Inception Fic: Ars longa, vita brevis
Jan. 19th, 2011 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Ars longa, vita brevis
Word Count: 2,700
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cutting/Scarification, Fisting, Hints of D/s symbolism
Summary: Follows quite a bit after, A Conversation Piece Arthur claims Robert as his own, and Eames helps.
Author's Note: It's not a red die, Hesse! lol. If Wikipedia is translating this properly, the title, alongside their choice, is based off of: Ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile. or [The] art is long, life is short, opportunity fleeting, experiment dangerous, judgment difficult. but Arthur was so not going to do all of that in one sitting. Based from the tie-in with Eames and Fischer due to Kirsten's love for Catullus; it seemed appropriate.
I study the composition quietly, standing mere feet from it all. The dining room table is cleaned off, leaving it as bare as my skin except for the leather that wraps firm around my neck. Ropes knot at the corners closest to me, to bind my ankles should I try to fight. I do not want to. I want to be good, to show him I am ready, that I want this, but I understand. There are points when the mind no longer thinks properly, so such precautions have to be set beforehand.
At one side, upon the floor, is a towel with various tools lined in an order I cannot quite comprehend. I would like to believe that it is in steps, but the pink dildo is far too large to come before another at the other end, unless . . .
This thought ceases as his hands touch my side, gliding forward to the lower belly to cup the balls and squeeze them tightly. I lean to him and moan, feeling the crisp fabric against my bare back, the silk of his tie, and the cologne, I want to bend my head back, twist my neck, to kiss him, but I stay still in his arms, fighting the quiver through my legs and bloom. He fists my cock until it is leaking, rubbing his index along the slick before lifting it to my parched lips. “This is what you want?” he murmurs into my ear, low enough for my body to shiver if it were not shaking. I nod, but he remains just millimeters away, my mouth watering. “Tell me, Robert.”
“Yes, Arthur,” I say. “Please. I want this.”
He parts my lips, the slick sweeping across before pressing passed my teeth. I lap my tongue between the two before sucking at them, tasting it rather than noticing the thick band being placed tight around me. It is not until he pulls at it, locking it firm, that I make a muffled sound. He slides out then, and I think that perhaps it is all to prepare me, but he moves back, away from it all, a rustle of fabrics to dry his hands all I can hear as I was told to move as little as possible.
“Do you trust me?” he asks after a minute or so.
“Yes, Arthur,” I repeat, sound as the last, and a velvet blindfold covers my eyes, stealing all light and everything else but the sounds of his movement and guidance. We walk to the table, and I am turned, brought back and up to settle at the edge. He spreads my legs wide, rubbing at the inner thighs that I had shaved only this morning upon his request in our agreement.
He is pleased, his hands stroking each line and curve of muscle to draw at the first knee and calf. “You have outdone yourself, Robert,” he tells me, the rustle distracting his words as rope snakes its way around. “I thought we might have problems, but I should have not doubted your desire for this.” The other leg is done before he speaks again, trailing upward to lay me across the table. “To the end,” he instructs, and I slide to the edge.
There is a pause before he probes me, fingers dipping into a thick, heavy lubrication to circle the tight muscle that constricts at first to his presence. He does not let it deter him, entering even as the ring rebels, pushing passed it and into me with a slow but assertive thrust. I try not to moan, but my breath carries a faint hint of pleasure. He continues even so, fingering until three can move freely and spread as wide as they can alone.
Then comes the plug, the long, wide piece of rubber that stretches and relaxes as it twists with different curves and angles. “Arthur,” I whimper, feeling my need for this to end, for him to pull off those trousers and fuck me so intense despite knowing. I know that as he base hits the bone, he is going to leave it there and let the vibrations pulse against my prostate, tingling across the perineum. He is going to leave me there, aching for him, the bastard, because he knows. “Arthur . . .” I cry again as the ribbed edge grinds and halts.
“Shhhhh,” he coos. “Unless you want me to gag you as well.”
“No,” I shake my head. “It's just . . . fuck, Arthur . . .” My fingers are curled into white knuckles, unable to find any sort of friction to grasp from the polished table. “This is insane.”
