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26 April 2011 @ 09:50 pm
[fic]: anybody with a heart votes love  
Title: Anybody With a Heart Votes Love

Author: epistolic

Rating: NC-17.

Word Count: 9,344.

Genre: Romance/Dark.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't own!

Summary: Sin City!AU. Arthur is a whore; Eames can't help himself. This is a story about desire. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.

A/N: i_reversebang fic, written for datingwally's amazing art! Guh, I am still in fits over how absolutely lovely and atmospheric and gorgeous it is, it is about twenty thousand times better than the fic. /o\ Don't forget to go and shower her with praise, please, she deserves it, oh my God, she deserves so much.

Feedback = love forever, as always! ♥

Anybody with a Heart Votes Love

Arthur is smoking when Eames slides into the seat next to him. Arthur’s back is to the bar, his elbows leaning, his hips jutted out in silent invitation. The lightbulbs shed a harsh light on Arthur’s cheekbones. He looks like a bullet in mid-air, collar unbuttoned with the smooth white of his throat on show. A hot feeling in the pit of Eames’ stomach whispers to him that this is already a bad idea; but Arthur has always been a bad idea and that hasn’t ever stopped Eames before.

Arthur gives him a look as he settles down, a quick snick of a glance from underneath his lashes. Something hitches at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, the ghost of a smile, or perhaps a snarl.

“You’re out,” Eames says, starting to pat in his pockets. “Since when?”

“Two months ago,” Arthur says. He crushes his spent cigarette out on the bar, sparks flying, and flicks the butt carelessly off the wood.

“I thought your sentence was longer.”

“It was. No thanks to you.” Arthur gives Eames one of his old dangerous smiles, slick and scything and beautiful. “But you and I both know what this city is like. You can do anything if you know the right people, and I just happened to know the right people.”

“You slept with the right people, you mean,” Eames prompts.

“It’s the same thing.”

Eames finds his lighter at the same time Arthur puts two cigarettes in his mouth, unlit and leaning forward. His eyes are as black as the shadows behind the bar, the dark heat outside, bright and ravenous.

Eames lights both and Arthur plucks the second from between his lips, handing it over. Eames tries not to linger on the taste of him.

“Not a big deal for you anymore, is it?” Eames says. “And here I was, thinking that you hated your job.”

“It’s good money,” says Arthur. “It grows on you.”

“You’re buying me a drink, then,” Eames says, turning back to the bar. “Gin on the rocks.”

It’s been at least five years since Eames last saw Arthur, in the white cone of a streetlamp in an alleyway. Fucking by the brick behind an old dumpster, Arthur's ankles locked around Eames' waist, then later back in Eames’ apartment with all the lights off. Eames waking up the next morning to find all the money in his wallet gone. Five hundred dollars, all in tens and twenties. Cigarette ash on his windowsill.

“I didn’t kill him, you know,” Arthur says at last. His eyes glitter. “Phoney charges drummed up by the cops.”

“The newspapers said you fucked him,” Eames says.

“I did fuck him,” says Arthur. “But I didn’t blow his brains out.”

Eames can’t imagine someone more likely to blow a man’s brains out than Arthur, Arthur with his long legs and black-widow smile.

“Sure,” Eames says, downing his drink in one swallow and swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Are you busy tonight?”

Eames looks at him. “Busy enough. I’m not looking for a body, at least.”

“Everyone’s looking for a body out here,” Arthur says, a smile starting to sneak back onto his lips. “No-one comes out here looking for a chat, least of all you. Don’t think I don’t know what it is that you want.”

“Just because you once stole half a grand from me doesn’t mean that you know me.”

“But I’m hitting pretty close.”

Eames doesn’t want to admit it, but from the flash of Arthur’s teeth he can tell it doesn’t matter either way.

“If you’re not busy, we could go back to my apartment. I’ve got one or two things that I want to show you.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Eames says, thinking of where Arthur’s torso meets his thigh. “And nothing that I couldn’t find anywhere else. Once bitten, twice shy, as the pen-pushers say. I’m not going with you to anywhere.”

Arthur laughs. It’s a rough laugh, fresh from the city, all brass and grit and black road-tar. “I’m not after your money. I’m over that now.”

“Reformed you in prison, did they?” Eames asks.

“You know that I wouldn’t reform,” Arthur says, and he’s sliding a hand over Eames’ thigh. Eames freezes, holding his breath. “I’m going to Hell with the rest of this place, anyway. I might as well enjoy myself.”

“I’m not getting messed up with you,” Eames says. “Not again.”

“You found me,” Arthur says. “Remember?”

Eames shifts his leg and Arthur’s hand falls away, leaving a scorching mark on Eames’ skin. Eames plucks his cigarette from where it's almost burnt to the filter in his mouth and blindly stubs it out against his empty glass.

Arthur’s smile hasn’t faltered. “You still want me, don’t you? After all I’ve done. You can’t help yourself.”

“I’m alive,” Eames says. “I can help myself.”

It’s a lie, but the city is built on those.


Eames can barely remember a single day from the past twenty-five or six years of his life. Days are muggy, drenched through with half-hearted sunlight and the sound of ordinary lives carrying on. The cars, the roads, the shopping malls. The sky, always grey and looking puzzled, as if staring at a Rorschach blot.

Eames can’t stand it. He can feel it under his skin, an invisible bruise. He prefers the dark.

A week later, Eames is waiting for a taxi cab when Arthur’s voice comes knifing around the corner. It’s one in the morning and Arthur doesn’t sound drunk, the low thrill of his consonants perfectly clear. He’s with a man and his cheeks are flushed full and warm when Eames leans around the corner to look at him. His shirt is untucked. The light catches on his collarbones.

Eames stays where he is so he can hear them fuck, Arthur’s moans breaking up on the cracked asphalt. Arthur’s eight years into the business, and he knows his stuff. Eames’ fingers shake when he tries to smoke.

It’s not hard to imagine what Arthur looks like, flat on his back in the grime of the gutters, bite-marks thick against his throat. Eames has had him like that – white shirt ripped up to the neck, Arthur’s hands in his hair and reeling him in. Arthur’s mouth wide open and deliciously wet, quick and eager on the head of Eames’ cock. In his apartment Eames had tied Arthur up with a belt and driven three fingers up into him, and Arthur, with his hair falling into his eyes and Eames’ come drying on the side of his mouth, had pleaded for more, for more, for more, knuckles white against leather, eyes sleek as a gun.

Eames has thought about those eyes for almost five years, about what he would do if he saw them again.

When Eames finally manages to flag down a taxi, Arthur appears at his side like a trick of the light.

“Fuck off,” Eames grits out. “I’m going home.”

“Ah,” Arthur smiles, and gets in after him.

There’s dirt in the gel of Arthur’s hair and he keeps licking his lips. Eames concentrates on the roads flying past outside. He’s half-hard, and the looming white of streetlamps keeps ramming against his chest like blows.

“Still living in the same old neighbourhood?” Arthur says, after a moment. His voice is raw and husked. “Though why am I even asking, of course you are. I bet nothing’s changed. Not even the sheets.”

“I burned them,” says Eames. “You’d been on them. I don’t like keeping dirty things in the house.”

“If you had an objection to dirt,” Arthur says, “you would’ve burned this city a long time ago.”

