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loadedparadoxWho: Arthur with mention of Cobb
Rating: Mature audiences only.
What: Arthur acts on memories of the past.
Warnings: Dub con could apply.
Where: Taken from the question meme and said I would expand it for [Bad username or site: littlspecificty, @ livejournal.com] though it didn't really turn out like I had thought it would.
Word Count: 1890
The job in Barcelona should have taken three months. Tops. It was a simple job, less about anything that would challenge Cobb and him but more about keeping enough money in their pockets to move onto the next city, the next job that got Cobb salivating and excited. Sometimes Arthur wondered if that was the only thing keeping the man going. He'd lost everything else and all that he had left was the job, even if it was a crap job like this one in Spain.
The chemist was so high half the time that Arthur was positive they were going to find her dead of an overdose. She brought in a friend, a forger that was meant to help but all he seemed to do was leer at Cobb while groping the chemist. Arthur pondered grabbing Cobb and walking out but he knew two things. One, Cobb wouldn't back down from a job. Two, he wasn't entirely certain the bastard wouldn't follow Cobb, making comments about how much he loved dominant men.
Damn but he was barking up the wrong tree.
Three months had turned into nearly four and they might have to stretch it another two weeks. That was it. He was cranky, tired, fed up with defending his extractor's honor and needed a couple of scotches neat. Six might just do it.
The bar was small, dark and yet thick and heavy music pounding out the door. It was the sort of throbbing, mind numbing music that Arthur tended to favor when he was in these moods. The rhythm of the music could get into you, get under your skin, block out all the thoughts and the aggravation, pounding away at it until you could just embrace the moment, the noise and the alcohol and the oblivion. Unlikes so many stops made in nondescript bars in various cities, Arthur hadn't sought out the sort where he might find the kind of companionship that didn't ask for names, wasn't bothered by the fact he rarely talked, and were eager for a quick moment that paid good money. That he hadn't been seeking it out didn't change the fact that he found himself in the same sort of place though it wasn't as obvious as some he'd frequented before.
The lighting lacked the garish light of neon, instead providing golden warmth with candles in niches along one wall. The lighting was soft, meant to offer shadows and discretion for a careful clientele. The music was loud, a thrumming mix of techno with a local flair that Arthur actually found enjoyable, especially after his second scotch. It was enough that he was forgetting about their insane chemist and her annoying friend. Maybe he was over reacting. Cobb's dalliances were none of his business, even if he felt it was too soon since they had lost Mal. Too soon for him to be playing around with overeager boy toys that were more into their chemical distractions than they were their health. Maybe when Arthur had moved on from rent boys and one night stands he would think Cobb was ready to look into dating again. Instead they both handle their losses poorly, pretending neither had been hurt by Mal's death...
And the sharp loss of leaving behind a blossoming relationship with one of the most infuriating and attractive men that Arthur had ever known.
The problem with drinking, with burying the past in grain and music, was that it was as likely to resurface as it was to remain down in those dark depths of the past.
Arthur hadn't wanted to remember Eames tonight. He wanted to get wasted and then go back to the hotel and tell the damn wannabe forger than he was worthless and not worth being allowed to lick Cobb's shoes but all of that fell to the wayside when he saw someone making their way through the crowd. The hair was too dark, the skin much more swarthy than the English forger's but there was enough, even from the back, that it made Arthur's body tighten, clenching up against lust and desire and anger and pain. Broad shoulders that tapered into narrow, almost feminine, hips, encased in a shirt that should be burned. Salted and burned and the ashes buried to ensure they didn't rise again. Alone it might not have been enough but then he turned, making his way towards the bar.
He turned and Arthur downed the rest of his shot, ordering another that disappeared before he could gasp a breath. His eyes were paler than Eames', so startling in that dark face, but the lips had Arthur before he could think. Full, heavy and parted around stark white teeth. He was busy staring at the man's mouth. The man was smiling because he was staring at Arthur.
Others closed in around the man, obviously wanting to gain his favor and the eye contact they made briefly was lost. Ignoring all his own personal rules about being drunk in public, in overindulging when it wasn't safe, Arthur downed two more before the bartender brought over a larger glass. It held amber liquid, neat, and the dark man behind the bar leaned close enough that Arthur could hear him over the music.
"The man at the end of the bar has said a man of your beauty should be drinking slower and better quality," he murmured, his grin cheeky and wide.
