On Your Every Body / And the Heart Lies Deeper Still Than Bone, by Isagel (NC-17)
Fandom: INCEPTION
Title: On Your Every Body (Though Your Skin Will Come Unmarked); And the Heart Lies Deeper Still Than Bone - NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Length: 14,614
Author on LJ: isagel
Author Website: author's AO3 profile
Why this must be read: In the dreamscape, you can be any physical self you want. Genderqueer!Eames is all that and more. I've reread these two amazing fics so many times since I first discovered it. The chemistry between Arthur and Eames is off the chart, and the sex is scorching. I love, love, love Eames who is both Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, and Arthur who can't get enough of either of them. Eames slips effortlessly between forms, and Arthur's love for them both permeates this fic in ways small and huge. It's beautiful. And hot. Just need to say that again. Holy smokes this fic is hot.
For a couple of minutes, the trees at the waterline obscure his view of both Eames and the mark, but when required to, Eames always does do his job, and he isn't surprised when he reaches the bridge to find Eames still leaning on the railing, his face now turned away towards the person he's getting paid to be watching. Arthur should walk straight by him, should really not have come this way at all, but they're at the mark's five o'clock here, and Jadhav can't see them unless he turns around. It's safe enough to lean against the railing next to Eames, at a distance appropriate for strangers, just pausing on his stroll to take in the view of the pool, of the boathouse, its white facade reflected in the water, the reflection mirrored back in the high arched windows of the building, a perfect, picturesque infinity loop.
“Was there something you wanted?” he asks, his tone clipped, severe.
“Oh, darling,” Eames says, his voice dipping into a low chuckle that drifts away with the cool breeze across the water. “Too many things to enumerate. One thing, though...” And he turns, closer when he shifts than Arthur had quite realized, leaning forward, his hand reaching along the railing to grip Arthur's wrist where it rests against the curve of the metal bar. His fingers are large, wide around the narrow bones of Arthur's arm, and Arthur can smell him, the clear, warm sweat on his skin, like the scent of sunlight clinging to his body. He is aware, suddenly, of how Eames's t-shirt, proclaiming the 1999 tour dates of a band he's never heard of, stretches tight over the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, of how the short sleeves reveal the tattooed thickness of his biceps. “Tonight,” Eames says, “when you fuck me, I want to be a woman. I want to undo the buttons on these tempting, bloody jeans of yours, and take you out, and quite simply sink down on you, wet and tight and greedy.”
Arthur's hands clench down around the newspaper he's holding, the pages rustling between his fingers, and his eyes fall shut, close around the vivid image flaring in his mind. But it's a challenge, it's always a challenge, although he isn't sure what game they're playing, what Eames wants to prove, wants him to prove, so he looks up, eyes steady as he meets Eames's, and he lets Eames hear the roughness in his voice, the jagged edge of want around the terseness of his words.
“Tonight. I'll bring the PASIV to your hotel.”
Something drifts through Eames's gaze, then, something he can't quite parse, and it occurs to him that Eames must know by now, must have known for years, probably, that this is home, that New York is where Arthur lives. But there are some things he doesn't do, some things he knows better than to do, considering his line of work. And Eames doesn't ask.
Instead he smiles, heavy and suggestive, letting his eyes rake over Arthur's body, his thumb stroking gently at the skin of his wrist with just a hint of a scraping nail, and says,
“Don't make me wait, love. Or I might have to come get you.”
If there is anything in his voice but sexual innuendo, Arthur doesn't know how to respond to it.
He takes the newspaper and whacks Eames across the back of the hand.
“Eyes on the mark, Mr. Eames.”
Eames snatches his fingers away, and laughs. It's a delighted laugh, easy as the day is easy, as easy as it would be for Arthur to push him up against the railing and lick the taste of that sunlight-warm sweat off his lips, from the stubbled edge of his jaw. He wonders if the female Eames will laugh like that, naked in his arms down below tonight, if he'll be able to find the traces of that taste in the creases of her body, beneath the slide of his tongue.
“Constantly and tirelessly,” Eames declares, and though Arthur is already walking away, down the slope of the bridge towards the shore, he is very certain that in that moment Eames's gaze is not on the mark at all.
It's unsettling, the fact that he doesn't mind.