Eames winds the window down and doesn’t answer him. There’s not much you can say to the truth.

“Lucky you were here tonight, though,” Arthur says, and his voice is tinged dark red with triumph. “I don’t have any cash on me to get home with. I would’ve had to sleep in an alley somewhere.”

Eames doubts this, since if there’s one thing Eames remembers it’s that Arthur can always find a willing bed.

“I thought you charged in cash,” Eames says.

Arthur shrugs. “Sometimes. And sometimes not.”

Eames’ apartment is very small and cramped, lit only by a series of naked bulbs. He doesn’t really mean to let Arthur in but Arthur has always been like that – getting into dark places where Eames doesn’t want him, sinking in his sharp claws and getting to work. Now, with the bare light bleaching the room, Eames watches as Arthur sprawls on the living room couch and hooks one knee fluidly over the back.

“I can still feel his come in me,” Arthur says, eyes closed, arms stretched up above his head. “I’m all wet and dripping, I let him come in me twice. You might have to burn this couch later, too.”

“I don’t want you staying the night,” Eames says.

Arthur cracks an eye open. “But you still want to fuck.”

“I didn’t say that.” Eames has the sudden sharp image of Arthur on all fours, spread out and vulnerable. “I’ll give you enough for the taxi fare home. Just get out.”

“But I’m comfortable here,” Arthur says. “And it’s not that easy for me to walk right now.”

“I don’t care,” Eames says and leaves the room.

Arthur finds him in the kitchen five minutes later, drinking cheap red straight out of the bottle. Arthur’s lost his jacket and opened his collar. Eames wants to hurl smashed glass at him.

“I would’ve thought that you’d try and get out,” Arthur says. His shadow yawns across the linoleum. “A full five years head start on me. I thought I’d come out to find you already gone.”

“Gone where?” Eames says. “There’s nowhere to go.”

Arthur shrugs, a complicated gesture, and looks out of the window. “Out. Anywhere but here.”

“Getting sick of the dirt under your nails?”

“No,” Arthur says, sharply. Eames just grins at him, a humourless grin that’s all teeth and knowledge, and Arthur turns away like he’s been physically burnt. “I was born in this town and I’ll die in it. It’s different for you. Nothing’s holding you here.”

“I like this place,” Eames says, spreading his arms. “You can buy anything here if you know where to go.”

“You’d rather go under than swim,” says Arthur.

Eames laughs. “Stuck in the middle of the ocean, you can only swim for so long before you go under anyway. Isn’t that what you taught me? Screw the world over before it screws you?”

“Sure,” Arthur says. “But then again, I’m a whore. It’s in my best interests to screw the world over.”

Something bitter rises in Eames’ mouth at that. He takes a swig of the bottle and keeps to himself.


Eames doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes the next morning he’s lying in his own bed and Arthur is lying next to him without any clothes on. A hot panic goes through Eames’ chest. Arthur’s legs stretch out against the sheets and he’s awake as well, the bleak light falling over his shoulder, propped up on his elbow with the sort of smile that leaves the back of Eames’ throat dry.

“Morning,” says Arthur, low and intimate. A sharp prickle rises at the nape of Eames’ neck. “I hope you’re not thinking of skipping out on payment, especially when you told me you had the cash last night.”

“Don’t try that,” says Eames. “I didn’t sleep with you.”

Arthur leans in, eyes hungry. “Didn’t you?”

Arthur is close enough that Eames can smell his skin, the faint tang of musk and sweat on it. Two years ago, on the streets, Eames shot a man point-blank for hitting a woman across the face; a thing which Eames would never have done in the daylight, or even remotely thought about. But there has always been something about the city at night that sharpens every emotion, every scene, and Eames realises now that Arthur has the same brute magnetism that has made Eames lose his reason countless times before.

Eames shifts away to the other side of the bed, skin crawling and hopelessly aroused.

“I didn’t touch you,” Eames says. “Put your clothes back on and get out before I call the cops.”

“The cops and I are on good terms, now,” Arthur says, teeth showing. “They know a good time.”

Eames can feel a small, freshly sticky patch on his shorts from where he’s hard. He pulls the sheets closer around his hips. His hands are clenching themselves into fists as if he’s imagining the feel of Arthur’s hair.

“But you’re right,” Arthur says, pushing off of the bed. “I didn’t sleep with you last night. I did check your wallet, and you were clean out of cash, so there wasn’t much point. And there’s nothing else in the house that interests me. I don’t hand my ass out for charity.”

“There’s not much else you won’t hand it out for,” says Eames.

Arthur bends over to pick his shirt up from off the floor and something tightens further in Eames’ crotch.

“True,” admits Arthur. He throws the shirt onto the foot of the bed, along with his trousers. “I’m going to take a shower so I can clean out all of last night’s non-charity work.” He turns, lashes low, and peers over his shoulder. “You don’t mind if I use your shower, do you?”

“If it’ll get you out of my house, then go ahead,” Eames says.

“I’ll take my time. Give you a chance to rub one out.”

Eames hates proving Arthur right but the moment the shower spray gets going he shoves his shorts down and, with the daylight filtering in, bites his moans out into his pillowcase. There’s too much of Arthur to think about so Eames tries not to think about him at all.

When Arthur comes out, he takes one sniff of the air and laughs. Eames is dressed and putting on his watch.

“Did you think about me?” Arthur says, half-taunting. “About the feel of me clenching around your cock when I come? You liked that last time, if I remember it right.”

“There’s nothing to remember,” Eames snipes to that. “I’ve had plenty better.”

“So that wasn’t what you liked?”

Eames turns and finds Arthur suddenly pressed in, the damp strands of his hair looking razor-sharp and leaving wet trails down the sides of his neck. He barely has any time to register before Arthur kisses him, tongue working filthily. Arthur’s body is one smooth line of heat down Eames’ front. Eames crushes him in closer on reflex, head swimming, and muffles a groan into Arthur’s mouth.

And then Arthur is pulling back away, a fresh set of bruises along his waist.

“What do you like, then?” Arthur says, tilting his head. His eyes shine with a sort of dark amusement. “You can tell me, Eames. I can keep a secret.”

“I like it when you’re not here,” Eames says.

“Liar,” says Arthur. “But if I never slept with liars, I’d be out of business before the day was out.”

Eames resists the urge to wipe his mouth, to lick it. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“I think you’d like to tie me down again.” Arthur grins at Eames, bright and sharply feral. “Box me in, hem me down. Teach me not to go throwing myself at just anyone on the streets who can afford to pay. Beat it into me, if you have to. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re done here,” says Eames. “You can get out of here now.”

“I’d let you, you know,” Arthur says. “Beat it into me. You’ve seen how much I like it rough.”

Eames grabs Arthur’s clothes from off the bed and shoves them into Arthur’s arms. To his surprise there’s a sharp clink, like two glasses hitting each other, and then something rolls out of Arthur’s trouser pocket and underneath Eames’ unmade bed.

Arthur drops to his knees immediately, fingers scrabbling. His towel slides off his hips.

“What,” Eames starts, but when Arthur looks up his eyes are so furious that Eames shuts up.

“Don’t you ever do that again. Are you listening to me?”

“What did I do?”

Arthur stands, a glass vial in his hand, and yanks his clothes away from Eames. The seduction is completely gone from his face; what’s left is something open and raw, and so angry Eames can feel the scorch of it.

