Guide Underneath Your Clothes

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Shakira "Underneath Your Clothes": You're a song Written by the hands of God Don't get me wrong cause This might sound to you a bit o.
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You're a song written by the hands of God Don't get me wrong 'Cause this might sound to you a bit odd But you own the place Where all my thoughts go hiding And right under your clothes Is where I find them. Underneath your clothes There's an endless story There's the man I chose There's my territory And all the things I deserve For being such a good girl, honey. Underneath your clothes There's an endless story There's the man I chose There's my territory And all the things I deserve For being such a good girl For being such a good girl. I love you more than all that's on the planet Movin', talkin', walkin', breathin' You know it's true Oh, baby it's so funny You almost don't believe it.

As every voice is hanging from the silence Lamps are hanging from the ceiling Like a lady tied to her manners I'm tied up to this feeling. Underneath your clothes There's the man I chose There's my territory And all the things I deserve For being such a good girl For being such a good girl.

It's their first job together in the real world, to Eames' knowledge Arthur's first taste of real world crime. It's not Arthur's job, generally, to be the distraction, unless the distracting involves loud explosions. It's one of Arthur's myriad virtues that he never over- or underestimates himself, sure in his knowledge of his abilities, of himself.

Eames bows to his superior judgment. But he takes Arthur's pocket square out, even so, straightens it and folds it over, tucking it back in. The show starts with Eames in his seat, a glass of scotch in his hand that he has no intention of actually drinking. Pity, that — it's a fine Glenfiddich, to which Eames would love to show better appreciation — but needs must.

Arthur was meant to be the warm-up to whatever top attraction the club generally featured, but for some mysterious reason said attraction was unable to make it, so Arthur shall be the sole focus of attention tonight. Well, the reason is mysterious to Eames, at least. He finds it best not to ask Arthur about these things.

The room is set up like a boardroom, with a modest stage set up where the speaker's stand would be, merging into what looks like a very large mahogany conference table. The other patrons are sitting around it, arrayed in a horseshoe shape, various glasses in their hands kept filled by discreet waitstaff. A man in a dark navy double-breasted suit comes to the stage, clearing his throat. This place wouldn't have anything to do with anything so bourgeois as a microphone, relying instead on good acoustics and their patrons' manners.

Underneath Your Clothes - Tradução

We are very impressed with his skills and hope you will find him pleasing. The announcer leaves the stage to some polite applause. Eames is starting to wish he'd snuck Arthur in as one of the waiters.


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Unnoticed, smooth, Arthur could have fit right in there. Eames could have relied on the mark's preoccupation with the entertainment as it was. But the plan is what it is. Too late to change it now, as Arthur rises to the stage. Eames blinks, because for a moment he has a vertigo-inducing sense of deja-vu. Arthur stands on the stage looking at the patrons, expression serene. He looks just like he always does at the end of a well-executed briefing.

Underneath Your Clothes

For a moment Eames expects him to say, "Any questions? The silence in the room is tense, palpable. Eames wishes for the distraction of background music, bright lights, the cozy haze of drunkenness.


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    • Anything but the grace of Arthur's familiar movements as he takes off his jacket, leaving it folded neatly on the stage floor. Then Arthur walks up the table, heavy shoes clacking on the wooden surface, right up to Pinkerton, their mark, at his seat at Eames' left. Pinkerton looks up, meeting Arthur's eyes. He does nothing so crass as offer Arthur money. Instead, he inquires in a deep polite voice, "May I remove your shoes? The mark's fingers are slow on Arthur's shoelaces, careful.

    Arthur extends one foot, balancing on the other one with complete ease. Arthur's not wearing socks, and for some reason that hits Eames, a ridiculous pang of longing when he sees the pale flash of Arthur's ankles. For the love of God. Eames is quite glad he never bothered to be worried about his sanity, because it's very clear he lost all of it somewhere along the line. Pinkerton takes both of Arthur's shoes off. His hands linger on Arthur's bare foot, only for a moment, but long enough for Eames to notice.

    Eames isn't given to possessiveness. He trusts Arthur implicitly, both on the subject of work and beyond it. But Pinkerton had his hands on Arthur, for just that fleeting second, as if it was reasonable that Arthur would allow it. As if Pinkerton had any right.

    But Arthur's walking away from them, barefoot, to introduce himself to the other patrons, and Eames camouflages his distaste with a gulp of drink. A single sip's not likely to hurt anything. Arthur knows what he's doing, Eames reminds himself. Arthur's in control, devastatingly so, not a hair out of place. Figuratively, at least. Eames feels a sharp pang of regret at that - he should've asked Arthur to slick it back, put it away.

    Underneath Your Clothes

    This, as it is, the contradiction of Arthur's severe expression and the soft fall of his hair, tears at Eames. He's an actor, for crying out loud. He responds to cues. He knows Arthur-at-work and Arthur-at-play are two completely different creatures, and this blurring of the lines is making him desperately uncomfortable. Especially where his trousers are concerned.

    The muted thud of Arthur's belt hitting the table snaps Eames back to the situation in front of him. At a man's subtle sign, Arthur kneels so graceful, so easy it makes Eames' heart ache , thighs splayed wide to allow the patron access to Arthur's zipper. Arthur's expression doesn't change at all as the man unbuttons his trousers. Eames isn't certain whether he's relieved by that or not.

    Underneath Your Clothes - Lyrics and Music by Shakira arranged by EhlinaZorg | Smule

    This patron is apparently more careful of Arthur's personal space, because Arthur remains there after the patron takes his hands away, legs spread, a hint of his white pants showing through the unbuttoned top of his trousers, a sliver of exposed skin just above it that makes Eames' mouth water. By all rights, Eames shouldn't be reacting like this. It's not like he doesn't have regular access to Arthur in his full, glorious nakedness. Eames shouldn't be like these men around him who are growing wide-eyed, sweating discreetly into their three-piece suits.

    But Arthur is Arthur, and Eames can't help the way he reacts to him, never could nor ever wanted to. He allows himself to lean back in his seat and watch as Arthur bends down, a perfect straight right angle, his arse thrust out, to let a man loosen his tie for him. By the time Arthur comes back to their side of the table, he's down to his pants and his unbuttoned shirt hanging half-off his shoulders. His nipples are stiff and he's hard, easily visible through the thin line of his underwear.

    The rules here aren't standard strip club rules, exactly. No one will ask for a lap dance, for one thing.