Even as Arthur looked up, the man turned away, heading away from the admiring crowd and making his way down a hallway that barely seemed wide enough for him. Ignoring the new glass, Arthur pushed away from the bar, going on instinct and alcohol instead of logic and planning.
There was only a single, dim bulb in the hallway, casting dingy light that barely reached the farthest end. Squinting against the darkness, Arthur made out a pair of doors before the hallway ended. No one in sight, though he took a chance and pushed open the first door. The light inside wasn't much brighter, a bit of a scent of water and musk to go with the sound of running water. Arthur slipped into the bathroom even as another man slipped out. Broad shoulders and narrow hips stood braced at the urinal, the room empty but for the two of them. Arthur turned the lock.
He moved suddenly, taken over by a desire he'd been working to curb for over a year since he and Cobb had gone on the run. Slight compared to the man's side but taking a chance as he pushed him against the wall.
"Yes or no," he muttered, hand already reaching around, taking a thick, semi-hard cock in hand and giving it a jerk even as he growled the words against the man's ear.
"Yes. Yes, please," he fairly purred, hips rolling to push his hardening dick against Arthur's smooth, neatly tended hand. "I..."
"No."
Arthur didn't want that. No words. No talking. This was not a moment for sharing anything but a chance to get off. Wrapping his arm around the man's shoulder, pushing two fingers past those full, taunting lips, fucking them into the heat of the stranger's mouth with a groan. He shouldn't want this, and later he would blame the alcohol for it all, but in that moment it was everything Arthur would never let himself dream about.
Pressed tightly to broad shoulders, licking the sweat from the back of his neck as Arthur ground himself against the man's tight ass. Hips rolling, bucking, grinding his aching length against the zipper of his trousers, unwilling to pull back for even an instant to open the silk slacks, pulling down his boxer briefs so that he could come against the man's skin. None of that mattered. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't think about what he was doing.
It was Eames and it wasn't and the cock in his hand was what he needed and not what he craved more than anything. More than more scotch, and a job that would go right for once. For a moment it was what he wanted and couldn't have. A time before Mal died and Cobb ran and before Arthur had to choose between his loyalties to his best friend and the possibility of finding a love of his own, one that he didn't have to hide because they weren't his and never would be. In that moment, eyes closed even against the grimy bulb overhead, Arthur felt something more than the calm serenity that was his work, and the growing irritation with the incompetent. He allowed himself to feel heat and lust and even those emotions that had nearly broken through the dam of his self control when he and Eames had met.
Suckling still at the pump of Arthur's fingers, the man grunted, slamming his hips forward, rolling them in a circle to try and get that last bit. Snarling in response, his teeth latched onto the back of the man's neck as Arthur twisted his wrist, grinding his palm over the precome slicked head, biting tighter as he felt the tension as his balls tightened, cock jerking in his hand as the man came. Hot and sticky over his hand, the bright, sudden sensation of teeth against his fingers and it was enough. It wasn't what he wanted but Arthur shoved hard against him, hurting as he came.
Cock not even done twitching as he pulled back, wiping his hand against the stranger's trousers as he turned. Not once looking back. Not when he unlocked the door. Not when he heard the man scurrying behind him to try and dress. Thankful only for the dark fabric of his trousers that hid the wetness that marked the front of them.
The air in the bar was suddenly fetid, too much and cloying and heavy with sweat and sex. The alcohol wasn't staving off the memories and so Arthur left. Out of the bar. Away from the neighborhood that was only a few blocks from the space where they worked but felt miles away with every step he took.
Cobb was there when he came in, still awake - or mostly so - working to try and get them through this job, on to the next.
"You look like hell," he muttered, not letting his look stay too long. Arthur appreciated that, even if he knew it was less about consideration for his own pain and more Cobb still being locked in his own world, his own issues, his own life. His life that was Arthur's except when he stole moments like these. Moments that never made it better. They never would but every once in a while, Arthur liked to pretend.
Thirty minutes later he came back from the upstairs room. Showered and dressed in shirt sleeves and jeans, he almost smiled at the slumped figure over the desk. Sliding the files from beneath Cobb's face, Arthur covered him with his own jacket and then sat down to work out the details for heist. If all went well they would be out of Barcelona and on their way to Amsterdam by the end of the week. Another week. Two. It really didn't matter. They would always be moving away and never towards, so where they were never really mattered.
