#eames fic

[mlmxreader]

A Thousand Miles | Eames x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ anonymous asked: May I please request something using the following prompts for Eames X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader:

“Y'know, I hate being a thousand miles away from you” ❞

: ̗̀➛ it's difficult to be without Eames, but it's always worth it when he comes home.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking, mentions of therapy/therapists

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Sighing heavily, Eames dropped his bags at the door and kicked his shoes off; he had been a thousand miles away from home for almost two whole months, and he was glad to get back to normal.

The cash he had gotten would keep you both afloat for another year, and then he would be off again a few months before it all ran out; he was all too eager to get back to normal. Morning coffee given to him in bed as he watched you get dressed and ready for work; he kept telling you that you didn't need to go, but he couldn't deny that the extra cash helped.

He would clean and tidy up while you were gone, always just and just finishing the last little bit of washing when you walked through the door. He would make dinner if you came home early, tea if you didn't finish until the evening.

Eames loved the soft normalcy of routine; always finding one of his shirts missing in the wardrobe and then smiling to himself when he thought about the shirt that you had worn before leaving for work. Taking out the recycling and the kitchen bin. Folding the washing as he hummed along to a selection of songs by Linkin Park and Sodom, nodding his head here and there a little bit as he smiled.

Normalcy, the beautiful mundane, the everyday routine that was so easy to fall into every time. Eames had missed it for more than he could ever say.

He allowed himself a moment before he walked into the kitchen; it wasn't particularly late, but it wasn't particularly early, either, so he stuck the kettle on and lit himself a cigarette as he leaned against the counter. Your presence haunted the kitchen so wonderfully.

Your tobacco pouch along with your filters and papers strewn about on the breakfast bar. Your coffee cup left by the jars with the spoon still in it. The smell of your deodorant was infectious, festering in the air. Pineapple and pepper.

He felt his shoulders drop as the tension left him and, just for a moment, he closed his eyes, listening to the footsteps that trailed from the bedroom and grew closer. He opened his eyes just in time to see you approaching him.

"Y'know, I hate being a thousand miles away from you, my dearest darling."

You grinned at the words, rolling yourself a cigarette and stealing his lighter. "I hate it, too… how was it?"

"Exhausting," he grumbled. "You okay? Have you been going to your appointments?"

You nodded, standing next to him and letting your head rest on his shoulder. "I have, I always do… the doctor reckons I'm getting better but… maybe we should talk about it later?"

Eames nodded in agreement; in all honesty, as much as he loved being home at last, he was fucking tired beyond belief. His biggest want in the world was to be under the duvet with you, your body against his and your soft breaths fanning across his skin; your subtle squirms to get closer and to steal some of the duvet from him.

He missed it more than he could ever say, and it was all he lusted for. Eames was always tired when he came back from a job, and you knew that well enough that you didn't even need to ask him why he looked so run down. Work took a big toll on him, and it was only natural that he would be tired. It might not have been physically taxing, but emotionally and mentally, he was always left drained and… almost empty.

You hummed, letting out a quiet yawn; your appointments with the therapist were much the same, but Eames always insisted that you had to go. He looked out for you more than he would ever admit, trying to be a good boyfriend to you but never changing his mind and thinking that he had so much to make up for. He always thought he had more to make up to you than he could count.

Lazily, you slung your arm around his waist and pulled him in a little closer; a soft hum was drawn from the back of his throat as he put his arm around your shoulders and let out a soft yawn.

"I washed the bedding earlier," you murmured. "If we're quick enough, it'll still be warm."

The kettle clicked off, but Eames couldn't find it in himself to bother as he stubbed out his cigarette, waiting for you to do the same before he practically chased you all the way to the bed; he allowed you to get in first before he snuggled up beside you, nearly giggling as he did so.

You were quicker than he was, pulling him close and squirming around so that you could press your face to his neck. Your arms around him tightly and your leg lazily draped over him. Oh, Eames had missed that most of all.

But the bed was ever so slightly cold, so he grinned at you as he raised his brows.

"Cold bed dance?"

You laughed, nodding; Eames did it first, wriggling and gently kicking his legs as you soon followed suit. You loved having him home, you always would. The cold bed dance was always the highlight of when he returned, as above all else, it made you laugh.

Instead of coming home to a cold and empty house, the halls would finally be filled with his humming and the warmth of having him potter about doing the cleaning; the kitchen would soon smell of curries and chilies, spices lingering in the air and making your stomach growl loudly. The bed would no longer be empty and too large to handle.

The sofa would never be missing someone nearby. The wardrobe would never seem like it hadn't been touched in years after a couple of days. You wouldn't be so miserable when you walked home.

You loved having Eames home.

[dareduffie]

arthureames university au.

they live in dorms. they are roommates. arthur wants to graduate summa cum laude. eames wants to have sex with his roommate. these are both very difficult goals to achieve.

eames is majoring in anthropology and minoring in sociology

all of his electives are languages

arthur is majoring in something awful like finance or business

or perhaps Computer Information Systems which is apparently something that exists

arthur assumes eames is a slacker because he's always lounging around their dorm but eames has a 4.0 gpa

eames assumes lots of things about arthur every single day and he tells arthur about each and every one of them

which is annoying not only because it's hard to study with eames yapping in his ear but also because eames is always correct

eames makes it a personal goal to sleep with arthur before arthur graduates (he is set to graduate two years early)

arthur of course decides to kiss eames the moment his commencement ceremony is over

but really. the guy was taking like 8 courses a semester. how was he supposed to have a sex life in those conditions

arthur liked eames from day 1 but he actively chose not to because if he started sleeping with his roommate he would never get anything done

eames meanwhile flirts with arthur for an entire semester before realizing he genuinely has a crush on the guy

shortly after moving in with each other, eames makes some off-hand reference to some obscure art movement, effortlessly and correctly relating it to a book he read recently

arthur nearly breaks his pencil from the strain of not walking over, sitting on eames' lap, and tearing his clothes off

eames thinks arthur hates him but the truth is that arthur is shoving his feelings down so hard that the man is vibrating on a constant basis

[theangrykimchi]

“What happened?” Arthur asks again when Eames reaches out for the bandaids and another tube of ointment for his stitches, and he’s half-expecting him to evade his questioning again, to turn it into another bout of flirting or bickering. Eames uses a Q-tip for the application, stroking a finger down the side of the small wound. His silence lasts so long that it frankly starts to annoy Arthur.

