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 Posting a reply to post #56101

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56101 No.56101
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My personal favourite, even though the artist doesn't like it. ;)

someone needs to draw Nolan's reaction to all of this faggotry

You mean Nolan's "I can fap to this" face.

The porn is nice, but I can't get past how their midsections are always too small.

Was just thinking the same thing. The heads also look a bit big, but maybe it's just me.
Still lovely art, though.

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Inception/Sandman crossover

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Dude. DUDE.

Fucking WIN.

I demand more epicness in the form of fics.

(And you know, that is a GREAT crossover. Both worlds would meld so beautifully, and I have this little image of Death calling Arthur a cute little boy and ASDFGHJKL; I LOVE IT.)

Both of these are stellarrrrr.

Neil Gaiman twittered about it, which is how I found it.


Dear god, these are GORGEOUS. Sauce?

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Oh, awesome, proper critque. Heads too big, torsos too small, working on it. Thanks.

"You mean are we okay?" He can't hold back the laugh. "Oh yeah, Eames. We're fine. Just one of our old professional disagreements."

Eames' hand tightened around his bicep and dragged him behind a wall, screening them from the crowded street. "You know what I mean, Arthur."

"Yes, I figured you'd always wanted to do that."

"Quiet, darling. Play nice."

"Unfortunately for you, niceness isn't one of my natural traits."

"Yes, well, you're a nasty piece of work and there's no mistake about that."

He can hear people talking in the street behind the wall and eyes Eames' hungry expression. It's cheap victory, but he'll take what he can get. He doesn't have a heart to break anymore and it's time to play fast and loose with Eames'. The sonofabitch has tried to break his heart under controlled conditions in order to somehow have him to himself. Arthur doesn't know what they're supposed to do once Cobb is out of the picture-- what, gaze longingly at one another and never dare to do anything about it because Eames is bound by some sort of romantic code that forbids him to touch Arthur unless Arthur is exclusively in love with him? Fuck no.

"Was it good for you too?" Arthur asks, silkily, spitefully. Eames backs him up so his ass hits a brick wall, angry and horny and sexy as fuck.

"Knock it off," Eames growls, but his hand is slipping up Arthur's thigh and edging his shirt up, other hand undoing Arthur's belt buckle and shoving his pants down.

"You learn that move in MI6? Eliminating the target by fucking them to death? James Bond must be a real hero of yours, Eames."

"Shut up, Arthur," Two of Eames' fingers slicken the ring of his asshole and his heart pounds wildly. There's nobody on the street right now but someone can easily come along and catch them. Probably won't cause that much alarm. Cobb will probably just mistake it for one of his perverted fantasies again, and Mal's not going to kill him this time because he's already occupied.

Eames turns him around roughly and penetrates him--to be honest, rather painfully--as Arthur leans back against the wall, spreading his legs for balance and steadying himself with his hands against the wall. He likes Eames' cock, he decides--it's long and slim and prods alert around inside him like a blade, sharp as his tongue, which was flickering over the shell of his ear. His hand is tightly woven into Arthur's hair, turning Arthur's face to him as he kisses him and fucks him, steady and deliberate.

"This what you been missing, darling?" For all his physical steadiness, Eames' voice is rough at the edges, masked clumsily with bravado. "Is this what he used to give you?"

"You'd never know," Arthur hisses, resenting him for not being Cobb. It doesn't matter that Cobb is a faithless, stupid bastard who broke Arthur's heart to be with Mal. Arthur still rememberes the fevered, deep-down dirty lovemaking--doing it so very slowly and making each stroke of his cock last a lifetime, watching his face flush and his hot, delicious moans turn to desperate pleas as he begged for Arthur to fuck him.

"I need to know..."

"Really?" Arthur braces his hands on the wall firmly and pushes himself firmly down onto Eames, wanting to be more deeply skewered on his lean, hard cock. He wants to piss him off some more so he'll do it harder, like the rape he assumes that Eames wants it to resemble--a strong, angry quickie against the wall in the dark places of Cobb's mind.

"Yes," Eames pants. "Now hurry the fuck up, will you?"

"Oh--you really want to know, don't you?" Arthur teases, a nervous laugh threatening to resurface. Vindictively, Eames slams into him with a deep, painful thrust that slips back slowly, scraping over his prostate and making him jerk and buck and need to come so badly it hurts. He wants to moan but manages to keep the sound in his lungs, the scream staying silent for now.

He clenches his muscles around Eames' dick, triumphant when he sees Eames' teeth sink into his underlip at the sensation. "All right, Eames--he was hot. Electric..." Eames thrusts angrily into his deliberately resisting muscles. So tight, so goddamn fucking good. The bespoke fabric of his shirt feels like a second skin as the hem of it brushes against the head of his swollen cock. One of the better qualities of dreamscape clothing is that at least it moves the way you want to.

"--he'd do anything in bed--"

Another fierce stroke. What would really make him angry? He grabs at Eames' hair, hoping to get enough of a handful to tug. God, he still smells the same as before, like the first time Arthur met him, stinking of old money but insisting on a cheap woodspice cologne that had never been changed for an upmarket designer fragrance.

"--best fuck of my life--"

Eames' hand closes tightly over his dick, the first time he's done so, surprising him. "Yeah, right..." He squeezes, pushes, dragging Arthur closer to the edge.

"Better than this..."

"Good boys don't lie," Eames snarls, driving his cock in so hard that it's like being split in two, twisting and tugging his dick. Arthur holds back the words because he doesn't dare voice what's going through his mind.

...notbetternowaynotlikethissogoodEamesgodfuckme... "Hypocrite! Bastard fucking sonofabitch..."

He pants insults at him through clenched teeth, because damned if Arthur is going to show him just how much he's enjoying this. Let him think Cobb would always be the better fuck. It'll make him try that little bit harder.


