It just doesn't get enough apperication [BOTTOM!EAMES FEST]

[madsmurf93]

 Hello Darlings,

This is Eames:


Not many people know much about Eames except for one thing...and it is very important.

It is his arse and this is his arse:




This is also his arse:




SEE IT MOVE!

AND MOVE SOME MORE:

AND SEE SOME MORE LOVELY ARSE:

 

ISN'T IT LUSH AND BOTTOMABLE?

You see, Eames is no top (sure those Bottom!Arthur fics will tell you otherwise) but instead he is a begging and slutty bottom for everyone and especially Arthur (ESPECIALLY ARTHUR!) Just in case you are wondering this is Arthur:

 

 

In conclusion, Eames is a slutty bottom for every male in the fandom and this is your chance to prompt that and fic it and graphics it, draw it and fanvid it and just do everything to it because EVERYONE NEEDS TO APPRECIATE BOTTOM!EAMES because, really, he is a delightful thing.

 

Arse pics courtesy of google and Bina <33 Mostly from Bina since Bina is a goddess amongst mortals - just saying.

 

NOW! GO WRITE, VID, GRAPHIC, DRAW AND PROMPT BOTTOM!EAMES WITH ANYONE AND EVERYONE!!

 

Loves Maddie <3 

Comments

Ariadne/Eames - she fucks him with a strap-on - 3/?

[lalejandra.livejournal.com]

Ariadne tries and tries -- Rusty Ryan, Danny Ocean, Memphis Raines, Thomas Crown, Verbal Kint. She's Bodhi for just a few minutes before wrinkling her nose and saying, "Too soon," and morphing -- still slowly enough that Eames can watch each instance of the change -- into Cobb.

"I think it's time for you to watch different movies," Eames says dryly when she melts into Robert De Niro, a nametag on her shirt proclaiming her "Neil McCauley."

"I'm trying to be the best criminal I can be, Eames!" She laughs and rubs her hands over her face. When she looks up again, she's Eames -- but younger, her own age. It's creepy, and he tells her so.

She sighs. "I still can't get the dick right, either," she says. "Like, not even at all." She blinks and is back in her own face -- quickly, neatly, perfectly framed by the setting sun of Eames's mind. He's pulled it from his memories of L.A., the smog turning the clouds neon.

He dreams up a pool and some lounge chairs and an icy, fruity drink. "If you want a dick, darling, there are more ways to get one than forging."

"I don't want you to fuck me," she says bluntly, lying down on her own chair, huge sunglasses now covering half her face. Then she's in shorts, and he can see her leg hair glinting in the sunlight; it's exactly the leg hair he'd been noticing when he slid the needle into her arm earlier. Practicing forging has pushed her mind into adding more and more details even to its image of her.

Eames feels a terribly embarrassing sense of pride in her welling up inside him. He pushes it away -- now is not the time for being soppy -- and offers blithely, "You can always fuck me."

Her head is turned, looking off into the distance, snow-capped mountains. "Which is more real --reality, because it's actually real, or dreams, because we can do anything in our own heads?"

He lets it go. He likes her, but he's not invested; her rejection doesn't even sting. Well, maybe it stings a little, but he'd always rather have a partner in crime than a lover. She's clearly looking for a specific answer from him, but instead of giving her the one she wants, he gives her the one he knows to be true.

"Get shot in the dream and you wake up; get shot in real life and you never dream again." He takes a long sip of the frothy pineapple concoction he dreamed for himself, and regrets not adding rum. When he looks over at Ariadne, she's got a Desert Eagle Mark VII pointed at his head, and then he's sitting up on her uncomfortable couch.

He slips the needle out of his arm and detaches it from the canula. It needs to be disinfected, but it can wait. He drops the needle into the plastic Coca Light bottle they’ve been using for sharps, and when he looks up, Ariadne is watching him.

"Am I getting this wrong?" she asks, leaning forward. She drops the needle and canula onto her scarred coffee table, and he winces, carefully plucks the needle up and drops it into the sharps bottle before answering.

"I don't think so." He feels strangely off-balance, not at all like himself. He wants to go back under, pull a forge, settle into someone else's skin. Instead, he forces himself to sprawl back, spread his legs; a deep breath and he has a smirk on his mouth; a moment later and he's not just posturing. That's always been why he's one of the best -- his ability to become something else, not just pretend to be it.

And then there's Ariadne, naked except for a harness. Her dick is big, bigger than Eames's, and a dark brown. Eames's mouth waters, and he slides off the couch, landing on his knees. She's got a condom in her hand and she offers it to him.

"I've never used this one with anyone else --" And he loves how she says "this one" because he knows that means he's in for a good time. "-- but if you want?"

He takes the condom and tosses it to the side, and it lands on the table next to the sharps bottle and the silver PASIV case, still open. "Maybe later," he says, and puts his hands over the harness to hold her close, lets her cock push against his mouth, push his mouth open, push in. Her hands in his hair tug, and he swallows her cock down until he can smell how wet she is.

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