Serasri
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Summary
Eames paints. Arthur studies art history. Together they
fight crime!are giant fucking hipsters.Bookmarked by Serasri
23 Apr 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
lovely
college au
art history major arthur who can sketch/draw, fine arts eames
meet at a party and one night stand that they don't remember cuz they were high
run into each other not long after and dating/getting together
pretty smooth
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Sketching is the only art that’s ever come easily to Arthur. The straighter the lines, the better he is – he loves drawing buildings when he’s bored, and he’s sketched out the brownstone across the street from his apartment a million times in a million different lights, times of day, sitting on the fire escape. People are harder, but no one seems to be moving, so Arthur draws, glancing up every once and a while to figure out how something works, something flows.It’s only when someone slips their arms around his shoulders, resting their chin on the top of his head, that Arthur realizes Eames has moved.
“I had no idea you could draw,” Eames says quietly, and reaches out to drag his thumb across the edge of the page Arthur’s drawing on. Arthur’s suddenly very aware of Eames presence, of the way he’s practically wrapped around him, and he swallows, shutting the notebook.
“I cant really,” Arthur answers, untangling himself from Eames and standing up. Eames is grinning at him, although quietly for once.
“Yes, you actually can,”
.
Eames skims his fingers delicately across Arthur’s back, tracing his shoulder blades and his spine, looping his fingers around each bump of bone that shifts under his skin.“Don’t move for a sec?” Eames asks, and Arthur grins lazily, huffing out a laugh.
“Don’t think I can,” Arthur answers, and Eames smirks.
“Well good,” Eames says, and then he drags his body upright, and Arthur watches his bare feet vanish for a bit before he comes back, straddling Arthur’s back. He nearly jumps when then there’s suddenly something cold on his back, but Eames has him pinned.
“Don’t worry,” Eames says softly, and he lets Arthur prop himself just far enough up to see Eames’ fingers (which he’s waving in Arthur’s face). They’ve got paint on them, two shades of red – one on his thumb and one on his ring finger.
“You’re painting on me?” Arthur asks, sounding incredulous, and Eames just grins. Arthur can’t really do anything but roll his eyes and go back to not moving. Eames uses his fingers and a small brush, dragging paint across Arthur’s back, and it’s soothing enough that Arthur closes his eyes, just feeling. Eames moves from his shoulder blades down across the plane of his back, curling around his hip. His fingers are solid and rough, points of heat through the cool paint, and the brush is a dragging sensation, almost tickling in a way.
Arthur’s not sure how much time they spend on the floor but eventually he becomes aware of Eames pressing a kiss to his ear, breathing in deep and smiling against his hair.
“C’mon sleepy head, up, you should see this,” Eames says, and Arthur groans, letting Eames drag his body up, even though every single muscle in his body (and some he didn’t know he had) are protesting.
Eames spends the trip to the bathroom half kissing Arthur, half leading him, until he makes him sit on the counter next to the sink, and Arthur has to crane his neck around to make sense of what Eames did to his back. When he sees it he’s not sure what to say, but he’s pretty sure he stops breathing for a moment. There’s a gorgeous tree curling up his ribs from where it has taken root around his hip. It starts as deep red, almost black, for most of the trunk, until suddenly near the leaves it burns red and orange, the leaves shining so bright, standing out against Arthur’s skin.
He has a sudden flash of memory – the painting in Eames’ room – and realizes that between that painting and this second, he’s never really seen any of Eames’ work.
Eames is standing between Arthur’s legs, and when Arthur finally manages to get his eyes off the tree in the mirror he turns his head to find Eames right there, looking at him totally neutral.
“It’s perfect.” It comes out in a rush, and a soft little smile curves up the corners of Eames’ mouth. Arthur bends to press two kisses into those little curves, and Eames catches his mouth fully, and they stay there, trading languid kisses with Arthur’s tree reflected in the mirror.
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Summary
“Oh,” Eames says. “A potential riot. I must be going love, ta!”
“Don’t get shanked!” Arthur yells, but Eames has already hung up.
Bookmarked by Serasri
23 Apr 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
eames gets arrested and jailed in america
arthur is always eames' phone call
the law was taking too long and arthur is concerned for eames' welfare
arranges a prison break out
feelings confessions, getting together -
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Summary
Eames and Arthur do fashion week, figure out their lives, and rack up a whole hell of a lot of frequent flyer miles.
Bookmarked by Serasri
23 Apr 2026
Bookmarker's Tags:
Bookmarker's Notes
so lovely, so smooth
getting back together
past mutual sad break up because they were too long distance, always off travelling separately
mutual pining as they still have feelings for each other
running into each other and spending time together again following fashion week to different cities, falling back into patterns
domesticity
deciding to try again
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They don’t see each other for over a year. Eames still sends Arthur picture text messages of things he finds amusing (“found this in LA” with a picture of a sticker on the back of a stop sigh that reads, above a graphic rendition of the character – fuck you, I’m Batman.) and Arthur still sends Eames post cards that are blank save for one single little - A.
