THIS IS ALL LO'S FAULT
so apparently what happens when you finish a hatesex scene and show your friends is they badger you into posting it because you never finish anything ever anymore and that's sad.
and, well. they're right.
so i don't know that i'm gonna post this on, like, AO3 or make it an official thing until i finish the larger fic that it belongs to, but because hungerpunch might drive up here and strangle me and then shoot me with a poison arrow if i don't, here's an excerpt of a fic i've been working on for FUCKING EVER NOW.
this all came about because Lo-face found a post on tumblr that is basically a gifset for this fic: how close i am to losing you
related: Let 'Em Come (Redux) by Scroobius Pip et al, aka my Tommy song
i fought for your honor (and i lost) (excerpt) (aka the hatesex scene)
Inception/Warrior crossover
nc-17 for reals
(in which Arthur thought Eames was dead, and has only recently discovered that he's still alive, and more surprisingly, he's actually from Pittsburgh and kind of a dick)
WARNING: for all-but-dubcon, asshole characters, barebacking, and terrible ideas that Arthur will almost certainly regret in the morning
Arthur walks. He walks through the Navy Yards, up along the Schuylkill. He walks through parks, past rowhouses hunched against the grey sky. He walks over bridges, under highways, on sidewalks and shoulders. He walks, and he doesn't think.
He almost calls Cobb. He finds himself with his phone in his hand at one point, then nearly throws it in the river when he realizes. Cobb has nothing to say to him now that he hasn't already heard, that he hasn't already told himself, and that world-weary 'I know what you're going through because I've been there' attitude from him would drive Arthur to homicide at the moment--Eames, Tommy, whoever he is, he isn't Mal. He's not dead and he's not shooting Cobb in the fucking kneecaps every chance he gets--and more's the pity, Arthur thinks darkly.
Eventually, Arthur goes back to his hotel room and starts packing, operating entirely on auto-pilot. He lets himself idly consider his next stop--Hong Kong, maybe, or Cairo, someplace big enough where he can wander and get lost for a while. He feels a bit like he did in those first few weeks after he thought Eames was dead, numb and distant and angry at the world. Absently, he wonders if he's going to grieve all over again, if he'll ever stop grieving.
There's a knock at the door, and Arthur just answers it without even bothering to look through the peephole. He figures maybe it's someone from the hotel on the other side, or Cobb trying to be protective, or maybe someone trying to kill him, not that he'd really care that much at this point.
He doesn't expect Tommy to be standing there, all but vibrating as he muscles his way in the door, catches Arthur by the shirt and pushes him into the wall.
"You," he growls against Arthur's collar, and Arthur can smell him, different cologne, different soap, different deodorant, different whiskey on his breath, but the same smell of his skin and his sweat underneath. "You," he growls again, his hands fisting in Arthur's shirt, and then he pulls back just far enough for Arthur to see his eyes, almost nose to nose. "If you even think of saying his name, I will leave. Do you understand?"
Arthur's heart is pounding so hard that he's sure Tommy can feel it thudding dully against his knuckles. "I understand," he says, even though he has no idea what's just happened, feels like he's on a chair that's just been kicked into a tub full of water.
"Good," Tommy says, and crushes him against the wall, rutting hard against Arthur's hip as his teeth sink into his neck, fingers pulling roughly at Arthur's shirt.
It's all Arthur can do to hold on at first, trying to convince himself that this is actually real, not a hallucination born from throwing himself into the Schuylkill in despair. He reaches for his totem but Tommy catches his hand, pinning it against the wall. "I only exist in one world," Tommy mutters against his skin, then drags Arthur to the bed and throws him down on it.
Arthur gets his wits back about him as Tommy crawls on top of him; he angles his face for a kiss, but Tommy turns away. "No," he says, a hard limit in that single syllable as he pushes Arthur's shirt off of his shoulders.
Tommy works fast. Arthur's barely pulled Tommy's hoodie over his head before he's got Arthur's pants and boxers off, and then Tommy flips him and pins him to the bed, a heavy arm across his shoulders. Arthur struggles and kicks, feeling the ground eroding away from beneath him as one of Tommy's spit-slick fingers slides in. "Fuck," Arthur gasps, his breath pounding out of him in a rush as Tommy nails the sweet spot on his first try. Arthur arches up as another finger pushes inside, getting his knees beneath him just long enough for Tommy to kick them back out again and send him sprawling onto his stomach.
