Inception Fic: Push the Limits

[azuremew]

Title: Push the Limits
Word Count: 1741
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: light bondage, dp, marking
Summary:
Author's Notes: Follows Rise of Icarus but can be read alone. This piece is for kirstenlouise and fabiennen whom both requested DP and helped me figure Eames out. <3

And now I introduce y'all to Enigma, whom some have heard, others have not, and I am using for title, background music, and inspiration.

Basic instincts, social life
Paradoxes side by side

Don't submit to stupid rules.
Be yourself and not a fool.
Don't accept average habits.
Open your heart and push the limits.

Enigma, “Push the Limits”

The brush is so light, I barely move. Pulling me away from the depths of a dream that upon waking, I am uncertain if I am still asleep or awake. My hands are overhead me, losing sensation at the finger tips, the blood unable to flow with the tightness of rope that keep them still. I mutter something, a muffled cry, but it barely escapes passed the dryness of my throat, let alone the knot secured in my mouth. Blinking into awareness, I search the room. No one is there. Behind me, perhaps? I struggle, wanting to kill Arthur for waking me like this.

Then I realize he never would.

It is then, in my stillness, that the hand moves across my cheek again, fingers caressing the soft flesh to the high cheekbones and sharp chin. Elegant features, someone once said. Striking in photograph. Even more so, it would seem, as he takes in each angle, every line, until the lip. I wish he'd stop this and struggle against the knots, Arthur's knots.

Pulling away, a chaste kiss is left instead, and then a whisper, a confession, “I did not want to do this, but honestly, did you think we would sit down over a cup of tea?”

It confirms. Eames.

He waits until I am finished, done trying, understanding that I have no chance at freedom. Stuck, I am forced to listen, and I know that I don't want to. My eyes close, focusing on elsewhere before the first words tell me the lies he will speak to make things better, for Arthur. But his hands. They speak for him, caressing the legs with a delicate softness that is difficult to believe he could ever possess. I wonder if I'm dreaming again. It has to be.

A firm smack along my ass brings me back. “You won't believe me, Robert, but I want this to work out. For all of us, I want us to make sense.” Another. Clearly, he knows how to hit when he's sober. The slow burn rises, filling my body with a heat that remains even as he pauses to speak. “But I have seen people fall apart before and nearly destroy everything.”

He should talk, I think, but my voice tells otherwise, a moan slipping from parted lips at the tip of his finger tracing lines along the sensitive, red print upon white canvas. “I did not know nearly as much as I should have about you, Robert, and now that I do, I worry. The thought of you losing control, hurting Arthur . . .” his hand pulls away.

And I twist, ignoring the tightness, the sudden pain and knowledge of a dull ache to come. Opening my eyes wide, I see him staring back at me For once, they are not optimistic but glassy, reflecting the soft moonlight, and the same emotion inside of me. Blinking, I feel the it slide down the sides of my head, freed from the wells of anger, changed. He leans in and kisses the salty lines away. Lips pressed then tongue while the knot loosens to a new sensation.

I try to speak, but the dryness of my throat catches the words into a cough. As it eases, he captures my lips again, wetting them with his own, his tongue sweeping across in a deep sound from the depths of his throat. Droplets trickle like rain upon the same path they passed before. He stops, and I whisper shakily, “I won't, I won't ever, I promise . . .”

“I know,” he tells me. “But it won't be you, but the memory . . .” Pausing, so close, I stretch my neck to kiss him, urge him to continue against the rapid heartbeat that thumps against my quiet calm. “I am sorry.” His throat moves, swallowing back pride, the facade. It falls away to reveal guilt, fear, regret . . .

Forgiveness is spoken in kisses, the contact so light in contrast to the harshness of before. He reaches up and undoes the knots, letting me go, without a word to tell me to leave. I do not, of course. My hands wrap around him, pulling him closer still. “I would have not met either of you if not for that job,” I murmur into his ear, biting the lobe into a moan. The sound brings my hips forward, my erection crashing into his with the roughness of denim between us. He pulls it away, our bodies turning frantic to the need we have buried since longing for each other at Fischer and Morrow.