Arthur pets my front, across raised bones from lying so stretched and prone. The backs of his filed nails barely cause a reaction, so I am hardly soothed. “You wanted this, remember? You said it was the only way. Because otherwise would not be enough.”
Like a dull knife, it would hardly scrape my skin. I nod, and though trembling, my arms stretch up, further exposing ribs so that he can secure my arms behind me. He skims across the surface after and kisses me. “Now lets begin.”
He steps away again to get the rubbing alcohol, the smell causing my nose to wrinkle as he applies it to the surface, cleaning off the spot just inches from my left nipple. Tempted after drying it, I buck off the table slightly from the sharpness of his blunt teeth rubbing against the hard nub, but his palm brings me still even as he twists the plug a little. “When I'm through,” he says. “You won't even remember Peter Browning.”
Pride, I hear as he retrieves what I expect is the scalpel. The man is still sore from his mistakes, the job that would have gone more smoothly had he known. This is an act for both of us, and I want it even as he draws the first cut. The edge pierces through with an ease, I know, but it carries the same reaction as any other would being cut lucid. I bite my lower lip, crying into the cavity with eyes clamped shut beneath the velvet. Hot tears spill down, and I feel my heart wanting to jump from my chest. Breathing erratic, it stops, but I do not.
Not until I feel the opposite, his tongue dragging across the warm trickle upon my side and press of his lips just below the first cut. “It'll be over soon,” he promises. “Just breathe.”
I lift my chin just enough for him to see the nod, swallowing back a lump in my throat that feels larger than it should be when pressed by the collar. He continues, and I grit my teeth. What he means is not the execution, but the pain. He is careful and slow while speaking in a soft monotone that I draw in until I am sated. His voice washes against me, filling my body like a drug, the adrenaline taking over. At some point, it all fades into the background, the cuts opening more than just blood and raw flesh. There is euphoria, the endorphins expelled, and I am silent, still, only able to sense the blade, each move so precise that I hold no fear. I trust Arthur with my life.
He finishes at the line of the last rib, pulling away with a replacement of gauze. “You did good,” he tells me, his fingers combing through my hair. Something damp touches my forehead, from the palm, and he kisses me again. I taste the salty iron and moan his name. His lips part, smiling against me, and he lifts, “Soon. You need to be patient.”
“Patience,” I breathe, licking my lips of his saliva mingled with my blood and come. It might be the adrenaline, but I want more. “This is not a board meeting, Arthur.”
“I don't want you to get an infection,” he tells me, pressing another kiss upon my forehead. The gauze is lifted, replaced by a fresh layer, then some ointment I recognize from returning home from the hospital. His fingers are gentle, but even as I try and concentrate, I cannot make up the design in my head. I only know because we discussed it, the three of us: Ars longa, vita brevis Another layer is laid on with tape to keep it secure, the piece breaking, and with it on the table he traces bones. “God, you are beautiful.”
The heat rises, but this time it is in my cheeks, “Ar-” he cuts off my disbelief with a kiss, his tongue breaching to swipe against my own. His hand runs down to fist my cock again, and I moan into him, wanting so much to wrap my hand around that tie of his and pull him closer. But he continues there, stroking me hard while kissing me until my head arches back. A second hand presses beneath the balls, and I surrender fully.
He is not done yet. His hand might lie flat upon my cock, but I feel him across my stomach, tongue tracing lines across pale flesh until he is licking up the anticipated spill he cultivated. I moan at the wet warmth enveloping, so sensitive that I want to beg him to stop. The sounds shift to whimpers, high mewls as he draws me in further until I am certain I am touching the back of his throat. Like that, he pulls out the toy, letting it drop to the floor to shove his fingers in. The tips rub strategically, tongue stretching to the full length to drag across. It sends me towards an orgasm for a second time, and I pray that we are finished, that he will unlock the tight ring that grips around my cock and balls. But he leaves it there, kissing it.
“Tease,” I murmur, grin through the pain, my thoughts filled with a mix of fog and sensitivity that rivals even that of my uncle. He has never been like this with me before, and I wonder what has caused such a spark in his normally reserved form.
But part of me knows as he dips his hands to bring a palm full of lubrication, smoothing it along his hands with obscene noises that only become louder upon entering my arse. I am trembling around him, my body weak and vulnerable, spread wide from his hand. Each breath is long, ragged from trying to take in air, caught in saliva and mucus.