Eames catches the wrist that’s holding the vial. “What’s this?”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says. “Fuck you.

Eames tries to snatch Arthur’s wrist again but Arthur dodges back, buttoning up his shirt.

“I’m out of here,” Arthur snarls at him. Arthur's outline is clear for a very brief moment, lit up from behind as he reaches the door; Eames watches, and cannot move an inch. “Call the cops, if you’d like. Call anyone.”


It’s hard to find Arthur when he doesn’t want to be found. Arthur knows the streets and the dark, damp places, and it takes Eames a whole week before he catches sight of Arthur’s fingers holding a cigarette lighter for a man in the back booth of a bar.

“Arthur,” Eames says, pulling up at the table. Arthur has a long, ugly bruise down the line of his cheek.

“I’m busy,” says Arthur. “And I’m with someone.”

“I’ve got money. I need to talk to you.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth tilts up and he dips his fingers into the nearest shot glass. He brings a glistening fingertip up to his lips. Eames watches the sudden pink dart of his tongue.

“A lot of people have money,” says Arthur, eyes flicking to the man sitting opposite him.

Eames is just about to open his mouth when gunfire rakes its way through the windows. The lights spit twice and then go out, glass shattering from bottles blown open on shelves. Eames ducks behind the low wall of the booth as bullets tear up the wooden floor. Through the haze and the noise he can feel Arthur moving, leaning over the table, and then two revolver shots. The body sitting opposite them jerks violently twice.

“Fuck,” Arthur is saying, over and over. “Fuck this.”

“There’s a staff exit towards the back,” Eames says. “I saw it when I was coming in.”

“Do you have pockets?”

Before Eames has time to respond Arthur is feeling his way along Eames’ thigh. It’s dark and Eames hates not being able to see what Arthur is doing, because Arthur could be slipping a grenade into Eames’ pocket and Eames would never know until his innards coated the walls.

But then he hears the familiar clink of glass and knows exactly what Arthur is giving to him.

“No questions,” says Arthur, as if reading his mind. “Not now. And they’ll have the exits covered. You've got a gun with you, yes? You want the back, or the front?”

“Ladies’ preference,” Eames says.

“I’ll take the front,” says Arthur, and then hesitates. “If we get separated, I’ll meet you back at yours.”

“Bringing the trouble right to my door, are you,” says Eames.

“But you love trouble,” Arthur points out.

It’s been a while since Eames last shot someone, but it’s a feeling that never leaves the blood. Eames can be ugly if he wants to be. Arthur just has a habit of bringing it out of him. Two years ago, Eames was caught cheating at cards and he shot up everyone else in the room, then went around a second time and shot every fucker in the balls as well. It wasn’t about who deserved what or didn’t. It wasn’t about justice. It wasn't about revenge. At that point, with the blood all over the walls and on Eames' shoes, it wasn't even about survival.

They don’t clear out every gunman in the place, but they do make it around the corner of the bar within half an hour without a tail. Eames’ pulse is singing like it wants to leap out of him. He can taste blood in his mouth, and it isn’t his.

“You’re a mess,” Arthur says to him, almost slyly, a thick band of red running down his jaw.

Eames wants desperately to grab him then and there, to grind him against the nearest car.

“You’re no pretty picture yourself,” Eames says.

Arthur laughs, baring teeth. “I never was.”


They hotwire a Merc and Arthur drives. There are grazes all across his knuckles and Eames finds himself staring through the changing light. The pavement races past, gleaming in the city’s humidity, and gradually the buildings fall away to the rougher terrain of the city's edge. Eames digs out the vials inside his pocket, rolling the smooth glass across his palm.

He can feel Arthur’s attention on him, hot on his neck like a torch that’s just been flipped on.

“Don’t charge in cash anymore, you said. So what’s this?”

“None of your business,” Arthur says.

The liquid inside the vials is clear. Eames pries one open to sniff at it and the car swerves as Arthur takes one hand off the wheel. Arthur’s eyes turn hard when Eames dodges away.

“Is this what they’re talking about on the streets?” Eames says.

“Depends who’s been talking,” Arthur snaps.

“You’ve gotten yourself into a pretty big mess,” Eames says, thumbing the vial closed again, “if the mob is after you. Have you been going around stealing their business, hmm?”

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me,” Arthur says.

“I don’t,” Eames says. “I’m just curious.”

The wheels screech when Arthur slams on the brakes, spinning the car right off the road. It’s a neat spin, quick and perfect like Arthur has done this before, and Eames is still gripping the door of the car when Arthur puts a hand on the dashboard to lean across the console.

“You’re curious,” repeats Arthur. Eames can feel Arthur’s breath on his lips, the tart scent of the shots he had earlier. “You didn’t seem all that curious five years ago. You could’ve gotten me out, but you left me to rot.”

“You were a cheap fuck,” says Eames. “I didn’t owe you a thing.”

“Still sore about the half grand, huh?” Arthur says.

It’s not just the half grand, Eames wants to say. It’s Arthur, the heady thrill of him, the look that Arthur gets in his eye when he’s peering down the barrel of his revolver. It’s the way Arthur got a hook in Eames and dragged him through the city streets with it. It’s this place, it’s how Eames can’t help himself, Arthur with the smoke curling around his face in the cone of a streetlamp five years ago; it’s how Eames still falls asleep at night thinking stupid, you knew he was a goddamn whore.

“Sure, it’s the half grand,” Eames says instead. “You must’ve sized me up beforehand, hmm? Had to make sure that it was worth your while. Like you said – you don’t fuck for charity.”

Something complicated crosses Arthur’s face, then goes just as quickly. “Of course I don’t.”

“Is that why you’re still trying this thing with me?” Eames says. “After a full grand this time, are you?”

“I don’t want your money,” Arthur spits.

“You think I can get you more of this stuff?”

Arthur looks down at the vials in Eames’ lap, silent and glittering in the light like pebbles. There’s a pause. When Arthur looks up again, his eyes are dark and shuttered off.

“Sure,” Arthur says with a careful shrug. “That’s my price. You want me, you pay for it.”

Eames laughs. He opens the car’s glove box, tipping the vials in one by one.

“How many men have you fucked for all this?” he says. “You can tell me, Arthur. I can keep a secret.”

“You know who I am,” Arthur snarls at him. His knuckles are white. “You know what I do.”

“I know that you’re meat on the market,” says Eames.

“So I am,” says Arthur. “And you know what, Eames? I like it. I like being fucked and used, pinned down with my legs bent over my head, getting pounded so hard I feel it right in my bones and can’t walk for a whole week afterward. I like having someone’s cock crammed down into my throat so far I can’t breathe. I like getting tied up. Last month, I got fucked by two guys at once, and it took them an hour to work me open enough because my hole was too tight.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eames chokes out.

“You want me enough to fuck me here?” Arthur says, dark eyes glinting honed and sharp. “I can ride you, right here in this stolen car seat where any cop could drive past and notice us. I can suck you off until you scream.”

Eames blindly works the car door open.

“No?” says Arthur, leaning in further. “Tell me what you want, then. Anything you want.”

“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eames says. “I’d shoot you right now, if I could.”