FFFFFF moar please. also, who's the author of this?

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all of you stalk this woman, read her comic HERO and commence porn creating

sage for i am a dickhead

Oh my god.

Someone else reads it?


also sage for continued dickheadedness

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YESSSSSSS let's get married (aka transport this to the webcomic thread)

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These things are becoming familiar: the sinking of his gut, of his senses, when the IV goes in and his mind goes under, the way the first thing he looks for is Cobb when his eyes open again. These days, he’s filled with apprehension the day of, whatever the assignment, however much they’ve prepared in advance.

Mal was a shade in the truest sense before, an apparition here and there and even up close, Arthur could see right through her. She was as transparent as glass and as gossamer as air, a silky, sullen thought-thing here and there around every corner. One time she flung herself at Arthur, mouth open in a scream and face contorted in rage, but there was no sound, no rush of wind to accompany the movement of her body, and she had passed through him like a ghost. Cobb had looked on, lips pursed, eyes unreadable.

Then Mal jumped, and when she jumped, she became real in the jobs.

The first time Mal killed Arthur, it was with a kitchen knife the size of her arm. She plunged the blade into Arthur’s chest over and over again and sneered at him, this is what you wanted all along, wasn’t it, well now you can have it, thrusting the blade over and over into him until the tip of it pierced Arthur’s heart and he woke with a jolt.

Arthur might die in these dreams, always against the plan, but they always make it out where it counts. Cobb always wakes moments later (but down there minutes, hours can have passed), ripping the IV off and face stony as he trips out of the room without so much as a glance at Arthur and Arthur is lurching after him, PASIV case in his grip and the mark asleep behind them in fitful twitches.

Rumble, whirr, hiss. The now-familiar sound of Cobb’s world unfolding around Arthur, the sound of Cobb laying out the map in practice, streamlined streets and nameless buildings taking form, crawling up on their own and coagulating into familiar shapes. Arthur is watching in the shadows, an unannounced visitor, secret in the night next to Cobb’s and Cobb’s recliner, Somnacil running strong in the name of risk management.

And it’s not Arthur’s fault if he’s too busy watching the buildings fall upwards and coalesce from folds into planes, the walks and joys of humans springing up as they emerge from corners and alleyways and the shadows and some of them rub shoulders with Arthur as they pass him, barely sparing him a glance. Bright windows and processions, people wandering purposefully in all forms, all shapes, sizes, ages, and combinations, talking with each other and with intent, their eyes bright and alive and real, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off this world, off Cobb’s worlds. Where his dreams are clean around the edges, Cobb’s are rough, and where Arthur’s projections are clinical, robotic, Cobb’s are as real as real.

And if Arthur can’t take his eyes off Cobb’s city long enough to notice the gradual crumble of the building behind him, the collapse from the tallest brick down, then it’s his own fault and his fault alone.

Cobb doesn’t know he’s here, shouldn’t know he’s here. But the noise of clashing cement and metal stirred by the wind of Cobb’s discontent swirling around them all suggests that Arthur is not so invisible anymore. Projections fly asunder in the vortex, skin and bones and blood all in spiral-moving pieces around Cobb, (Arthur’s projections would be bloodless, would land in primordial puddles upon impact), and Arthur is getting edged out by the fierce winds, struggling to keep still in the shadows, fingers breaking and bleeding as they scrabble against the brick and mortar for any kind of hold—

Mal walks in front of him, unruffled by the storm, as if still a ghost and the wind passing through her. She’s looking at him and Arthur is looking back and she’s saying something but Arthur can’t hear her over the wind. She might be a ghost and the wind might go right through her but she reaches out with both hands and winds her fingers around Arthur’s neck and beats his head against the wall again and again and again until his blood sings a swan song out of his skull.

“That can’t happen again.”

Cobb is sitting with his back to Arthur, shoulders hunched over. He doesn’t move. Arthur sits up a little straighter.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.” Cobb’s voice is parched, laid out in the sun for too long, in the light of realization.

Cobb stands up, rubbing his face with his hands, “I know. No more.” And no, that wasn’t what Arthur was going to say, and Arthur stands up too, words on the tip of his tongue and dying in his throat when Cobb turns around and looks at Arthur and it’s terrible, broken. Arthur takes a step back, and then two, feeling himself numb and the only sound is his heart beating furiously but it’s not the direction he means to go, not at all.

Cobb walks away, but Arthur lets him go.

Arthur books two jobs right away. The first one is an easy freelance assignment; a rich man sending Arthur in to see if his much-younger wife is cheating on him. Arthur could tell him as much without the PASIV, and is reminded of a joke that Eames once told about the young adulteress of a rabbi who had five boyfriends and lived to see them all die.

Arthur might have chuckled. A little bit. Those were the days when Cobb still laughed, too, and Mal right along with him.

The mark is buxom and Botoxed, and they are in and out in a matter of fifteen minutes (DT dream time). Arthur tells the client the name of the Other Man and gets paid enough money to pay his annual rent twice over and does so, much to the delight of his landlord.

The second job is for a dream therapy clinic located on Mulholland Drive called Endymion. Arthur applies for the position of Product Engineer because he wants to.

On the day of the interview they ask him about his past experiences, never mind if those past experiences aren’t entirely “kosher,” they just want to know what he’s done and how he can apply his skill sets to helping clients at Endymion discover meaning in their lives. “It’s a noble thing you’ll be doing,” they tell him, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the momentary puzzle. He answers all the interview questions with the fervor of somebody discovering a new world for the first time, and to be fair, it is a new world, almost. (Arthur had the option to volunteer at a dream clinic during his EMT training in college, but opted to pursue an elective option in the molecular biology lab instead.)

