Inception Fic: Separation Anxiety
Feb. 26th, 2011 03:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Separation Anxiety (Or "The Places We Would Fuck")
Word Count: 2,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hints of D/s symbolism, alcohol, mental disorder, bad poetry
Summary: Incunabula, Series 3: Arthur goes on a job, and Robert deals with being alone.
Author's Note: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hesselives bid at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
qldfloodauction She asked for Arthur/Robert fluff, and I said that if it's related to Incunabula, it's going to be as fluffy as Stephen King's Langoliers. I wanted to write a story that shows in the vivid, snapshot way she writes, just as the photographs. I hope it works, darling. It was loads of fun to experiment with. Photos belong to Hesse with the exception of the last one; that one's mine.
The idea, it is difficult. “Please don't go,” I beg, holding his hand.
“I have to,” he tells me, pulling away. “I will write.”
He does. Often. Though damned the postal service, it takes forever.
Lost in a path of flights, carriers, and strangers' hands, it arrives two weeks later.
Sitting on the couch, in his shirt, the television a monotone of infomercials.
Unshaven, I have not showered in three.
Single digits in New York, I walk in slippers and a bathrobe, boxers beneath.
The cold barely touches me until the warmth seizes my heart.
met with the contact
it is fucking cold outside
wishing you were here
I laugh, think to myself: Arthur, you cannot write poetry.
Puffs of white exit my lips. They close, and a smile remains.
Two days later, another arrives.
i dreamt of us here
alone, naked, you and me
i will show you soon
I try to imagine it that night, before I go to sleep.
Hide and seek, like children, he finds me, and we kiss.
My mouth opens, letting sounds slip of need, whispering his name, “Arthur.”
Begging, “Arthur.”
I am slick and sticky, balmy from sweat in the midst of winter.
But never had I slept so well alone.
a private corner
my hand beneath the table
you get to order
A phone call is made to the hotel, given for emergencies.
Sent to the restaurant, an order is taken.
Delivered to his door - dinner, roses, and wine.
There is no signature, but he will know.
A phone call comes before the next message.
Arthur, annoyed, is disappointed at my decision.
Disappointed like my father, Uncle Peter, everyone before . . .
“You could have blown my cover,” his venom.
It hardly touches me, “Arthur, no one knows that you like chicken soup.”
The broth, warm and savory from fresh herbs.
It does nothing to help. “Don't contact me again, understand?”
Lips press, and I say in a flat tone, “Yes, sir.”
Hanging up, I breathe hard. The collar itches, my finger wrapping round he D-ring.
It twists from side to side, leather scraping against my skin. Pulling, nothing breaks.
I find a screwdriver, try to pry open the lock, pop it. Send the point right into my hand.
A knife is just as useless, barely cutting it. Held in my hand, I stare.
Holding it tight, shakily, it steadies over a vein.
The ringing of the phone is not as loud as the ringing in my ears.
But the message sounds clear: “Robert, I am sorry. Please pick up.
“Eames will be there in a few days.”
A pause. “Please pick up. Robert?”
Barely focused, the last words hit, “I love you.”
He hangs up, the knife drops, and I collapse to the floor.
the job is tonight
another letter, few days
you know the rules, love
I know them too well. No contact, no letters or phone calls.
They go underground, split up, for days, sometimes weeks.
To resurface when all is clear, no trails left by careless footprints.
One last meet, then it is over.
For how long, I wonder. How long ago?
I sit that night with a glass of the very same wine,
Drink heavily until the bottle is dry.
The photograph sits on my lap.
While the glass slips to the ground.
The crash startles me into alertness, briefly.
Then I am gone again.
Too long.
Someone lifts me, but my vision is cloudy.
“Arthur,” I whisper.
“No pet,” Eames responds, kissing my temple.
Breathing in, his cologne is thick. My stomach turns.
He holds back my hair while water runs.
Steam billows out, hot upon exhale.
“We need,” I start, settling back from the porcelain.
“We need to stop meeting up like this.”
He laughs, and I smile. He washes me, and I let him.
Close to Eames, tasting his kiss, I fall asleep eventually to be woken suddenly.
Twisting, turning, his hands are around my arms, holding me, repeating, “Robert . . .”
Fear, it moves through me, into my eyes, through my shivering body. “Eames.”
I need Arthur. I need him.
He understands. Words unspoken, read upon my face.
Each strike is hard, precise along my ass until it is swollen red.
