From the Inception kink meme:

Prompt: I just want to see some imperfect, super fun, realistic-but-still-great sex.

Maybe one of them fails at dirty talk, or knees the other on the groin. Maybe Arthur is really, really ticklish. Maybe Eames takes a really long time to get off. Maybe the position isn't really that great, which leads to some awkward maneuvering.

But they're still both having tons of fun with each other and laughing and smiling their way through it because SEX IS FUN.

A/N Whee, this was fun. I got the idea for this while riding in the car with my mom when Bohemian Rhapsody came on. You can't NOT headbang. I'm a sucker for this kind of awkward, sweet stuff. Arthur/Eames, 3614 words. Making no money, so don't sue. Rated M for Mm Mm, Good.

Sometimes Eames wondered if he and Arthur had been ballerinas in another life. It was the only way he could think to describe his relationship with the other man; they pirouetted around each other, getting almost close enough to touch and then leaping away. (Not to mention that Eames could absolutely picture Arthur as one of those fantastically bitchy prima ballerina types, the kind no one could ever find it in him to dislike, but that was neither here nor there.) Whatever the hell it was between them, Eames hated it. There was attraction there, Eames knew it. Arthur could hem and haw all he wanted when Eames caught him staring, but he hadn't worked with the man for seven years and not learnt a thing or two about reading him. Seven fucking years, and not so much as a kiss. If Eames hadn't been convinced of his extraordinary luck, he might have thought the universe was conspiring against him. The timing was never, ever right.

Then came inception.

Eames was standing at the LAX baggage carousel, watching his luggage go round and round and ruminating on everything that had happened, when something occurred to him. Maybe it was inspired by the aftermath of the mind-blowingly successful job, which Eames was convinced hadn't quite finished sinking in, or the adrenaline high from nearly dying several times, but all of a sudden he realised he didn't give a shit. They'd gotten out alive, the job was over, everyone else was gone and there was nothing—absolutely nothing—stopping him from making a move. For once in seven years, the timing was absolutely perfect. So he reached out and finally snagged his luggage, grin spreading across his face, and fairly skipped out the door in the direction Arthur had headed.

The point man had just made it to the curb and was gazing out at the line of taxis crawling closer to where he stood. Eames eased in behind him.

"So, your place or mine?" he whispered in Arthur's ear.

To Arthur's credit, he didn't jump, just turned and fixed Eames with a mildly amused stare. "Eames, you don't have a place in L.A."

"Admittedly, it's why I was hoping you'd say yours."

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, and he shook his head. Eames bit his lip—this was the moment of truth. "Get in," Arthur finally said, just like that, and he motioned at the taxi that had pulled up beside them. They piled their luggage in the trunk and then Eames slid onto the leather seat along with Arthur, telling himself that if he thought about this turn of events too hard, he'd jinx himself and it would wind up being a dream. But no, there was the 'A' he'd pressed into his poker chip with his thumbnail. Reality, then.

'Well, that was easy.'

Arthur's flat was on the fifteenth story of a trendy, bohemian complex on the outskirts of downtown L.A. Though he'd known the place existed, Eames had never been here, out of some crackheaded notion that it wasn't a milestone in their relationship unless Arthur invited him inside. He spent the elevator ride up trying and failing to keep Sir David Attenborough from narrating his thoughts. 'The Arthur in his natural habitat,' said Sir Attenborough. Eames choked down a giddy squeal—which would have been wholly inappropriate for the venerable naturalist—when Arthur unlocked the door.

"Oh," he said as it swung open.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but if he'd had to think of one word to describe the flat, it might have been 'comfortable.' The walls were bare brick, hung here and there with unframed paintings—Eames thought he recognised one of Sean Scully's Wall of Light series hanging between the gauzy curtained windows and a colourful Patrick Heron above the TV. The kitchen was all stainless steel and black granite countertops, with a cookbook or two left open and a couple of dishes in the sink. The couch was plush and squashy-looking, and a fantastic shag rug stretched across the hardwood floors between it, a coffee table and a papasan chair. A jukebox hummed merrily in the corner, giving the whole room a splash of neon colour.

"Jesus Christ, Arthur," Eames said as he stepped in. "It's like you're a real person and not a robot."

Arthur just rolled his eyes and slipped past him, tossing his luggage down next to the couch. "I don't feel like cooking, so I'll just order Chinese if that's alright."

"More than," said Eames distractedly, too busy snooping through Arthur's things to really pay attention. A whole rack of CD's stood next to the jukebox and Eames began scanning the titles out of interest. There was Mozart and Prokofiev, but there was also Moody Blues and Led Zeppelin and, inexplicably, Creedence Clearwater Revival. "CCR, really?" Eames called to Arthur, who had just gotten off the phone.