The managing director offers him the job on the spot, lauding him for his passion and his technical ability. She hands him a stack of books and tells him to read and Arthur does, meticulously marking up The Canterbury Tales and The Odyssey and Lord of the Rings like he’s in English class again so he can create worlds that parallel and surpass theirs.

But in the end, Arthur can only mimic. He can create the journeys word-for-word but everything is too orderly, too clinical. Focus groups complain that their dreams are uninspired. They ask him, where is the catharsis that accompanies the journey’s end? The M.D. tells him, maybe he just needs a little more training. But weeks after weeks, Arthur’s Pardoner remains mute of sin and his Harpies sing flat cantatas and his Mordor is filled with mountains all of the same complexion and navigability.

The clinic’s well-heeled clientele— Hollywood starlets, drug dealers, investment bankers, basketball wives— parade through the marbled lobby, coming in with tongues clicking and leaving with beatific smiles on their faces, Manolos and Ferragamos clicking their way to Enlightenment. Arthur’s heart beats slow and steady in his chest as he sulks in the legitimacy in watching them wake up on the clock and smile at him and tip him and wrap up their sessions with quantitative questionnaires and the on-site therapists.

Arthur rarely hates anything, but he might hate this.

He is out one night getting a few drinks with a few of his most tolerable coworkers. They are named Natalie and Constance and Becker and Tony. Natalie graduated from Stanford and is working in the clinic. Constance is a 20-year old junior at USC and Becker’s cousin. Becker worked at the UCLA Medical Center before going into the private practice, and Tony works in the marketing department (but wants to go back to Yale for English literature).

They are heading to sp@ce, a new club with a lot of ultraviolet light and a lot of minimalist techno beats and have just finished smoking and taking shots at Cargo before. His head is swimming pleasantly, enough to make everything very tolerable, lights all blurring to one motion and one light at this moment and all the sounds around him like the ocean. The feeling is familiar because this was the way he starts every dream with Cobb. Cobb’s mind logs in fast, tuned to the realm of the dream before Arthur’s neurotransmitters can even start releasing. Sometimes before he wakes up in the dream, he feels the wind on his face and an ocean rumbling in his ears, coolness on his face and Cobb, wading through the water and reaching out a hand to pick him out of the surf—

And so that’s why Arthur bumps into someone he thinks he is suddenly caught in a dream because as he looks up to stammer his apologies, there is Cobb, hands on his arms to steady him and saying “Arthur. Arthur.”

He blinks sluggishly, still caught in the haze of good humor and hubris, before his consciousness catches up to his body. “Cobb,” he says, and his voice is clipped, short. Like he’s surprised. “You,” he starts, and he meant to say it as a greeting, “how’re you, Cobb? It’s been a while, hasn’t it…?”

But no, it comes out as an accusation. “You,” Arthur chokes out, pushing Cobb away and feeling his center of balance shift dramatically. “What, demons dead already? Can’t believe they left you off so easy…”

“Hey,” Cobb says slowly, “are you drunk?”

Real fuckin’, Arthur thinks, almost hahs in Cobb’s face but then remembers that this isn’t a dream, that he’s actually here and Cobb’s actually here. “Sorry,” and he tries to stand up by himself, and does. Cobb lets go of his arms.


“Have you been following me?” He suddenly realizes in disbelief. This is, in no way, shape, or form, Cobb’s choice of weekend downtown activity. Technically it wasn’t Arthur’s either, but that Cobb is actually here Arthur realizes something crucially important. “You fucking hypocrite.”


“I don’t have to take this shit from you, son of a bitch,” His hands are clenched tight into fists even as he makes himself back away, keep still. “You got out on me, so go to—”

“Everything okay, man?” Tony’s turned back, Natalie and Constance looking back too. Tony is standing up at his tallest, swimmer’s build impressive and Arthur would want to if he weren’t so, that is, being terribly honest about himself, so he says “yes, everything’s all right” the same time Cobb is still looking at him, eyes never off him and saying, sotto voce, “no, Arthur, it’s not.”

“We should catch up sometime,” Arthur is says, feeling caustic and throat scratchy and already walking away from Cobb.

“We need to talk, Arthur,”

“Coffee or something, you know?” He says over his shoulder.

“Now.” And Cobb grabs his wrist and pulls, and Arthur—

It’s not like Arthur really ever wanted to go out of orbit.

Cobb shoves him in the car like a mark and drives to his apartment. He hauls him out, Arthur a puddle of chuckles and annoyed sighs and the next thing he knows his shoes are off and he’s on the couch. His own couch in the living room and Cobb is putting a straw in his mouth and there’s a cup of ice cold water in his hand and he’s telling Arthur to drink, a gentleness in his eyes that hasn’t been there since Mal used to put it there.

Arthur sits up and drinks, perfectly thankful that Cobb didn’t take his socks off, he’d been in those shoes all night, and drinks and drinks until the water is gone from the cup. “I’m not five years old,” Arthur mutters, and Cobb rocks back on his heels and mouths, I know. That’s when Arthur swings his legs around the couch and leans forward so that they’re facing each other, really, for the first time in a while.

Bringing his hand up to Cobb’s face is the heaviest feeling, like he’s swimming through syrup to get to him. But he does it and then he’s leaning in more and then he’s kissing him, the lightest brush of lips on lips. His heart skips a beat, then two, then five, and then Cobb’s pushed forward and has his hands in Arthur’s hair and reaching around to cradle Arthur’s skull as he slicks his tongue across Arthur’s lips. He gasps and Cobb tongues in farther and then Arthur is pushing back.