But they don’t see each other. Eames doesn’t fly over a thousand miles for sex. It’s nice, sort of. (If he’s denying it.)
That is, until Eames lets himself realizes that he likes chasing Arthur across the globe, and he always got the impression it was the same for Arthur to go to Eames.
They should see each other about six months into that year, but Arthur is not at Mal’s funeral. He’s with Dom, making sure Dom doesn’t follow his wife off some high up ledge, tucked away in some country where he can’t be extradited. Arthur’s the only thing holding Dom together, right now.
Eames gets a postcard from Macedonia one day, and when he flips it over he’s surprised to see that there’s writing on the back.Mal told me once, when we were possibly on the wrong side of too many glasses of wine in Cannes, that she hoped that you and I would get married in her lifetime. I think what I’m feeling right now (and it’s hard to tell, I’m going to regret this postcard in the morning as much as I’m going to regret the vodka straight from the bottle) is regret.
- A.
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Arthur files to London because he’s in no hurry to find a job for the next three weeks, and he hasn’t had a chance to just follow fashion across the globe in a number of years.
He and Eames have known each other for so long that whenever Arthur stays in London he just automatically plans to end up at Eames’ house.
What he is not expecting, when he uses his spare key, is to find Eames actually home. It occurs to him that he might have wanted to ask Eames where he was going when he left yesterday.
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Eames drifts awake because there’s sunlight spilling across the bed and into his face. Slow strains of Edith Piaf (“Hymne A L'amour”, he realizes sleepily, and it’s the original, not some crap cover) are floating through the windows, from the café on the ground floor. When Cobb had asked Eames once where Arthur had come up with the idea for Piaf as the kick, he’d said he had no clue, although in reality he knows exactly why, and it’s the same music he would have picked, too. They’ve woken up with the open windows and the sound of Paris, especially that little café and their old sound system, so many times that it just seems natural that if you’re going to wake up, she might as well be the one telling you to. (Although Eames has never really wanted to examine why Arthur had picked “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”.) -
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Summary
Very loosely based on this prompt from the inception_kink meme:
Arthur is ridiculously awkward at hugging and paranoid about getting it right. So when people attempt to hug him, he panics and freezes - does he position his arms over their shoulders or under their shoulders? Does he have to pat them on the back? Where does his head/chin go? How long does a hug last?
I'd just really like frustrated!Arthur enlisting bemused!Eames to help improve his hugging technique. Because hugging Eames is comfortable and not-so-awkward and nice so Arthur keeps coming back for more IN THE NAME OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY.
OR it's the most disastrous thing ever and they are both hilariously awkward/discomfited/embarassed and so vow never to hug again.
Bookmarked by Serasri
23 Apr 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
friends to cuddle buddings/hugging to lovers
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Torture was so inelegant, Eames thought blurrily. Getting tortured in the dream world, on the other hand, had its perks. He just couldn't think of them right then, on account of his broken fingers and cracked ribs and black eyes. He thought about Arthur instead, and how Arthur had no one to cuddle him when he would eventually be told the news that Eames was dead. Eames had no delusions that Brad hadn't given up their physical location, too. If he ever woke from this dream, it would be to a nightmare.He was spitting out a mouthful of blood when the door to his interrogation cell was jerked open. He saw a flash of light and a face he would have sworn belonged to Arthur before he was unceremoniously shot in the head.
Eames jerked upright in their mark's psychiatrist's office, gasping for breath. His fingers immediately fumbled for his totem, assuring him, before he hurriedly pulled the needle and looked around with wide eyes. It had been Arthur in the dream, as Arthur was there now, hooked up to the PASIV. Three dead men lay in pools of blood slowly soaking into the thick Persian carpet. Blood dripped from beneath Brad's coat. Over on the couch, Fiona, their architect, came awake with a low cry. Jules the extractor followed soon after, and then Arthur was at his elbow. Eames pulled him into a hug without even thinking about it.
Arthur was solid and unyielding in his arms, and his own arms were squeezing Eames to him. A frantic heartbeat pounded in his chest, echoed by Arthur's heart, and then Arthur's lips brushed over his forehead before Arthur pulled away again and began packing up the PASIV.
"Your mark was gone before I even got here," Arthur said, his voice clipped and angry. "And this asshole had already been stabbed." He kicked at dead Brad's foot, quite savagely.
"Who are you?" Fiona asked in a shaky voice.
"That's Arthur," Jules answered before Eames could even open his mouth, as if he could talk with his heart in his throat anyway. She took the hand he offered her gratefully and stood on wobbly feet before they both pulled Fiona off the couch. "He's Eames' lover and a mean motherfucker."
Eames' mouth dropped open. Arthur gave Jules a flat look before shoving the PASIV in her hands. "No contact for at least five days. Don't look to Eames to get you out of this mess. Brad, really?"
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Summary
This is not mpreg, Arthur just has some fantasies.