"Is this what you want?" Tommy growls into the back of his neck, punctuating his words with his teeth and with the rough slide of his fingers in and out of Arthur's body.
"Yes," Arthur grits out, reaching backwards and lacing his fingers into Tommy's lank hair and pulling, delighting in the hoarse groan he drags out of the larger man's throat as he thrusts against Arthur's hip involuntarily. He can almost see Tommy's eyes rolling back into his head, and he's perversely satisfied to know that whatever else Tommy may have been faking, his kinks and triggers are still the same. And his responses--Tommy buries his teeth into the meat of Arthur's shoulder, digging deep, and Arthur knows he's going to ache for days there.
Tommy's fingers leave his ass long enough for him to wind up and leave a stinging slap on Arthur's skin, across the back of his thighs. "Gonna fuck you so hard," Tommy promises, licking a long stripe up Arthur's spine, the arm across his back like a bar lifting to catch Arthur's wrists and press them on the bed over his head as Tommy presses slowly inside. The relentless pressure pushes Arthur's breath from his lungs and he's lightheaded by the time Tommy's fully sheathed, stretched and pinned and suffocating with desire and the burn of Tommy inside of him, familiar and alien at the same time.
He sucks in a short, sharp breath. "Fucking do it, then," he demands, trying in vain to arch back against Tommy. "Fucking move."
"So mouthy," Tommy murmurs in his ear, but then he's moving, pulling out only to ram home again, and it's only the hand wrapped tightly around Arthur's wrists that keeps him from coming up off of the bed entirely. As it is, he knocks his head back against Tommy's, nearly concussing them both, and Tommy hisses before pounding into him again, and again, and again.
"God-- Just--" It occurs to Arthur, wild and half out of his head, that he once killed a man in zero-gravity. The thought rises unbidden, and then suddenly he's twisting around, a hand snaking free of Tommy's crushing grip. Before he can catch it again Arthur throws an elbow back into Tommy's face, clipping him across one cheekbone. Tommy rears back and Arthur tackles him, and for a moment they grapple and roll across the bed until the comforter slips off the mattress and dumps them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Arthur is laughing bitterly between his teeth as he straddles Tommy and pins him between his knees, biting down on the first skin his mouth discovers even as he reaches back to position them, and then Tommy gets with it and thrusts up and in and they're fucking again, frantic and wild and sweating and groaning, Arthur leaving bruises and blood in his wake as Tommy hisses vulgarities below him.
One of Tommy's big hands is digging into his hip, leaving marks; the other winds into Arthur's hair and jerks his head back with a curse. For one exhilarating, terrified second Arthur thinks Tommy might kiss him, but instead he just takes advantage of the angle and bites at the skin below Arthur's jaw, across the edge of stubble at his throat. "You always have to make everything so goddamned difficult--" Tommy growls, punctuating his words with his teeth.
Arthur has no reply to that - except maybe he does; he twists his hips and grinds down on Tommy hard enough to make Tommy's head thunk back against the floor. "Fuck you," Arthur hisses, his fingers yanking at Tommy's hair again, keeping him in place as Arthur stares him down, rocking on his cock. "Fuck you," he repeats, curling his other hand around his own cock, glaring at him. "Fuck--" Grind. "You," and again, and again, relentlessly, until Tommy slaps both of his hands flat on the floor and slams up into Arthur with a howl, eyes squeezing shut as he comes. Arthur's not far behind him, spattering his come across the tattooed black lines covering Tommy's chest.
They both breathe for a moment, Arthur braced on both his arms, head hanging between his shoulders, until Tommy shoves him off. Arthur's ribs collide with the sharp wooden edge of a chair leg and sending it scraping across the floor, but he's too far gone to care.
"There were mornings when I woke up and I hated you," Tommy says finally, staring at the ceiling. "I'd watch you sleep and all I could think was how much I despised you."
"Could've fooled me," Arthur says, hating how hoarse, how off guard he sounds.
