Games We Play
Title: Games We Play
Rating // Warnings: NC17; explicit sex acts
Fandom // Character(s): Inception; Eames & Arthur
Pairing(s): Eames/Arthur
Disclaimer: Sorry Mr. Nolan, apparently hero worship really means "writing horrible slash about your work"
Summary: “I’ll just have to improvise a bit, then, won’t I? Lucky for me, I’m rather good at that.”
Status ( Read more... )
Comments 25
MORE FIC ABOUT JGL'S ASS. MOAR!!
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NO SERIOUSLY. FUCK ME, THIS IS AMAZING, I COULD READ YOUR PORN ALL DAY LONG AND HAPPILY WASTE AWAY.
You know, I usually don't go all CAPSLOCK-Y while commenting, but you bring it out of me.
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You flatter me so much it is not even healthy at all. Like, my ego is about the size of the Hindenburg right now and probably just as much at risk to go down in flames. What is wrong with me, I don't even. I swear to god there was gratitude in there somewhere, bb. A whole lot of it as a matter of fact.
AND I WOULD GLADLY HAVE YOU CAPSLOCK AT ME UNTIL THE END OF OUR DAYS.
And now I should really be working towards finishing this thing. I haven't even got to the whole point of why I was writing it yet. Which was basically [spoiler] bondage using suspenders. Yeah, I was thinking that the whole fucking film. Yeah, I'm a sick fuck with some heavy duty slash goggles. Believe me, I know.[/spoiler]
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Next time I watch Inception, that's all I'm gonna be thinking about. That and zero-gravity sex.
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That was literally all I could think about the second time I saw it. The first time I was trying to keep everything orderly in my mind so I could know what was going on. The second time I was like lolololol they need to be having amazing zero-grav sex right the fuck now. I ruin movies.
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It’s like the beginning of dreams. Or like the end of drunken late-night conversations over a crackling connection, through a wash of background noise that makes it clear that time-zones and oceans will always crop up in-between.
So, your writing never fails to be staggeringly, achingly beautiful. I think we've established this.
Arthur’s eyes follow Eames’ fingers as he flips a coin along his knuckles. Perpetual motion. Eames is never still, always rolling his shoulders and arching to rid himself of a cramp, flicking his lighter open and closed, always with something in his hands. He may make it look casual - languid, even - but he’s living like in place of a heart he’s got an over-revved engine and he has to be terrified that if he pauses for even a moment, there will be no hope of starting again. Coiled tight with nervous energy. Always touching to make sure things are still there, still as they should be, solid and real and true. Perpetual motion. ( ... )
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a) wanting to lick Cillian Murphy's cheekbones, (I know right, what's new),
b) madly in love with this GQMF:
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a) going holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck under my breath like some sort of prayer
b) in complete awe of how many fucking beautiful people were in that film: Marion Cotillard is fucking stunning and lkjsdla her voice oh god and JGL is just jlkjsadlkja fucking adorable and everyone knows how I feel about Cillian Murphy and oh oh oh Tom Hardy's jawline IDEK but it does things to me
c) more than a little jealous of Tom Hardy's lips.
d) certain that my suit fetish was/is worse than ever, which is really, really saying something
e) dead set on writing suspender bondage
f) wanting to hug everyone ever in the whole world
P.S. I can handle this guilt. Oh, god, can I ever.
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