Tears streak my face, phlegm in my throat, until all I know is him, a temporary fix.
“Eames,” I cry. “Now, please.” I beg. “Please, damn it.”
His cock, dripping with come, pushes in alone, tearing its way through.
I yell from the heat, the pain searing white, and grip the sheets.
His hands settle over mine, finding a slow, agonizing rhythm.
Teeth clench around the lock, pulling back, I choke and climax.
“I'm sorry,” I whimper, repeatedly. “So sorry.” Afterward.
“It's okay, pet,” he murmurs, combing my hair. “I miss him too.”
the extraction failed
i am at fault, i know this
yet, i am not mad
i am not upset
because i know why, robert
and i do not care
His words are enigmatic, though lacking the symbolism, the cherry blossoms.
I wonder what he means, but Eames knows, their secret in their private circle.
“Tell me,” I yell across the room. He is walking toward the bedroom.
Turning, he says simply, “I think this is something that Arthur should explain. In person.”
Impatience, since finding freedom, moves me. Balled fists, I reply, “I am not an outsider, Eames.”
“I know,” he says, quieter. “But there is a place for this moment, and this is not it.”
a quiet place, far
from this world we know too well
close your eyes, Robert
i will be home soon
the job is done, and i free
i miss you, and Eames
i love you
The next days are more difficult than the last.
I do what I can to pass the time.
Watch television, clean house, until all that is left
Is the sound of the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Eames is there, still, but our moments run thin.
Until a phone call comes, and he needs to leave.
Worry fixiates upon his gentle features at what I might do.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, smiling faint. “I will let Arthur know.”
“Don't have too much fun without me,” he tries to cover his worry.
I thank him for both, silently.
Alone again, I wait.
Hidden amongst the electric bill and attempts to persuade the opening of a new credit card, Robert finds the familiar photo paper, pulling it from the stack that he cradles in one arm. The image surprises him. It is their home, the house Robert purchased for their escape, away from the makeshift place, the halfway house.
He is in the living room, other pieces upon the bookcase by the front door, in the bowl filled to the brim with mail to Daniel Eames and Arthur Pennington. Eyes widen, then fixates upon the simple message, absent of horrible poetry and missing an official postal mark. I am right across the street. Come find me.
The city is a maze of residential and commercial architecture, but a walk away from everything, and across from them are closed down shops and an alley. Squinting, he swears a figure is standing at the other end, small and lithe, he smiles. Across the street, at the opening, the shadows move, and he calls out, “Arthur! Is that you?” No response, and irritation fills. “Quit playing games.”
The other end, he looks around. Left. Right. Forward. No one.
Robert thinks he's losing his mind, closes his eyes. In the darkness, he feels arms wrap around him. Ho breath against his neck. A dream, he believes, but the finger reaching up to hold the D-ring of his collar, the other beneath his slacks, tell him it does not matter.
“You should react,” Arthur tells, upset. “What if I were someone else?” Hips thrust forward, rubbing his stiff bulge against the cleft of Robert's arse. They groan, “What if, Robert?”
“I knew,” Robert replies “I knew it was you. Your letter, I - -” his breath hitches to Arthur's hand around him, pulling him in the shadows of an alley, a spot only used for dropping off cargo.
“You're sick,” Arthur notes, worry in his voice although he does not stop fisting Robert's cock. “You are still ill, Robert. I was afraid to leave you alone for so long.” He bites the earlobe, and Robert his lower lip to fight the yelp. “Promise you will be more careful.”
Robert nods against the hold, but that is not enough. The dry friction becomes quicker, and he whimpers, “I promise, Arthur.”
They move across brick, the cold against warmth, scraping roughly as Robert is pinned against it. Arthur's hand glides across silk, Robert having shaved even in their absence, and presses the tip of his finger passed the tight ring. The reaction makes him brings a curve to his lips. A smile, devious, to the thrust of a swollen, dripping cock against the cold surface for some release. He continues without lube, letting the scrape of his blunt nails bring sharp, dry heat that has Robert moaning into the wall. “Shh . . .” he murmurs. “Someone might hear you.”
For Arthur, he tries, biting his lower lip again to conceal the loud sounds pouring from his throat and filling his mouth. It is requited with a second finger that stretches him. “Arthur,” he moans, begging, “Please . . .”
