pristine canvas.
“Because,” he breathes. “You're not a killer.”
“I'm not?” I question, digging in a little deeper to summon a harsh exhale and the first draw. Tiny beads dot a trail, staining the rope. “I guess,” I continue, my voice detached, no longer able to vocalize a tone that would betray whether I speak the truth or not when I tell him, “you are right.”
“I'm going to Paris for a few nights,” Eames says, leaning against the door frame of the stairs. “You could come along, you know?”
“Busy,” Yusuf explains, nodding to a piece of paper, an order. “I have a client of my own. Now that things are back to normal. And you know how much I hate flying.”
Eames frown, “Pity.” But he moves across the shop anyway, toward the door. “You would have enjoyed it, mate. Arthur likes you, and we were going to take some time off after this job.”
“I am positive that he will enjoy it more without my presence,” Yusuf notes. “Good luck, though.”
At least it is the excuse. Truthfully, of all them, he is the one that holds some sort of conscience, an understand of the gravity in which the situation entails and its consequence. Such a thing weighs heavily upon his shoulders even after it gave him such a grand experiment.
But every scientist, every doctor, remembers the course in ethics. It is a particularly stimulating conversation that even Dominic Cobb would agree up in the end.
“We are changing the man,” Yusuf said days before boarding the plane to Los Angeles. He was unable to stand at his workplace after reading the documentation Arthur had procured, so the hours were spent slowly passing, watching the others move with freedom of knowing, full faith in themselves and their actions. It was late, while he was helping Cobb deal with his own demons, that he had some sort of realization. Ariadne had just passed by, curiosity within her eyes that blinded her principles.
Now, someone else stood in the room, rubbed his shoulders. “That is exactly what Cobb told Saito before taking the job. He knows. We all do.”
Yusuf reached up to pause Eames' hand, to trace the bumps of his knuckles with the pads of his fingers, “Do you remember the last time we tried this?”
“Of course,” Eames scoffed, upset that he thought one could forget that. It quickly passed. “The idea did not take because we were not thinking it through properly. It was too complex. This is not. This is something that's already there, so it can grow organically rather than forced.”
“How can you be so sure?” Yusuf questioned. “They have had their arguments, disagreements, as any child and parent do at one point or another. But they share a dream, do they not?”
”Fischer can begin his own empire, from the ground up, his own rules,” Eames assured. “There was nothing in our contract that said he could not, as long as Fischer Morrow is no more.”
And it is. Dissolved and disappearing. Taped in his book of notes and formulas is the last article he read before deciding that anymore of this will drive him utterly insane.
He does not need to remember. Eames, sure, he could continue to see. They have a history long before Fischer is their mark, but the others remind him of gunfire and yells, of rain and blood, and of so much pain even after they wake high above the grand cityscape.
So the request came with good timing, leaving him in Mombasa to take care of the shop and work. He is pouring the last of the contents into a container and capping it when he heard the bells chime the entrance of another patron. “Be there in a minute,” he yells while gently placing it into the box. There is just sealing it, but that can wait.
The customer is a man Eames' height with a charcoal gray suit despite the warm whether. He stands with his back turned to Yusuf. “Can I help you?”
His voice makes Yusuf freeze, his blood running cold and sweat colder as it courses down the back of his spine, “I need your help. I hear that you are the best.” He turns, proving the dread deathly accurate. Robert Fischer approaches the counter and set a bag of orange, plastic bottles with white caps on it. There were papers too. “I cannot sleep. Not without dreaming.”
He looks tired. Yusuf can see the red veins in his eyes and the dark puffiness. Even his clothes look less like the man he remembers in the pictures, having tossed and turned in them probably while on the flight. Did he come here directly from the airport? “Let me take a look,” he says after a few seconds of hesitation and opens the bag, pulling out first the papers that were medical records. Alcoholism. Insomnia. Sleep deprivation. Stress. There are prescriptions for hypnotics, barbiturates, benzodiazepines, antidepressants and other relaxants.
His frown deepens as the list continues to the small, plastic bags with stickers to show its contents. They are off the market drugs, things he thinks are long lost because they are too dangerous. Case studies ended after the first, human test subjects are found to have reactions worse than he symptoms. In the end, he had to tell himself to stop shaking because he could feel the tremor in his hand. “What seems to be the problem exactly?”
“I have dreams,” Fischer says. “Nightmares.”
Yusuf knows the answer, but he asked, “What kind of dreams?”
Fischer closes his eyes as if to help him recall. Each word is well placed, sounding almost possessed by a kind of madness that makes Yusuf hold the papers tighter to not show his fear. “Raindrops. Rivers. Gunshots. There is a bag over my head, placed by a thief, a crook pulling off the greatest heist – stealing an idea. He never expected the surprise, the bullets shooting passed his head. Misinformation almost got us killed. And a number.” He swallows, pausing. “5-2-8-4-9-1”
“Do you know what the numbers mean?”