Subtle glances. Hinted smiles. If not for my father dying, I would have said yes to Uncle Peter. I would have allowed this stranger that worked in our offices the pleasures of our dark desires just to feel him inside and out. My tongue traces every inch of him, tasting heated flesh that rises with each kiss, aching for more. By the time I reach his cock, it is hard and waiting for me, the tension so intense that the first taste lacks the tentative, teasing licks I would prefer. His hips thrust upward, and I gag, coughing a little. It causes a retreat, but I grab his him by the legs, holding so tight that it will bruise by morning to keep him there as I bury him in me. My nose tickles at the dark curls, and I breathe in deeply the scent of sweat and arousal.

Looking up, I am pleased to see that his head has fallen back, neck arching to a body taught before me. Fallen apart, his cock slick with saliva and the first droplets of come that I barely manage to not lick up greedily, I slide up and perch my tight hole upon him, holding, keeping this all together while he lies not doing a thing. The first few rises come from my knees, along the lower legs to the feet planted firm against the mattress, but Eames is unwilling to let me slide so easily, so carefully, and demands his cock to be fully taken. He pushes upward, sending a loud groan that fills the room, opening doors to a volume we both embrace.

His body pulls us back so that he props against the headboard, able to extend his arms and grasp my lower back and ass. Squeezing it, he pulls back for another smack. It burns through me, the spot still sensitive, even surpassing the searing stretch of consuming every inch of him. I moan, never sensing ,never even noticing, that we are not alone until Eames' eyes go wide, and he smiles, “Join us, won't you darling?”

My head twists a little to see Arthur standing there in the doorway. His slender form a dark silhouette from the lights turned off and his plans to simply join me in bed. “Please,” I am begging. “Please, Arthur.”

Those words, they are all he needs to pull away at the necktie and come closer. I do not feel the slight shifts, the changes in pressure as his knees touch the covers and slide to us. His presence is not noticed until the first touch, and that is exhilarating. His lips brush against my shoulder and downward, stopping just before the rough edges of tape and bandage, while hands rake at opposite direction to the body, sending me into a point to where I can no longer control.

Eames takes over, pushing the rhythm hard as Arthur caresses the fine, red print along my ass. I know what he's doing. While undressing, he's taking it all in, observing us, trying to understand what he missed and restrain the throbbing bulge I know is underneath his trousers. Mesmerized, it would seem. It is not something we can agree with. “Arthur,” Eames calls out, his voice loud, “Quit taking your bloody time, yeah?”

I feel his lips widen in a smirk, eyes likely darting over my shoulder, as he murmurs, “Yeah,” in agreement. His arm snakes around my body, crossing over the chest to hook upward. Fingers rub against the open, dry mouth. “Suck these for a moment,” he tells me, not wanting to hurt me. They both know I've done this before. Several times before. But knowing what this is, I flick my tongue greedily at his fingers, swirling to wet them enough to finger me further open.

The last articles of clothing are discarded, flung to floor, before the heat of his chest crashes into my back, followed by his cock squirting pre-come between us. His jaw claims part of my shoulder, sucking along the flesh to leave a mark as red and swollen as Eames' while situating himself. I am too unraveled by their attempts to take me together to sense he fingers forcing their way in. Too overwhelmed by his other hand that finds my nipple and pinches it, twisting it like I've told him to. And Eames fingernails raking down my legs.

But when he stops and lays his hands around my waist, stopping us just as Eames' is nearly out, I know what he is doing. “Fuck, Arthur . . .” I murmur just as the tip pushes. My blunt teeth clamp upon the lower lip, tearing at dried, cracked, dead skin until the taste of iron trickles into my mouth. “Fuck,” I moan, and Eames brings himself up to wrap around my neck, pulls me to him, and devours those crimson droplets as much as my cries.

It is Arthur that moves now, slower, each pull tense as we try to hold back a little longer. But Eames' hands are digging along my spine, tearing at flesh until he clenches so tight that I think he might rip it off. He spills inside of me, the slick giving Arthur the ability to move more quickly, and he does so, pushing himself further in and against our raw, sensitive nerves.

Eames remains there, letting me go so that Arthur can hold me, wrap his arms around me again, as he fucks us both. While he breathes unsteady, he fists my cock, and I am trembling, already too near to climax. It pours through every inch of me, seizing muscles around Arthur that allows only a few more stokes before he joins us.

Comments

[the-azure-blue.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :) Strangely enough, Eames beating Fischer did the trick. It made me have to think why he did that, and you know how I am with putting all of my prompts into the same series if I can. It was a lot of fun.

Dude . . . hats and bunnies . . . we do not need to go there.