For a second, they simply stare at each other, Eames’ breath coming loud and too uneven. Arthur looks like he’s about to reach for his gun. Then, as sudden as a bridge splitting open, Arthur lunges forward in one rough movement and slams his mouth over Eames’ own. The momentum of it carries them out of the car and then Eames feels dirt underneath his back, dirt and mud, Arthur’s fingers gripping tight in his hair, Arthur’s mouth biting hungrily into his. Arthur’s hard and Eames can feel the heat of it through their clothes. It makes his head light, Arthur’s taste crashing over him, the smell of gunpowder and clotted blood.

“You’d shoot me?” says Arthur, leaning back. His mouth is bitten red and he’s got Eames’ gun.

Eames grinds his hips upward and Arthur gasps. “Wouldn’t hesitate, darling. I bet you’d do the same.”

“A dead client is not going to pay me,” says Arthur.

“A dead whore can’t screw me over,” says Eames. He untucks Arthur’s shirt with a wrenching movement, shearing off two buttons. “I know that much.”

Arthur laughs, rearing up to toss Eames’ handgun into the filthy passenger seat of the Merc. There are shards of glass in Arthur’s hair from the bar and he won’t stay still when Eames tries to undress him, nipping his way down Eames’ jaw as Eames fumbles with the buckle of his belt. It’s been a month since Eames last had a woman and five years since Eames last had a man; he can barely think through the red haze behind his eyes, the feel that every part of him seems to be on fire the moment it meets Arthur’s skin, lips, tongue. The instant he works Arthur’s trousers open Arthur’s hips cant forward like he can’t hold back, a high, desperate sound peaking in Arthur’s throat and stuttering out when Eames wraps a hand around him.

Eames has imagined countless times how this moment would play out. But he’s never imagined this look on Arthur’s face, Arthur’s eyes squeezed shut like he needs to focus, the warm weight of him across Eames’ lap. It makes Eames want to shatter him, to break him beyond what anyone else has done. To have Arthur entirely ripped apart, throat raw, limbs shaking with the force of it, all the tens and hundreds of faceless others burnt out of him like an exorcism.

“Stop,” Arthur blurts out after less than a minute, before he schools his voice into something smooth. “Stop. This isn’t exactly fun for you. Or were you planning to keep your pants on the entire time?”

Eames slows his hand, and Arthur’s fingernails bite reflexively into the meat of Eames’ arms.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Eames says, voice low. “You want me inside you, is that it?”

Arthur’s eyes flash dark. “I was saying you wanted that.”

“Ask me for it, if you want it that bad.”

“You – ” Arthur starts, but then his tone goes pliant and his whole body spills forward onto Eames’ own. “Fine. I want you to fuck me, Eames. I want you to – spread me open, right here, and shove your fingers inside and – make me beg for it, and I’ll beg for it, Eames, the feel of your cock pushing into me – ”

“Keep talking,” Eames husks out, reaching to undo his own belt with shaking fingers. “Don’t – stop talking – ”

“You bastard,” Arthur says. “Do you have any idea what it was like in prison, wanting you so bad I’d – fuck myself onto my fingers every night, and pretend it was you, but it was never enough – ”

Eames hooks a hand into the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, dragging his nails violently over Arthur’s ass as he pulls Arthur’s pants down past his thighs.

“I’d stick to what’s believable, if I were you,” he says, and Arthur’s eyes narrow hotly at him.

“What the fuck do you even want from me?” Arthur hisses. “I’ve given you all that I’ve got – ”

Eames digs a finger, dry, straight into him and Arthur bites his words off with a jerky motion. His head tips forward, hiding his eyes. His spine arches. “Not yet, you haven’t,” says Eames.

Arthur doesn’t answer, just stretches up to grip the top of the open car door beside him, screwing back down onto Eames’ hand. Eames thinks for a moment that it’s got to hurt – no way that it doesn’t, without lube or spit – but Arthur takes it, his entire body drawn tripwire-tight and his face tucked into the skin of his shoulder. By the time Eames has worked him wide enough there’s a patch of mist on the glass of the door where Arthur has been panting into it.

“Have you got,” Eames says, and Arthur shakes his head.

“Don’t need it,” says Arthur. His thigh muscles flex, throat bobbing with a swallow. “Want it just like this.”

Eames’ fingers pause. “It’s going to hurt.”

“You think I don’t know that? Besides, I’ve had worse.” Arthur’s eyes snap open and he looks over at Eames, shrewdly, through his lashes. “I can handle it.”

Eames looks up at Arthur, at the beautiful length of his body and his neck and the dry blood curling underneath his collar, and wonders how he ever thought Arthur would not be able to. Five years in prison with the murdering thugs and the dregs of the city, and Arthur survived it. Arthur is the dregs of the city.

Eames lets his fingers slip out and Arthur grins at him, sharp as a knifepoint.

“Make me feel it,” Arthur says.

The grin falters the moment Eames slams himself in. Arthur makes a strange noise, halfway pain and half not, grip loosening on the door of the Merc before he catches himself on Eames’ chest. Eames ignores him and bucks himself up again, setting up a series of ragged thrusts that has Arthur’s nails tightening in the folds of his shirt. Arthur feels just like he felt five years ago – his body opening up for Eames like it was made for that purpose, all silky heat, small sounds dropping out of his spit-slick mouth like he’s trying his best to hold them in. Eames can barely breathe, can barely think above the rush of blood in his throat and ears. For a blind moment Eames thinks he would kill for this, would raze the whole city and never look back.

Arthur twists his hips, a practised gesture, and stars burst across the back of Eames’ eyelids.

“Trust you – to know all the tricks,” Eames manages, then groans when Arthur does it again. “I’m curious. Did anyone – teach them to you, or did you find them out by – experience?”

“Leave me some of my mystery,” says Arthur, breath hitching. “Just – fuck, and stop talking, alright?”

Eames tugs him down by the front of his shirt and slides a hand across Arthur’s face. On a whim, he digs his fingers hard right into the bruise on Arthur’s cheek. Without prompting, Arthur turns his head and sucks Eames’ thumb right down to the joint; Arthur’s tongue is wet and talented and when Arthur comes half a minute later, a wrecked sound vibrating all up Eames’ hand, his teeth close hard on Eames’ skin and Eames follows, inevitable, shuddering.


Afterwards, Arthur levers himself off and blinks the sweat slowly out of his eyes. He looks triumphant, leaning back against the car with come sliding down the inside of his thighs.

“Got you,” he says, voice hoarse and raw. He doesn’t even bother to pull his pants up.

“You got shit,” Eames bites out. “This doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“Doesn’t it?” says Arthur, shifting his hips.

They burn the car within an hour by the side of the freeway, with the night all about them like shattered glass. In the blaze of it Arthur’s smile looks long, like razor wire, as he lights up a cigarette.

"What do you dream about, Eames?" Arthur says slyly, looking over at him. "Do you dream about me?"

"I've no reason to dream about you," Eames says.

"Don't you?" says Arthur. The inside of his mouth is red from the fire when he laughs. "Alright."

Arthur's collar is gaping from earlier. He still smells like sex and he looks it as well, shirt crumpled and still untucked over his belted trousers. His revolver is out and casual in his left hand. Eames isn’t sure why Arthur still uses that thing when semi-automatics can be found on every street, but it seems like something Arthur would do, strip a thing to its basics, to its blood and bone and make it as deadly as it ever could’ve been.