“Last year, we worked a gig with Moreau – do you remember Moreau?”

“The French guy? The lousy extractor who’s always trying to feel me up?” Eames huffs in annoyance. “Can't believe you remember that arseface and not me, I'm shaking my head at you, Arthur.”

“Perhaps he's more memorable than you, Mr. Eames. I did have to break three of his fingers last time we worked together.” Arthur's smiling mischievously, sending him a playful look.

“One day, I'm going to bite those dimples off your pretty face, just be warned,” Eames grouches.

Read on AO3

Explicit, ongoing

[furiosophie]

Eames doesn’t look like he’s sorry. He puts his cigarette out in a long-dead potted plant on the windowsill, blind, almost knocking it over. “Tell me the truth, Arthur – how bloody long?” “Nine years,” Arthur says flatly. Because why the hell not, at this point. Eames stares, and stares. Arthur looks away. He knows what he must look like – face puffy from sleep, hair a fucking mess, bangs curling over his forehead in clothes that are too big, wildly unprofessional. For six years Eames has been angling for a casual fuck and Arthur’s been nursing the open wound of loving him like a fucking teenager with a crush – it’s pathetic. The indignity is astonishing. “Nine years,” Eames echoes, after a long time. “And I was – with you.”

the dry sand of daylight by @andthepeople (spqr)

[tenderjock]

outstanding leadership, extraordinary initiative, & steadfast devotion to duty

Daniel&Jack&Peggy, and medals earned in wartime.

"You ever notice that Thompson doesn't talk about the Navy Cross?"

Peggy froze in the middle of adding milk to her tea. After a moment, she put the bottle down and stirred carefully, thoughts racing. Without turning to Daniel or letting her surprise inflect her voice, she said, "What do you mean?"

Daniel shrugged, a little jerkily. "I don't know. Everything's always bigger and better with him, you know? He'll tell you how much he earns or how long his - ah, you know, he'll brag. But he changes the topic every time it comes up."

She tapped the spoon against the side of her cup. "Perhaps he -" She broke off, struggling for the words that would turn Daniel's attention away from the issue. "Perhaps he simply doesn't like to talk about things that happened over there. We've all been there; it's never anything like the medals or newsreels seem to say it was."

"Yeah, sure," Daniel said. "It just doesn't seem like Thompson to not tell everyone he knows about it."

"You don't talk about your Purple Heart," Peggy pointed out, not ungently. Daniel stiffened.

"That's different."

"It is," Peggy agreed. "It's different for all of us."

A pair of familiar footsteps joined them at the office commissary before Daniel could respond. Peggy glanced back down into her cup and added a generous spoonful of sugar.

"I see my top agents are spending their workday productively," Jack remarked, his smirk a sharp line in his face.

Peggy shot him a rather arch look. "I see Chief Thompson is having an equally productive day," she said. "Have you admitted defeat yet?"

Jack made a face. He'd been fighting, along with Agent Faut and some rather obnoxious pencil-pushers, to balance the New York SSR's budget for the better part of the week. Most of his morning had been spent in a meeting with the senator's aide.

"I got 'em on the ropes," he said. Daniel clears his throat, rather judgementally.

Peggy isn't quite sure who he's been more upset with recently: Jack, for taking the promotion, or her, for not being bothered by it.

His attitude was a bit annoying, to be honest. Frankly, she was never going to receive a Medal of Honor or the position as New York Chief, no matter who advocated for her or what evidence was presented to the U.S. government. Daniel had to know that, too; the man wasn't stupid. And he had to realize that having Jack in charge, where they could keep an eye on him, was better than any alternative.

"We were discussing wartime medals," Peggy said instead of all that. Jack stiffened; Daniel noticed; Peggy rolled her eyes. "I once knew a man who earned an Order of the Bath for strategic actions in battle." She considered the memory. "He had terrible teeth."

"Order of the Bath?" Jack said, disbelieving.

"For conspicuous heroism taking place in a sauna," Daniel said. Both men laughed. Peggy sniffed. They had no respect, these Americans.

"What about Carter?" Jack asked, still laughing.

Peggy blinked at him. "What about me?" she said.

"What kind of awards did Agent Peggy Carter deign to accept?"

"I didn't earn any," Peggy said stiffly. "Women aren't combatants."

That's a bit of an oversimplification, she will admit in the privacy of her own mind. There were a few medals she could have theoretically earned, from the Americans and her own government, had circumstances regarding her service not been so, well, unique.

Some Englishwomen had received medals, but their service had been different than hers - usually as pilots or somesuch, not the covert missions she had in occupied France and Nazi Germany.

She may have qualified from the U.S. Women's Army Corps Service Medal, although it perhaps would have required Colonel Phillips to pull a few strings. Peggy had occupied a strange place in the war: a woman, first of all, and therefore not allowed in combat or eligible to receive medals for heroism under fire. But she had also been a spy, someone who technically didn't exist; and a British operative working for the Americans. Both sides had simply sort of - cut her loose, after victory was obtained and she was no longer useful.

It was only due to Colonel Phillips' recommendation that she had this job in the first place. Peggy pursed her lips, then shook herself out of her thoughts.

Only to find the two men staring at her like they had just been dunked in ice water. It was a bit unsettling. She took a sip of tea.

"Anyway," she said. "I actually do have work to do. Daniel, try to keep in mind what I was saying."

Jack was frowning at her. Daniel was frowning, too, but his gaze flicked to Jack once when she spoke, before he nodded.

"Sure thing," he said, and shifted on his crutch out of her way to let her back to her desk.

: :

Peggy frequently found herself the last person in the office, nowadays, with the possible exceptions being Daniel and Jack. Right now, Daniel's dark head of curls was bent over his desk and Jack's light was still on in his office, although the blinds were drawn.

