![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tourdefierceTitle: Words for Dreamers
Rating: Rish
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Mal is you squint
Warnings: Gore? Poetry? Richard Siken?
Word count: 1157
Summary: Richard Siken.
Author's Note:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lemniciate has a Richard Siken fest going on at her journal: Go check it out!. Since I've written like, THREE Star Trek/RPF fics to Siken, I'm just gonna leave this year. OH HEY INCEPTION FANDOM.
"I just," he says into the white space... the white space where the glass box sat and listened. "I just, I just want him."
He waits. The air breaths around him like it's wanting, like it's real, like this is what will break him if he tries hard enough—like this is dreaming.
"I want him and it makes me hate him for wanting me back."
Everything smiles. The glass presses up closer to his hand, like it can't get enough and Arthur has to resist putting his cheek against the pane. He knows it will be warm.
He knows it will smell like too ripe peaches and bitter champagne.
"Why can't I stop?"
He closes his eyes too hard. The lights pulsate and the glass hums beneath him. Oh he wants. He wants
When he opens his eyes, Mal is still there behind the glass. Her mouth is slightly open, head tilted and her hands are folded into her lap like kittens paws tucked up underneath them. Her forehead is pressed up against the pane where his palm is.
She looks like she's praying, there on her knees.
<3<3<3
so fickle fierce and free.
<3<3<3
In the end, it's nothing like love is supposed to be.
It's cold and the warehouse is without heat again. Arthur's too tired, eyes blurry from too many pages of tiny print, to beat the old radiator into submission again. Instead, he sits with chatter teeth and feels absolutely numb.
He wants to talk to Mal again. He wants to let her out and have her tell him what to do.
His life is ironic. There are these intentions inside of him, these things he sets out to do but the end result is the opposite of his goals. He is breathing irony like thick, syrupy blood is leaking into his lungs.
He doesn't know how long he's been there, sitting at his desk and staring off into space, but it reminds him of a different time. It was colder then but the chemicals they were using refused to let him dream in the landscape. All he had was what Cobb had dream him into.
When the ice cracked underneath of him, he sunk and sunk and sunk with the water trickling into his lungs like it was a drip and not a flood. He remembers the icy-hot fever of water on his skin and the way he gulped in lung fulls of frigid water until there was nothing left but to die.
Nash pulled him out but left him on the bank because someone was calling.
Arthur crawled, his own limbs cracking underneath his weight, until he found the horse. His knife was sharp and stuck into his boot. When he sliced it open and crawled inside, like Star Wars he had thought at the time, it smelled steaming hot like pie and not insides.
Like home and not intestines.
It's strange but he remembers that now, so vivid the way the white snow turned putrid red like it wanted it.
"Arthur."
He looks up but Eames I already draping a thick blanket around him, his hands warm and firm on his shoulders, up and down his arms as he rubs them.
Arthur moans, because he doesn't know what else to do.
"Arthur, darling," it's quiet, spoken into his ear. Arthur becomes aware of the whisper of Eames' voice on his skin, the heat of his breath, the intent of his fingers and the love...
"Eames—"
He knows this is where it ends. He knows this is where he stands up and ignores the worms eating his stomach, leaves the dead bodies to cool at the bottom of the lake and just goes. He knows this is where they are ruined in each other, where want consumes them in favor of conquering. He knows, alright? He fucking knows.
"It's late," is what Eames says.
Then, the sun tilts down and shines a bit brighter. It slashes against the window pane and flares in Arthur's eyes until he has to turn away.
Eames' face is there when he does. He's smiling, soft and sure and—
"Tell me," Arthur says. Mal, tell me we're going to be okay.
"Not today."
Eames kisses him, a soft press of the lips before his tongue is there prying open Arthur's mouth and plundering, taking what's his to claim. Arthur clutches at the blanket around his shoulders, hands white-knuckled and desperate.
Mal would know what to do. Mal would wake him up.
The kiss lasts longer than Arthur's breath but Eames doesn't let him go. No. Arthur pulls back, gulps in breath, only to have Eames there again to steal it away with the scrape of his stubble and the nip of his teeth.
Oh, oh—
"We don't wake," Eames says at last. He bites into Arthur's mouth and thrusts his tongue to lick and claim Arthur's teeth. And Arthur wants to say, no. I need those for talking but Eames eats him back up like Digestives dipped in luke-warm tea.
"It's just--" Arthur practically screams out when Eames goes to worship Arthur's dimples. Yes, he's smiling.
Eames shakes his head. "No, darling. We don't wake."
"I want you," Arthur says instead.
Eames cradles his face and rubs at his cheekbones. There is light everywhere, from the sun, Arthur knows but... there is mostly just Eames' eyes, lit up with delight and love and unnamable things that Mal's soft French would be able to express. Instead, Arthur kisses him again. Softer.
Eames keeps his eyes open and Arthur watches.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Rating: Rish
Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Mal is you squint
Warnings: Gore? Poetry? Richard Siken?
Word count: 1157
Summary: Richard Siken.
Author's Note:
lemniciate has a Richard Siken fest going on at her journal: Go check it out!. Since I've written like, THREE Star Trek/RPF fics to Siken, I'm just gonna leave this year. OH HEY INCEPTION FANDOM. "I just," he says into the white space... the white space where the glass box sat and listened. "I just, I just want him."
He waits. The air breaths around him like it's wanting, like it's real, like this is what will break him if he tries hard enough—like this is dreaming.