“Robert,” he says through the squelch we make from all the lube and tension. “You, god Robert, your body, it wants this. It wants to take every inch of my hand, and wrist, and whole arm if it could.” I feel an attempt through my legs to try and push off, to take him,and his other hand smooths against my stomach. “Slowly, love. Breathe.”
He knows where he is taking me, that I can barely control his movements as the inner workings of my body as it clamps down and around his hand, seizing around it, wanting to keep him, keep Arthur, with me. Each reaction is slow, moving accordingly to my twists; I will only know this because I will wake in the morning, still tired but clean and not injured, not lying in some hospital bed explaining to the doctor why my prostate gland is swollen. I can feel him grinding his bony knuckles against it, his fingers much smaller than Uncle Peter's, much less, but it brings more. They use this moment so differently. My uncle never thought of his actions during the moment, just that he accomplished them, achieved his goal. Arthur, he is with me each step, every point, thinking it through. It might not widen as much, less forceful even, but the pressure is so much more that I cannot speak, cannot even beg as I used to for him to stop this madness.
I am lost in it, high and so wrapped around him until the tiny pricks of pain rise along my belly. Arthur suspects this, having asked how long I have been fisted before. He wants to drag me further, passed the point Uncle Peter did, but I am breaking, starting to cry from the pressure. He knows this and releases the ring, pulling his body just high enough to bring me into him, to swallow as my hips rise uncontrollably by the muscles along my back alone because I'm stretched. I do not even sense the back of his throat this time, or the hums to coax me through. As I said, I am lost, and only he is there to find me, to bring me back.
Everything is white beneath the blindfold, stinging from tears. My voice is hoarse as I try to speak, murmuring something. Arthur still has his hand in me, all the way up passed the wrist I suspect. There is a patience I lack in him as he waits for my breathing to slow before twisting to pull out. “Eames,” he calls out, and there are loud footsteps upon the floorboards then hands around my wrists. I can barely breathe through the mucus, but his scent is just as distinguishable, just as his kiss is upon my lips.
Trying to speak again, the darkness lifts, and a damp towel touches beneath my eyes. Eames washes the dried trail of crusty salt mixed with fresh slick, the layers coming off just as easy as the second cloth that wipes against my arse. They are quiet in this, neither speaking as their hands touch me, both so serene. I can see it in their eyes, upon their faces. Eames goes behind my neck to remove the collar, because the sweat beneath it might itch. “No,” I manage, unable to lift my hands in revolt after my arms relaxed to my sides. “Keep it.”
“Are you sure, pet?” Eames asks, pulling stray hairs from my forehead to kiss it as Arthur had.
I nod, “Will you lock it?” This was never part of the discussion, but it was always a possibility. When I am ready, and he nods, knowing that finally, I am. Slowly, his hands reach beneath my head and legs, lifting me off the table with one, swift movement and twist. I am carried to the bedroom and laid beneath the covers. I see Arthur in the corner of my eye, removing his clothes and folding them to join me. He slides in and moves close so that my arms do not have to reach far to find him.
Eames is moving the PASIV device, the thump at the end telling me, for my eyes are closed, too exhausted to take full concentration. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.
“I need to know, Eames.”
“This . . . it's not enough?”
My eyes open to look at him, the dark eyes still sullen despite all we had just been through. So much worry. “Please,” I murmur into his chest, nuzzling into the warm as fingers wrap around his wrist where the needle should go in. The spot is still dark from the last time, all those attempts, so many tries. I squeeze tightly. “Please, Arthur, believe in this.”
Arthur does not speak for a long moment, but then he does not need to. Turning to his side, he embraces me fully, letting my head slide into his body like two souls wrapped together into one without the dreams to hold us together. Eames pulls the device away then and returns shortly after to remove his own clothes and settle on the opposite side. There is a tug upon the collar, turning tight a little around my throat. Then a click as the weight of a lock secures this complete.
I know in my dreams that all there will be is Arthur and Eames.
Word Count: 2,700
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Cutting/Scarification, Fisting, Hints of D/s symbolism
Summary: Follows quite a bit after, A Conversation Piece Arthur claims Robert as his own, and Eames helps.