They've all been working in a companionable silence for the last two hours. Daniel was eating something that smelled hot and spiced at his desk; little noises kept coming from the Chief's office, the sound of a file cabinet being opened or the desk chair being pushed back.

For Peggy's part, she's been combing through reports of gun sales to women matching Dottie's description in the tri-state area. She has found three that warrant a closer look, and was just about to get herself another cup of tea and really settle in when Jack's door opened and he slouched out.

He stopped in front of her desk. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. He stared at her for a second, looking troubled.

"Yes?" she ventured, when it became clear he wasn't going to say anything to her.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, rather abruptly.

Daniel was looking at them now. Peggy drummed her fingernails on her desk, then nodded and followed Jack into his office, where he shut the door behind them.

He then proceeded to stand at his desk, hands braced against the wood, staring blankly. Peggy was honestly starting to get worried, not that she thought letting Jack know that was a good idea.

"Chief Thompson?" she said. She didn't touch his arm, but it was a close thing.

Jack opened his desk drawer and pulled out a box. It looked like a large jewelry box and was made of navy blue leather, with gold detailing. Peggy didn't need to ask what was inside it - even if it hadn't had the name of the medal printed on it in little gold letters, she would have known.

"You should have it," Jack said. His face was grim and set.

"Jack!" Peggy said, shocked.

"You should have it," he insisted. "I don't - it shouldn't be me, anyway. And you deserve it, Peggy. We both know that." Jack glanced at her, then glanced away. "I was going to put it out on my desk but - I couldn't. I can't. You should have it."

Peggy stared at him, feeling like her heart was in her throat. Jack Thompson was a liar, and a fraud, and a self-serving, arrogant pain-in-the-arse to work with, but sometimes he still surprised her.

And, anyway, it would do no one any favors to make this into a bigger deal than it already was. She nodded, and carefully took the box and tucked it under one arm.

"I'll keep it safe," she said quietly. Then, more briskly, "Do you want me to brief you on the progress I've made in the Underwood case?"

"Christ," Jack said, rubbing his eyes. He laughed, a little wetly. "Yeah, that'd be great. Tell me you got something."

They talked for a few minutes. Jack agreed with her that there was meat in the rumor of a bank robbery being planned, although neither of them could fathom why a notorious Communist would want to rob a bank. When Peggy left his office with the Navy Cross in hand, Jack was pouring himself a Scotch, looking exhausted and like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Daniel looked up as Peggy fastened the clasps of her purse and got her coat. "You leaving?" he asked, and then considered her more closely. "Are you okay, Peggy?"

"Yes," she said. "Just, you know." She looked at Jack's office door and clutched the rectangular shape in her purse tighter. "I need to get home."

"I'll walk you out," Daniel said, still watching her. "I'm just about done here anyway."

Peggy waited while he grabbed his coat, hat, and briefcase. She had to watch her pace a bit when she's walking with Daniel, but the company was usually worth it. Tonight, she was tired and a little shaken and a bit too reflective, and she appreciated the distraction of having to make small talk with Daniel as they walked to the subway station together.

As they were waiting for her train - hers was due in four minutes; Daniel's, in six - Daniel said, apropos of nothing, "I guess I just never expect Thompson to care enough about anything to feel, I don't know." He looked across the platform blankly. "Shame or guilt or, or loss. Or anything."

Peggy looked at him. "I know what you mean," she said.

"You know why he doesn't talk about the Navy Cross." It wasn't a question. Daniel wasn't looking at her.

Peggy tucked her heavy purse tighter to her torso and breathed out slowly. "Yes," she said. Just yes, and nothing else.

Daniel nodded, still staring across the empty platform. "Is it something I should know about?"

She gave that some thought. "It's not something I'm going to tell you," she said finally. "Not without Jack's permission, which I don't think he'd give. But it doesn't change who he is, not really. It might explain some of what he's done, recently." Then, because she wanted to be honest with Daniel: "Although you may not like the explanation."

He dipped his chin to his chest. "Alright," he said, then again, quieter, "Alright."

Her train arrived, and Peggy boarded, wishing Daniel a good night. Peggy observed him through the car's dirty, cracked window, a dark figure braced on his crutch, looking down at the concrete beneath his shoes. Peggy put one hand into her purse, pressing her palm against Jack's medal as she watched him.

As the train pulled away from the platform, Daniel seemed to shake himself and turned toward the opposite tracks, where his train going the other direction was arriving.

[enchi-elm]

✨ weekend wip exposure club ✨

rules: post 7 sentences/a snippet of an unfinished work

I will do you one better, I will just post the whole thing as I'm not planning on taking it anywhere. Thanks, @strangegeology, for the tag!

Unbeta'd, unedited, etc. etc.

tagging @tortoisesshells, @ladysarai, @thenwhatthefukcisthis, @valerileygreen because I thiiiink you weren't tagged yet!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

one - love

Eames comes across Arthur at the tennis court. He wants to stay back, observe the man from a distance, but Arthur spots him as soon as he’s within view. His game face doesn’t change—if he’s scowling at Eames’ appearance, Eames can’t tell. He might be hitting the ball a little harder and his opponent stumbles as he lunges, sprawling flat against the court as the ball hits the chain-link fence.

Arthur walks to his bag and grabs his towel, holding up a finger and nodding at his opponent. He wipes his face, walking over swiftly to where Eames stands.

Before Eames can make a comment about his tennis whites, or even ask what the hell Arthur is doing playing at a country club, Arthur cuts him off.

"What are you doing here? Whatever this is, I don’t have time for this right now.”

Hello to you, too. But fine, if he wants to get right to business.

“I have a job for you,” Eames says.

“I don’t work for you.”

“No, but I thought you might deign to work alongside me again. For the right price.”

Arthur gives him a wary look, then glances at his opponent, who’s subtly trying to ingest as many glucose tubes as Arthur’s brief distraction will let him.

“I’m busy,” he says, turning away.

“I’ll be at the bar,” Eames calls out, without acknowledgement from the point man.