"As much of a pleasure as it is to live up to your idiotic assumptions about my personality, Eames, I–"

"Alright, alright," Eames cut in, grinning. "No need to get worked up." And then something strange (but not entirely unexpected, if he was honest) started to happen. It was like Eames suddenly lost control of his legs and Arthur was an inescapable gravity well drawing him in like an ill-fated satellite. Arthur stood stock still as Eames approached, phone in his hand, forgotten. Eames stopped when they were almost nose to nose. "On second thought, getting worked up doesn't sound too–"

And then Arthur kissed him.

Eames had entertained fantasies about how this would go. He'd wrap his arms around Arthur's middle and Arthur's would snake around his neck, and they'd press their bodies together as they ravaged each other's mouth. Reality went a little something like this: their teeth clacked, sending a jolt through Eames' body as he managed to bite the inside of his lip, and there was a moment of confusion over whose nose went where. Then Arthur pulled back a tad, let out a minute chuckle and they tried again. This time they slotted together like puzzle pieces. Arthur's lips were warm and soft, pliant, his tongue hesitant as he explored Eames' mouth. Eames felt a groan shudder through the other man where their chests touched, and he moved in closer to that his hips ground against Eames'. Neither man could find it in him to pull away for a good thirty seconds, but when they finally broke apart, Arthur was slightly cross-eyed and his eyes glittered. Eames might have laughed if he hadn't known he looked exactly the same way.

"Have we just ruined seven years of perfectly good professional relationship?" he whispered.

"Probably," said Arthur.

"Would you like to do it again?"

Arthur paused to think about this for a moment. "Okay."

Later Eames only felt a little bit sorry for the poor delivery boy who had to witness Arthur coming to the door with his hair all rumpled and his tie and shirt collar undone, because really, putting that hickey on his collarbone had been so worth it. Not even the decidedly inferior quality of the lo mein could douse Eames' good mood, and they ate their meal in a companionable silence. When Eames ran out of things to do with his hands, though, he got to thinking, which was never a good thing. He checked his totem again, reminding himself this was real and trying to quash his doubts about why he was here.

"Can I ask you something?" he queried as Arthur finished up the last of his bourbon chicken.

"You just did."

Eames huffed out a sigh. "Another question then. Why after all this time did you invite me over? Just a... spur of the moment decision? A sort of, 'well, I suppose' kind of thing?"

Arthur stared at him for a moment over the rim of his mug. "I'm pretty sure that's three questions. But to answer all of them, who said it was spur of the moment?"

There was a long pause, during which the tips of Arthur's ears went pink and both of them suddenly became quite interested in contemplating their hands.

"Arthur," Eames finally said, like it was of the gravest importance. Arthur looked up. "I've the urge to do unspeakable things to you, but I fear I'm not drunk enough to initiate anything."

The point man's gaze narrowed in understanding, then slid over to the kitchen island. "...I've got a wine chiller."

And that was how, two hours later, they ended up in nothing but their socks and underwear and belting out Queen songs at the tops of their lungs with the jukebox.

"I see a little silhouette-o of a man," Eames sang between swigs from the bottle of cheap champagne he'd found after they'd polished off the wine. "Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the fandango?"

"Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening me!"

Eames took the high 'Galileo' and Arthur took the low, and by "I'm just a poor boy", Arthur was falling over himself with laughter and Eames was fighting back tears. They both anticipated the next part, though, so it was with the utmost seriousness that Arthur put a hand to his bare chest and shouted, "Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for meeeeee!"

Immediately they broke into wild bouts of headbanging, dripping champagne all over Arthur's rug, but neither of them seemed to mind. Eames jumped on the coffee table and played his air guitar and Arthur played his air piano and instead of feeling awkward, Eames had never felt so right. But then the coffee table started to buckle ominously under his weight, wooden legs creaking in protest.

"Don't-don't destroy my coffee table or I'll have to do shome... something terrible to you," Arthur slurred toward the end of their wicked solo.

Eames' only consolation when the coffee table promptly broke from under him was that Arthur had brought it on himself. He peered guiltily up at the point man from the splintered remains on the floor, suddenly a bit more sober. "You'll do what, exactly?"

But Arthur's expression softened almost immediately. He couldn't be mad, not when Eames was sprawled on his ass and looking so adorably contrite. He set his bottle down and sighed. "Oh, fuck it, I'll just get a new one." He snagged Eames by the wrists and pulled, and Eames allowed the smaller man to drag him onto a clear spot on the rug. "Your punishment is... this." And he got down on the floor to straddle Eames, grinding their hips together.