“You want to know why I did it, five years ago?” Arthur says, lip crooked in a dare. “Why I killed him?”

“Enlighten me,” Eames says. He takes out his own cigarettes, taps one out. “I thought you said it was bad policy to shoot clients. Wouldn’t do much for business, I should think.”

“He had something I wanted,” Arthur says, pressed in close with the orange light in his eyes.

Eames watches as Arthur takes the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to light the one between Eames’ lips. Eames wants to stop him, but Arthur’s shadow is long and he looks so damn beautiful, just like that.

Eames can feel the revolver brush against his thigh.

“And if I want something,” says Arthur, “I go after it.”


In the shower that night, Eames scrubs his skin raw but it still feels like it’s not enough.

Arthur’s left bite-marks all down Eames’ neck and he can see them every time he passes the mirror. Arthur has a habit of holding on, of sinking right into someone’s bones. Eames can feel him there, curled and darkly potent, like any moment he might break through Eames’ defences and leave that old want bristling beneath Eames’ skin, leave him hanging.

That night, Eames dreams of him.

They’re somewhere hot, so hot Arthur’s opened his shirt and Eames can watch the sweat brimming above his collarbones. The night is heavy and swallowing and the single light feels like sandpaper on the walls. Eames can smell gin, hear the clink of ice in it as Arthur tips his glass to take another sip, lounging back against a ratty sofa with his legs falling open carelessly. They must be in a hotel room because Eames doesn’t recognise the furniture. The shuddering squeal of the ceiling fan beats a breathless rhythm into the air.

“You’re staring,” Arthur says eventually, mouth hovering at the rim of his glass.

“Something you must be used to,” Eames mutters. He’s standing half a room away, but the distance between them still doesn’t feel safe. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur shrugs. “Aren’t you going to come and sit down?”

“I’m comfortable where I am,” Eames says.

Arthur doesn’t look disappointed at this. He hums, pressing his drink to the side of his cheek before turning to lick condensation off of the glass. Eames can’t help but follow the long stripe of it, the way Arthur’s eyes flick to him midway and then lower, lingering at Eames’ half-hard crotch.

“You don’t look comfortable,” Arthur notes. “But I can make you comfortable. If you want.”

“I know better than to make that mistake again.”

“It’s only a mistake if you think it’s one.” Arthur grins, and Eames’ trousers feel tighter. “And I guarantee that’s not what you’ll be thinking about when you’re buried balls-deep inside of me.”

“Fuck,” Eames says. Arthur did always know how to get the upper hand. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Why not?” Arthur says, and he tips his head. “We’re nowhere. Nobody’s going to know. You can do anything you want to me, and it’ll be just like you said – it won’t mean a damn thing, not down here.”

“I don’t need you,” Eames says, lying straight through his teeth.

Arthur smiles. “So what?”

Eames is across the room before he knows what’s happening. Dimly, he registers the sharp flicker of surprise as it passes over Arthur’s face, but he can barely see through the flash of want that gets into his stomach and twists like a knife. The air all around him feels overcharged; it singes all the way to his fingertips, to where he’s got his hands on Arthur’s shoulders now and suddenly Arthur is leaning in, mouthing the shape of Eames’ cock through his clothes.

“Thought you’d never,” Arthur gets out, then sucks a damp patch into the front of Eames’ trousers hungrily. Eames bucks and gives a stifled moan. “Wanted – knew you wouldn’t – so fucking good – ”

Eames hears the shatter of glass and then both of Arthur’s hands are on Eames’ hips, trying to tug his shirt up. Moments later Arthur’s mouth follows upward too, a quick flick of the tongue into Eames’ navel, biting an overheated line up past Eames’ belly and to the lowest point of his ribs. Eames’ breathing sounds like a crashing tide in his ears. When Arthur’s fingers quest up to graze over a nipple, Eames grunts and shoves him backward onto the couch. He’s not at all surprised when Arthur rolls with it and splays his thighs open as he goes down. Arthur stretches, and for a second Eames’ mind is entirely derailed by the swatch of bare skin as Arthur’s open shirt rides up; but then Arthur’s gripping the armrest with both of his hands, mouth open, shamelessly arching his hips, and Eames feels all restraint leach out of him with the sweat that’s springing out all over his skin.

“Need it,” Arthur says, with his eyes half mast and blown completely black. “Need you to – fill me up.”

“I bet you say that to everyone,” Eames says as he crawls onto the couch.

“I don’t,” says Arthur.

Eames pauses in running his hands down Arthur’s sides, thumbs hooking into the sweep of Arthur’s hips. There’s something clear and genuine in Arthur’s voice and Eames doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Liar,” he accuses finally, because it’s safer. “You’re this city, through and through. Every word that comes out of your beautiful mouth, everything. I don’t trust any part of you.”

“You don’t need to trust me to fuck me,” says Arthur.

Eames leans down to kiss him. “No, I don’t.”

He’s unprepared for the sharp twist of Arthur’s hips, the force of it knocking his balance to hell and sending him sprawling onto the floor. Arthur follows, fluid, his limbs almost pouring off of the couch and onto Eames’ body. It’s too hot; Arthur’s skin is too hot, his mouth, his breath. Eames’ blood is too hot.

Eames flips the two of them over and pins both of Arthur’s wrists down.

“Watch it,” Arthur says. His eyes flick to the broken glass centimetres from his head, the spreading pool of gin.

“Oh, I’m watching,” Eames says. He reaches out and picks an ice cube out from amidst the glass, moving to glide it over Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur’s eyes fly wider and he shivers. “Is that good?”

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. “Yeah, I – that’s good.”

The puddle of gin reaches Arthur’s hair and Arthur tastes like gin when Eames sucks at his throat, hot and burning and unpredictable, and when Eames slides the cube lower to trace around Arthur’s nipple – teasing, because Eames is a bastard like that – a low hiss struggles out of Arthur’s throat and his wrists twitch violently in Eames’ grasp.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers, his teeth clenched tight. Eames can feel the tense note in all of Arthur’s muscles, the way Arthur can’t decide whether to lean into the ice or away from it, and that indecision, more than anything else, makes the blood pound its way through Eames’ skull. Arthur is never unsure; Arthur never hesitates once he’s got a finger hooked into the trigger. For all Eames knows, Arthur is all sleek steel without a single crack or vulnerable spot, because the one time Eames had thought he’d brought Arthur down – crashing, gasping, all his defences stripped bare – Arthur had slipped out with every dollar in Eames’ wallet and left him in the city alone. It makes Eames want to tear every trace of Arthur out of his bones; but the last time Eames had tried that he’d spent every day of five years in the bars and the dirty back-alley places, fingers stained with the black of newspaper ink, combing the streets for dark eyes and a silhouette.

You’ve no idea what the fuck you’ve done to me, Eames thinks, biting down hard enough to draw blood. Arthur flinches a little, lets out a gasp as Eames glides the ice cube down and across his stomach. You’ve no idea all the things you’ve made me want.

When Eames licks his way to Arthur’s crotch, the whole ceiling shakes.

“God, I hate you,” Arthur grits out, thighs trembling. He sounds like he’s lost control; above them the roof shudders a second time, all heat and sweat and electricity. All Arthur. “I hate you so damn much.”