Arthur goes back to his position, tossing his towel aside en route. His opponent wipes his mouth and gets into position to serve, already grimacing.

Eames watches Arthur return the serve as if he��s decapitating someone.

Eames knows little about tennis and can’t gauge the length of the game before Arthur shows up at the country club, racket and gym bag slung over his shoulder. Eames is deep in conversation with another patron—swindling him blind and leading him on besides—but he gives a thin smile at the younger man’s approach.

“So what do you want?” Arthur asks, and Eames can tell from no tell at all: he won his match.

“Arthur, let me introduce you to Mr. Ian Thorpe. A financier from Atlanta.”

Arthur shakes hands, just this side of civil.

“Pleasure.”

“Your friend’s been spinning me quite the yarn,” the financier says. He’s a forgettable sort of rich—the right colour suit, but the wrong cut. “He’d have me believing in the investment of a lifetime.”

“He’s a crook,” Arthur says, to a chuckle from Eames. “And a liar. But he gets results.”

The man laughs and rises. “Well, maybe I will give you a call then. I’m sure we can find a way to do business.”

“The pleasure is all yours,” Eames says, greasily, packing everything into the lift of his lips that might otherwise be transmitted in a wink. Arthur watches the man leave and takes the other chair at the table.

“He’s not worth your time,” he says.

Eames casually flashes a black leather wallet—not his. “He already has been.”

“I doubt he’ll miss the cash.”

Eames flips it open and pulls out the driver’s license, perusing it. “It’s not the cash that interests me.”

“He’s your target.”

Eames puts away the wallet. “Or maybe just a person of interest.” He focuses on Arthur, a transparent smile on his face. It could mean anything.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to recruit you. If such a thing is even possible—you must be booked well into next year.”

“What’s the job?”

“An oil man. Bit of a twisted one.”

“Let me guess. Inception?” It wouldn’t be the first offer Arthur’s had this month. It wouldn’t be the first of the week. Whoever blabbed—and Arthur has his theories—made sure that their little reverse-heist was on the lips of every extractor in the industry. Not because they’d tried—God, lots of people had tried—but because Fischer Morrow had folded within six months after Fischer Sr.’s death. Even Arthur hadn’t expected such a swift return.

Eames hums, sympathetic to Arthur’s irritation. He must be hearing a lot of it, too. “You know that the men’s world record for the 100 m dash was at a stalemate for 12 years before it was broken? All it took was one man to crack it and it got beat twice again in four years.”

Arthur pushes down the urge to correct him. It was 14 years, not 12. And it took another five years for it to get broken again. But he knows what he’s saying. For the longest time, Inception was only theory.

“Why, did someone else do it?” That would be interesting.

“A sucker born every two weeks, if the rumour mill is to be believed. Personally, I doubt it.”

“Why, ‘cause you weren’t involved?”

“I was going to say,” Eames says, lifting his glass, “because you weren’t.”

The flattery works, for one unexpected second—Arthur feels a warmth in his neck. He pulls out his water bottle and drinks deeply.

“So what is the job? Extraction? I’m not doing more than two levels. I’m not exactly keen for another one of Yusuf’s concoctions.”

“That’s a shame. I can’t get him off my phone. Says he’s never had such a willing test subject. I think he’d work for free if it meant he got another whack at you.”

“Not a chance. Why aren’t you answering my question?”

“Because I’m savouring this time together before you storm off to annihilate some other poor sod on the court.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Why would I storm off?”

“Because you’re not going to like how much you’ll want to do this.”

Arthur listens as Eames tells him the job. He gives it ten steady seconds before he stands and walks away without another word.

“I’ll be in touch!” Eames calls and Arthur gives him the finger without looking back.

[elwenyere]

Operation Nightshade (Inception, Arthur x Eames)

Word Count: 7.3k

Rating: M (for violence)

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, References to Suicide, Canon Compliant, Non-Linear Narrative, Hyper-Competent Idiots in Love, Angst with a Happy Ending

Author’s Note: Went a little bonkers writing this one, lads. I hope you enjoy. It's an honor to write for such a creative, killer fandom.

Summary:

“You remember the last job we ran?” Eames asks. Arthur feels a stitch pull taut between his brows: of course he remembers. He remembers every exercise from every day of training, despite their respective armies’ least ethical experiments in psycho-cognitive readjustment, and if any of them were to go, it wouldn’t be the one responsible for the three years Eames has spent avoiding him. ----- Or, the road to the Fischer job wasn't straight or easy.

Read the Fic on AO3

[otomiyaa]

Reality

Arthur x Eames (Inception)

[Fic Reupload] - This ship came by on my dashboard and I was like GASP, I've got a fic with those! You'd say this one's ancient but it's from 2020.

Summary: Eames wants to tickle Arthur, and more. In reality, not just in his dreams. That is all. (Also on AO3)

Word Count: 1.8K

His laughter was gorgeous, he thought. His face as he laughed was adorable, he thought. The sound of his laughter was like music, he thought. He also thought that this was all he could work with, for now: Eames and his very own imagination.

“Eheheames! S-stop!” Smirking, Eames pinned Arthur down and tickled his sides.

“Thought you could get away from me, hm? Did you really think so?” Eames teased as his fingers traced the other man’s abs, sneaking under his shirt and poking him anywhere to make him yelp and giggle.

“Nohoho!” Arthur writhed and squirmed to get away from his fingers, but he found something new to tickle with each turn and twist.

“Don’t think so darling,” he taunted when Arthur managed to squirm away juuust a little, and he caught him again and practically almost dove under his shirt to get more skin to feel, and different sorts of laughter to hear.

Ever since meeting Arthur again, it was all he could think and dream of. Heck, it was only a dream. Not reality. Who was Eames kidding? Himself, of course. 

Oh. And Ariadne, it seemed. 

His breath got caught in his throat and he staggered back upon seeing her familiar face as she stepped towards them. With his attacker caught off guard, the adorable giggling Arthur sped away and managed to escape to wherever. Out of sight, at least.

“Mr. Eames?” Eames knew this Ariadne was real. No projection. Very real. He smiled, sighing as he caught his breath.