“Robert,” Arthur says, releasing his fingers slowly. “I would, but I do not want to hurt you. I need you do something for me first.” He starts to unbuckle his slacks, unzip his fly, and Robert is already turning, kneeling into the cold, the gray snow, to wrap one hand beneath the balls and bring the Arthur into him. Eyes closing, his fingers remain secure around the ring, his body arched forward for his head to lie against the wall. “Robert . . .” he groans, watching as the other man takes him completely, to the very point of his pubic hairs, Arthur's scent, taken in with each breath rather than the world around him. Possessed by the sight, he slowly thrusts into the mouth, pushing himself further until he feels the back of Robert's throat and further.
There are only mild coughs, the cold air biting his cheeks more form salty streams trickling down fluttering eyelids. Robert squeezes the balls again before teasing Arthur's opening. That almost brings him to the edge, and Arthur pulls out and Robert up. His slacks slide off with ease, quick to not lose the slick before Arthur can reach the red, slightly swollen ring. The heat is exquisite for Robert, his blunt teeth holding his lips until he tastes acrid iron.
He wants to scream so, so much, to let Arthur hear him, how much he adores him, but there is only silence, the slight scuffle of two men dancing, in the winter's cold.
Afterward
They lie across the couch, a microplush blanket, the dark brown pulled up beneath arms. Robert's back against Arthur's chest, the pillows are set so they can both see the television. Arthur ducks his head down to nip at the hairs along the back of Robert's neck, but it ends with a hand gently hitting him. Gentle, yet he yelps, “Rober-”
It is stopped by a hushing sound, and Robert murmuring, “You're spoiling the flick.”
Arthur smirks, “Yes, dear,” and is nuzzled in return, soft kisses against his arm before Robert relaxes again to concentrate on the movie they have already watched twelve times before together. It lasts all of ten minutes, when the couple is kissing on the screen, he grasps Robert's hand, rubbing the knuckles. “Marry me.”
Robert blinks, shifting slightly with wide eyes staring into cool, collected brown. “What?”
“You heard me. Marry me.”
Word Count: 2,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hints of D/s symbolism, alcohol, mental disorder, bad poetry
Summary: Incunabula, Series 3: Arthur goes on a job, and Robert deals with being alone.
Author's Note: For
hesselives bid at qldfloodauction She asked for Arthur/Robert fluff, and I said that if it's related to Incunabula, it's going to be as fluffy as Stephen King's Langoliers. I wanted to write a story that shows in the vivid, snapshot way she writes, just as the photographs. I hope it works, darling. It was loads of fun to experiment with. Photos belong to Hesse with the exception of the last one; that one's mine. The idea, it is difficult. “Please don't go,” I beg, holding his hand.
“I have to,” he tells me, pulling away. “I will write.”
He does. Often. Though damned the postal service, it takes forever.
Lost in a path of flights, carriers, and strangers' hands, it arrives two weeks later.
Sitting on the couch, in his shirt, the television a monotone of infomercials.
Unshaven, I have not showered in three.
Single digits in New York, I walk in slippers and a bathrobe, boxers beneath.
The cold barely touches me until the warmth seizes my heart.
met with the contact
it is fucking cold outside
wishing you were here
I laugh, think to myself: Arthur, you cannot write poetry.
Puffs of white exit my lips. They close, and a smile remains.
Two days later, another arrives.
i dreamt of us here
alone, naked, you and me
i will show you soon
I try to imagine it that night, before I go to sleep.
Hide and seek, like children, he finds me, and we kiss.
My mouth opens, letting sounds slip of need, whispering his name, “Arthur.”
Begging, “Arthur.”
I am slick and sticky, balmy from sweat in the midst of winter.
But never had I slept so well alone.
a private corner
my hand beneath the table
you get to order
A phone call is made to the hotel, given for emergencies.
Sent to the restaurant, an order is taken.
Delivered to his door - dinner, roses, and wine.
There is no signature, but he will know.
A phone call comes before the next message.
Arthur, annoyed, is disappointed at my decision.
Disappointed like my father, Uncle Peter, everyone before . . .
“You could have blown my cover,” his venom.
It hardly touches me, “Arthur, no one knows that you like chicken soup.”
The broth, warm and savory from fresh herbs.
It does nothing to help. “Don't contact me again, understand?”
Lips press, and I say in a flat tone, “Yes, sir.”
Hanging up, I breathe hard. The collar itches, my finger wrapping round he D-ring.