The building collapses down on them.


Eames jerks awake first, mouth dry and chest heaving from the sensation of being crushed underneath a metre of rubble. It’s hard to remember where he is – bed, window, the rest of his room – but then Arthur stirs on the covers next to him, eyelids flickering, mouth opening to a gasp of air. There’s a briefcase at the foot of Eames’ bed, and two lines tracking out. One is in Eames’ wrist. The other snakes over to where Arthur is and, just like that, Eames knows what Arthur has done to him.

Arthur doesn’t shy from the hit Eames aims at his jaw, just takes it, head snapping sharply to the side. The smile he gives Eames afterward is all teeth, blood snaking down in between the cracks.

“Oh, come on,” Arthur says, propping up on his elbows. “Don’t tell me you didn’t expect me to give it a try.”

“You fucker,” Eames spits. He yanks Arthur close by the collar and Arthur’s laugh skates out against his neck. “You keep out of my head, or I will end you, I swear. I can still hand you over to the mob, no sweat.”

“But you won’t.”

Arthur pulls himself away, shifting to remove his cannula. Eames rips his own out with none of Arthur’s finesse and the sting of it doesn’t even register, lost beneath all the fury building in Eames’ chest like a freight train ready to run off the tracks.

Arthur looks up through dark lashes when Eames grabs his wrist and twists a burning bracelet into his skin.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” Eames snarls. “Thought you’d screw me over a second time? Thought you’d play me? Well, damn if I fall for the same trick twice, and if you think I’m going to let you into my head – ”

“Let go of me,” Arthur says, voice very low.

Eames ignores him and tightens his grip even further, watching Arthur’s lips turn white with pain. “What did you get out of me? I’ve heard the talk on the streets about what this all is. What were you after?”

“I don’t give a fuck about your secrets,” snaps Arthur, biting the consonants out with his teeth.

“You gave a fuck about something.”

“That surprises you?”

Arthur digs his nails hard into Eames’ pulse and Eames lets go of him with a muffled hiss. Arthur’s eyes are flashing, black and alive, and it’s like staring down the wrong end of a gun.

“Not really,” Eames says. “You’ve only ever been interested in money and fucking. So which was it this time?”

“The money,” says Arthur, curling it around his tongue viciously as if he wants it to ram into Eames like a bullet. He tries to push up off the bed but Eames yanks him back by the tail of his shirt. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. You’re nothing. You think I can’t go out and have men all over me by the end of the night? You don’t mean a goddamn thing to me.”

“You think I care about meaning something to a whore?” Eames says.

You were the one who came looking for me,” says Arthur, smiling. It twists upward at the sides like barbed wire. “I bet I was all you thought about while I was in prison. I bet you wished you’d gotten me out.”

“I only found you because I knew you were easy,” says Eames.

“And I only let you because I knew you could pay,” Arthur says.

Eames laughs. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got nothing. You could tear this house apart and all you’d find is a hundred dollars, tops. I’m cleaned out. Picked up a gambling addiction while you were busy bending over interrogation tables and giving your pretty arse to the cops.”

Arthur snarls at him like a cornered animal and launches off the bed, messily gathering up the lines. Eames snags one. He uses Arthur’s grip on it to yank himself to his feet.

Arthur turns on him, bristling, lightning-fast, fists clenched and hackling for a proper fight.

“You idiot,” Arthur hisses, his jaw stark and taut underneath his skin. “I’ve got more money in these tubes than you earn in a month. In the time I’ve spent with you I haven’t gotten a cent, but any second I could’ve stepped out into the street and found someone who’d pay me a hundred to suck his cock. But I didn’t. You think I give a damn about your money? Fuck you, Eames, Jesus Christ. Fuck you.”

Eames can feel his mouth twisting into something ugly. Arthur hikes in a surprised breath when Eames slams him bodily into the dresser, all weight and muscle, boxing him in.

“So it’s the fucking,” Eames says, grinding it into Arthur’s ear. “Isn’t it?”

“So what if it is,” Arthur spits.

“Is that why you went down into my head? Just couldn’t get enough, could you, not even when you could get paid for it anywhere else. Never thought you’d ever come so cheap, just handing yourself over to me like that – ”

“Yes,” Arthur says.

“Goddamn it,” Eames says, and shoves him heavily against the wood. He hasn’t even pulled himself back upright before Arthur’s already arching up, hungry, wanting, furious like the path of an oncoming tornado, eyes loaded and dark. “Stop it. For fuck’s sake. Stop it.”

“You think I haven’t tried that already?” Arthur says.

The kiss is too brutal to be anything more than a clashing of teeth. Eames bites and bites and Arthur’s fingers, gripping onto Eames’ hips, tighten fiercely enough to make Eames gasp. Arthur’s as quick as a snake and fighting him is like the time when Eames wrestled a wild dog back into its cage in an illegal fighting rink, teeth snarling, breath rancid, wounds all up its flank from where the other dog had managed to get its fangs in. Arthur tastes like copper and cigarettes, like violence. Like the grit of the sidewalks late at night when Eames gets himself into a street-side brawl, knowing at the outset that he’s going to lose but getting his knuckles dirty anyway. Arthur grunts when Eames gets a grip under his thighs and rams him higher up the front of the dresser. There are handles underneath Arthur’s back; Eames wants him to feel them, wants him to hurt, and that’s one thing that hasn’t changed in the last five years – the white-hot need in both of them to own, to wreck, to shatter, destroy.

The sweat at the crook of Arthur’s neck still tastes the same, and it’s almost too much. Eames spins the two of them around and throws Arthur roughly onto the bed.

“That’s what you killed for, isn’t it?” Eames says, jerking a chin at the briefcase on the bed. Arthur’s already started undoing his pants.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Yeah, I killed him for it.”

Eames feels like his voice has worn down to sandpaper, dry and clinging to the roof of his mouth. He can almost see it – Arthur, with a cock down his throat, fingers worming unseen to the gun tucked into his belt. It makes something hot bloom behind Eames’ eyelids and he lunges forward, grabs the hand that’s unbuttoning Arthur’s trousers and wrenches it forcefully up and around. In one move he has Arthur shoved onto his stomach, both wrists pinioned painfully at the small of his back.

Arthur chokes off something into the sheets, please and fuck and yes and Eames.

“Tell me what all this is about,” Eames says, leaning down to growl it into Arthur’s neck. “Why you’re doing this.” Arthur bucks up, testing the waters, and Eames gets his whole body onto him to hold him down.

“Want you to fuck me,” Arthur says.

“No,” Eames says. “Why you killed for that thing, and those vials. What are you trying to do?”

Arthur laughs, breathlessly, sounding amused. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” says Eames.

Arthur goes limp beneath him, and for a second it is so unexpected that Eames doesn’t suspect a feint until it happens. Arthur hooks a foot around Eames’ ankle, aligns their hips, and manages to flip Eames into the headboard of the bed. Eames’ shoulder connects with a jarring crack. The moment Eames’ grip on Arthur’s wrists slacken Arthur is crowding back in again, licking into Eames’ mouth.

It’s hard to keep a steady train of thought with Arthur so close, deftly undoing Eames’ buttons; his fingers, dipping into Eames’ pants as Eames struggles himself into a sitting position.