God, he breathes, and Cobb is saying it too, Cobb is saying what are you doing to me what are you doing to me, Arthur, over and over again like a mantra and his hands are moving down Arthur’s shirt, popping buttons and Arthur’s going to kill him for that later if he doesn’t die of this first. He’s hard, harder than he’s been in years because these last few years he’s been working and that’s all he’s been doing, never letting himself think about what this would be like because what’s the point, Cobb’s a married man and Arthur is a rules sort of guy so he just works and counts himself among the luckiest because he gets to watch Cobb build and that’s what Cobb is meant to do in this world.

And no, Arthur thinks greedily, gleefully, Mal isn’t here. She isn’t here and yes, she can kill Arthur down there and Cobb’s guilt can let her do it down there but here, here, Cobb is all Arthur’s. Cobb in all his genius and imperfections and his far-away looks all on Arthur now, of course Arthur is greedy. And next time they go under Mal will be there and Mal will know and she may kill him slower, faster, hacking away at him and his insides until he’s all gone but he has this with Cobb, here.

Cobb is stroking him through his briefs and Arthur is spreading his legs as far as he’s able. He finds enough coordination left to undo Cobb’s belt buckle and button and zipper and reach a hand in to find a hardness that matches his own. Cobb has tugged Arthur out and one hand is slicking and stroking him and the other hand is pushing the hair out of Arthur’s face as he mouths him everywhere, between his eyebrows, lips fluttering over his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. Then he drops to his knees and pulls Arthur’s pants all the way down and puts Arthur’s cock in his mouth. It’s the wettest hottest nastiest and Arthur can’t keep track of order of things, can’t remember for later, everything in his mind is short-circuiting as Cobb moves his tongue up and down and laving Arthur’s cock with spit until it’s bright and red and shiny and sucking and it’s a perfect black hole and oh. oh.

Cobb keeps talking, keeps whispering, I need you, I need you with me, can’t do this without you, and Arthur can only push up helplessly and say yes, yes, yes.


His Blackberry wakes him up the next morning, buzzing on the floor somewhere in his pants pocket. For a second he’s confused, disoriented by the fact that his pants seem to be ringing from the floor, then he remembers getting drunk, drunker than drunk, with Constance and Tony and Becker and Natalie and then seeing Cobb and then the unprofessional rest of it. Arthur can’t even begin to think about the things they did last night without feeling his face run hot like a boiler room. He puts a hand up to his eyes to shield his grimace.

He sits up halfway and stops. Cobb is leaning forward in the armchair, fully dressed and suit rumpled. He’s got his elbows on his knees and his fingers crossed, hiding his mouth, watching Arthur over the bridge of his knuckles with that blue-hot stare, as if trying to remember him and make him remember this, all at once.

Arthur wants to be frozen there, vulnerable and scared and this moment now so full of uncertainty and the next filled with deliverance and then regret. He wants that vicious cycle, but old habits die hard.

Old habits die hard and Arthur gets up and puts on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers so he isn’t completely naked. He heads to the kitchen and downs one shot of espresso. He puts the eggs in the boiler and sets the timer for seven minutes. He’s setting the toast in the toaster before Cobb’s shuffling down the hall. Arthur hands him a cup of coffee.

Cobb takes it and says, “I meant what I said last night.”

Arthur’s not looking at him, not looking at him. He’s watching the toaster.

Finally he says, “I don’t want to quit. But that can’t ever happen again.”

Cobb releases a sharp huff laughter, not ringing right around the edges. “What can’t?”

“Last night.” Arthur sips at his coffee. It’s bitter. His voice is barely there now, sunk so low. “Dom. It’s one or the other.”

Cobb looks like he hasn’t slept. Couldn’t sleep.

“Should just,” Arthur’s voice almost hitches. “Should just do what we’re good at.”

An eternity in the form of a minute and Arthur’s hands are clenched so white around his mug he might shatter it. The thing with dreams is—when you wake up, you can forget what you want. And sometimes it’s a little harder, and sometimes it’s a little easier, but in the end you always do. But here, Cobb is setting down his coffee cup and standing up, clearing his throat.

“Be at the warehouse in two hours. I’ll brief you on our next case.” And just like that, he looks at Arthur, eyes easy and confident and making Arthur believe that yeah, they can do this. They’re going to get through this. He feels a lurch in his stomach, unwarranted.

“Noted. See you there.”

The door closes behind Cobb and Arthur thinks: so that’s how it goes.


>Good boys don't lie

Why I find this line incredibly hot?

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Can we have some Cobb/Saito? Please? Preferably not all physiological and depressing and full of dead wives.

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Holy shit

You drew those?
They are seriously fucking fantastic

W-would you by any chance be willing to take a request for a position? Eames and Arthur

There's nothing gross about it, I guess it would be considered a bit uncommon in the slash realm

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Someone made an Arthur Clow Card.

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Sauce please?



oh god oh god hnnngghhh

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IDGI. Also, woobie Arthur, DNW.
But the art is pretty.

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I think this artist saw a different movie than the one I saw.

yeah i mean...lolwut.

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you've made me resort to posting my own moe eyed garbage what have you done

i want to draw more fine watanabe ass so maybe i'll be back

Someone needs to write fic to this one, stat. The implications behind it are just mindblowingly hot.


Arthur could have a heart under that cold exterior, you know. The death of a friend, it's sad, you cry. It's not being a fucking woobie.


mte and i hate all that "whiny crying uke" stuff. i don't think its that farfetched, even if i don't like the animu style so much.

I think they mean cobbs attitude in the comic.
In the move cobb is ready to fucking cry and bawl his eyes out at any second.


but isn't the first stage denial or something? idk. it does seem like the artist just wanted to make arthur a woobie.

Literally mind-blowing.


hey guys, just wanted to let you know i just started a fanart meme for inception:

empty right now, but i'm hoping people will come participate!

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>>56985 actually kind of offended by this.