Tommy smirks so hard it's almost audible. "I did, man. I absolutely did."
and, well. they're right.
so i don't know that i'm gonna post this on, like, AO3 or make it an official thing until i finish the larger fic that it belongs to, but because hungerpunch might drive up here and strangle me and then shoot me with a poison arrow if i don't, here's an excerpt of a fic i've been working on for FUCKING EVER NOW.
this all came about because Lo-face found a post on tumblr that is basically a gifset for this fic: how close i am to losing you
related: Let 'Em Come (Redux) by Scroobius Pip et al, aka my Tommy song
i fought for your honor (and i lost) (excerpt) (aka the hatesex scene)
Inception/Warrior crossover
nc-17 for reals
(in which Arthur thought Eames was dead, and has only recently discovered that he's still alive, and more surprisingly, he's actually from Pittsburgh and kind of a dick)
WARNING: for all-but-dubcon, asshole characters, barebacking, and terrible ideas that Arthur will almost certainly regret in the morning
Arthur walks. He walks through the Navy Yards, up along the Schuylkill. He walks through parks, past rowhouses hunched against the grey sky. He walks over bridges, under highways, on sidewalks and shoulders. He walks, and he doesn't think.
He almost calls Cobb. He finds himself with his phone in his hand at one point, then nearly throws it in the river when he realizes. Cobb has nothing to say to him now that he hasn't already heard, that he hasn't already told himself, and that world-weary 'I know what you're going through because I've been there' attitude from him would drive Arthur to homicide at the moment--Eames, Tommy, whoever he is, he isn't Mal. He's not dead and he's not shooting Cobb in the fucking kneecaps every chance he gets--and more's the pity, Arthur thinks darkly.
Eventually, Arthur goes back to his hotel room and starts packing, operating entirely on auto-pilot. He lets himself idly consider his next stop--Hong Kong, maybe, or Cairo, someplace big enough where he can wander and get lost for a while. He feels a bit like he did in those first few weeks after he thought Eames was dead, numb and distant and angry at the world. Absently, he wonders if he's going to grieve all over again, if he'll ever stop grieving.
There's a knock at the door, and Arthur just answers it without even bothering to look through the peephole. He figures maybe it's someone from the hotel on the other side, or Cobb trying to be protective, or maybe someone trying to kill him, not that he'd really care that much at this point.
He doesn't expect Tommy to be standing there, all but vibrating as he muscles his way in the door, catches Arthur by the shirt and pushes him into the wall.
"You," he growls against Arthur's collar, and Arthur can smell him, different cologne, different soap, different deodorant, different whiskey on his breath, but the same smell of his skin and his sweat underneath. "You," he growls again, his hands fisting in Arthur's shirt, and then he pulls back just far enough for Arthur to see his eyes, almost nose to nose. "If you even think of saying his name, I will leave. Do you understand?"
Arthur's heart is pounding so hard that he's sure Tommy can feel it thudding dully against his knuckles. "I understand," he says, even though he has no idea what's just happened, feels like he's on a chair that's just been kicked into a tub full of water.
"Good," Tommy says, and crushes him against the wall, rutting hard against Arthur's hip as his teeth sink into his neck, fingers pulling roughly at Arthur's shirt.
It's all Arthur can do to hold on at first, trying to convince himself that this is actually real, not a hallucination born from throwing himself into the Schuylkill in despair. He reaches for his totem but Tommy catches his hand, pinning it against the wall. "I only exist in one world," Tommy mutters against his skin, then drags Arthur to the bed and throws him down on it.
Arthur gets his wits back about him as Tommy crawls on top of him; he angles his face for a kiss, but Tommy turns away. "No," he says, a hard limit in that single syllable as he pushes Arthur's shirt off of his shoulders.
Tommy works fast. Arthur's barely pulled Tommy's hoodie over his head before he's got Arthur's pants and boxers off, and then Tommy flips him and pins him to the bed, a heavy arm across his shoulders. Arthur struggles and kicks, feeling the ground eroding away from beneath him as one of Tommy's spit-slick fingers slides in. "Fuck," Arthur gasps, his breath pounding out of him in a rush as Tommy nails the sweet spot on his first try. Arthur arches up as another finger pushes inside, getting his knees beneath him just long enough for Tommy to kick them back out again and send him sprawling onto his stomach.