Author's Note: It's not a red die, Hesse! lol. If Wikipedia is translating this properly, the title, alongside their choice, is based off of: Ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile. or [The] art is long, life is short, opportunity fleeting, experiment dangerous, judgment difficult. but Arthur was so not going to do all of that in one sitting. Based from the tie-in with Eames and Fischer due to Kirsten's love for Catullus; it seemed appropriate.
I study the composition quietly, standing mere feet from it all. The dining room table is cleaned off, leaving it as bare as my skin except for the leather that wraps firm around my neck. Ropes knot at the corners closest to me, to bind my ankles should I try to fight. I do not want to. I want to be good, to show him I am ready, that I want this, but I understand. There are points when the mind no longer thinks properly, so such precautions have to be set beforehand.
At one side, upon the floor, is a towel with various tools lined in an order I cannot quite comprehend. I would like to believe that it is in steps, but the pink dildo is far too large to come before another at the other end, unless . . .
This thought ceases as his hands touch my side, gliding forward to the lower belly to cup the balls and squeeze them tightly. I lean to him and moan, feeling the crisp fabric against my bare back, the silk of his tie, and the cologne, I want to bend my head back, twist my neck, to kiss him, but I stay still in his arms, fighting the quiver through my legs and bloom. He fists my cock until it is leaking, rubbing his index along the slick before lifting it to my parched lips. “This is what you want?” he murmurs into my ear, low enough for my body to shiver if it were not shaking. I nod, but he remains just millimeters away, my mouth watering. “Tell me, Robert.”
“Yes, Arthur,” I say. “Please. I want this.”
He parts my lips, the slick sweeping across before pressing passed my teeth. I lap my tongue between the two before sucking at them, tasting it rather than noticing the thick band being placed tight around me. It is not until he pulls at it, locking it firm, that I make a muffled sound. He slides out then, and I think that perhaps it is all to prepare me, but he moves back, away from it all, a rustle of fabrics to dry his hands all I can hear as I was told to move as little as possible.
“Do you trust me?” he asks after a minute or so.
“Yes, Arthur,” I repeat, sound as the last, and a velvet blindfold covers my eyes, stealing all light and everything else but the sounds of his movement and guidance. We walk to the table, and I am turned, brought back and up to settle at the edge. He spreads my legs wide, rubbing at the inner thighs that I had shaved only this morning upon his request in our agreement.
He is pleased, his hands stroking each line and curve of muscle to draw at the first knee and calf. “You have outdone yourself, Robert,” he tells me, the rustle distracting his words as rope snakes its way around. “I thought we might have problems, but I should have not doubted your desire for this.” The other leg is done before he speaks again, trailing upward to lay me across the table. “To the end,” he instructs, and I slide to the edge.
There is a pause before he probes me, fingers dipping into a thick, heavy lubrication to circle the tight muscle that constricts at first to his presence. He does not let it deter him, entering even as the ring rebels, pushing passed it and into me with a slow but assertive thrust. I try not to moan, but my breath carries a faint hint of pleasure. He continues even so, fingering until three can move freely and spread as wide as they can alone.
Then comes the plug, the long, wide piece of rubber that stretches and relaxes as it twists with different curves and angles. “Arthur,” I whimper, feeling my need for this to end, for him to pull off those trousers and fuck me so intense despite knowing. I know that as he base hits the bone, he is going to leave it there and let the vibrations pulse against my prostate, tingling across the perineum. He is going to leave me there, aching for him, the bastard, because he knows. “Arthur . . .” I cry again as the ribbed edge grinds and halts.
“Shhhhh,” he coos. “Unless you want me to gag you as well.”
“No,” I shake my head. “It's just . . . fuck, Arthur . . .” My fingers are curled into white knuckles, unable to find any sort of friction to grasp from the polished table. “This is insane.”
Arthur pets my front, across raised bones from lying so stretched and prone. The backs of his filed nails barely cause a reaction, so I am hardly soothed. “You wanted this, remember? You said it was the only way. Because otherwise would not be enough.”