“You talk too much,” Arthur says against Eames’ lips, before bending down to suck Eames right into his mouth.

Eames’ breath goes out of his lungs in a rush. Arthur feels good, too good, and Arthur knows what he’s doing –always has, ever since he leaned into Eames’ neck under a streetlamp with cigarette smoke on his breath, said, I want you. I want you to fuck me, right here, and then I want you to fuck me again

– and Eames, wrapped up in an overcoat because the weather was starting to fray at the edges, took one look at that long, pale, slender neck and was a lost cause before they’d even begun.

“Stop,” Eames gets out, pausing Arthur mid-rhythm. “Don’t want to come from – not from this.”

Arthur draws off, spits on Eames’ cock to get it slick. Eames bites off a sharp inhale.

“What do you want?” Arthur says.

Eames wants – Eames wants to break him to pieces. Eames wants to make Arthur shiver apart, wants to melt what holds Arthur’s bones together until he’s nothing without Eames to hold him up. Eames wants to pick Arthur apart at all of his seams, thread by thread, crush him underfoot like glass. Eames wants what he's always wanted from Arthur. Eames wants.

“Tell me,” Arthur says, frustrated now. His eyes flash in the lamplight. “What do you want?”

“You,” Eames manages.

A shudder goes through Arthur’s frame and Eames gasps when Arthur gives a flick of his wrist. Arthur’s other hand is scrabbling at the zip of his own pants.

“Again,” Arthur says hoarsely, voice thick and rusty and almost unrecognisable. “Say it again.”

“Want you,” Eames says. A high whine leaks from Arthur’s lips; Eames cries out when Arthur manoeuvres into his lap, Arthur’s cock a pulsing line of heat pressed suddenly up against his own. The pace Arthur sets is punishing. Eames, staring down at Arthur’s fist, can’t help but rock up into the alien feel of it.

“Again,” Arthur rasps.

“Want to have you,” Eames says. Arthur’s cock jumps and Eames feels it, shivers, and can’t stop. “Never stopped – wanting, you in prison and all I could think was how much I wanted – to drag you out of that place by your hair, beat you up, teach you a lesson, fuck, Arthur, I want to – always wanted to make you – couldn’t – fuck – ”

Arthur runs a blunt thumbnail over the head of Eames’ cock and the pain makes him arch, makes him lose his breath, and then he’s coming with Arthur’s smell in his nostrils, Arthur’s groan branded into the side of his jaw.

“Yes,” Arthur husks out, hand still working. “Yes.

Eames can feel the exact moment when Arthur comes, shaking, ripping, tearing apart, like a shell pounded into grit by the sea, like a puddle stepped into, like a car crash.



Arthur lights a cigarette in the sickly glow of the lamp, thighs spread lazily on the covers, pants still open. Moments ago, he’d rucked up Eames’ shirt with one hand and licked the come off Eames’ stomach. Eames’ skin is still prickling hotly from it. From the reminder of what Arthur can do to him.

“Are you going to take it back?” Arthur says, eventually.

He still sounds like sex, rough and voice shot to ribbons. Eames glances over at him.

“Take what back?” Eames says.

“What you said. About wanting me.”

Eames doesn’t say anything, looking across at the mess on the floor, all the papers and trinkets the two of them knocked off of the dresser earlier. He can feel his lips stinging from where Arthur bit them.

Arthur pulls a knee up, the night around them heavy and moist. “We should leave."

“What?” says Eames, taken off-guard.

"They'll be all over this house by tomorrow morning, looking for me." Arthur peels the cigarette from his mouth, eyes flickering towards the open briefcase on the bed. His smile is a clever, dangerous thing, like it’s seen what’s on the inside of Eames’ ribs. "And anyway, I'm sick of this goddamn place. Dreams are cheap in this city. We could go anywhere we wanted, live off what I've got on your bed for a year. It'll be different.”

“Every city in the world is the same,” Eames says. “You’re dirt, and you’ll be dirt wherever you go.”

Arthur laughs, eyes glittering like two dark stones.

“You’re the only one who knows me," Arthur says.

Something in his voice sounds like a confession. Eames looks at him, at the collar of Arthur’s shirt, at the glint of Arthur’s teeth beside his lip. The tiny pin-pricks clustered by Arthur’s wrist, like a ladder with which to climb out of Hell.

You’re going to be the death of me, Eames thinks.

He reaches out his hand for the cigarette.

The End.

A/N: Title and inspiration from this song from the Sin City OST. If you're squicked by graphic violence, though, it may be best to listen just to the song and not watch the video. ♥

A giant thank-you to my horde of betas - you are the Goldies to my Marv, seriously. incandescent, mementis, withlightning; and of course, datingwally, who humoured me, saw me through my fits and tantrums, coerced me along when I hit creative ruts, and was always as patient as a saint. Thank-you, lovelies. I owe you all so much.

Feedback would be absolutely lovely! And, of course, feel free to friend me for future Arthur/Eames, or check out my other Inception fics.

datingwally: Arthur smilesdatingwally on April 26th, 2011 12:07 pm (UTC)
Thank you for such a gorgeous read! It was a pleasure to work with you! I watched this movie just for you and loved it! You completely captured the movie's wonderful noir atmosphere in your writing and filled it with sensuality and raw passion! I couldn't help but feel inspired by your words.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on April 26th, 2011 12:11 pm (UTC)
You are the sweetest darling to ever darling, amazingly talented, so fun and up for everything, I just. And wow, really? Sin City love! Your art kept me going and gave me so many new ideas, this fic would never have happened without your kindness and inspiration. Thank-you, hun, again. You are the best, and your art is absolutely sublime, and if ever you feel like collaborating again, I am absolutely up for it. ♥
ilovetakahana: eames+arthur targetilovetakahana on April 26th, 2011 12:25 pm (UTC)
That was beyond perfect, a perfect evocation of Sin City and the darkness underneath it all. Arthur fits in so well, as does Eames, and then everything your ending implies - it just takes my breath away. This was just plain excellent.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 03:52 am (UTC)
Oh, wow, darling, thank-you so much. ♥ Your comment means so much to me, especially because I had so much trouble writing the ending, so I'm beyond ecstatic that you liked the way it turned out. It really makes me so, so happy. ♥
Ifrit.weatherfront on April 26th, 2011 12:34 pm (UTC)
I LOVE THIS ABOUT A HUNDRED TIMES MORE THAN THE MOVIE (and probably the comics, though I haven't actually-- OH WHAT DOES THAT MATTER RIGHT NOW. This is so dirty and jagged and delicious, you had me at the summary (actually you had me at your username, but when do you not). *_____*
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 03:52 am (UTC)
THAT IS HIGH PRAISE INDEED, IFRIT. :D :D Thank-you so much! As always, you are simply the kindest person ever, thank-you for taking the time to read and comment. ♥
(Deleted comment)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 03:54 am (UTC)
Oh! Wow, thank-you, I'm so glad that was the case. ♥ Your kind words really make me happy, especially since that was the sort of tone I was going for, it's so great to hear that something you tried for actually came through for the reader! It means so much to me. Thank-you for taking the time! ♥

And haha, it's not just Eames, I don't think I would be able to stand a chance either!
l.m.: pic#109906473incandescent on April 26th, 2011 01:57 pm (UTC)

ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 03:56 am (UTC)
Hahahaha, oh Eden, you darling thing you. Thank-you so much for beta-ing this fic for me, for taking the time to give it the attention it by no means deserved, for putting up with my ~diva-ish ways. ♥ You are just the kindest soul, I swear! So much love! ♥
cas: ∞ [ film ] → inception ∞ eamestraincar on April 26th, 2011 02:23 pm (UTC)
YESSSSSSSS. Oh god, I'm so excited. I really, really love this, Mel. I've never seen the movie, but I love the feel of this. It's almost tangible. Good god, I've been waiting so long to read this and I'm so glad it's heeeeere! I wanted you to get this art piece so badly because I KNEW IT WOULD BE AS WONDERFUL AS THIS IS.

