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crack_van2011-12-10 04:32 pm
laceymcbain.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-12-10 04:32 pm
Breathe Into It by rageprufrock (PG-13)
Since the last rec was a spectacular AU, I thought I'd continue with Alternate Universes for a few days. I've always thought that Stargate:Atlantis fandom held the title for whackiest, crackiest AUs that work, but I think Inception can give it a run for the money.
Fandom: INCEPTION
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (mostly implied)
Length: ~ 9,763 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rageprufrock
Author Website: Fics on A03
Why this must be read: There are some people I would read no matter what fandom they write in, and Pru is one of them. No matter what she's writing, you know you're in for something funny and smart and just a little bit different.
In this AU, Eames is an advertising exec working for the Cobbs. (Ariadne shows up as an intern, and Yusuf as Eames' BFF). Eames has become rather smitten with the Cobbs' friend Arthur, who happens to be a yoga instructor. (Yes, you read that correctly. Extra-bendy Arthur.) In order to prove the sincerity of his suit, Eames signs up for Arthur's classes, hoping to impress him (even as he gets to watch him being flexible and annoyed in Eames' general direction). Most of us would do a great deal for love, but I'm not sure how many men (or even women) would suffer through a pre-natal yoga class to impress someone.
Along with the aching back and muscle strains (and perhaps a small concussion), Eames eventually gets Arthur's full attention, but is it enough to convince him that Eames is in this for the long haul?
Being an incurable adrenaline junkie means that Eames has done a lot of regrettable and eventually painful things with his body, but there is the endorphin kick of snowboarding on unstable powder, the James Bond thrill of parkour, the dizzy concussed thud of rugby, and then there's whatever the fuck it is Arthur is doing.
Objectively, Eames knows that yoga is just expensive stretching, but in practice, what it means is that he's balanced in exquisite, fucking unending agony, trying to remember to hold his heels to the ground, keep his knees up, turn his thighs out--what?--and most of all: not to fall on his fucking face.
Eames is fit and he fucking knows it, but apparently his long years of running the stress out of his body and pick-up games of football have done nothing for his flexibility. When Arthur says--voice light--in the front of the room, that everyone should just fold themselves over in uttanasana, the shock of pain and his back's total boycott of participation is remarkable.
"Translation, Mr. Eames: touch your toes," Arthur murmurs, a smile in his voice.
"Yes, I'm doing that," Eames snipes in reply, and doesn't dare turn his head, because staring directly at the ground and making his fingertips brush the sticky-rubber mat Alicia had lent him is extremely taxing, and he doesn't think he can manage doing both that and staring at Arthur's knees.
Overhead, Arthur sighs. "You know this is an intermediate course, don't you?"
"Arthur, really, this much specialized attention? Someone might cry favoritism at this rate," Eames says, glaring at his own knees. Fuck his knees. They're bending, and he's pretty sure when Arthur had demonstrated this before he told everybody to hold the position, his knees had been ramrod straight and relaxed. Eames isn't sure; he had also been entertaining a number of supremely filthy mental images at the time.
"And breathe," Arthur tells him, and there's definitely a laugh in his voice now, and Eames is about to be pissed about that until he feels the warm touch of a hand on the back of his thigh, fingertips sliding in the well of his knees, and Arthur murmuring, "Loosen up your thighs--it'll help."
Eames has about a thousand sexy rejoinders to that, but then suddenly Arthur is gone, the warm presence of him absent, and from the corner of his eyes, Eames can see the familiar swish of his hips headed toward Woman #2, saying, "Mrs. Carlyle, what did I say about keeping your shoulders loose?"
An unintentional side benefit of being about two seconds away from passing out from oxygen deprivation and in screaming pain is that Eames is so distracted by the terribleness of this activity that he's utterly surprised when Arthur says:
"Class, good job--"
Everybody comes out of their poses, stretching and shaking themselves out, arms and legs loose, and Eames comes up first with hands on his knees, and then slowly extending out, feeling murderous and sore and --
"-- on the warm-up exercises, now for the actual poses," Arthur is saying, at the front of the room.