"I want him and it makes me hate him for wanting me back."
Everything smiles. The glass presses up closer to his hand, like it can't get enough and Arthur has to resist putting his cheek against the pane. He knows it will be warm.
He knows it will smell like too ripe peaches and bitter champagne.
"Why can't I stop?"
He closes his eyes too hard. The lights pulsate and the glass hums beneath him. Oh he wants. He wants
When he opens his eyes, Mal is still there behind the glass. Her mouth is slightly open, head tilted and her hands are folded into her lap like kittens paws tucked up underneath them. Her forehead is pressed up against the pane where his palm is.
She looks like she's praying, there on her knees.
- Oh yes, if this is the alter?
- I'd be defecting. The sacrifice? It's seceding.
- If this is the communion?
- I'm abstaining, kneecaps purple and sour but liberating.
- Here.
- Here in the swelling cavern of her chest, she's feeding prescriptions into my belly when I'm not looking. she lies
sweating. Her calloused fingers are sewing my hands back onto the gnawed stubs with thick yarn that stretches out behind her like a tail. - Humming with lazy tones
- my hands are reattached at the jagged wrists, her tongue lapping at the seals like a bitch cleaning her pup. kisses tender.
- We lie sweating.
- Our armor pilled high atop our breasts, too bent to be broken.
- She breathes in deeply, head lolling with the thick scent.
- I mount her slackening body and claim victory in the wake of her non-defeat. We have climbed mountains and left prisoners in dungeons, names curling on their savage tongues. I have signed my name, carving it out of flesh until it seeps stagnant red-water.
- This is my drug trafficking, bowels full and bursting. This is my debutant ball, white gloves sticky but addictive. This is my ascension to the throne of queens.
- This agency of ours,
so fickle fierce and free.
In the end, it's nothing like love is supposed to be.
It's cold and the warehouse is without heat again. Arthur's too tired, eyes blurry from too many pages of tiny print, to beat the old radiator into submission again. Instead, he sits with chatter teeth and feels absolutely numb.
He wants to talk to Mal again. He wants to let her out and have her tell him what to do.
His life is ironic. There are these intentions inside of him, these things he sets out to do but the end result is the opposite of his goals. He is breathing irony like thick, syrupy blood is leaking into his lungs.
He doesn't know how long he's been there, sitting at his desk and staring off into space, but it reminds him of a different time. It was colder then but the chemicals they were using refused to let him dream in the landscape. All he had was what Cobb had dream him into.
When the ice cracked underneath of him, he sunk and sunk and sunk with the water trickling into his lungs like it was a drip and not a flood. He remembers the icy-hot fever of water on his skin and the way he gulped in lung fulls of frigid water until there was nothing left but to die.
Nash pulled him out but left him on the bank because someone was calling.
Arthur crawled, his own limbs cracking underneath his weight, until he found the horse. His knife was sharp and stuck into his boot. When he sliced it open and crawled inside, like Star Wars he had thought at the time, it smelled steaming hot like pie and not insides.
Like home and not intestines.
It's strange but he remembers that now, so vivid the way the white snow turned putrid red like it wanted it.
"Arthur."
He looks up but Eames I already draping a thick blanket around him, his hands warm and firm on his shoulders, up and down his arms as he rubs them.
Arthur moans, because he doesn't know what else to do.
"Arthur, darling," it's quiet, spoken into his ear. Arthur becomes aware of the whisper of Eames' voice on his skin, the heat of his breath, the intent of his fingers and the love...
"Eames—"
He knows this is where it ends. He knows this is where he stands up and ignores the worms eating his stomach, leaves the dead bodies to cool at the bottom of the lake and just goes. He knows this is where they are ruined in each other, where want consumes them in favor of conquering. He knows, alright? He fucking knows.
"It's late," is what Eames says.
Then, the sun tilts down and shines a bit brighter. It slashes against the window pane and flares in Arthur's eyes until he has to turn away.
Eames' face is there when he does. He's smiling, soft and sure and—
"Tell me," Arthur says. Mal, tell me we're going to be okay.
"Not today."
Eames kisses him, a soft press of the lips before his tongue is there prying open Arthur's mouth and plundering, taking what's his to claim. Arthur clutches at the blanket around his shoulders, hands white-knuckled and desperate.
Mal would know what to do. Mal would wake him up.
The kiss lasts longer than Arthur's breath but Eames doesn't let him go. No. Arthur pulls back, gulps in breath, only to have Eames there again to steal it away with the scrape of his stubble and the nip of his teeth.
Oh, oh—
"We don't wake," Eames says at last. He bites into Arthur's mouth and thrusts his tongue to lick and claim Arthur's teeth. And Arthur wants to say, no. I need those for talking but Eames eats him back up like Digestives dipped in luke-warm tea.
"It's just--" Arthur practically screams out when Eames goes to worship Arthur's dimples. Yes, he's smiling.
Eames shakes his head. "No, darling. We don't wake."
"I want you," Arthur says instead.
Eames cradles his face and rubs at his cheekbones. There is light everywhere, from the sun, Arthur knows but... there is mostly just Eames' eyes, lit up with delight and love and unnamable things that Mal's soft French would be able to express. Instead, Arthur kisses him again. Softer.
Eames keeps his eyes open and Arthur watches.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 07:38 pm (UTC)my imagery probably would write odes to you, bb.
thank you. inception does funny things to my muse.