Rating: Mature audiences only.
What: Arthur acts on memories of the past.
Warnings: Dub con could apply.
Where: Taken from the question meme and said I would expand it for [Bad username or site: littlspecificty, @ livejournal.com] though it didn't really turn out like I had thought it would.
Word Count: 1890
The job in Barcelona should have taken three months. Tops. It was a simple job, less about anything that would challenge Cobb and him but more about keeping enough money in their pockets to move onto the next city, the next job that got Cobb salivating and excited. Sometimes Arthur wondered if that was the only thing keeping the man going. He'd lost everything else and all that he had left was the job, even if it was a crap job like this one in Spain.
The chemist was so high half the time that Arthur was positive they were going to find her dead of an overdose. She brought in a friend, a forger that was meant to help but all he seemed to do was leer at Cobb while groping the chemist. Arthur pondered grabbing Cobb and walking out but he knew two things. One, Cobb wouldn't back down from a job. Two, he wasn't entirely certain the bastard wouldn't follow Cobb, making comments about how much he loved dominant men.
Damn but he was barking up the wrong tree.
Three months had turned into nearly four and they might have to stretch it another two weeks. That was it. He was cranky, tired, fed up with defending his extractor's honor and needed a couple of scotches neat. Six might just do it.
The bar was small, dark and yet thick and heavy music pounding out the door. It was the sort of throbbing, mind numbing music that Arthur tended to favor when he was in these moods. The rhythm of the music could get into you, get under your skin, block out all the thoughts and the aggravation, pounding away at it until you could just embrace the moment, the noise and the alcohol and the oblivion. Unlikes so many stops made in nondescript bars in various cities, Arthur hadn't sought out the sort where he might find the kind of companionship that didn't ask for names, wasn't bothered by the fact he rarely talked, and were eager for a quick moment that paid good money. That he hadn't been seeking it out didn't change the fact that he found himself in the same sort of place though it wasn't as obvious as some he'd frequented before.
The lighting lacked the garish light of neon, instead providing golden warmth with candles in niches along one wall. The lighting was soft, meant to offer shadows and discretion for a careful clientele. The music was loud, a thrumming mix of techno with a local flair that Arthur actually found enjoyable, especially after his second scotch. It was enough that he was forgetting about their insane chemist and her annoying friend. Maybe he was over reacting. Cobb's dalliances were none of his business, even if he felt it was too soon since they had lost Mal. Too soon for him to be playing around with overeager boy toys that were more into their chemical distractions than they were their health. Maybe when Arthur had moved on from rent boys and one night stands he would think Cobb was ready to look into dating again. Instead they both handle their losses poorly, pretending neither had been hurt by Mal's death...
And the sharp loss of leaving behind a blossoming relationship with one of the most infuriating and attractive men that Arthur had ever known.
The problem with drinking, with burying the past in grain and music, was that it was as likely to resurface as it was to remain down in those dark depths of the past.
Arthur hadn't wanted to remember Eames tonight. He wanted to get wasted and then go back to the hotel and tell the damn wannabe forger than he was worthless and not worth being allowed to lick Cobb's shoes but all of that fell to the wayside when he saw someone making their way through the crowd. The hair was too dark, the skin much more swarthy than the English forger's but there was enough, even from the back, that it made Arthur's body tighten, clenching up against lust and desire and anger and pain. Broad shoulders that tapered into narrow, almost feminine, hips, encased in a shirt that should be burned. Salted and burned and the ashes buried to ensure they didn't rise again. Alone it might not have been enough but then he turned, making his way towards the bar.
He turned and Arthur downed the rest of his shot, ordering another that disappeared before he could gasp a breath. His eyes were paler than Eames', so startling in that dark face, but the lips had Arthur before he could think. Full, heavy and parted around stark white teeth. He was busy staring at the man's mouth. The man was smiling because he was staring at Arthur.
Others closed in around the man, obviously wanting to gain his favor and the eye contact they made briefly was lost. Ignoring all his own personal rules about being drunk in public, in overindulging when it wasn't safe, Arthur downed two more before the bartender brought over a larger glass. It held amber liquid, neat, and the dark man behind the bar leaned close enough that Arthur could hear him over the music.
"The man at the end of the bar has said a man of your beauty should be drinking slower and better quality," he murmured, his grin cheeky and wide.