It twists from side to side, leather scraping against my skin. Pulling, nothing breaks.
I find a screwdriver, try to pry open the lock, pop it. Send the point right into my hand.
A knife is just as useless, barely cutting it. Held in my hand, I stare.
Holding it tight, shakily, it steadies over a vein.
The ringing of the phone is not as loud as the ringing in my ears.
But the message sounds clear: “Robert, I am sorry. Please pick up.
“Eames will be there in a few days.”
A pause. “Please pick up. Robert?”
Barely focused, the last words hit, “I love you.”
He hangs up, the knife drops, and I collapse to the floor.
the job is tonight
another letter, few days
you know the rules, love
I know them too well. No contact, no letters or phone calls.
They go underground, split up, for days, sometimes weeks.
To resurface when all is clear, no trails left by careless footprints.
One last meet, then it is over.
For how long, I wonder. How long ago?
I sit that night with a glass of the very same wine,
Drink heavily until the bottle is dry.
The photograph sits on my lap.
While the glass slips to the ground.
The crash startles me into alertness, briefly.
Then I am gone again.
Too long.
Someone lifts me, but my vision is cloudy.
“Arthur,” I whisper.
“No pet,” Eames responds, kissing my temple.
Breathing in, his cologne is thick. My stomach turns.
He holds back my hair while water runs.
Steam billows out, hot upon exhale.
“We need,” I start, settling back from the porcelain.
“We need to stop meeting up like this.”
He laughs, and I smile. He washes me, and I let him.
Close to Eames, tasting his kiss, I fall asleep eventually to be woken suddenly.
Twisting, turning, his hands are around my arms, holding me, repeating, “Robert . . .”
Fear, it moves through me, into my eyes, through my shivering body. “Eames.”
I need Arthur. I need him.
He understands. Words unspoken, read upon my face.
Each strike is hard, precise along my ass until it is swollen red.
Tears streak my face, phlegm in my throat, until all I know is him, a temporary fix.
“Eames,” I cry. “Now, please.” I beg. “Please, damn it.”
His cock, dripping with come, pushes in alone, tearing its way through.
I yell from the heat, the pain searing white, and grip the sheets.
His hands settle over mine, finding a slow, agonizing rhythm.
Teeth clench around the lock, pulling back, I choke and climax.
“I'm sorry,” I whimper, repeatedly. “So sorry.” Afterward.
“It's okay, pet,” he murmurs, combing my hair. “I miss him too.”
the extraction failed
i am at fault, i know this
yet, i am not mad
i am not upset
because i know why, robert
and i do not care
His words are enigmatic, though lacking the symbolism, the cherry blossoms.
I wonder what he means, but Eames knows, their secret in their private circle.
“Tell me,” I yell across the room. He is walking toward the bedroom.
Turning, he says simply, “I think this is something that Arthur should explain. In person.”
Impatience, since finding freedom, moves me. Balled fists, I reply, “I am not an outsider, Eames.”
“I know,” he says, quieter. “But there is a place for this moment, and this is not it.”
a quiet place, far
from this world we know too well
close your eyes, Robert
i will be home soon
the job is done, and i free
i miss you, and Eames
i love you
The next days are more difficult than the last.
I do what I can to pass the time.
Watch television, clean house, until all that is left
Is the sound of the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Eames is there, still, but our moments run thin.
Until a phone call comes, and he needs to leave.
Worry fixiates upon his gentle features at what I might do.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, smiling faint. “I will let Arthur know.”
“Don't have too much fun without me,” he tries to cover his worry.
I thank him for both, silently.
Alone again, I wait.
Hidden amongst the electric bill and attempts to persuade the opening of a new credit card, Robert finds the familiar photo paper, pulling it from the stack that he cradles in one arm. The image surprises him. It is their home, the house Robert purchased for their escape, away from the makeshift place, the halfway house.
He is in the living room, other pieces upon the bookcase by the front door, in the bowl filled to the brim with mail to Daniel Eames and Arthur Pennington. Eyes widen, then fixates upon the simple message, absent of horrible poetry and missing an official postal mark. I am right across the street. Come find me.
The city is a maze of residential and commercial architecture, but a walk away from everything, and across from them are closed down shops and an alley. Squinting, he swears a figure is standing at the other end, small and lithe, he smiles. Across the street, at the opening, the shadows move, and he calls out, “Arthur! Is that you?” No response, and irritation fills. “Quit playing games.”