Eames' eyes widened in hopeful surprise, a shudder running through his body like an earthquake. "Arthur, darling–" he got out before his brain went right ahead without his permission and liquefied. Arthur's pupils were blown and his body was a warm weight over Eames' crotch, his mouth hanging open just inches away from Eames' own. "Okay," Eames croaked, gone absolutely stupid with lust.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" Arthur said lowly, right next to his ear.

"You too?"

Arthur chuckled, and ran a hand up Eames' side. The touch was unexpected, and his body spasmed and jerked under Arthur's.

Arthur pulled back immediately, eyebrows drawn together in alarm. "Are you alright?"

"Sorry, that wasn't very sexy, was it?" Eames grinned. "Should have warned you that I'm ticklish something fierce around the ribs."

Really, Eames should have seen the next bit coming. Arthur's expression turned wicked, a toothy grin making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"No," Eames spluttered. He knew where this was going, and he was still too drunk to fight off an attack. "Don't you dare, Arthur, no!"

He found it difficult to breathe when Arthur's fingers were dancing over his skin, digging between his ribs and trailing phantom-light trails over his hipbones. He squirmed, he thrashed, but Arthur had him pinned down. There was no escape short of curling into the foetal position, and Eames wasn't ready to give in. And when the impromptu tickle fight ended with Arthur's hands 'tickling' his cock through his underwear, well, he'd always liked happy endings.

"Oh," he swallowed thickly. "Now that, I could get used to." Arthur's grin dropped to a self-satisfied smirk, and he palmed Eames a little harder. Eames couldn't help the way his body writhed beneath Arthur into the rug. "Christ, Arthur."

"Just 'Arthur' is fine," he said archly, and lowered his mouth to where his hands had been.

Eames let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine and clawed his fingers into the rug. Arthur's mouth was moving over the fabric of his briefs, breathing hot and wet and making Eames' head spin. He sucked Eames through the cloth, nuzzling and licking and just breathing. It lasted all of ten seconds before Arthur sat up again, leaving Eames bereft. "Why'd you stop?"

Arthur picked at his tongue, cheeks burning. "Have you ever licked fabric?"

"...Granted," he laughed. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and tugged them down, freeing himself. "There you are."

Arthur shot him a lascivious grin and bent down again. He was teasing, tentative in the way he prodded at him with his tongue, nosing lightly at Eames' balls. His fingers ghosted across Eames' thighs, which provoked twitches out of him, but just when he was going to tell Arthur to get on with it, Arthur closed his mouth around the entire length of him.

"Gnhh," Eames said eloquently. It felt like every drop of blood in his body had vacated his head and gone south. Arthur was—dear lord, where had he learned to do that? Eames could feel himself hitting the back of the other man's throat, and just the thought of it alone was enough to send his hips bucking. Arthur shot up, coughing and hacking. "Sorry," Eames winced. Arthur stared at him for a moment before going back down, more cautiously this time, one hand wrapped around the base of Eames' cock and jerking as he sucked. Eames could feel the pressure building in his gut, like a tingle that started in his extremities and radiated inwards. He was so fucking hard, harder than he'd ever been, and if he came now, well that would just be downright embarrassing.

"Arthur, love," he said, pushing back on Arthur's shoulders. "Not that what you're doing isn't absolutely delightful, but I'm about to come like a fucking school boy and I'd honestly rather do it someplace other than your mouth."

Arthur leaned back on his haunches and laughed. He took a deep breath, pursed his lips and in a frighteningly accurate impression of Eames' drawl, said, "So, your arse or mine?"

"Fuck off," Eames grinned. He watched interestedly as Arthur pushed himself to his feet and padded a wobbly course to the bathroom off the hall, returning a few seconds later with a strip of condoms and some lube tucked under his arm. Just the idea that he had the supplies on hand was enough to make Eames a little lightheaded.

"Boy Scout motto," Arthur winked at him. "Be prepared."

"Pull the other one, you were never a Boy Scout," Eames challenged.

Arthur's response was to fold the fingers of his right hand into the three-fingered Boy Scout salute, snap open the bottle of lube and then coat them with the stuff. Eames' mouth dropped open.

"You kinky little shit!"

"Whatever, guilty," said Arthur. "I enjoy making you speechless."

"It's, ah, it's working," said Eames.

He watched as Arthur arranged himself so that he had a lovely view, trying not to touch himself after he'd rolled on a condom because this may have been the single hottest thing he'd ever seen. Arthur smirked at him as he began tracing the outline of his entrance with one slicked up finger. Then he pushed it inside, and his dark eyes grew darker still, his lids dropping to half mast. Apparently Arthur was as impatient as Eames was quickly becoming, because it wasn't long before he added a second and a third, working himself open where Eames could see. Eames let out a low groan, as if the pleasure was vicarious and vibrated across the empty space between them.