I'm happy dancing foreverrrr. This is definitely one of my favorites from you. ♥
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 11:48 am (UTC)
Oh, Cas, to hear that you liked this means so much to me, you can't even imagine! You definitely have to see the movie. ♥ It's absolutely amazing. Very, very violent, and it isn't everyone's cup of tea, but so sexy and stylised and noir, I fell instantly in love! And - GUH, woman, seriously. THANK-YOU. I'm so, so happy that you enjoyed this one. ♥
(Deleted comment)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 11:52 am (UTC)
Aw, wow, Lucy, you never fail to make me blush with your comments. Thank-you! :snuggles: I myself have never actually seen/read Frank Miller's comics, I'm more familiar with the movie, but I've heard that his stuff is very stylised. Will have to look it up sometime! Thank-you so, so much, and yes, datingwally's art can be found here! If you could help me convince her that she is BEYOND AWESOME, that would be fantastic. :D

Thank-you so much for reading and commenting, darling, I just. ♥
ampliflyer on April 26th, 2011 03:41 pm (UTC)
Oh darling. Once again, I'm so happy that I got to be part of this process, even when I couldn't give it all the attention it deserved when I was battling with my own re:bb.


There. ♥♥♥


Edited at 2011-04-26 03:42 pm (UTC)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 11:57 am (UTC)
Frida, darling, what are you even talking about, the fact that you gave up your time to deal with my ridiculous inability to write things without PANICKING EVERY TWO SECONDS deserves a medal in and of itself. ♥ Your help really gave me confidence, really helped me get back into the story just when I thought I'd drop out of it, kept me going and kept me in love with this verse. Thank-you for that, I honestly mean it when I say I couldn't have written this without you. ♥

Ev / Lethaatavistique on April 26th, 2011 03:44 pm (UTC)
OMG I had to read this as soon as I realized it was posted, even though it's about 1.30am and I have to go to work tomorrow.

You are amazing. I love the grittiness of the scenes and how both of them are so dark and dangerous and their Argentine Tango of meetings and separations (can't you tell I'm a Noir fan? Lol). And this:

"Eames turns and finds Arthur suddenly pressed in, the damp strands of his hair looking razor-sharp and leaving wet trails down the sides of his neck."

Fuck. You have no idea. I could almost *smell* the slightly rusty water and the soap and the arousal. Hgggnnngghh.

Huge props for the artists, that second one had me staring for minutes. The shards of glass are perfect.

Going to sleep now, but not without hugging you first. HWUGS.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:05 pm (UTC)
Eeeeeee, darling. ♥ You read this! I have no idea why that makes me so ridiculously happy, but it does, because you are awesome and my fics are silly and yeah. ♥

Thank-you so much, I can't even. How amazing is the Sin City movie, seriously? I just wanted to make love to it, haha. And datingwally is so absolutely mind-blowing, isn't she, her talent simply astounds me, I am so so lucky to have gotten her as my artist. ♥

- atavistique on May 10th, 2011 06:35 am (UTC) (Expand)
beautiful and terribleneomeruru on April 26th, 2011 05:35 pm (UTC)
Oh, this was beautiful. I love the sharp characterizations. Their cruelty to each other and themselves is very Sin City, so spot on there. A great read. <3
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:09 pm (UTC)
Aw, Lindsay, thank-you so much! I love Sin City so, so much, I'm so glad to have been given the opportunity to show that through this fic. ♥
Larialaria_gwyn on April 26th, 2011 07:34 pm (UTC)
I wish this was Sin City canon (I would probably like it a lot better)! Ugh, so violently gorgeous, darling, and pitch perfect. They way they crash into each other, it's so intense and visceral and passionate. I had shivers going down my spine. I love how dangerous they are, how dark, how they know that they're dark and a bit messed up and they embrace it. Love this, love YOU. <333
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:13 pm (UTC)
Haha, wow, that is such high praise. ♥ You didn't like the movie? Aww. It certainly isn't everyone's cup of tea, my parents spent the entire fifteen minutes being all WHY IS THAT WOMAN NAKED and WHY IS IT IN BLACK AND WHITE IS OUR TELEVISION BROKEN, etcetera etcetera. Haha! And I certainly had trouble watching it for the first time, it was only after watching it two or three times that I fell in love. ♥

And dfngusifg darling, darling, seriously, thank-you. You are much too kind, Laria, I always feel ridiculously lucky to have you read my fic. ♥
Mira: Tom Hardymirareeves on April 26th, 2011 07:37 pm (UTC)
Oh this is so, so good. You've captured that dirty and gritty quality of Sin City and fit Arthur and Eames into it perfectly. Just really mean and seedy and dark. Really well done.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:16 pm (UTC)
Oh! Wow, thank-you so much, that mood was exactly what I was going for. Thanks so much for reading and giving such a thoughtful comment, it really means a lot to me. Thank-you. ♥
jennifer lopez: [stock] fist of furylemniciate on April 26th, 2011 09:09 pm (UTC)
OH MY GOODNESS how do I even express the amount of love I have for this? ALL MY WORDS PALE IN COMPARISON. It's so gritty and sharp and sexy and, and---dirty. Aaaah, gosh. ♥
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:17 pm (UTC)
♥ ♥ Jenn, you never cease to make me sooooo happy, THANK-YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR KIND WORDS, they make something flip-flop in my chest. Thank-you for reading and commenting, bb. ♥
kittie_gurl57: Creepy Malkittie_gurl57 on April 26th, 2011 09:14 pm (UTC)
...Holy shit. That was so dark and twisted and incredible, my dear, that I never wanted it to end. It was so--so visceral. I felt it in my bones. Amazing job.

You have the most amazing turns-of-phrases and writing style I have ever seen. I can't tell you enough how much I freakin' love the way you write. I love your metaphors, your imagery, your everything. And I am not coherant enough to write any more about this.

So just know you're amazing. <3
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:18 pm (UTC)
Oh, darling, wow, thank-you! Visceral - that is such a beautiful, powerful word, and to hear it used to describe my fic just makes my heart sing. You are simply the sweetest, I am the luckiest girl in the world to have someone like you reading my fics. ♥
- kittie_gurl57 on May 9th, 2011 11:02 pm (UTC) (Expand)
hydropen: communityhydropen on April 26th, 2011 09:28 pm (UTC)
Well that was gorgeous. The whole atmosphere and their emotions felt so raw.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on May 9th, 2011 12:19 pm (UTC)
Ah, thank-you so much, darling, for reading, for commenting, and for the friend-add! You are just the sweetest, thank-you. ♥