“Well hello there,” he said, raising his hands in defense. She cocked her head, looking curious and confused about what she just saw, a smile on her face. Well duh.

“Was that..?” She pointed in the direction where Arthur ran off to, and Eames choked out an awkward laugh.

“That? Oh. No, that wasn’t Arthur. No. My projection of him. You see….” He canceled his explanation and glared at her.

“I mean, what are you doing here?” he asked her, cutting off his own explanation. She shrugged.

“I came back to work on some of the layouts. I think I missed some details in the hotel level, and Fischer has to believe it’s real and… Well yeah. I didn’t expect you to still be in here. I thought maybe you were working on our case and came to check,” Ariadne said.

“And I didn’t expect you to be so nosy,” Eames said, still partially breathless from his struggle just now. Thank God he wasn’t dreaming of… other things this time. Guilty of that? Yeah, guilty. 

A smile appeared on Ariadne’s face.

“But honestly, that looked like fun. You should do it for real sometime. Arthur could use a laugh,” she said. Eames blinked.

“Eh that - you mean, yes. Yes - yes - you’re right! He does deserve to laugh some, doesn’t he? I thought so too. Which was why I was trying it out in my dream first. But I guess we can only imagine what his laughter sounds like. What did you think? Believable?” he asked. Ariadne shrugged and thought for a bit while Eames collected his thoughts and calmed down from that insane ramble.

Holy shit. None of that was really true. He came here to tickle Arthur and get off on that shit. He loved the idea of him laughing and writhing at his mercy. Those were the dreams he longed to live in everyday.

It was the only thing that could make him, a renowned Forger, blush and feel embarrassed. To an extent that he didn’t see it was as simple as Ariadne suggested. He could tickle him for real, not just in his dreams. He could tickle him, and it wouldn’t necessarily be weird. If he could control his crotch and every horny vein in his body that is.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said when Ariadne looked at him with questioning eyes. She laughed charmingly.

“I said, I expect his laugh to be a little more… I don’t know. Pitchy? I could be wrong.”

Eames couldn’t hold back a laugh of his own. “So that’s how you see him?”

He ended up going with her, waking back up again and hearing her out some more. He felt comfortable to talk to her about Arthur. He had an idea she might suspect his intentions, or at least she might have seen a glimpse, but then again she never said anything about it. 

So that evening, they talked about Arthur, for how long he knew him and when they first met, about his serious demeanour, what his real laughter would sound like, and whether he would be ticklish, and if yes, where exactly.

It was the next day when he saw his chance. He was in the building with Arthur and Ariadne, Cobb was working on something with Yusuf, and he could see from the smirk on Ariadne’s face that she just wanted him to try it, and he was thankful for it. For he, Eames himself had been longing to do this for such a long time without wanting it to get too weird.

“Hey, Arthur,” he said to the Point Man who stood hovered over their dream level layouts, studying something.

“Eames,” Arthur said absentmindly, not looking up from his work. Eames smirked and wiggled his eyebrows at Ariadne.

“Look over there,” Eames said casually as he pointed at something random in the distance. He wanted to snicker when Arthut fell for it, looking up to see nothing.

“Wha-?” His moment of distraction was Eames’ chance to sneak an arm around his middle and he instantly clawed at his unprotected side. Arthur jolted heavily in response, a gasp escaping his lips.

“Eames what the -” They struggled for a moment, knocking a few things over as they staggered a little before Eames managed to wrestle him down. 

“Asshole! Get off, the fuck are you.. Hngh!” Arthur jolted again when Eames pinched his hipbone, and he smirked down at him. 

“Tougher than we thought, hm?" Eames looked up at Ariadne who was simply smirking. Sure, Eames had never thought how easy it’d be to hide his guilty desire under the excuse of a simple wish to tease the ever so serious Point Man and make him laugh. Anyone would feel the same.

“EAmes! GEheet ohohoff!” Arthur’s voice shook, the first few giggles broke through his defense, but he remained tough. 

“Ah come on now. Let us hear something nice, Arthur!” Eames teased, and he moved up again and poked at Arthur’s side. Arthur’s body jumped but failed to get out of Eames’ reach, and he hungrily began to claw at both his sides, five fingers clawing at each side. Arthur threw his head back and laughed.

“Fuhuhuck! AHah! I hahaate you!” he cried out. Eames raised his eyebrows.

“Do you now?” he raised his head and winked at Ariadne who looked totally entertained.

“Looks like both of us were kind of right,” she said. His laughter was not exactly like Eames had imagined, it couldn’t really be called pitchy either. though at times Eames would hit a certain sensitive area and Arthur went like “Eeheh!” which sounded totally squeaky.

“Stahahap! The hehehell!” Still confused and overwhelmed by the sudden tickle assault, Arthur continued to squirm and struggle, but Eames was by far not done with him. He tried to ignore his own racing heart and the heat in his body as his hands tugged Arthur’s shirt out of his pants and dove right under.

“GAhah! Eheheames!” Arthur warned, arching his back as he tried to escape ten fingers that crawled over his bare skin now. Eames laughed along with him.

“Yes, darling?” he teased, and he could hear his own voice sounding a bit wheezy as well. He wiggled his fingers against Arthur’s warm skin, tickling his stomach, his belly, his sides and ribs, anywhere he could reach and anywhere he thought could make him let out more of that beautiful laughter.

Arthur’s arms went from flailing helplessly to waving in his direction in weak attempts to knock him off, and at some point he was desperately trying to pry his hands off.

“Quihihit it dahahamnh it!” Arthur laughed. Eames chuckled and looked back up again, then around him. Ariadne was gone. Where had she gone? He looked around a few more times. She really was gone. They were alone right now. In his moment of distraction, he lost some of his control over the hysterical Point Man who by now shoved him away - hard - and managed to roll away.

“Fuck Eames, quit messing around!” Arthur warned angrily as he staggered away from him, but with renewed motivation and strength, Eames went after him and pounced very easily. 

“AHAhah! Shihihit!” In an instant, he had Arthur under him again. He aimed further up this time: his armpits, and Arthur looked shocked, offended and overall awfully ticklish all at the same time by having such a spot tickled by the plotting Forger. 