Like a dull knife, it would hardly scrape my skin. I nod, and though trembling, my arms stretch up, further exposing ribs so that he can secure my arms behind me. He skims across the surface after and kisses me. “Now lets begin.”
He steps away again to get the rubbing alcohol, the smell causing my nose to wrinkle as he applies it to the surface, cleaning off the spot just inches from my left nipple. Tempted after drying it, I buck off the table slightly from the sharpness of his blunt teeth rubbing against the hard nub, but his palm brings me still even as he twists the plug a little. “When I'm through,” he says. “You won't even remember Peter Browning.”
Pride, I hear as he retrieves what I expect is the scalpel. The man is still sore from his mistakes, the job that would have gone more smoothly had he known. This is an act for both of us, and I want it even as he draws the first cut. The edge pierces through with an ease, I know, but it carries the same reaction as any other would being cut lucid. I bite my lower lip, crying into the cavity with eyes clamped shut beneath the velvet. Hot tears spill down, and I feel my heart wanting to jump from my chest. Breathing erratic, it stops, but I do not.
Not until I feel the opposite, his tongue dragging across the warm trickle upon my side and press of his lips just below the first cut. “It'll be over soon,” he promises. “Just breathe.”
I lift my chin just enough for him to see the nod, swallowing back a lump in my throat that feels larger than it should be when pressed by the collar. He continues, and I grit my teeth. What he means is not the execution, but the pain. He is careful and slow while speaking in a soft monotone that I draw in until I am sated. His voice washes against me, filling my body like a drug, the adrenaline taking over. At some point, it all fades into the background, the cuts opening more than just blood and raw flesh. There is euphoria, the endorphins expelled, and I am silent, still, only able to sense the blade, each move so precise that I hold no fear. I trust Arthur with my life.
He finishes at the line of the last rib, pulling away with a replacement of gauze. “You did good,” he tells me, his fingers combing through my hair. Something damp touches my forehead, from the palm, and he kisses me again. I taste the salty iron and moan his name. His lips part, smiling against me, and he lifts, “Soon. You need to be patient.”
“Patience,” I breathe, licking my lips of his saliva mingled with my blood and come. It might be the adrenaline, but I want more. “This is not a board meeting, Arthur.”
“I don't want you to get an infection,” he tells me, pressing another kiss upon my forehead. The gauze is lifted, replaced by a fresh layer, then some ointment I recognize from returning home from the hospital. His fingers are gentle, but even as I try and concentrate, I cannot make up the design in my head. I only know because we discussed it, the three of us: Ars longa, vita brevis Another layer is laid on with tape to keep it secure, the piece breaking, and with it on the table he traces bones. “God, you are beautiful.”
The heat rises, but this time it is in my cheeks, “Ar-” he cuts off my disbelief with a kiss, his tongue breaching to swipe against my own. His hand runs down to fist my cock again, and I moan into him, wanting so much to wrap my hand around that tie of his and pull him closer. But he continues there, stroking me hard while kissing me until my head arches back. A second hand presses beneath the balls, and I surrender fully.
He is not done yet. His hand might lie flat upon my cock, but I feel him across my stomach, tongue tracing lines across pale flesh until he is licking up the anticipated spill he cultivated. I moan at the wet warmth enveloping, so sensitive that I want to beg him to stop. The sounds shift to whimpers, high mewls as he draws me in further until I am certain I am touching the back of his throat. Like that, he pulls out the toy, letting it drop to the floor to shove his fingers in. The tips rub strategically, tongue stretching to the full length to drag across. It sends me towards an orgasm for a second time, and I pray that we are finished, that he will unlock the tight ring that grips around my cock and balls. But he leaves it there, kissing it.
“Tease,” I murmur, grin through the pain, my thoughts filled with a mix of fog and sensitivity that rivals even that of my uncle. He has never been like this with me before, and I wonder what has caused such a spark in his normally reserved form.
But part of me knows as he dips his hands to bring a palm full of lubrication, smoothing it along his hands with obscene noises that only become louder upon entering my arse. I am trembling around him, my body weak and vulnerable, spread wide from his hand. Each breath is long, ragged from trying to take in air, caught in saliva and mucus.