“No.” Fischer shakes his head and pulled open his suit coat to take something out. “I have seen psychiatrists and witch doctors, sought the impossible as much as the logical, and found nothing.” It could be a gun, considering how desperate he sounds, the “I just want it to end.” But he pulls out that leather, five-hundred dollar wallet. “Whatever it might cost.”
Desperate like Cobb, Yusuf thinks and nods. “I'll see what I can do, Mr. Fischer. Give me twenty-four hours.”
I get off to roll him over, fingers gentle across the surface. “Your nipples are erect,” I notice. “And your penis is hard. You are enjoying this. Knowing your pet is somewhere, possibly injured, and you are enjoying this.” Or following me, I cannot tell. Either way, it amuses me, and I lick the hard nub, swirling my tongue. He moans, and I bite. “Shh. I never said you could make a sound.” Delicately, I continue to suck, inhaling with my mouth to take in his breast and press my teeth so that at releasing it, it is swollen, marked, and sore in the morning. His chest rises a little into it, and I trace down the line of his side again, passing the head of his cock to wipe the slick. Moving toward, I slide a wet finger into his arse and then another. He bites his lower lip, and I hook, dragging fingers along his prostate.
He groans, and I whisper, “You enjoyed it. Even as he trembled, wide-eyed and weak, you enjoyed it.” I force three and spread them. “The control. That's why. Giving each direction, knowing he would follow, he would listen, he would do anything for you, Eames, anything, and you . . .” I remove the band and replace it with my fingers, tight and stroking hard without any slick to soften the friction. “You used him.”
Robert enters the designated hotel room that had a key waiting for him in the lobby. The room is lit comfortably, giving off a warm glow in contrast to what he is feeling from the men across from him. Fear stands next to confidence, hands behind his back to not show that he is scratching at the fragile skin along the hand for some relief. I hear it barely, but his face tells enough to know.
He sighs as Uncle Peter once did and say, “Can I see him?”
Eames nods, and he begins to remove his clothes. First the vest and then the crisp, white shirt. They are folded and lied on the dresser. Shoes are next and socks inside. A belt and slacks give Robert enough to see that while he is shy, at least Eames takes good care of him. His frame is small but well-formed, the undershirt showing muscles shaped by exercise and proper nourishment. And the cock, Robert has to refrain from licking his lips at the sight, shaved nude before his eyes.
Each step toward him is slow, allowing continued observation at the pale, exquisite. The surface is soft, washed clean, prepared for the evening. He smells delicious, the only offset being the goosebumps from a room just warm enough. “You take good care of him,” he compliments. “Will you show me just how well, first?”
He believes that it will calm him, and his master complies, knowing what the plans are, what they are building toward. Undressing far quicker, they go to the bed while Robert settles in the chair next to the window. A decanter of scotch is kept there, and he pours a tumbler while they kiss, soft at first and then deeper, teeth bared, biting the lower lip. “The desk?” Eames asks after letting go, and Robert nods, raising his glass. He guides toward it, lowering the smaller form over the sleek, wood surface before pulling out a leather paddle with metal circles. Each impact is resounding, accurate and experienced upon the white flesh, cultivating it into a bright bloom.
Robert smiles, unbuttoning his fly as he watches. He strokes tenderly upon his cock, and while he admires Eames' ability, it is the silence of his pet that hardens him. Not a word is said, and the shivers retreat, restrained by what flows through his body and makes him stiff.
“Would you like to go first,” Eames offers at settling the paddle down. “To make things easier?”
“I'm not sure,” he considers, seeing the sudden, wide-eyes staring back at me.
“Oh, do not worry about him, darling,” Eames tells him, petting the red, swollen arse and then pulling back with a playful smack. “He's willing – are you not?”
“Yes, please,” he tells Robert. “Please, fuck me.”
The reservation ends at the sound of that voice, and Robert rises, releasing his slacks and stepping out of them to just his shoes and knee-high socks. He lines up behind the younger man and digs his fingers into the hips before sliding inward, the first thrust hard and searing from the little bit of slick naturally provided. This causes both men to moan as Eames moves behind and helps undress the rest. The tie, the coat, even the shirt is lost while Robert fucks, the sound thumping the wood desk again and again against the wall until he is sliding in his own come.
Robert steps back, trailing his fingers against the back and arse before letting Eames guide their toy to the bed. They move his hands behind him, Robert tying the knots from a bag at the bedside. Once they are secure, he watches, listening to the squelch, the wet, obscene sounds of Eames' cock thrusting into an arse filled with his come. He licks his lips, holding his own desires back, while stroking, bringing himself hard far quicker than he had anticipated. “Let him speak,” Robert requests as he sheds the last of his clothes and climbs onto the bed. “I want to hear him.”
“You heard him, pet,” Eames tells, and the moaning becomes loud, hitched with each thrust, the rhythm becoming too much for Robert to idly watch.