Oh good, it's not just me.

meant it as a cheeky nod to 1950s gender norms while playing up the fact that arthur is very much cobb's bitch in the movie. meant to be cracky (but lovingly illustrated), not serious. really sorry if it offends. :(

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this thread SERIOUSLY needs to lighten up a bit.

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Well, I thought it was both adorable and quite cheeky indeed, so ignore the fact that some people are overly sensitive and apparently Inception threads are made for complaining. Thanks for sharing, love! 'Sale on Peaches!' is particularly adorable.

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Ohhhhhhhhhh jesus yes. Yes, yes yes, yes. Not enough yesses in the world to accurately represent my feelings towards this piece.


that's okay, knowing that you didn't mean it seriously helps. sorry to assume! :D


That file name is fucking confusing me. Arthur learned his tricks from Fischer? WH.

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I see your Cobb/Arthur and raise you an Arthur/Cobb

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I see your Arthur/Cobb and raise you a PASIV.

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have some School Boys! Arthur and Eames.

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Found this one here
it kinda looks like it could go with >>56155

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I-i-is that Bad Romance crossover?...

I take it you haven't heard JGL sing it? lol

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Aaaaaaaaah omg so cute. <3

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Even Exzibit can't handle Eames.

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my pants.

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I laughed.
BIG time. Oh Eames~!

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Love it. The third time I saw Inception it was aallll about Cobb/Saito.

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Saito?, Arthur, Ariadne, Cobb, ....Mal?, Yusuf, Eames, Fischer

I love Yusuf&Eames, but the rest I am not sold on.

This might be fucking with my brain harder than the movie did.


Seconded. I also like Fischer, tho.

Is there a source for this? Or are you the artist, OP? I really dig the style.

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He should be absolutely gorgeous with long hairrrrr. Yusef is fucking adorable, I jsut wanna pinch her cheeks.

I really, really like the way they did Cobb

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from the fanart meme:

I am so in love with Yusuf now. And they did a great job on Cobb.

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Is fucking amazing. Shit.

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more genderbending


I have no idea why this happened but I'm glad it did.

This one is even worse for who's who.

Yusuf?, Ariadne, Mal??? (seriously people, I'm not seeing Mal in the male versions), Cobb, Arthur, Eames, Saito, Fischer?


it's not that bad if you could tell-- I think you got them all right.


imo, if they all looked EXACTLY like their male counterparts, that would be a pretty fugly cast

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I was wondering when the mermaids were going to show up..

Speaking of fandom cliches, is there wingfic yet?

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Can't say I'm familiar with this term but if it is what I think it is can we not and say we did?

I'm almost positive I saw (the first? the only?) one posted in the eames_arthur comm on lj just this week.

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I love this more than I could have thought possible.

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Anons, I am about to bring you a fic.
It's dirty. It's obscene. It's sacrilegious.

You have been warned.


"Forgive me, Father," he says, "for I have sinned."

"Of course you have," says Arthur, dry.

"Do let's try to be a bit more orthodox," says Eames. He shifts on his half of the booth, the sound of his shoes scraping across the wooden floor, and his hand comes to wind through the grate between them.

"All right," says Arthur. "Would you like to confess your sins?"

"Lately," says Eames, "I've been corrupting a man of the cloth."

"What a rebel," says Arthur. "Please indulge me with the sordid details."

"It's not my fault, Father," says Eames. "I haven't so much as touched him yet. But when I come to church to confess, I know it's always him on the other side, listening as I count my sins. And I try not to look at him, I try not to pretend there's anything but penitence between us, but the heat of his body tells me otherwise. I see him listening, Father. I see him in black, collar up to his chin, and I see him burn beneath his robes and I know he wants me to ruin him."

"Eames," begins Arthur.

"He wants me," says Eames. "I can hear it when he clears his throat. He wants me to fuck all the religion clean out of him, make him crave something unholy. I wonder if he knows I would. I'd bend him over any piece of warm wood in this chapel, fuck him until he's begging, until he cries out in tongues and takes the Lord's name in vain when he comes."

Arthur draws in a sharp, shuddering breath. Slowly his fingers close over Eames' hand, curling through the patterns of iron. Eames chances a look; Arthur's profile is dim, soft by candlelight, and the shadows of the grate trace a widow's-veil over the white curve of his cheek.

"You're beautiful," says Eames.

"So much for being orthodox," says Arthur. "We're in church. Can't you behave for once in your life?"

"I'm behaving," says Eames. "I haven't even made any priest jokes yet."

"Are you wearing fingerless leather gloves?" asks Arthur. "Seriously?"

"I approach you in iniquity," says Eames. "I thought it best to look the part, Father."

He tugs Arthur's hand toward him, lightly, and Arthur turns his head. Eames smiles.

"Want to see what it feels like to fall?" he whispers.


How it begins is with the hospitalization of Mrs. Bernier. She has been in control of her late husband's glassworking fortune for a decade, and her seven children are desperate to know how the inheritance will be divvied up once she succumbs.

"Imagine," says Ariadne, "you push seven kids out of your womb, and in the end, all they want is your money."

"I'd give them credit for holding back this long," says Eames.

According to their client, her eldest son, Mrs. Bernier has spent the better part of the last ten years at mass. It isn't uncommon for the elderly to turn to religion, but her vehemence in turning aside from the other components of her life is unparalleled.

"She could probably tell that her children were assholes," says Ariadne.

"We try not to judge our clients," says Eames. "What with us being thieves and all."

They agree to model the dream on the landscape of her Alsatian girlhood, where she met and fell in love with her husband as children. The end of the maze culminates in a small country chapel with a single confession booth. Eames is to accost her at the beginning of the maze, in the guise of her husband as a young boy.