“Robert,” he says through the squelch we make from all the lube and tension. “You, god Robert, your body, it wants this. It wants to take every inch of my hand, and wrist, and whole arm if it could.” I feel an attempt through my legs to try and push off, to take him,and his other hand smooths against my stomach. “Slowly, love. Breathe.”
He knows where he is taking me, that I can barely control his movements as the inner workings of my body as it clamps down and around his hand, seizing around it, wanting to keep him, keep Arthur, with me. Each reaction is slow, moving accordingly to my twists; I will only know this because I will wake in the morning, still tired but clean and not injured, not lying in some hospital bed explaining to the doctor why my prostate gland is swollen. I can feel him grinding his bony knuckles against it, his fingers much smaller than Uncle Peter's, much less, but it brings more. They use this moment so differently. My uncle never thought of his actions during the moment, just that he accomplished them, achieved his goal. Arthur, he is with me each step, every point, thinking it through. It might not widen as much, less forceful even, but the pressure is so much more that I cannot speak, cannot even beg as I used to for him to stop this madness.
I am lost in it, high and so wrapped around him until the tiny pricks of pain rise along my belly. Arthur suspects this, having asked how long I have been fisted before. He wants to drag me further, passed the point Uncle Peter did, but I am breaking, starting to cry from the pressure. He knows this and releases the ring, pulling his body just high enough to bring me into him, to swallow as my hips rise uncontrollably by the muscles along my back alone because I'm stretched. I do not even sense the back of his throat this time, or the hums to coax me through. As I said, I am lost, and only he is there to find me, to bring me back.
Everything is white beneath the blindfold, stinging from tears. My voice is hoarse as I try to speak, murmuring something. Arthur still has his hand in me, all the way up passed the wrist I suspect. There is a patience I lack in him as he waits for my breathing to slow before twisting to pull out. “Eames,” he calls out, and there are loud footsteps upon the floorboards then hands around my wrists. I can barely breathe through the mucus, but his scent is just as distinguishable, just as his kiss is upon my lips.
Trying to speak again, the darkness lifts, and a damp towel touches beneath my eyes. Eames washes the dried trail of crusty salt mixed with fresh slick, the layers coming off just as easy as the second cloth that wipes against my arse. They are quiet in this, neither speaking as their hands touch me, both so serene. I can see it in their eyes, upon their faces. Eames goes behind my neck to remove the collar, because the sweat beneath it might itch. “No,” I manage, unable to lift my hands in revolt after my arms relaxed to my sides. “Keep it.”
“Are you sure, pet?” Eames asks, pulling stray hairs from my forehead to kiss it as Arthur had.
I nod, “Will you lock it?” This was never part of the discussion, but it was always a possibility. When I am ready, and he nods, knowing that finally, I am. Slowly, his hands reach beneath my head and legs, lifting me off the table with one, swift movement and twist. I am carried to the bedroom and laid beneath the covers. I see Arthur in the corner of my eye, removing his clothes and folding them to join me. He slides in and moves close so that my arms do not have to reach far to find him.
Eames is moving the PASIV device, the thump at the end telling me, for my eyes are closed, too exhausted to take full concentration. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.
“I need to know, Eames.”
“This . . . it's not enough?”
My eyes open to look at him, the dark eyes still sullen despite all we had just been through. So much worry. “Please,” I murmur into his chest, nuzzling into the warm as fingers wrap around his wrist where the needle should go in. The spot is still dark from the last time, all those attempts, so many tries. I squeeze tightly. “Please, Arthur, believe in this.”
Arthur does not speak for a long moment, but then he does not need to. Turning to his side, he embraces me fully, letting my head slide into his body like two souls wrapped together into one without the dreams to hold us together. Eames pulls the device away then and returns shortly after to remove his own clothes and settle on the opposite side. There is a tug upon the collar, turning tight a little around my throat. Then a click as the weight of a lock secures this complete.
I know in my dreams that all there will be is Arthur and Eames.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 01:25 am (UTC)My uncle never thought of his actions during the moment, just that he accomplished them, achieved his goal. Arthur, he is with me each step, every point, thinking it through.
THIS IS SO ARTHUR. STOP MAKING ME LIKE ARTHUR. I DON'T WANT TO LIKE ARTHUR. *kicks and screams* But really, just... beautiful. He's so utterly calculated and thoughtful. He seems to understand and sense everything.