He slides beneath them, Eames planting his feet and raising his knees to bring his body up and push deeper, slowing their movement. The white, sticky come trickles out of the hole, and Robert catches the first drop onto his tongue. A soft purr exits his mouth as he teases the swollen muscle, sending more spasms through the body. “God, you are one lucky man,” he notes, pulling away to let his fingers stretch the breach further. It is so tight with Eames' cock already inside, but he manages. “Such perfection,” he muses, looking at Eames. “Such order. Are you sure you want to break it?”
“I can put him back together,” Eames tells him, and with that reassurance, Robert moves between the legs and brings himself against the back.
“Lift your hips gently,” Robert instructs, caressing the inner thigh for coaxing, the smooth surface, while his other hand moves his tip near the opening. The body reacts, listening to him, and he kisses the neck. “Good,” he murmurs into the surface, breathing the smell of sweat and soap. “Breathe in with me, will you?” A nod brushes against his ear, and as his stomach rolls inward, he pushes.
The sound is a slow, carnal union, moans threading together as each, small bob of Eames' hips sends shocks of pain and pleasure through each form. It lasts only for a few seconds, a few rises and falls of the body between them until the orgasm squeezes them both into climax.
The cab takes me back to the small, office building I bought a few weeks before, just after the last papers were signed for Fischer Morrow. I unlock the front door and step inside, not bothering with the lights as I enter the back room where boxes and crates have been brought over for temporary storage. This is what is left of my father's company – chairs and desks, a few paintings and vases, filing cabinets empty. Nothing is full. Nothing holds anything but the crate near the back corner that I open to find the frightened man staring back at me. “Arthur,” I say, extending my hand. “Apologies about before, but I could not tell you my plan. You would have not listened.”
He tries to punch me, but the sedative Yusuf supplied is still in his system, causing a sluggish action compared to my easy reaction of grabbing his wrist and pulling him up. “It's over,” I tell him. “You're free.”
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no subject
Date: 2010-12-30 10:19 pm (UTC)I admit, I absolutely loathe Arthur/Eames as a pairing, which fairly marginalises me in this fandom, but in this context it works so well, even if I have a very hard time seeing Arthur as a sub!
Yesssss, your ever-present Browning lurking in the background.
And... Eames??? D:
no subject
Date: 2010-12-31 06:10 am (UTC)A lot of us do. As I tell others, it was a very random request from someone I didn't even know for a Robert/Arthur/Eames fic that made me attempt and adore it - before, I would've never. Add on the BDSM, Browning, Fischer-centric love, and all that, and I swear I've friended everyone in this fandom with the same tastes. <3
And lol, I can only see Arthur sub because he is easily . . . molded. After you break him. Eames broke him. Somehow. Maybe even worse than Browning did with Fischer. I'm not sure. I might have to figure it out . . .
no subject
Date: 2010-12-30 11:13 pm (UTC)There needs to be more slutty-begging-for-it Eames in this fandom, I think. I like him being impatient about not being in control, but all the same I really love the idea of him getting off on giving up control. Because I hold onto the belief that, very deep down, all control freak bastards do.
The DP/rimming scene was so, so sexy, my god. You have seriously broken my brain with the hot.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-31 05:56 am (UTC)I've been wanting him begging, pleading, for a while now. And yet still the same, arrogant bastard. And now he's lost everything, just like what he took from Fischer. Huzzah!
And um, thank you? It was fun. I love how Fischer sounds like Browning when he was coaxing him . . . gah, that was glorious to write, and omg! That icon!
no subject
Date: 2010-12-31 07:29 pm (UTC)Oh, yes, things have evened out marvelously for those two. And it was a compliment, so you're welcome!
The icon is Colin Morgan from Merlin. Isn't he a cutie? :)
no subject
Date: 2011-01-01 02:48 am (UTC)And he kicks much ass. Here. Now to just get him to do the same in Incunabula, and get him and Eames to NOT HATE EACH OTHER. They need a prolific discussion in Latin or something over hot chocolate.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-01 02:52 am (UTC)Might I suggest Catullus 85? It's only two lines long, but it's the first thing that comes to mind. Really, really famous lines---but it's a good summary of what Robert and Eames might both be feeling right now, in my estimation.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-01 03:00 am (UTC)Reminds me of this: "You know when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul" - Julie-Jeanne-Eleonore de Lespinasse.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-31 06:05 am (UTC)Oh well, input: Yes, I like that. Probably other members of the staff he has delivered mail too, and have Browning watching in the background with this arrogant smirk. I love the idea that Browning has influenced him so completely that he does not see what he is doing as wrong, etc, etc. I actually want Arthur's breathplay, etc to bring him out of that darkness, just as he kind of sort of did in the dreamshare in Incunabula. Make sense?
As for the story - YAY! You like it! I'm so happy. It was great fun to piece together and figure out exactly how everything happens. I'm really tempted to continue with Fischer keeping Arthur. lol.