"She'll start dreaming with me telling her that she can't let anyone know about our secret," says Eames. "That we'll be in trouble if she does. She won't remember what it is immediately, because I haven't really told her anything, but her subconscious will fill in the blanks as she makes her way to the chapel. A secret that concerns her husband, something that will upset people. Right now, she feels the safest in a confession booth, so that's where she'll be heading."

"And I'll be waiting in the booth to intercept the information," says Cobb.

"Precisely," says Eames.

"There's just one problem," says Cobb. "I'm Presbyterian."

"You've never been to confession?" asks Eames.

"Never," says Cobb.

"Well," says Eames, "you know. Just fake it. Put on a robe and bluff."

"I'm not much of an actor," says Cobb. "Can't you do it? Isn't that your sort of thing?"

"Then I'll basically need to race her to the chapel," says Eames. "And I could do the research, I suppose, but I'm inclined to plead atheist on this one."

Yusuf pleads Muslim, and Ariadne pleads Agnostic Upbringing Courtesy of Overeducated Liberal Parents. Everyone turns to Arthur.

"What?" he asks. "It's not like I-- look, everyone was Catholic where I grew up, I just--"

"I bet," says Eames, gleefully, "I bet you were an altar boy."

"Everyone was an altar boy," says Arthur, offended. "It would have been odd if I wasn't one, okay? Wait, you're not really going to make me dress up as a priest and sit in a confession booth to wait for our mark just so because I know what to say when she starts spouting the info-- I mean how difficult is it to tell her to go recite a couple Hail Marys--"


"To be honest," says Eames, "I just wanted to see you in one of these."

He feels out the narrow edges of Arthur's hipbones through the cassock. Thank God they're in a practice run, because it's driving him crazy. The fit is slim through Arthur's waist, down his legs, and the lithe lines of his body are indecently obvious in the cling of the fabric, like he's asking to be traced and touched and laid bare. Eames runs a hand up the sleek length of Arthur's thigh, and Arthur jerks in his arms, holding himself upright against the altar.

"So how do you like it?" asks Arthur, low and dark.

"It's enough to make me believe in God," says Eames.

"What a thing to say," murmurs Arthur.

He leans forward, shoulders shifting beneath his robes, his neck taut above the slice of white at his throat, and kisses Eames. It's slow, their eyes drifting closed, mouths opening into each other, and every little wet sound rings through the chancel. Eames fumbles a bit with the front of Arthur's cassock before he gives up entirely.

"There are about a thousand buttons in the way," he says, shaping the words against Arthur's jaw. "Why don't we get to other things first?"

"Such as?" asks Arthur.

"I think," says Eames, "you should suck me off."

Arthur's lashes lower as his eyes flick to the front of Eames' pants. When he smiles, his dimples pool into shadows.

"Thy will be done," says Arthur, and drops in between his legs.

Arthur wraps his mouth around his cock, a tight heat, and Eames groans and tangles a hand in his hair. His cock slides slick past Arthur's lips, and Arthur's brows are knitted in concentration, soft, almost nasal whimpers pushed out of him as he takes Eames in a little deeper. It would be funny, the way Arthur's competitive streak extends to blowjobs, how he treats them as a bizarre art form to be perfected, but it's a bit hard to laugh when Arthur opens his mouth and trails a pink tongue around the head of his cock.

"Jesus Christ," grunts Eames.

"Wrong name," says Arthur, licks his lips, and closes in around his cock again.

Arthur's hair is a disaster area, wrecked in Eames' grip, falling in wisps into his eyes. And he looks fucked out already, lips swollen, flush across his cheekbones, eyes half-mast and unfocused, but all Eames can think about is how delicious it would be to unravel him all the way. How to edge him closer to losing it completely, thoroughly debauched, until he knows no Heaven but the thrum of sensation through his spine, and no Rapture but his own orgasm ripping him free of his body.

"You Catholic boys," says Eames. "Always the prettiest when you're on your knees."

Arthur looks up at him, in something like a glare, but he's not at his most threatening with a cock down his throat. Or maybe that makes him more threatening, perhaps. But Arthur shifts closer and grinds up against Eames' leg, and the incongruence of it all is sharply arousing; Arthur kneeling before him, covered from neck to ankle in somber black, his erection tenting the stern drape of his robes. The sacred silence around them and the heavy dampness of their breath, the dark swell of Eames' cock bobbing out from Arthur's mouth, the faint trace of ribs on the crucifix above them.

"Taste me like you taste Him on your tongue," says Eames. "Take me in like you take Him into your body, the way you used to every Sunday like the good boy you are, letting Him melt in your mouth."

Arthur's hands stutter up to Eames' knees, as he grabs fistfuls of his trousers and leans into him, swallows him down, and Eames feels his cock knocking against the back of Arthur's throat and fuck, but that's hot. He hisses and reaches for himself, trying to quench the pressure growing in his balls, drawing his cock back out of Arthur's mouth, because he can't let this end with a blowjob.

Even if it's a very good blowjob. He's taught Arthur well.

"Christ tastes a hell of a lot better than you do," says Arthur, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yeah?" asks Eames. "What does he taste like, then?"

"Like milk and honey," says Arthur, the cheeky bastard. "Don't be jealous."

"Come on," says Eames, and helps him up. "The Holy Spirit isn't allowed to be the only thing moving in you."

Arthur rolls his eyes but laughs anyway, and turns to face away from him, bracing his hands on the edge of the altar.

"For your patience in waiting," he says, "I've prepared a surprise."

And Arthur hitches his cassock up, bending over the altar as he raises the hem higher and higher, and oh God, blessed mother of God, but he's not wearing anything beneath his robes. The pale cream of his thighs spreading against the mahogany table, Arthur lifts the robe up around his waist, in a blasphemous striptease that makes Eames' mouth go dry and his cock throb in his grasp. Eames curses quietly under his breath, and cups his hand around the swell of Arthur's ass, smooth underneath his palm.