And the COLLAR oh god. Just... well... the whole bondage element of it, really. And that Robert wants it, asks for it even, just seals the whole thing. Also, seriously, I never even KNEW I had a fisting kink until I came to this fandom. Damn.
Was the rhyme in the last sentence intentional? Because it's rather lovely.
I LOVE YOU TOO, BB
Date: 2011-01-20 01:51 am (UTC)He seems . . . comfortable in it. Like Arthur and Eames are so used to dreams, but he is not. He lives in physical things, solid ideas that can be held.
. . . lol, when I wrote it, I first thought "I DON'T EVEN LIKE A/E" and yet there it still is.
Re: I LOVE YOU TOO, BB
Date: 2011-01-20 02:01 am (UTC)Oh god that reasoning is so perfect and beautiful. Just... yessssss. I suppose it's very grounding, in a way, as well? That the physicality is what ties him to reality, especially with what's going on in his head. (That was my thought process behind the gratuitous S/M in For The Wars, anyway.) So, in the same way, the scarification... not only does it tie him to Arthur, but to something real. The duality is really nice, the interplay between dreams and waking life.
Re: I LOVE YOU TOO, BB
Date: 2011-01-20 02:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:01 am (UTC)*whimpers*
On second thought, YES PLEASE, ARTHUR. You only think you're putting your mark on Fischer. In reality, HE'S ALL MINE. ALLLLLLLL MIIIIIIINE. Marking is one of my favorite kinks. Have we had this discussion? I'm sure we have, BECAUSE MY FAVE, THAT'S WHY. <3
I love how they lock the collar on him in this part. It's just, wow, fantastic use of the kind of relationship they've been having for ultimate closure. Honestly, I'm glad that Browning is gone. I was sort of sadistically rooting for him in the beginning but I know that Robert is better off without him.
I can't go off without saying this, but the last line: I know in my dreams that all there will be is Arthur and Eames.
Tell me honestly, Julie, HOW MUCH DID IT HURT TO TYPE THAT? Lol. I know you are not Robert, but still. As an E/R shipper, it must have been a little painful. :-p
Do you have any idea about when/where you're planning to conclude this series? I'm just curious. :)
ETA FOR FISTING: Where the hell did my brain go that I didn't mention that? OR THE GIANT DILDO? (It better be pink, okay? AND SPARKLY~) But I amaze, okay? Best fisting ever. Arthur, please never stop doing these things to Robert, okay? Okay.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:24 am (UTC)YOU ARE ENTIRELY RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS, JSYK
Date: 2011-01-20 02:32 am (UTC)RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 02:35 am (UTC)Now, excuse me. BRB, LOLING 4EVER.
Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:14 am (UTC)Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:15 am (UTC)It's what I did with the pic I posted of JGL's bare ass, LOL.
Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:20 am (UTC)?
hurrrhurrrrr.
Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:27 am (UTC)Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:34 am (UTC)Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 03:39 am (UTC)Re: RIGHTCLICKSAVE
Date: 2011-01-20 12:00 pm (UTC)I am mesmerized by it.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:18 am (UTC)IT HURT. OMG. My mind was thinking "DELETE, DELETE!" but my writing self reminded me that this is Robert, NOT ME. As you said. Ouch.
And never? lol. As long as I continue finding interesting kinks to put them in. Whyfore do you ask?
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:22 am (UTC)I THOUGHT SO! I just saw it and immediately felt a twinge of empathic pain for you, deep down in my soul.
Never is a great answer! :D
I was just curious, like I said. I know I get bored writing on one thing too long (though I could pretty much read this series forever, JUST SO YOU KNOW) and didn't know if you were feeling the lag at this point or not.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:29 am (UTC)I still want to attempt the Nash/Robert at some point, too. Ok, ok, Robert is my favorite character, s'long as I can put him in situations, we're good. lol.
Plus there can never be enough fisting. EVER. or DP.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:33 am (UTC)Saito and sushi would make my life, though. Also, Nash/Robert, mmm yes. Did you read this fic with them?
Robert is a total psychopath, so it made me think of you, lol.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-20 02:46 am (UTC)