FINALLY some Fischer art

Has there been anything with shapeshifting Eames?

>>53403
>>53409
>>53413
Love all of these so much.

>>53436
see
>>53403

>>53457 And of course Yusuf isn't there. Why would he be? Goddamn.

>>53463
how dare there be non-white people in my fandom! (but yeah, what gives?)

>>53463
We really do need some more Yusuf. As in like, a LOT more.

I only have two Yusef fics saved... I NEED MORE.

http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/3434.html?thread=3290986#t3290986
http://yakbites.livejournal.com/39492.html

>>53436
Eames as a Bond girl?

>>53436

Who does everyone ship Yusuf with?

>>53479
no one


anyone have some good cobb/saito recs
shit is so cash

Saito: One BA MF

I thought I'd share my favourite fic from the kink meme, even though it isn't exactly my favourite pairing.
Pairing: Cobb/Arthur
----------

The first time, Arthur doesn't see it coming. Cobb was secretive at best, and he'd hardly been thorough in explaining the potential risks of dream sharing. When the first non-fatal wound comes (knife to the abdomen), Arthur isn't prepared for the pain and he screams. Then the shock of staring down the barrel of Cobb's gun is the last thing he remembers before the sharpest pain he's ever felt, before waking up.

"Could have warned me." Arthur groans as he rolls up into a sitting position, clutching at the phantom pain in his head.

The look Cobb gives him is so pained that Arthur has to wonder if he hadn't been the one to be shot in the head just now. "Hoped you wouldn't have to find out."

Arthur should have felt more than just mildly indignant at being shot without warning, in a dream or otherwise, but Cobb's words are effectively placating and Arthur can't help but feel a pleasant warmth in his chest.

Cobb had only intended to protect him, after all.

And Cobb continues protecting him by killing him. Arthur can't find any reason to complain, except for the rather disturbing though of just how many times he's died after following Cobb into dreams of every sort.

The twenty-sixth time, Arthur dies and it isn't by Cobb's hand. The extraction goes horribly wrong as they're making their exit, and the strange woman Arthur has been seeing on every job (the one Cobb refuses to explain) corners him between a wall and her gun. Her shot trails a fraction of an inch too high and the bullet embeds itself into his heart. Just before he falls, he hears her mockingly remark, oh, dear, I almost never miss.

"Never again," Arthur says upon waking, grasping Cobb's arm forcibly. "I will die for you, but only by your hand. Don't let--don't let her do that to me."

Cobb swears.

Arthur keeps dying and Cobb keeps his vow. They don't talk about it.

Until it happens for the hundredth time, and Arthur can't help but smile upon waking. "I've died for you a hundred times."

Cobb returns the expression bemusedly, crouching over him to remove and pack away their equipment. He looms for longer than necessary, one hand braced against the chair Arthur was perched in. His expression is nearly unreadable as he says, "I know."

Arthur frowns just the slightest bit as Cobb slides away, feeling as though this should for whatever reason be a somewhat monumental moment that shouldn't simply pass. Then again, it was merely another case. Another done job.

Cobb's appears to have different thoughts, suddenly returning to just where he was before.

"And it's time--" He pauses, only for a second, to lightly thread his fingers through Arthur's hair. "--for me to start saying thank you."

Arthur settles and readies a you're welcome on his lips, but he's effectively silenced by Cobb's lips covering his own in a light kiss that quickly becomes less hesitant when Arthur doesn't startle away.

"Thank you," Cobb breathes against his lips, curving his mouth upwards in the process.

Arthur would die a hundred times more for moments like this, and for Cobb. (And he does.)

>>53472
>tourist_x_forger_by_Gobeur.png
>tourist

That's supposed to be Saito? o_O

>>53436
http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=1374452#t1374452

Doop doop. was strolling pixiv for Sengoku Basara art, then remembered there was some Inception there.

Mini dump time.

Shinichiro Miki was the Japanese dub voice for Fischer? LOL.

>>53544
HERE WE GO. This is excellent.

derp, that's all for now.