"You filthy little heathen," he says.

"I had a feeling we might come to this," says Arthur, eyes hooded as he looks behind him. "Of course we can't resist fucking in a church."

"Are we becoming predictable in our perversions?" asks Eames, and this time, he's the one that goes down on his knees.

Arthur is probably about to shoot back with a quip, but Eames licks a long wet strip up the inside of one thigh, following the crease of his ass, and the retort dies away in his throat. Eames spreads his cheeks, thumbs ghosting over his hole, not quite pressing, just searching, and he exhales, warm, like fogging up glass. Arthur trembles.

"Eames," he says, "Eames, I don't know how many minutes we--"

"Don't lie in the house of God," says Eames. "You know exactly how long we have."

Eames flicks his tongue out over the clench of muscle.

"Twenty," groans Arthur.

"Plenty of depravity to go around," says Eames. "I'm going to make you beg before we're done."

"In your wildest dreams," says Arthur.

"This is it," says Eames, and laps at the seam of Arthur's ass like he's trying to lick it apart, drags his teeth along the curve of his flesh, and he slips his tongue inside and Arthur is arching high, unsure of whether to draw away or thrust back.

"Fuck," gasps Arthur, in a quick rush of air. "Oh, God, you--"

"Wrong name," says Eames, and his tongue snags on muscle and Arthur pushes back against him in earnest, fucking himself onto his mouth, and Eames licks into that tight heat, coaxing it looser, soothing it open bit by bit. Arthur's fingers scrabble for the far edge of the altar, knuckles going white as Eames wraps his hands around his thighs, fucking him ready with his tongue.

"Do it," pants Arthur, incoherent, "now, just get in, Eames, fuck."

"Not nearly," says Eames. "Wait for it."

His fingertips circle around where his tongue dips into Arthur, tentative, and rubs against the skin there. Arthur's wet with spit and the drip of his own precome, pliant enough for a good fuck -- and he'll relax a little more, soften to let him in, once Eames gets his hand around his dick -- but they've still got time and Eames isn't about to waste a single second of it.

"Isn't there," he says, "some sort of oil around here?"

"The chrism," says Arthur, "holy oil-- it's in the-- box over there."

Part II of your damnation:

When he reaches for it, there's a couple pewter canisters inside, and the sweet fragrance of it overtakes him when he pries the tops open.

"What is this anyway?" he asks.

"Scented olive oil," says Arthur. "Don't make a habit of it-- thank God we're dreaming."

"It's holy oil," says Eames, "how could it possibly be bad?"

But then, what's beneath the canisters catches his eye; it's a string of heavy rosary beads, frayed out of its loop, a line of warm, wooden marbles threaded through with string. The prospect is irresistible.

"Arthur," he says, holding it up for examination, "look what I've found."

"No," says Arthur, jaw falling open, "no, you're-- oh, my god, you're not."

"If we're not going to Hell already," says Eames, "this won't make much of a difference."

"There are boundaries," insists Arthur.

"We crossed it ages ago," says Eames, and drizzles the oil out over the beads. "It's all right, I've checked, there aren't any sharp edges or anything. And I'd stop before I got to the cross, I don't want to hurt you. Just relax and think of redemption, darling-- let me do this--"

He pushes the first bead in, prodding it gently past the wall of muscle, and Arthur gasps as it slides against his insides, hard and smooth and unyielding.

"That was one of the smaller ones," says Eames. "What do you recite for that?"

"Ave Maria," wheezes Arthur, "gratia plena-- fuck, Eames, you fuck--"

"You keep going and I'll keep going," says Eames, pulls lightly on the string.

"Oh, God," breathes Arthur, "Dominus tecum--"

Eames lets the next bead slip inside him, and Arthur shudders, rivulets of spit and precome running down his thighs.

"Benedicta tu--" he says, "--in mulieribus-- oh, God, I can't--"

"Just one more," says Eames, as calmly as he can manage, dizzy with the sight.

"--I can't, Eames," pants Arthur, "et benedictus--"

His ass clenches in around the string, and swallows down the third smaller knot of wood, and the larger bead after it, greedy and ravenous, desperate for something to draw inside. Arthur's nails claw against the altar, and he whines, high in his throat.

"Eames," he's saying, "Eames, fuck, just-- where's your fucking cock, Jesus Christ, come on--"

He's swearing up a storm, knees bumping against the table, and he's so perfect like this, laid out and pushed to the edge. Cassock hitched up around his waist, dark and pale and flushed with arousal and shame, shaky with need, still too stubborn to beg politely. Arthur is a long, slender stretch of sinew and pride and sacrilege.

"I've got you," Eames murmurs against his leg, and he's tugging the rosary beads out of him, one by one, slow as he fights Arthur unconsciously drawing them in. Arthur lets out an unsteady breath as they clatter to the ground. His hole is slick and red, so obscene when Eames slides a finger down his cleft, throbbing against his touch, and Arthur's slides off toward the floor as his knees give out, before Eames catches him and hauls him up onto the altar, flat on his back.

"You didn't even get to the Lord's Prayer," says Eames, and Arthur snarls, hooks his ankles up around Eames' hips, and pulls him in. Eames' cock rubs up against Arthur's, and they're groaning into each other's skin, flashing behind their eyes, so close.

"Get your dick inside me," says Arthur, "or I swear, like those five idiot brides that were waiting for the-- oh, fuck, I don't want to tell parables right now, you fuck, get to it!"

"So bossy," chuckles Eames, and instead of thrusting into Arthur, he twists two fingers inside him, and Arthur is like butter around him, yielding when he stretches him wider.