"Is this what you want?" Tommy growls into the back of his neck, punctuating his words with his teeth and with the rough slide of his fingers in and out of Arthur's body.
"Yes," Arthur grits out, reaching backwards and lacing his fingers into Tommy's lank hair and pulling, delighting in the hoarse groan he drags out of the larger man's throat as he thrusts against Arthur's hip involuntarily. He can almost see Tommy's eyes rolling back into his head, and he's perversely satisfied to know that whatever else Tommy may have been faking, his kinks and triggers are still the same. And his responses--Tommy buries his teeth into the meat of Arthur's shoulder, digging deep, and Arthur knows he's going to ache for days there.
Tommy's fingers leave his ass long enough for him to wind up and leave a stinging slap on Arthur's skin, across the back of his thighs. "Gonna fuck you so hard," Tommy promises, licking a long stripe up Arthur's spine, the arm across his back like a bar lifting to catch Arthur's wrists and press them on the bed over his head as Tommy presses slowly inside. The relentless pressure pushes Arthur's breath from his lungs and he's lightheaded by the time Tommy's fully sheathed, stretched and pinned and suffocating with desire and the burn of Tommy inside of him, familiar and alien at the same time.
He sucks in a short, sharp breath. "Fucking do it, then," he demands, trying in vain to arch back against Tommy. "Fucking move."
"So mouthy," Tommy murmurs in his ear, but then he's moving, pulling out only to ram home again, and it's only the hand wrapped tightly around Arthur's wrists that keeps him from coming up off of the bed entirely. As it is, he knocks his head back against Tommy's, nearly concussing them both, and Tommy hisses before pounding into him again, and again, and again.
"God-- Just--" It occurs to Arthur, wild and half out of his head, that he once killed a man in zero-gravity. The thought rises unbidden, and then suddenly he's twisting around, a hand snaking free of Tommy's crushing grip. Before he can catch it again Arthur throws an elbow back into Tommy's face, clipping him across one cheekbone. Tommy rears back and Arthur tackles him, and for a moment they grapple and roll across the bed until the comforter slips off the mattress and dumps them to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Arthur is laughing bitterly between his teeth as he straddles Tommy and pins him between his knees, biting down on the first skin his mouth discovers even as he reaches back to position them, and then Tommy gets with it and thrusts up and in and they're fucking again, frantic and wild and sweating and groaning, Arthur leaving bruises and blood in his wake as Tommy hisses vulgarities below him.
One of Tommy's big hands is digging into his hip, leaving marks; the other winds into Arthur's hair and jerks his head back with a curse. For one exhilarating, terrified second Arthur thinks Tommy might kiss him, but instead he just takes advantage of the angle and bites at the skin below Arthur's jaw, across the edge of stubble at his throat. "You always have to make everything so goddamned difficult--" Tommy growls, punctuating his words with his teeth.
Arthur has no reply to that - except maybe he does; he twists his hips and grinds down on Tommy hard enough to make Tommy's head thunk back against the floor. "Fuck you," Arthur hisses, his fingers yanking at Tommy's hair again, keeping him in place as Arthur stares him down, rocking on his cock. "Fuck you," he repeats, curling his other hand around his own cock, glaring at him. "Fuck--" Grind. "You," and again, and again, relentlessly, until Tommy slaps both of his hands flat on the floor and slams up into Arthur with a howl, eyes squeezing shut as he comes. Arthur's not far behind him, spattering his come across the tattooed black lines covering Tommy's chest.
They both breathe for a moment, Arthur braced on both his arms, head hanging between his shoulders, until Tommy shoves him off. Arthur's ribs collide with the sharp wooden edge of a chair leg and sending it scraping across the floor, but he's too far gone to care.
"There were mornings when I woke up and I hated you," Tommy says finally, staring at the ceiling. "I'd watch you sleep and all I could think was how much I despised you."
"Could've fooled me," Arthur says, hating how hoarse, how off guard he sounds.
Tommy smirks so hard it's almost audible. "I did, man. I absolutely did."