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 Posting a reply to post #56101

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56101 No.56101
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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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