Shoving one of Arthur’s prying hands out of the way and pushing it up over his head, Eames scribbled at his defenseless underarm, making Arthur howl adorably.

“See, darling? You can be cute. Some more of this and that eternal frown that grew on your forehead’s all gone,” Eames teased breathlessly. 

“Stahahap! Eames -stop!” Well, both Eames and Ariadne had probably never guessed the Point Man to be this ticklish. Eames had wished to try a lot more, but his crush seemed to have reached his limit by far, so he reluctantly ceased the attack, but he remained on top of him as they both caught their breaths.

“You’re a dick,” Arthur managed to say between heavy breaths. Eames nodded.

“Yeah. And?” he said. Arthur looked as if he was blushing, but Eames knew his face probably colored because of all that forced laughter. He shook his head.

“Just… a dick,” Arthur finished. Eames shrugged.

“Yep. Alrighty then.” He finally got up and moved off him, helping him up and patting his shoulder. Even that innocent touch made Arthur flinch and giggle, and Eames melted right on the spot. 

“Damn Arthur,” he hissed, and he pulled him closer and kissed him on the lips. All of his control slipped away in that very last moment. Arthur froze at first, but Eames was happily surprised to feel him respond in a positive way. With surprising strength for someone just tickled to death, Arthur pushed him back against the wall and kissed him back.

Their lips locked, tongues touching, feeling and exploring, and they shared a long, lustful and heated kiss. After which Arthur pulled back, and whispered against Eames’ lips: “Still a dick.” He then very quickly walked away. Eames couldn’t keep the smug smile away from his face. Damn that was good.

“Hey, where are you going?” he called out after Arthur who seemed in quite a hurry to leave, and he went after him. If this was his reality, how had he been living with only his dreams so far? He had some reality to catch up to!

[valerileygreen]

It's an Arthur x Eames fic, rated M and no particular warnings save what you'd expect from the canon. I really love how it shows the ongoing tension between Arthur and Eames, spanning literal years before finding resolution, and how it uses the theme of totems to delve into Eames' history and heart.

@inception30daychallenge day 6: a fic rec

[mlmxreader]

Back In the Day | Eames x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ anonymous asked: May I please request something using the following prompts for Eames X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader: “Fuck, back in the day it was all different” ❞

: ̗̀➛ things change, relationships change and the things that you once loved just aren't doable anymore. Doesn't mean everything has gone to shit, though.

: ̗̀➛ mentions of alcohol consumption, swearing, smoking

•──────────────────★•♛•★─────────────────•

Lights were flashing, reds and greens and blues and yellows streaming across the room sharply and brightly; people were jumping and dancing in every inch of the boat, docked at the harbour and proudly displaying its status as the best club in the city.

Eames felt rather overdressed in his pink dress shirt and blazer, formal trousers and shoes; when he looked at you, seeing you dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, he knew he overdressed massively.

But he soon shrugged it off when you pressed his drink into his hands, shouting in his ear to make sure he heard you over the music.

"You wanna come out for a smoke?"

Eames nodded, holding your hand as you guided him through the thick crowd; outside was a lot quieter. People were chatting and kissing on the benches and on the deck. The music was faded, almost inaudible. People shared lighters and filters, grinning at one another.

Eames grabbed a seat on a nearby bench, welcoming your presence on his lap as he held onto you easily. It had been his idea, neither of you had had a night out for so long that he had completely forgotten what it was like; it had all changed so much. He enjoyed the changes, really; not needing to dress like he was going to a restaurant with a dress code.

Not having to be quiet and having to keep his hands to himself. It was a lot more liberal than it used to be, and he was glad of it as he snuck his hand up your back and splayed his fingers out; your skin was so warm, and his so cold that you shivered softly, your breath on his ear.

It made the fine hairs on his arms stand upright as he bit back a smile.

His drink resting beside yours on the table next to him, he watched as you lit up two cigarettes, fixated on your lips for a moment before you gave him one of the cigarettes. Eames was glad of it, really.

Even though he wasn't used to the way things were now, he was glad that he had brought you out with him; he had missed the long nights out together and the mornings where you both slept in. It had been far too long since you had last done it.

Cobb was taking him away from you more and more, and even though you understood that he had to work, it wasn't fair that you hardly got to see him. The late night phone calls and the endless emails and texts weren't enough; you needed to see each other, to feel each other's skin and know that you were there.

But none of that mattered now, you were together; he wasn't going anywhere. He could only hope that you knew and understood that, that he wasn’t going fucking anywhere without you; he really hoped that you knew, though.

He really, really, fucking hoped that you knew. 

The music was getting louder, though, and people were starting to dance on the deck as they kissed and cuddled; drinks were spilled on the already slick flooring, although nobody minded much.

They just carried on, and Eames loved that; no one batted an eye at the sight of you on his lap, nobody so much as blinked when you kissed him softly. Eames really did love that, especially.

People were either too drunk, too happy or too much of both to care about what the two of you were doing on that bench.

He knew that your relationship wasn’t perfect, he knew that, but he hoped that nights like this were worth the wait between them; when he noticed that the current song was one of your favourites, though, he gently pushed you off of his lap and stubbed his cigarette out as he grinned. 

“Fancy a dance, darling?”

You grinned back as you nodded. “I thought you’d never ask, darling.”

You threw your cigarette overboard and took his hand, giving it a small squeeze as you laughed softly and led him towards where the music was loudest and there were less people; one hand on his waist, the other still clutching his as he put his hand on your shoulder. Swaying gently to the beat together, hardly able to stop smiling.

He used to take you dancing a lot, before he got back into the ranks with Cobb; it was almost a tradition to go dancing together every Saturday at exactly nine o’clock. He used to make tea beforehand, usually something filling and easy like spaghetti bolognese. Just something to keep you both going for a few hours, no need to be fancy.

But… but Eames always dressed so nicely that you wondered if he spent the entire day picking out what to wear; he always wore those fancy shirts that were a little tight around his biceps and his chest, those soft trousers that never had so much as a speck of dust on them.