I'm not sure if this was ever posted, but enjoy it again if you've seen it.

>>53551
...Is that supposed to be Arthur? /squint

>>53598

This is clearly a cutesy metaphor for Eames rimming Arthur's ass cherry, amirite?




:I

>>53591
He looks more like Mark Strong.

>>53618
CAN'T UNSEE

BUT I LIKE THE IMAGE MORE NOW.

MARK STRONG FUCK YEAH

>>53666
dead, I am dead, that is beautiful.

Unfortunately the only "decent" thing I have to offer is this godawful kiss thing I drew a week ago... but I don't like posting without offering something up so it's yours to hate on...

>>53685
the only compalint I could make is how absolutely huge it is. Either way, nice work bro <3

>>53688
my bad, I usually upload stuff with tinypic so it resizes for me, I'll remember to do so manually next time.

Gah I love how deleriously happy that picture is XD

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLX7nsh65e4

The hamster ball.
THE HAMSTER BALL.
ohfuck JGL why are you so godamn moe. ;-;

>>53666

HNNNGGG-

Cillian Murphy is too pretty for his own sake.

I'm really tempted to contribute arts but my style is kind of ... disney-ish. lolol.
but I'll take requests for something? A/E por favor.

>>53816
I need more A/E fist fighting in my life.

>>53816

Saito/Robert please, they need more love! If you want, I'll write you something Saito/Robert in return... :D

>>53748
Goddamn, this made me go d'aww.

I love this bit of the interview.

>>53879
Oh god Tom Hardy's facial expression changes.

>>53888
>mfw I see this
Holy YES! For a moment, I could've sworn some drawfag answered my request for some Saito and some carpet-loving!

Yusuf needs more love. And kittens

>>53894

Yes. Yes he does.

Also /r/ing moar Saitou. Ken Wanatabe is a sexy, sexy man.

from the kinkmeme
----
The first time Eames meets Arthur—the very first time, all those years ago—Arthur is fresh out of school and Eames is fresh out of a three-month nightmare of a job in South America. He’s exhausted and half-starved, boiled down to bare sinew by ninety days of living hand-to-mouth and sleeping with his back against the wall.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t really register, then. He catalogues Arthur, assesses him automatically from underneath a heavy-lidded gaze and a flirtatious smirk. Pretty comes first, because it would take more than a few rough months to keep him from noticing that bone structure; then young, because all the pomade and sharp suits in the world can’t disguise the fact that the kid’s barely out of nappies; and finally, dangerous, because Eames has a finely honed sense for these things, and kid or not, Arthur sets it blaring.

But at no point in Eames’s assessment does he think of Arthur as small. At the time, in fact, they’re nearly of a size, and Eames files the information away and moves on, applying his mental efforts to the much more important task of trying to figure out how many times he can “accidentally” nudge his foot against Arthur’s under the table before he earns himself a broken toe.

They meet again, over the years, half a dozen times on different jobs. In that time, Eames gains back all the weight he lost in Bolivia, fills out with age until he’s traded the whipcord leanness of youth for the solidity of his father’s build. He learns the hard way that he’s not as fast now as he used to be, not quite as agile, and he makes up the difference in the gym, lifting weights every morning and boxing in the evenings until he’s in the best shape of his life.

But he still thinks of Arthur the same way, when he thinks of him. (Not that he thinks of him, or anything.) His image of Arthur is still that very first impression, his initial assessment.

Which is probably why it comes as such a shock when Arthur follows him to his hotel after the inception job and presses him up against the mirrored wall of the lift, licking at the seam of his lips and worming a hand underneath his shirt.

Well. All right. Most of the shock there is probably because Arthur is kissing him, because Arthur is finally making a move after years of brushing off Eames’s less than subtle flirtations and pretending not to understand all his best innuendos.

But when Eames recovers himself enough to kiss back, when he reaches out a greedy hand to pull Arthur against him, he startles all over again at just how easy Arthur is to pull.