"Oh, fuck," says Arthur, "oh--"

"You could never be a priest," says Eames, working him quick and shallow, as Arthur's hips start rocking to meet his hand. "You burn too hot. And you fight too much."

"Eames," moans Arthur, "I swear to God, I swear--"

"Let go, it's all right to be a whore," says Eames. "Little Magdalene."

"Fuck me," says Arthur, "please."

And it's the furious light in his eyes that tells Eames that Arthur doesn't mean it at all, that his please is every bit as venomous as all of his other threats. But Fuck me, you fucking bastard is as much an invitation as Fuck me, please, you fucking bastard, so Eames angles his cock and pushes into Arthur, a little in love.

Here he is, then, fucking Arthur on an altar in a chapel-- but In the end, it's Arthur letting him fuck him on an altar in a chapel, so the feverish heat of Arthur enveloping him, that means more than just a warm place to put his dick. It's Arthur letting him in, letting him closer, and Arthur being a little in love. Eames is giddy as he exhales, and he isn't sure if it has anything to do with Arthur's insides clenching tight all around him.

"I'm going to move now," says Eames.

"Already," says Arthur, endless legs wrapped against him.

Arthur gives easy when he pulls out, pushes back in, shoving the two of them into each other. Eames twines their fingers together as he drives into him, but Arthur's eyes are screwed shut, head turned to the side as he fucks himself back onto Eames.

"What is it?" asks Eames. "Look, if after all this time--"

"It's not you," says Arthur, "of course it's not you. It's-- well, above--"

Eames follows Arthur's glance and lands on the crucifix hanging over them. The impassive face of the corpus, gazing down upon them in sorrow.

"Look at you," says Eames, gentle. "A decade since you've been to mass and you still know what guilt is."

"Guess it never goes away," says Arthur. "Don't mind me, I'm just-- I'll avert my eyes or something."

"No," says Eames, "look at me."

At that Arthur blinks, slow flutters of his lashes like he doesn't know what to say. Eames said exactly what he wanted to, look at me, but he feels like he ought to explain, so he grinds into Arthur and tries, in between huffs of breath, to tell him what he means.

"I mean," he says, "faith is what you make of it, isn't it? We don't either of us believe in luck, but we might believe in miracles--"

The evening sun filters through the stained glass, throwing bits of color across them, and Arthur's face is a mosaic of a thousand different shades, little flecks of Heaven that dance over his skin. Eames brushes the back of his hand down Arthur's temple, chasing the flitting patterns.

"God, I can feel the blood pound through you," says Eames. "Listen-- what I mean to say is--"

And Arthur is making those noises that Eames could probably listen to forever, and the altar creaks beneath them and the candles sway in a precarious arc, leaving drops of wax across the surface of the wood, but Arthur is listening, eyes wide, he's listening, so Eames takes a deep breath.

"I don't care what my fucking religion is," he says, "but you're my miracle."

And then the organs in the chapel burst into song, pipes flooding the air, je ne regrette rien winding around them and ringing off the hollow walls, and Eames says,

"You're my salvation."

And Arthur smiles, a little tilt of his mouth like he's found something indescribably funny, and he says,

"I'd fall anywhere, if it was with you,"

and his voice is fond and the holy fire is building inside them, burning them clean as they fumble their way toward the light, and they're clinging to each other as deliverance rattles their bones, the world shattering all around them like God descending, and they gasp into waking like breaking free of the Jordan, baptized in sweat and blood and everything wicked and glorious and human.


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That was hot until it got to the

>the world shattering all around them like God descending, and they gasp into waking like breaking free


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The artist has 1/4 parts done. Here's the cover, since posting an incomplete comic is a pretty shitty way to go.

Three words; Best Cover Ever. It should win an Eisner Award.



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contentless query: can anyone tell me why the hell the majority of the fandom seems to think that Eames' totem is a poker chip? I only remember him having any once, right at the start- and he gambled his last two away, then cashed in a stack of (presumably) fake ones, so he didn't seem particularly attached to those. does he toy with one at some point and I just missed it, or what?


It's entirely based upon assumption; he's associated most with gambling, and his totem only surfaced with Arthur/Eames, so it was only natural for Eames' totem to be a poker chip since Arthur's was a die.

He played with a poker chip in the warehouse. They don't focus on it, but it's a random thing for him to have just kept on his person for all that time.

Anybody have any good non-Arthur/Eames recs?

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fanlay on livejournal

Holy FUCK.

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'Sup /coq/, I thought you might like this.

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What is surprising is Eames' call. /Time's up, Cobb./ His voice is gentle.

/You're due back here now./ It's not good news, so Cobb flips his phone shut. He sits at the bar until it closes, until they kick him out.

He almost collapses when he finally climbs off the stool, but a strong grip steadies him.

"Whoa there," Arthur's voice comes thick through the haze. "Come on, Dom. Let me help."

Since when does Arthur call him Dom, but Cobb will let him. At this point, he'll let Arthur do anything.

His feet are still unsteady as they trip out the door, and then there's another hand, hauling him up by his arms. "You okay?" There's laughter there, and Cobb closes his eyes, remembering.

"This way," Arthur in front skates his fingers along Cobb's ribcage and nudges him forward. The touch jolts him and his eyes snap open; he feels himself teeter. Arthur on his left buckles under his sudden shift in weight but supports him still. Arthur on his right gives him an imperious, amused look.

"Get it together." But his voice is not unkind.

"Yeah," Cobb says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Yeah, okay."

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>actually looks like Hardy and JGL

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sauce pls?

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Thanks, anon(s). These made me rage out so hard I nearly put my fist through my new monitor.
Thanks for reaffirming that nothing, absolutely nothing, is sacred.

lol dude
you're on a porn board

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