He would always have a few of the buttons undone, showing off just a little bit of his chest - just enough to tease you and get you going.

You both used to love and adore going dancing every Saturday night, it was always your favourite thing in the world. You used to look forward to it every week, always bragging when people asked if you had plans; Eames knew you always bragged about how he used to take you dancing.

But he couldn’t anymore, he hardly had the time even though he wished he did. He often wondered if you dreamed of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to invade your privacy like that - not without your full consent. That didn’t mean everything was shit, though.

He still had your body pressed against his as you danced together, watching you smile when he started to sing the words in a soft whisper. It was only for one night, but Eames was glad that he had taken you out and brought you with him. 

“Fuck, back in the day, it was all different,” you admitted, shaking your head. “I miss it…”

Eames nodded as he gently kissed your cheek. “I do, too, darling… maybe one day, we’ll be back in the good old days, hmm?”

“With any hope.” 

[dareduffie]

well you see it's one of the best movies of all time

[ladaveen]

ArthurxEames fic recs

These are my favorites and not in particular order I just love every single one of them, also some are probably smuts so beware hehe

Presque Vu by rageprufrock : this is probably THE arthureames fic, I was floored by literally everything in the story

M | 69k words

Or, "on the tip of the tongue." Arthur meets Mal first. He inherits Dom, after. Everything else is on him.

Early Returns by rageprufrock

M | 15.5k words

Thinking that a reporter genuinely likes you is pretty much on par with feeling like you really are special to that stripper.

Trouble With Dreams by sparkledark

E | 39.7k words

College AU in which Arthur is a cranky senior and Eames is a professor of Dream Psychology.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins by aprettyaway

M | 10.2k words

This is what his life has become: hotels and coffee and reveling in those few hours he has to himself. The French news lulls him to sleep, and Arthur thinks if he can just get through this job, then it will be over. If only.

Late Night Phone Call by sparkledark

E | 14.6k words

Arthur usually finds blatant fishing for compliments extremely irritating, but in Eames’ case he is reluctantly charmed. In fact, he writes the phrase “reluctantly charmed” into the Eames notebook the moment the words occur to him because they so perfectly encapsulate his entire situation.

Pants on Fire by Helenish

E | 15.1k words

"Ah," Yusuf says, lifting a reproving hand, "are we calling less than 24 hours of memory loss amnesia now?"

we were once cinema gods in the night by gyzym

M | 21.3k words

That's the thing about Hollywood--everyone has a Hollywood story.

All's Fair (In Love & Werewolves) by Whisky (whiskyrunner)

E | 29.6k words

Arthur is lucky to have Eames. Somebody just as different, someone who understands when he wakes up in the middle of the night feeling like he's all alone in the universe. Eames makes that feeling go away. Eames, however, is not alone.

Incipit by thehoyden

E | 8.5k words

Arthur has been his editor from the beginning. Eames says he won't work with anyone else, and what Arthur will never tell him is that he would cut anyone who tried.

between my reflex & my resolve by gyzym

T | 4.7k words

People you kiss in an airport baggage claim and then don't talk to for thirteen months shouldn't be able to exist, let alone make your chest do the things Arthur's chest is doing. There are rules.

Catalyst by five_ht

E | 3.3k words

Arthur is a freshman omega in college who hasn't yet had his first heat. Eames is a friendly alpha who is willing to lend a hand.

Hello, I Love You, Won't You Tell Me Your Name by eleveninches

E | 3.6k words

Many people, Eames would find out later, assumed Eames had wanted Arthur from the moment they'd met. It was true Arthur was devestatingly attractive, but in all honesty, the first thing Eames had thought when he'd met Arthur was, Why did Cobb bring his son? (Or: It's all about trust.)

Don't Fall in Love with a Dreamer by eleveninches

E | 19.7k words

Arthur joins the mile high club, Cobb joins the broken hearts club, Eames joins the smug extractors' club, and Yusuf just wants to club everyone. Or, Eames steals Cobb's point man.

In Our Line of Work by enjambament

T | 15.7k words

Arthur wakes up and realizes the last ten years of his life have been a dream. He is nineteen, and he can barely remember where he is. What he can remember is the ghost of Eames’ hands pressed down on his chest trying frantically to stop the blood flooding up around his fingers as Arthur died (as he woke up).

[ladysarai]

@inception30daychallenge , Day 06: A fic rec!

Fandom: Inception (2010)

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)

Summary:

It’s difficult to remember, sometimes, that a world away living nightmares are manifest. In the warmth of the Iowa sunshine, the heat, the tall green grass, the waving haze of golden corn, sometimes it’s easy to forget that men are dying in the cold, in the dirt, in an explosion or a sickening trickle of blood. Dying alone. It is Arthur’s biggest fear. He sees him in his mind’s eye, blood smeared across that beautiful face, cherished life flickering out of eyes like oceans, in a dark place, in a cold place, dying alone. Arthur doesn’t forget. Arthur doesn’t feel the warmth of the sunshine, doesn’t see the green and gold of the fields. Arthur lives everyday over there in the nightmare. With him.

It is SO HARD to pick one fic!! This fandom is so amazing, and idk if I’ve ever read as many AMAZINGLY WRITTEN fics as I have since falling down this rabbit hole.

But I have a huge soft spot for AUs, and a huge soft spot for WWII and the Homefront and the Waiting, and this fic hits them all. Plus, this is the picture that inspired the fic and if it doesn’t give you feels you might be dead inside:

Also as soon as I finished reading it, I linked my bestie and said: “RUN. DO NOT WALK. RUN and READ THIS. It is WWII AU and IT IS SO BEAUTIFUL, MY HEART.”

(Also it’s from 2012, so if you’ve never stumbled across this, do yourself a favor.)