He doesn’t have long to dwell on it before the lift dings open onto his floor. Arthur jumps away immediately, tugging anxiously at his waistcoat and hurrying out the door. Eames follows Arthur leisurely, making no effort to hide his wet lips or rumpled shirt. The middle-aged woman waiting for the lift gives him an entirely filthy grin as he walks out, which Eames returns with interest and a wink for good measure.

Arthur is waiting for him further down the corridor, leaning against the wall and managing to look almost wholly unaffected. Which is…really bloody annoying, actually, so Eames slows his pace from leisurely to glacial. And sticks his hands in his pockets. And whistles.

This earns him a glare and an honest-to-god growl from Arthur, and Eames speeds up, not so much out of intimidation as lust, because Arthur growling? Really fucking hot.

Arthur’s on him again as soon as Eames gets the room open, slamming the door behind them with one hand and hooking the other around Eames’s neck.

“Not that I’m, ah, complaining, of course, but why now?”

Arthur ignores the question in favor of tracing the line of Eames’s jaw with his lips.

“Darling.”

Arthur’s hand has migrated distractingly downward, and Eames snags his wrist and pulls it back up.

“Arthur,” he tries again, grabbing Arthur’s other hand and pushing him firmly back against the wall. “Why now?”

Arthur quirks his lips slightly and narrows his eyes, the same exasperated look he gives clients when they ask particularly stupid questions.

“Because,” Arthur says, slowly, like he’s talking to a small child or a very elderly relative. “Now I can.”

“Ah. And you…couldn’t, before?”

“Couldn’t run off with you and leave Dom alone to self-destruct in peace? No, actually, I couldn’t. You know how much he and Mal did for me; I owed them both better than that.”

Fair enough, Eames thinks. Well, the part of him that isn’t thinking:

“You want to run off with me?”

Arthur blushes at that, actually blushes and ducks his head a little and it’s so incredibly, stupidly appealing that Eames can’t help but lean in for a kiss, pressing Arthur back against the wall and himself against Arthur until there’s no more room for him to press.

He doesn’t even realize he’s still holding Arthur by the wrists until Arthur starts to squirm a little in his grip, making tiny, aborted efforts to touch or stroke, but never really trying to break free. And then, suddenly, that’s all Eames notices. He’s never paid all that much attention to Arthur’s wrists before—those lovely long fingers are another story—and he marvels now at how delicate they are, how thin the skin and sharp the bones and how easily his fingers fit around them.

His distraction must show in his kissing, because Arthur pulls away, leaning his head back against the wall and trying, even now, to look collected.

“Am I boring you?” he asks, archly, deliberately parroting the line he’s heard Eames use on so many hapless marks.

“Not at all,” Eames assures him, and grinds their hips together to eliminate any lingering doubt. Arthur groans beneath him, a low, broken-off sound that goes straight to Eames’s cock. So Eames does it again, angling his hips slightly until he can get a knee in between Arthur’s legs, until he can feel the heat of Arthur’s erection against his thigh.

Arthur finally pulls his hands free at that, easily breaking Eames’s now-slack grip and going to work instead on his blazer. Eames helps, and soon they’re both tackling the slippery buttons of Arthur’s waistcoat and the tiny little mother-of-pearl bastards on both their shirts. Eames gets frustrated halfway through and just rips his shirt the rest of the way open. He goes to do the same to Arthur’s, but the glare he receives is fierce enough that he gives up on the clothes entirely and crowds Arthur back against the wall again, grabbing at those slim thighs until he’s got Arthur hiked up clear off the ground.

“What are you doing?” Arthur hisses, scrabbling for purchase around Eames’s shoulders. “You’re going to drop me, you idiot.”

(The way Eames can actually feel Arthur’s cock jerk between them rather belies his irritation.)

“If that’s some kind of silly American slang for ‘fuck,’ then yes, I’m going to drop your brains out, right here against the wall.”