The other end, he looks around. Left. Right. Forward. No one.
Robert thinks he's losing his mind, closes his eyes. In the darkness, he feels arms wrap around him. Ho breath against his neck. A dream, he believes, but the finger reaching up to hold the D-ring of his collar, the other beneath his slacks, tell him it does not matter.
“You should react,” Arthur tells, upset. “What if I were someone else?” Hips thrust forward, rubbing his stiff bulge against the cleft of Robert's arse. They groan, “What if, Robert?”
“I knew,” Robert replies “I knew it was you. Your letter, I - -” his breath hitches to Arthur's hand around him, pulling him in the shadows of an alley, a spot only used for dropping off cargo.
“You're sick,” Arthur notes, worry in his voice although he does not stop fisting Robert's cock. “You are still ill, Robert. I was afraid to leave you alone for so long.” He bites the earlobe, and Robert his lower lip to fight the yelp. “Promise you will be more careful.”
Robert nods against the hold, but that is not enough. The dry friction becomes quicker, and he whimpers, “I promise, Arthur.”
They move across brick, the cold against warmth, scraping roughly as Robert is pinned against it. Arthur's hand glides across silk, Robert having shaved even in their absence, and presses the tip of his finger passed the tight ring. The reaction makes him brings a curve to his lips. A smile, devious, to the thrust of a swollen, dripping cock against the cold surface for some release. He continues without lube, letting the scrape of his blunt nails bring sharp, dry heat that has Robert moaning into the wall. “Shh . . .” he murmurs. “Someone might hear you.”
For Arthur, he tries, biting his lower lip again to conceal the loud sounds pouring from his throat and filling his mouth. It is requited with a second finger that stretches him. “Arthur,” he moans, begging, “Please . . .”
“Robert,” Arthur says, releasing his fingers slowly. “I would, but I do not want to hurt you. I need you do something for me first.” He starts to unbuckle his slacks, unzip his fly, and Robert is already turning, kneeling into the cold, the gray snow, to wrap one hand beneath the balls and bring the Arthur into him. Eyes closing, his fingers remain secure around the ring, his body arched forward for his head to lie against the wall. “Robert . . .” he groans, watching as the other man takes him completely, to the very point of his pubic hairs, Arthur's scent, taken in with each breath rather than the world around him. Possessed by the sight, he slowly thrusts into the mouth, pushing himself further until he feels the back of Robert's throat and further.
There are only mild coughs, the cold air biting his cheeks more form salty streams trickling down fluttering eyelids. Robert squeezes the balls again before teasing Arthur's opening. That almost brings him to the edge, and Arthur pulls out and Robert up. His slacks slide off with ease, quick to not lose the slick before Arthur can reach the red, slightly swollen ring. The heat is exquisite for Robert, his blunt teeth holding his lips until he tastes acrid iron.
He wants to scream so, so much, to let Arthur hear him, how much he adores him, but there is only silence, the slight scuffle of two men dancing, in the winter's cold.
They lie across the couch, a microplush blanket, the dark brown pulled up beneath arms. Robert's back against Arthur's chest, the pillows are set so they can both see the television. Arthur ducks his head down to nip at the hairs along the back of Robert's neck, but it ends with a hand gently hitting him. Gentle, yet he yelps, “Rober-”
It is stopped by a hushing sound, and Robert murmuring, “You're spoiling the flick.”
Arthur smirks, “Yes, dear,” and is nuzzled in return, soft kisses against his arm before Robert relaxes again to concentrate on the movie they have already watched twelve times before together. It lasts all of ten minutes, when the couple is kissing on the screen, he grasps Robert's hand, rubbing the knuckles. “Marry me.”
Robert blinks, shifting slightly with wide eyes staring into cool, collected brown. “What?”
“You heard me. Marry me.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 05:07 am (UTC)the parts that made my heart leap with absolute joy?
you know the rules, love.
I need Arthur. I need him.
the slight scuffle of two men dancing, in the winter's cold.
oh my god, marriage proposal. you pulled out all the stops with this one, darling, and i love you so much for it. thank you so, so much for this. i will now forever associate those places i visited with the simultaneous fragility and strength of their love. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 01:58 pm (UTC)Tee, thank you. I'm ecstatic that it worked out - the photos, the bad poetry, and the surprise.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 07:34 am (UTC)Just. Wallow in it for a bit, yes.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 02:04 pm (UTC)