Even as Arthur looked up, the man turned away, heading away from the admiring crowd and making his way down a hallway that barely seemed wide enough for him. Ignoring the new glass, Arthur pushed away from the bar, going on instinct and alcohol instead of logic and planning.
There was only a single, dim bulb in the hallway, casting dingy light that barely reached the farthest end. Squinting against the darkness, Arthur made out a pair of doors before the hallway ended. No one in sight, though he took a chance and pushed open the first door. The light inside wasn't much brighter, a bit of a scent of water and musk to go with the sound of running water. Arthur slipped into the bathroom even as another man slipped out. Broad shoulders and narrow hips stood braced at the urinal, the room empty but for the two of them. Arthur turned the lock.
He moved suddenly, taken over by a desire he'd been working to curb for over a year since he and Cobb had gone on the run. Slight compared to the man's side but taking a chance as he pushed him against the wall.
"Yes or no," he muttered, hand already reaching around, taking a thick, semi-hard cock in hand and giving it a jerk even as he growled the words against the man's ear.
"Yes. Yes, please," he fairly purred, hips rolling to push his hardening dick against Arthur's smooth, neatly tended hand. "I..."
"No."
Arthur didn't want that. No words. No talking. This was not a moment for sharing anything but a chance to get off. Wrapping his arm around the man's shoulder, pushing two fingers past those full, taunting lips, fucking them into the heat of the stranger's mouth with a groan. He shouldn't want this, and later he would blame the alcohol for it all, but in that moment it was everything Arthur would never let himself dream about.
Pressed tightly to broad shoulders, licking the sweat from the back of his neck as Arthur ground himself against the man's tight ass. Hips rolling, bucking, grinding his aching length against the zipper of his trousers, unwilling to pull back for even an instant to open the silk slacks, pulling down his boxer briefs so that he could come against the man's skin. None of that mattered. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't think about what he was doing.
It was Eames and it wasn't and the cock in his hand was what he needed and not what he craved more than anything. More than more scotch, and a job that would go right for once. For a moment it was what he wanted and couldn't have. A time before Mal died and Cobb ran and before Arthur had to choose between his loyalties to his best friend and the possibility of finding a love of his own, one that he didn't have to hide because they weren't his and never would be. In that moment, eyes closed even against the grimy bulb overhead, Arthur felt something more than the calm serenity that was his work, and the growing irritation with the incompetent. He allowed himself to feel heat and lust and even those emotions that had nearly broken through the dam of his self control when he and Eames had met.
Suckling still at the pump of Arthur's fingers, the man grunted, slamming his hips forward, rolling them in a circle to try and get that last bit. Snarling in response, his teeth latched onto the back of the man's neck as Arthur twisted his wrist, grinding his palm over the precome slicked head, biting tighter as he felt the tension as his balls tightened, cock jerking in his hand as the man came. Hot and sticky over his hand, the bright, sudden sensation of teeth against his fingers and it was enough. It wasn't what he wanted but Arthur shoved hard against him, hurting as he came.
Cock not even done twitching as he pulled back, wiping his hand against the stranger's trousers as he turned. Not once looking back. Not when he unlocked the door. Not when he heard the man scurrying behind him to try and dress. Thankful only for the dark fabric of his trousers that hid the wetness that marked the front of them.
The air in the bar was suddenly fetid, too much and cloying and heavy with sweat and sex. The alcohol wasn't staving off the memories and so Arthur left. Out of the bar. Away from the neighborhood that was only a few blocks from the space where they worked but felt miles away with every step he took.
Cobb was there when he came in, still awake - or mostly so - working to try and get them through this job, on to the next.
"You look like hell," he muttered, not letting his look stay too long. Arthur appreciated that, even if he knew it was less about consideration for his own pain and more Cobb still being locked in his own world, his own issues, his own life. His life that was Arthur's except when he stole moments like these. Moments that never made it better. They never would but every once in a while, Arthur liked to pretend.
Thirty minutes later he came back from the upstairs room. Showered and dressed in shirt sleeves and jeans, he almost smiled at the slumped figure over the desk. Sliding the files from beneath Cobb's face, Arthur covered him with his own jacket and then sat down to work out the details for heist. If all went well they would be out of Barcelona and on their way to Amsterdam by the end of the week. Another week. Two. It really didn't matter. They would always be moving away and never towards, so where they were never really mattered.