Arthur says something else then, probably chiding him for playing stupid or fussing at him for wrinkling his suit, but Eames tunes him out, focuses instead on trying to find a better grip, shifting and tugging until Arthur has no choice but to wrap those endless legs around Eames’s waist and hold on tight. He holds on a little too tight, actually, digging the heels of his ridiculously expensive shoes deliberately into Eames’s kidneys.

“Bastard,” Eames says fondly, against his lips.

“You’re one to talk—you’re going to ruin my pants like this.”

And that’s a challenge if Eames has ever heard one.

He pulls Arthur even tighter against him, crushes them together until it’s hard to breathe, loses himself in the slick heat of Arthur’s mouth, the slide of tongue against tongue and the occasional sharp-sweet pain of Arthur biting at his lips. They kiss for minutes, hours, years, until Eames can barely remember a time when he wasn’t kissing Arthur. It’s desperately hot in the literal sense, and Eames’s ruined shirt, still hanging doggedly off his shoulders, clings to the small of his back with sweat. Arthur must be in a worse state, still fully clothed except for jacket and waistcoat, shirt still buttoned most of the way. Arthur’s going to give him hell tomorrow, Eames knows, and probably stick him with the dry cleaning bill, but it’s more than worth it for the satisfaction of knowing he’s the one who has Arthur too worked up to even care about his clothes.

Everything’s too tight, suddenly, too hot, too much, and Eames is so fucking hard he’s honestly surprised he hasn’t burst the zip on his trousers. He’s been holding onto Arthur’s arse, for purposes of both support and groping (let’s be honest here—mainly groping), and now he lets go. Arthur gives a startled yelp into his mouth and immediately shifts his hands from tangled in Eames’s hair to tangled together around his shoulders.

“Asshole,” Arthur says, but it loses most of its sting when he follows it up with the swirl of a tongue against Eames’s earlobe.

“Later,” Eames promises.

Arthur groans, first at the godawful pun, and then because Eames has managed to snake a hand in between their bodies. Eames can feel the bulge of Arthur’s erection, straining against the fine material of his trousers. (And oh, Eames has no complaints about their current arrangement, none, but wouldn’t that be a sight? Buttoned-up Arthur, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, always so neatly pressed and locked down, ruining the line of one of those exquisite suits with a desperate hard-on, like a horny schoolboy with no control over his own body. Fuck. Eames makes a note of it, for later.) He follows the shape of it down, until he finds the very faintest of wet spots on the Italian silk. He traces over it, once, twice, with the rough callous of his thumb, and just like that, Arthur is shaking apart against him, clutching painfully at his shoulders and sucking in a deep, gasping breath.

If it’s not the sexiest thing Eames has ever even heard of, it’s at least in the top five—and he has high hopes for the rest of the night.

It’s almost enough to tip Eames over himself—just the thought of Arthur desperate enough for him to come in his fucking trousers—and he ruts frantically against Arthur and the pressure of his own hand between them, graceless in his need. Arthur has his face buried in Eames’s neck, sucking bruises into the skin there, moaning weakly every now and then. It has to be painful for him, so much stimulation so soon after coming, and Eames pumps his hips faster, shifting against Arthur until he finds

just—

the right—

angle.

Eames goes boneless in the aftershocks, sinking down onto the floor and taking Arthur with him. They wind up sprawled side by side across the thick pile of the hotel carpet. Eames closes his eyes, relishing the warm, sated ease that always follows a good orgasm. He doesn’t open them again until he hears Arthur shifting restlessly beside him. It’s an effort to move even his eyelids right now, but the sight that greets him is worth it: a thoroughly debauched Arthur, hair wild and slick with sweat, face flush and thin lips kiss-swollen, scowling down at the spectacular ruin of his trousers.

“I’m not even going to tell you how much this suit cost,” he says, when he notices Eames staring at him. “It would blow your sartorially-challenged little mind to know how much this suit cost, and you have destroyed it.”

“What about my trousers?” Eames gestures lazily, too content for even mock-indignation. “They’re ruined too, you know.”