On Your Every Body (Though Your Skin Will Come Unmarked); And the Heart Lies Deeper Still Than Bone
Title: On Your Every Body (Though Your Skin Will Come Unmarked); And the Heart Lies Deeper Still Than Bone - NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Length: 14,614
Author on LJ: isagel
Author Website: author's AO3 profile
Why this must be read: In the dreamscape, you can be any physical self you want. Genderqueer!Eames is all that and more. I've reread these two amazing fics so many times since I first discovered it. The chemistry between Arthur and Eames is off the chart, and the sex is scorching. I love, love, love Eames who is both Grace Kelly and Cary Grant, and Arthur who can't get enough of either of them. Eames slips effortlessly between forms, and Arthur's love for them both permeates this fic in ways small and huge. It's beautiful. And hot. Just need to say that again. Holy smokes this fic is hot.
For a couple of minutes, the trees at the waterline obscure his view of both Eames and the mark, but when required to, Eames always does do his job, and he isn't surprised when he reaches the bridge to find Eames still leaning on the railing, his face now turned away towards the person he's getting paid to be watching. Arthur should walk straight by him, should really not have come this way at all, but they're at the mark's five o'clock here, and Jadhav can't see them unless he turns around. It's safe enough to lean against the railing next to Eames, at a distance appropriate for strangers, just pausing on his stroll to take in the view of the pool, of the boathouse, its white facade reflected in the water, the reflection mirrored back in the high arched windows of the building, a perfect, picturesque infinity loop.
“Was there something you wanted?” he asks, his tone clipped, severe.
“Oh, darling,” Eames says, his voice dipping into a low chuckle that drifts away with the cool breeze across the water. “Too many things to enumerate. One thing, though...” And he turns, closer when he shifts than Arthur had quite realized, leaning forward, his hand reaching along the railing to grip Arthur's wrist where it rests against the curve of the metal bar. His fingers are large, wide around the narrow bones of Arthur's arm, and Arthur can smell him, the clear, warm sweat on his skin, like the scent of sunlight clinging to his body. He is aware, suddenly, of how Eames's t-shirt, proclaiming the 1999 tour dates of a band he's never heard of, stretches tight over the breadth of his shoulders, his chest, of how the short sleeves reveal the tattooed thickness of his biceps. “Tonight,” Eames says, “when you fuck me, I want to be a woman. I want to undo the buttons on these tempting, bloody jeans of yours, and take you out, and quite simply sink down on you, wet and tight and greedy.”
Arthur's hands clench down around the newspaper he's holding, the pages rustling between his fingers, and his eyes fall shut, close around the vivid image flaring in his mind. But it's a challenge, it's always a challenge, although he isn't sure what game they're playing, what Eames wants to prove, wants him to prove, so he looks up, eyes steady as he meets Eames's, and he lets Eames hear the roughness in his voice, the jagged edge of want around the terseness of his words.
“Tonight. I'll bring the PASIV to your hotel.”
Something drifts through Eames's gaze, then, something he can't quite parse, and it occurs to him that Eames must know by now, must have known for years, probably, that this is home, that New York is where Arthur lives. But there are some things he doesn't do, some things he knows better than to do, considering his line of work. And Eames doesn't ask.
Instead he smiles, heavy and suggestive, letting his eyes rake over Arthur's body, his thumb stroking gently at the skin of his wrist with just a hint of a scraping nail, and says,
“Don't make me wait, love. Or I might have to come get you.”
If there is anything in his voice but sexual innuendo, Arthur doesn't know how to respond to it.
He takes the newspaper and whacks Eames across the back of the hand.
“Eyes on the mark, Mr. Eames.”
Eames snatches his fingers away, and laughs. It's a delighted laugh, easy as the day is easy, as easy as it would be for Arthur to push him up against the railing and lick the taste of that sunlight-warm sweat off his lips, from the stubbled edge of his jaw. He wonders if the female Eames will laugh like that, naked in his arms down below tonight, if he'll be able to find the traces of that taste in the creases of her body, beneath the slide of his tongue.
“Constantly and tirelessly,” Eames declares, and though Arthur is already walking away, down the slope of the bridge towards the shore, he is very certain that in that moment Eames's gaze is not on the mark at all.
It's unsettling, the fact that he doesn't mind.
On Your Every Body (Though Your Skin Will Come Unmarked); And the Heart Lies Deeper Still Than Bone