"Okay, good enough," he bit out, and Arthur nodded in wholehearted agreement. They came together like drunken magnets, Eames pawing and stroking down the planes of Arthur's body, leaving sloppy kisses wherever he could. After about 3.5 seconds Eames had had enough, and he gripped Arthur by the hips and yanked so that Arthur landed on his back on the rug.

"Woah, woah." Arthur planted a hand in the middle of Eames' chest and shoved, pushing the larger man off him. "Who said you got to be on top?"

Eames blinked and shrugged at him. "Well, alright. Your apartment, your rules."

"Damn straight." Arthur climbed atop him again, leaning in to plant a hard, rather wet kiss on him and smirking. "Maybe next time."

Eames had a response for that, he really had, but he lost it when Arthur grabbed his cock and sank down all eight inches in one go. All that came out was a strangled, "Jesus fucking Christ!"

They sat there for a moment as Eames' vision slowly faded back in, and when he could see again, Arthur was looking down at him seriously. "Is it in?"

"Fuck you," Eames laughed, and even Arthur couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

"Yes, please," he said. And sometimes things really were that simple. Eames' internal image of Arthur shifted ever so slightly from 'ballerina' toward 'cowboy' at the way he rode Eames' cock. His palms were spread across Eames' chest, his eyes closed and his mouth open as he sucked in gasping breaths. He was like searing hot velvet around him, if velvet had had sex with leather to produce some amazing monstrosity of a fabric baby. He was so tight, and this was so good, only—

"Ow, ow, ow, floor—hard—carpet—not—thick—enough," Eames coughed out between thrusts. He could feel the nodes of his spine digging through the carpet and rubbing against the hardwood floor beneath.

"Do you want me to stop?" Arthur asked breathlessly, a note of concern threading through the lust.

Eames used his remaining brain cells to think about this for a moment. "No, just... fuck it, just keep going."

It was a testament to how fucking turned on Arthur was that he dropped the concern all at once and picked up right where he'd left off. Pain was so ridiculously easy to ignore with Arthur on top of him, around him, making those delicious noises for him. Since Arthur's hands were occupied helping him to keep balance, Eames wrapped one of his own around Arthur's cock and stroked him at a pace to match his thrusts. Arthur's head lolled forward and he let out a lengthy moan. "Fucking... ungh... Eames!" Eames felt Arthur's body tighten and spasm around him, and then Arthur was coming in long spurts across his chest.

He slowed the pace for a moment, his whole body flushed and his eyes bright. "I was not supposed to come that soon," he said.

That Eames would be bothered by this seemed ridiculous, so he said so. "Don't worry about it, love, my bad. Just, ah, keep going?"

Arthur licked his lips. "Can do."

The pace he set this time was slower, but it was harder and more sensuous and no less exacting than before. It was incredible. Eames was surprised he even noticed when the Queen album finally stopped and the jukebox proceeded to the next queued record. There was a hiss and a pop, and then—

"Oh my god, seriously?" he choked out as he began to recognise the music now floating from the corner.

Arthur let out a thoroughly unsexy guffaw, but he was nothing if not determined to wrench an orgasm out of Eames yet. He leaned forward, planting his mouth on Eames' and fucking it heartily with his tongue, giving Eames room and leverage to turn the tide and start slamming upward into him. Eames groaned into Arthur as the music swelled, and Arthur closed his eyes, leaning back a bit and laughing. Eames was almost distracted by it, wondering what the fuck had Arthur's eyes crinkled at the corners, but the expression on his face was so joyous that it hit Eames all at once—how could something so amazing not be worth smiling about? So he joined in, a jubilant peal of mirth as the tension in his gut finally released and washed over him in a blissful wave.

Eames had never been a religious man, but there was something fucking amazing about coming deep in Arthur to the last strains of his favourite part of Handel's Messiah.

Neither of them could move or even formulate words afterwards, so they just shifted themselves till they were side by side on the rug. The smile hadn't left Arthur's face, and Eames was sure that if he kept it up, it would stick that way, dimples permanently etched into his flesh—not that he'd mind. Eames didn't even care that Arthur had left a mess across his chest. He stretched, long and languid, and pressed himself closer to Arthur's warmth, lips moving in the fine hairs at the base of his neck as he mumbled, "Hallelujah." And maybe nothing monumental had happened between them. Maybe it was only logical that this was where they went, smoothly flowing from one stage of their relationship to the next. Maybe they were just starting a new act in the same ballet they'd been caught up in all these years. But who said they couldn't dance together?