Arthur glares at said trousers as one might a serial killer and declines to answer. (He has to tear his eyes away from the damp mess of Eames’s crotch, though, so Eames chalks it up to a win.)

Eames closes his eyes again then, letting the softness of the carpet and the oddly soothing sounds of Arthur fussing with his clothes lull him into a half-doze. He snaps awake again just a few minutes later, trained by long experience to recognize the sound of clothing being shed, and sits up to find Arthur slipping out of his sweat-soaked shirt and vest. The skin revealed is pale and smooth, and if Eames were drunk he’d probably compare it to cream or butter or some other suitably luscious dairy product. As is he keeps silent, letting his eyes trace freely over the sharp planes of Arthur’s torso, the valleys of his collarbones and the notches of his spine. He looks—smaller, out of his suits, and Eames should know by now, should be intimately acquainted with the weight of him, but it’s still a shock. Arthur is probably the most dangerous person Eames knows, certainly the most capable, and it’s strange to look at the deep curve of his hipbones and think that his own hands could almost span that waist. It’s strange. And strangely, sharply arousing. It’s a primal thing, maybe, to be turned on by being so much physically larger than your mate—some kind of lizard brain relic—and his dick gives a feeble twitch in his pants.

“Enjoying the show?” Arthur cuts into his thoughts, dry as fine wine.

Only Arthur, Eames thinks, could manage to be sardonic so soon after such a mind-shattering orgasm.

But he says, “Oh, very much, thank you,” instead of, “What the fuck is wrong with you, can’t you ever just be happy,” because the orgasm was so very mind-shattering, and he hopes to repeat the experience sooner rather than later.

There’s something off about the line of Arthur’s shoulders, though, something tense and knotted and wrong, and holy fuck, Arthur is actually shy. Arthur is genuinely concerned about what Eames thinks of his body. It’s simultaneously the best thing ever and the absolute worst, and it makes Eames want to track down everyone Arthur has ever slept with and knee-cap them for not being properly appreciative. He settles for scooting across the carpet and tracing a finger, low, over Arthur’s naked back, teasing at the waistband of his trousers.

“But it’s not much of a show if you stop halfway through, pet. It's the quickest way to a nasty write-up in the Times.” He bends, follows the finger with his tongue, ends with a close-mouthed kiss, gentle, against the small of Arthur’s back.

“I live in fear.” And Arthur’s voice is dry as ever, but it’s lost that brittle undercurrent. “Come on, then,” he says, and rises smoothly to his feet, already unbuckling his belt. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“Darling,” Eames says, and lets his voice drip with as much camp as he can muster to disguise the fact that he’s being perfectly, stupidly honest. “You could never.”

>>53838
>>53837

dsakfhdjkas who drew these I MUST KNOW BECAUSE THEY ARE AWESOME

Arthur and Eames are engaged on facebook.

Why is it so hard to draw JGL so that the figures even RESEMBLE him? I'm not a drawfag, so I dunno if there's any upsetting feature about him that's too difficult to pull off, but I mean really?

>>53959
Drawfag reporting. His face doesn't have any distinct features except his constant forehead creasing and it's actually pretty tricky to capture his eyes and mouth -- the latter of which is hardest to do in an anime style.

Besides, many artists like to stylize the characters and stick with what's most distinct about them. In Arthur's case, his slicked back hair and sharp appearance.

>>53959
A lot of fanartists just stick with a style in their comfort zone, and a lot of that doesn't include realistic likenesses.

JGL's got somewhat distinguishing features (compared to, say, Leonardo DiCaprio christwhatafuckingnightmare) but it's still hard to pull him off sometimes. I dunno, it's kind of hard to mediate between complete realism and style.

>>53962
>His face doesn't have any distinct features

His downturned eyes make all the difference between a random figure and someone who resembles him.

>>54007
I'd say his face does have its (lovely) features, its just that they're very subtle. A lot of the anime and cartoony styles just don't even DO subtle, so it ends up not doing him justice.
However, the fandom is young, people are still working out the kinks in getting down the likenesses, so I'm just enjoying what rolls in as I see it.
Pic related, its JGL's feeeatuuures, which we must all study very closely.

