Shift
Oh Molly. You thought you could make the words lay down the way you meant them to? *clucks tongue* Silly girl.
Sand dunes on acid. Really?
446 Words
We're going to go with NC-17 on this one
Eames/Himself (Projections)
No warnings
The light is soft and golden- a sunset through cream colored curtains- the dust motes hanging, suspended in warm, lazy air. Eames spreads out one arm like an unfurled wing, fingers spread loosely, reaching outwards as though trailing through tall grass. He lets his eyes drift, unfocused over the hazy semi-formed bodies gliding towards him through the open space. He exhales a shuddering breath, letting go of the remnants of the last week's work as the first touch ghosts up his arm and insinuates itself warmly against his pulse, other hands joining the first in stroking and kneading at his muscles, teasing his nerves into awareness with a firm insistence he doesn't fight.
~He floats.
The multitude of hands and bodies lift him like salt water, buoyant and warm, lapping at his bare skin, pressing into him with the pads of fingers and sharp nails, lips and tongues and teeth. Firm cocks and breasts like velvet slide against him, into him, through him. He lets his hands wander, lingering often, delving into wetness and heat and smoothing over vast planes of silk, the sensations ebbing away only to surge back, sweeter than before and more heady. Filled with a surety he can rarely capture in reality, he lets the last vestiges of control be buried under the waves of supple skin and spit-slick fingers.
He comes, back arching, heaven flooding his synapses and pressing against his eyes.
The light is still warm but cooler now, less intense. There's a distant sound of running water and a breeze that brings with it the smell of warm stone and damp leaves. There is no fear of him mistaking this for truth. Everything here is muted, too calm. His body is pillowed on a bed of thick, lush moss at the base of an old, decaying tree. His mind is blessedly silent here, in this place.
He lays under goldenrod rays of light that filter through the leaves, and he allows his mind to drift off and ease away.
He sleeps and is fully himself upon waking- perfectly centered and calm. He stretches, his skin forming itself around his bones and feeling right for the first time in a month. He fears the day of one too many forgeries when he can't re-teach his veins the pathways that should remain familiar but out of necessity must slide from memory like water through open fingers. He fears the day he's lost like Mal, unable to wake up from his living dream, unable to shift into his own skin, but for now, he has this- a land of heated, shifting sand and clean air that makes him feel whole once more.
Sand dunes on acid. Really?
446 Words
We're going to go with NC-17 on this one
Eames/Himself (Projections)
No warnings
The light is soft and golden- a sunset through cream colored curtains- the dust motes hanging, suspended in warm, lazy air. Eames spreads out one arm like an unfurled wing, fingers spread loosely, reaching outwards as though trailing through tall grass. He lets his eyes drift, unfocused over the hazy semi-formed bodies gliding towards him through the open space. He exhales a shuddering breath, letting go of the remnants of the last week's work as the first touch ghosts up his arm and insinuates itself warmly against his pulse, other hands joining the first in stroking and kneading at his muscles, teasing his nerves into awareness with a firm insistence he doesn't fight.
~He floats.
The multitude of hands and bodies lift him like salt water, buoyant and warm, lapping at his bare skin, pressing into him with the pads of fingers and sharp nails, lips and tongues and teeth. Firm cocks and breasts like velvet slide against him, into him, through him. He lets his hands wander, lingering often, delving into wetness and heat and smoothing over vast planes of silk, the sensations ebbing away only to surge back, sweeter than before and more heady. Filled with a surety he can rarely capture in reality, he lets the last vestiges of control be buried under the waves of supple skin and spit-slick fingers.
He comes, back arching, heaven flooding his synapses and pressing against his eyes.
The light is still warm but cooler now, less intense. There's a distant sound of running water and a breeze that brings with it the smell of warm stone and damp leaves. There is no fear of him mistaking this for truth. Everything here is muted, too calm. His body is pillowed on a bed of thick, lush moss at the base of an old, decaying tree. His mind is blessedly silent here, in this place.
He lays under goldenrod rays of light that filter through the leaves, and he allows his mind to drift off and ease away.
He sleeps and is fully himself upon waking- perfectly centered and calm. He stretches, his skin forming itself around his bones and feeling right for the first time in a month. He fears the day of one too many forgeries when he can't re-teach his veins the pathways that should remain familiar but out of necessity must slide from memory like water through open fingers. He fears the day he's lost like Mal, unable to wake up from his living dream, unable to shift into his own skin, but for now, he has this- a land of heated, shifting sand and clean air that makes him feel whole once more.