[mister-eames]

im in SHAMBLES cause i always knew that the original security is gonna run you down line was between Arthur and Dom but was given to A/E later but only now I got to know that it was not “be back before the kick” in the original script but actually “be back in time for the kick” from Dom!! Be back in in time for the kick is not asking to be safe it’s actually a command or a direction; and it’s further cemented by Arthur’s reply in script; it’s “I’m on it” .. it matches their dynamic from the beginning, professional with cobb sort of calling the shots. But when mr Nolan gave it to A/E he had to change it?? Cause it doesn’t match this married couple??? So he made it be back BEFORE the kick with a thinly veiled “ BE SAFE BABE”???? And GO TO SLEEP MR EAMES ?? Meaning don’t worry about me darling I’ll be there???!!!!!! My head hurts??????

It still blows my mind how it was originally Arthur and Cobb having this moment in the script and Nolan, presumably like us, was captivated by the chemistry and quiet story of Arthur and Eames, and changed the characters around! It's a perfect bookend to their snarky beginnings, to the shot of them planning the job, you know the one, where it focuses on Arthur and Eames for "...we all yearn for reconciliation..." to this exchange. Nolan knew it was necessary, in case the audience was wondering, Arthur and Eames got their reconciliation. That we got to see them full circle.

Because the way it was scripted with Cobb was between friends/comrades. Arthur reaffirming to Cobb he can be trusted, that he's got his back despite what occurred and was revealed the level above. Lovely. But so much about Cobb and Arthur's friendship is not said in so many words. It really wasn't necessary. It didn't lend any sort of closure to the characters journey's to have this scene play out, it just didn't make sense.

The fact that the script had to change along with their characters so that Arthur and Eames could flirt and smile at each other and 'be back before the kick', and 'uh-huh go to sleep' like COME ON. It's the contrast from all their other scenes - the banter and teasing, Eames laughing at Arthur's kick tests - this scene was so gentle, so soft and so quiet. In the same way Eames didn't need to help Arthur with the projections in level one, Arthur did not have to help Eames with his cannula. He didn't need to flick Eames fingers away and help him above anyone else. Arthur very much chose to help out so they could have these sweet nothings this quiet talk.

Every time someone tries to reduce Arthur/Eames down to 'darling' I feel like the Will Smith meme pointing at all the rest of it. Like, are we all not seeing this?? It kills me. This scene kills me -- it's so important to their relationship and themselves as individual characters,

[roosterbox]

Hey

Hey hey

Guess what? It’s someone’s birthday today!

That’s right, my dear Inception fandom peeps, if my calendar is to be believed - and I hope it is! - then today is the birthday of our own beloved @lolahardy !!

Happy birthday, Lola ❤️

Also, I wrote you a Thing. Just a lil ~500 word piece, featuring our favorite pair of silly boys, lol. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you have the loveliest of lovely birthdays today.

Not putting it under a cut because, again, it’s only a little over 500 words, so not too long.

Tags: baked goods, schmoop, tooth-rotting fluff, slight slight slight references to sex (I’d probably rate it a T juuuuust in case, but this is like the lightest T rating you’ll ever see, lol), Eames has a sweet tooth and Arthur decides to enable him.

———

“Happy birthday,” Arthur said.

The cake looked immaculate, situated as it was, perfectly centered on their kitchen table. Every dip and wave of frosting was perfect. Each candle equidistant from each other. It was all so very Arthur, and Eames loved it almost as much as he loved him.

“Oh, darling,” he said, drawing Arthur close for a kiss. “Yet again, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Arthur’s cheeks were slightly pink. “You say that every year.”

“Because every year, it’s still true.” He smiled. “You grab the plates while I cut?”

Turns out, it tasted like perfection too. The smoother than smooth lemon buttercream frosting adding just the right amount of tangy bite to the sweeter cake. Eames couldn’t help his satisfied groans at the peach and strawberry flavours bursting over his tongue. The taste, and the sight of Arthur’s face getting even pinker at the noises he was making, was absolutely everything to him.

Mouth half-full, Eames started to say “At the risk of repeating myself-“

“Don’t.” Arthur took a small bite of his own slice. “It’s good, yeah?”

“It’s perfect.” Eames swallowed his last bite, and moved to serve himself another piece. “All three of my favourite flavours, conveniently in one gorgeous package? I almost didn’t want to eat it.”

“Almost.” They shared a smirk. A long stretch of comfortable silence followed. Well, silent other than the frankly obscene noises Eames made as he enjoyed his cake. Halfway through his third (and as it would turn out, last… for now) slice of his birthday meal, Eames observed, with sly pleasure, Arthur loosening his shirt at the collar. Seemed like his vocalizations were having the desired effect. His darling was looking almost as pink as the crumb on the cake he’d made.

“You know,” Eames said after getting another mouthful down, “there’s one somewhat unfortunate thing about this.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?” He seemed genuinely confused, and a little concerned that he might have messed up or forgotten something.

“Tragically, my actual favorite flavour in the world isn’t one that usually finds its way into baked goods.” He gave his partner a sidelong look. “A bit more of a… personal touch, that one.”

It took Arthur a minute. But then, he groaned.

“Eames, please. I’m trying to eat.”

“Still made you smile though.” Eames nudged his leg under the table.

“Pretty sure I’ve done nothing but smile this whole entire day.”

“Even while baking?”

“Especially while baking.” Arthur looked down at Eames hand sitting on the tablecloth, and covered it with his own. “You know how much I enjoy doing things like this. For you.”

Now it was Eames’ turn to blush. “No fair getting so sappy, love. Not after my best attempts at salaciousness.”

That got him a dry chuckle. “If that’s your best attempt, then there goes the rest of my plans for this evening.”

Eames gasped. “Why, Arthur,” he practically purred. “How very forward of you.”

A squeeze of his hand. “Finish your cake, Mr. Eames, and maybe you’ll get to have some of your ‘favorite’ flavor before the night is through.”

He barely tasted the last few bites. And sometime later, as he caught his breath on the comedown, all he could think was that it was worth it.

[spaghettitigers]

i am thinking about this....this eames smile, the kindness in his eyes, there's so much and yet it's all so obvious. it's "your hair is curling against your neck in a way that i love" it's "your forearms in that shirt and vest drive me mad and i dont know why" it's "your head is stuck in your moleskin notebook and u won't look over and see how desperately im in love with you, 2 feet away in the backseat of this cab"