>>54010

I admit, there is something weirdly hard about trying to simply his face into a cartoony style, and actually drawing it right.

Added Eames to my doodle to make it relevant to the thread, and managed to mess up his face too. Whoops.

>>54016
Oh man, I quite enjoy your style Drawfag. Very nice.

>>54010

The most obvious features of him seem to be the little puffy bits beneath his eyes and a sort of self-deprecating smile. He looks a little Heath Ledger-y at times too.

>>54028
WAITWHAT.
<333333

>>54030
I second this motion.

More here: http://community.livejournal.com/eames_arthur/143779.html#cutid1

>>54028
uguuuu. this makes me want to write something where Eames ends up being seduced by a younger Arthur

>>53948

>>54082
It's like you took this from my thoughts and made it AMAZING. <3

>>54010 Haha coincidentally I was painting this picture on my ipod to try and figure out his darn features.
>>54029 Don't forget his giant ears! I'm totally serious; they do something crazy like balance out his jaw... or something. Derp.

Getting closer anons? How do I drew jgl :C

[edit] now with more cheek bone [/edit]

lol Eames' face

>>54112
YES.

we need more GIFs, srsly

The lady behind him just CAN NOT beleive how blindingly hawt he is.
Also return of the mysterious crotch-crease/super-penis

And now for a big fat anime comic where nobody looks like anyone <3

bonus sketch

>>54153
other than hardy's jaw, this is great :)

>>54119
>>54119
>>54119

Whaaaaat is this!!! I need to know who drew it so I can offer them money/ my firstborn/my undying love <3__<3

>>54178
http://littlelostrabbit.deviantart.com/art/Inception-Snack-Time-175685911

Enjoy.

>>54203
OHHHHHH YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH

>>54206
But. Tom Hardy is 33?

>>54222
Maybe thats why Ariadne is so disturbed? idk

I'm..not really sure waht to think of this picture..
On one hand, the textures/colours/patterns are delightful, but on the other hand, wtf Arthur's face

>>54246
Frankly, I find this face to actually be better than most of the fanart so far. It's making real attempts to capture some of JGL's features (eyes, ears), so even though there is freaky lipstick mouth, I give it an A.

>>54253
the freaky lipstick mouth is sort of unnerving, though. Maybe a B-?

>>54246
This would be so much better without those ridiculous lips.. and maybe the lower eyelashes.

Anyway, drawfag here. Which renditions did come close to Arthur's (and maybe Eames') features in you guys opinion? Just curious what is close enough without being full blown realism.

>>54255
here you go

>>53399
>>53411
>>53413
>>53466
>>53495
>>53837
>>53867
>>54104
>>54132
>>54138
>>54212

Not enough, damn.

>>54260
Note: these are for arthur. Eames is always pretty easy.

>>54260
Thank you, that makles me feel a little better about myself now, hah.

>>54222 "Friend of mine gave me a funny idea of what if Arthur is older then Eames?
So I just did a quick doodle comic... enjoy!"

>>54104
It's good so far
... now keep going!

>>54373>>54373
lkjadfa I love this, and the companion fic that goes with it! Anyone know who the author is by any chance? She's (or he's) amazing!

>>54385
oh my god

fanfic a side, there's a serious lack of visual porn in this thread

>>54385
...naughty.

/coq/, a friend of mine asked me to write some
Eames/Arthur, but my head is empty.
Any ideas?

>>54455
Weeeeeell, not that you'd have to use it if you weren't so inclined, but it seems to this anon that Eames/Arthur is rife with opportunity for a fabric fetish. Now hear me out- impossibly well dressed men= vanity= expensive clothes= expensive materials= fetish. Now imagine the hotness of a silk and leather clad Arthur against a grease-soiled, cold, industrial environment. You like?

>>54182
>>54183

Oh hai Rad! <3

RFJ fan art.

Saito/Robert

moar?