"Shit," Eames says.
On AO3: Breathe Into It
It doesn't matter how old or new or (how popular) a story is, authors love feedback!
Fandom: INCEPTION
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (mostly implied)
Length: ~ 9,763 words
Author on LJ:
rageprufrockAuthor Website: Fics on A03
Why this must be read: There are some people I would read no matter what fandom they write in, and Pru is one of them. No matter what she's writing, you know you're in for something funny and smart and just a little bit different.
In this AU, Eames is an advertising exec working for the Cobbs. (Ariadne shows up as an intern, and Yusuf as Eames' BFF). Eames has become rather smitten with the Cobbs' friend Arthur, who happens to be a yoga instructor. (Yes, you read that correctly. Extra-bendy Arthur.) In order to prove the sincerity of his suit, Eames signs up for Arthur's classes, hoping to impress him (even as he gets to watch him being flexible and annoyed in Eames' general direction). Most of us would do a great deal for love, but I'm not sure how many men (or even women) would suffer through a pre-natal yoga class to impress someone.
Along with the aching back and muscle strains (and perhaps a small concussion), Eames eventually gets Arthur's full attention, but is it enough to convince him that Eames is in this for the long haul?
Being an incurable adrenaline junkie means that Eames has done a lot of regrettable and eventually painful things with his body, but there is the endorphin kick of snowboarding on unstable powder, the James Bond thrill of parkour, the dizzy concussed thud of rugby, and then there's whatever the fuck it is Arthur is doing.
Objectively, Eames knows that yoga is just expensive stretching, but in practice, what it means is that he's balanced in exquisite, fucking unending agony, trying to remember to hold his heels to the ground, keep his knees up, turn his thighs out--what?--and most of all: not to fall on his fucking face.
Eames is fit and he fucking knows it, but apparently his long years of running the stress out of his body and pick-up games of football have done nothing for his flexibility. When Arthur says--voice light--in the front of the room, that everyone should just fold themselves over in uttanasana, the shock of pain and his back's total boycott of participation is remarkable.
"Translation, Mr. Eames: touch your toes," Arthur murmurs, a smile in his voice.
"Yes, I'm doing that," Eames snipes in reply, and doesn't dare turn his head, because staring directly at the ground and making his fingertips brush the sticky-rubber mat Alicia had lent him is extremely taxing, and he doesn't think he can manage doing both that and staring at Arthur's knees.
Overhead, Arthur sighs. "You know this is an intermediate course, don't you?"
"Arthur, really, this much specialized attention? Someone might cry favoritism at this rate," Eames says, glaring at his own knees. Fuck his knees. They're bending, and he's pretty sure when Arthur had demonstrated this before he told everybody to hold the position, his knees had been ramrod straight and relaxed. Eames isn't sure; he had also been entertaining a number of supremely filthy mental images at the time.
"And breathe," Arthur tells him, and there's definitely a laugh in his voice now, and Eames is about to be pissed about that until he feels the warm touch of a hand on the back of his thigh, fingertips sliding in the well of his knees, and Arthur murmuring, "Loosen up your thighs--it'll help."
Eames has about a thousand sexy rejoinders to that, but then suddenly Arthur is gone, the warm presence of him absent, and from the corner of his eyes, Eames can see the familiar swish of his hips headed toward Woman #2, saying, "Mrs. Carlyle, what did I say about keeping your shoulders loose?"
An unintentional side benefit of being about two seconds away from passing out from oxygen deprivation and in screaming pain is that Eames is so distracted by the terribleness of this activity that he's utterly surprised when Arthur says:
"Class, good job--"
Everybody comes out of their poses, stretching and shaking themselves out, arms and legs loose, and Eames comes up first with hands on his knees, and then slowly extending out, feeling murderous and sore and --
"-- on the warm-up exercises, now for the actual poses," Arthur is saying, at the front of the room.
"Shit," Eames says.
On AO3: Breathe Into It
It doesn't matter how old or new or (how popular) a story is, authors love feedback!